rosa_cotton | Peter Pan fic

Title: Belonging
Rating: PG (K+)
Disclaimer: Peter Pan, all characters, places, and related terms belong to J.M. Barrie.
Summary: What the Great White Feather needed was a squaw. And that Wendy certainly was not.

~~~

The enormous bonfire’s flames leapt toward the dark sky scattered with stars. The Indian drums beat in time with the heart of Neverland. Dancing shadows circled the fire. The wild beasts prowling for food peered through the brush to spy on the celebration this night. Their dark eyes sparkled in the firelight.

Twelve Indian girls danced round the fire. They stamped their feet, waved their arms, long black hair flying about them. Their movements were wild yet nimble and sure at the same time. Their dark eyes often focused on the Great White Feather seated beside their Chief. He watched them with fascination, his head cocked to one side, the stars in his eyes twinkling curiously. And they smiled hopefully.

Wendy sighed heavily as she watched. She was hidden in the darkness where the firelight did not reach. She leaned her head against a tree, wrapped her arms around her legs, and shivered from a cool breeze.

She studied each girl. They were the most important girls in the village; so it was no surprise to see Tiger Lily in their midst. They were dressed in their finest; colored necklaces and bracelets adorned their necks and wrists; and feathers were in their hair. Very lovely they were, she had to admit.

And their dark beauty was not lost on Peter. Wendy bit her lip and glanced at the boy. He was a bit of a strange sight to behold. Clad in his skeleton leaves, tonight he was also wearing an unbuttoned deerskin shirt and his eagle headdress (his pride and joy). He watched the girls unblinkingly with an expression Wendy was unable to interpret.

The girl’s worried gaze flickered back and forth between him and the dancing girls. He was now an honorary chief, the Great White Feather. An ally of the Chief, best friend of Tiger Lily, and admired by every Indian girl. All the Great White Feather now needed, it had been whispered, was a squaw.

The lump burning in Wendy’s throat prevented her from swallowing. A squaw… That she was not. A mother and a storyteller yes, but not a squaw. She could not hunt, did not know how to creep through the jungle without being seen or making a sound, nor could she make owl stew (Peter’s favorite) or prepare other Indian meals; she was a disaster when she tried to learn the natives’ dances. She possessed none of the qualities and abilities of a squaw. Nor did she look like one.

Peter had begun calling her Little Mother several weeks ago. It was the only name he and the boys called her by now, as did the Indians. Wendy did not like her name at all. The Indians did not respect her, though they were polite. It was the Indian girls who looked down on her the most. They had laughed at her when she had attempted to learn their dances. They made fun of her numerous freckles and bright orange hair; the hot humid air had turned her straight locks into dozens of curls.

Peter and the boys now nearly spent all day at the Indian village. He had urged Wendy to come with them many times, but she had almost always refused. She was unable to feel completely at ease in the village, and she did not like being ignored by the other girls as they followed Peter around.

Wendy rubbed her eyes wearily. She had barely had to cook for the boys lately, and often times she had had the house all to herself when she would go to bed. When the boys were home, they would excitedly relate to her their stories about the hunt or dancing. If she could do such things, she’d be able to enjoy their stories more. And Peter…

The girl shook her head and turned her gaze to him again. Tiger Lily and another girl had stopped dancing and now sat talking with him. Swiftly Wendy got to her feet and, turning her back on the scene, began to walk aimlessly through the woods.

Once the Great White Feather found himself a squaw, he would no longer be in need of a mother. And the boys – well, Peter was Captain, and they would follow him. Wendy hugged herself protectively. If she was not needed here…

Come back, Wendy. Come back, the faint voice of the mainland reached out to her once more. The girl tilted her head, and her walk came to a stop in the center of a clearing. Hundreds of stars twinkled high above her. Come back, the whisper came again, beckoning, inviting.

Wendy stared harder at the sky. Could she find the way back? Half-consciously she slowly spread her arms like a bird. She took a few steps forward. Could she think of happy thoughts if she tried really hard?

“Stay.”

Standing almost on tiptoe, the girl froze. Her ears were playing tricks on her or… Her feet settled back firmly on the ground, and her hands returned to her sides. Slowly she turned around to discover Peter standing several yards away. Absently she wondered why he was here, how he’d found her. Then she noticed he was not wearing his deerskin shirt or headdress. Eyes clouding with uncertainty, her gaze slid back up towards the watching, waiting stars.

“Please,” he added almost as an afterthought. Something in his voice caused her to face him again.

He was closer, and Wendy suddenly could see the tightness of his almost white lips and how his eyes were full of dark storm clouds: with fear. But it was not the kind of fear she had seen him show that fateful evening at Marooners’ Rock when Hook clawed him, or when he was caught in the unrelenting clutches of some nightmare and she tried to soothe him. No, the fear in his face was foreign, raw, desperate, and fierce, uncommon for the Great White Feather or Peter Pan. And it took her breath away.

She tried to find her tongue, “What—”

He started to take another step forward, then stopped, as though unable to cross the invisible river between them. “Stay, Wendy…” his voice cracked, and his eyes silently pleaded with her. Never had he appeared so vulnerable.

Something inside Wendy shifted at these words. “Why, Peter?” she breathed, caught in a storm between earth and heaven, focusing on a spot over his shoulder, aware of the beating of drums and the island.

Pain flashed over the boy’s face, and he was silent for a terrible moment before he reached out a hand towards her. “Because Peter Pan needs a Wendy,” the words trembled as they came from the core of his being. “If he did not have a…mother or storyteller or squaw, he would go on. But without his Wendy,” Peter continued in a low, intense whisper, “he will be nothing.”

The mainland was silent. There were no stars and no sounds of drums. Everything fell away from the stunned Wendy. There was only Peter Pan; his body tilted toward her, his hand open, his stormy eyes boring deep into her own. Everything asked, pleaded, begged her not to leave him.

The storm died away, leaving the girl free to fly. Time slowed as she walked to Peter, her heart racing. When she placed her small hand in his, there were stars in her eyes. “Yes.”

The clouds began to vanish from Peter’s eyes, and his body relaxed slightly. Yet he continued to watch Wendy with lingering fear and doubt.

Her smile was sweet and eyes soft as the girl looked into his face. “Yes, Peter,” she promised.

Gently Peter closed his fingers around hers and smiled, all shadows gone and replaced with stars and rainbows. Fingers interlaced, the children disappeared into the woods, their hearts beating in time with Neverland.

THE END