Chapter 12 #2
Out of the corner of my eye, I study Finn. He really is disarmingly sweet. His soft red hair falls into his eyes when he laughs, and his blue eyes are bright, guileless in a way that feels almost out of place here. He moves with an openness, a kind of gentle steadiness that makes me feel unguarded.
“Finn,” I ask after a while, “what happened to the Lost Boys after Peter sent you back to the mortal world?” The question has been bothering me ever since I learned their fate.
He glances at me, and for a moment, something dim passes through his expression. “Well… since most of us came from orphanages, we went back to them,” he says quietly. “I was lucky, though. Got adopted by a kind family. They had a big house. I went to school. Made friends.”
I smile at the flicker of brightness in his tone, even as my chest tightens. I imagine them—those little boys, confused and frightened, sent away from magic back into the cold world they’d been rescued from. I wasn’t the only one Peter abandoned.
“You didn’t feel angry?” I ask softly. “That he left you?”
Finn’s smile falters. “At first, yeah,” he admits after a pause. “We all did. But…” He hesitates, eyes drifting to the trees. “There was something off about him, even before that.”
My pulse quickens. “Off how?” I try to sound casual, but it comes out too eager.
Finn shrugs, his easy manner slipping. “Just… different.”
His body stiffens as he says it, and I know I won’t get more from him. Whatever it is, he won’t speak against Peter. Even after being abandoned by him, the Lost Boys remain loyal.
I let it go, though disappointment curls low in my stomach.
“So why come back?” I ask after a moment. “Don’t you miss your family?”
He flushes, the faintest pink spreading across his cheeks. “I do,” he says. “But… Neverland calls to us. Always has. It’s like a song you can’t stop hearing. You try to ignore it for a while, but one day, you just… follow it home.”
There’s something in his tone—half shame, half hope—that makes my chest ache. I want to ask more, but then the path opens up, and my words die in my throat.
Finn’s garden stretches before us in a riot of color.
Rows of stone beds overflow with herbs and vegetables, vines climbing trellises heavy with green.
Fruit trees border the clearing, their boughs sagging under the weight of ripening fruit.
A small spring bubbles near the center, its song light and musical.
Strings of lanterns hang from the low branches of trees like caught fireflies, ready to glow when night falls.
Even the shadows here feel alive, brushed in silver by faintly glowing flowers that pulse with low, steady light.
A delighted laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Finn… this is incredible.”
He blushes at the praise, rubbing the back of his neck with that bashful grin. “Tink helps,” he says quickly. “Her magic makes everything grow faster. She says the plants listen better when faeries sing to them.”
There’s a softness in his voice when he says her name—a quiet affection that doesn’t need explanation.
I smile faintly, stepping into a shaft of sunlight. “I used to garden with my mother every summer,” I say. “I’m not quite this good, but I know my way around roots and weeds. Could I help you today?”
His whole face lights up. “Of course,” he says, beaming. “I’d like that.”
For the first time since arriving in Neverland, the air feels gentle again. The monsters, the magic, the unease—they all fade, just for a little while, replaced by the quiet hum of life around me.
We pass between the garden rows, the scent of sun-warmed soil heavy in the air. I recognize most of the plants—rows of carrots and cabbages, thick-stalked chard, trailing beans—but tucked among them are plants I’ve never seen before.
Finn shows me how to pick moonfruit, the golden, softly glowing orbs that resemble tomatoes, warm beneath my fingertips.
“They only ripen under a full moon,” he says, dropping one into a woven basket. “Best picked before dawn.”
Near the well, a patch of firemoss spreads like a velvet scarlet carpet over the stones. When I brush it with the back of my hand, the heat makes me flinch; it lets out a faint hiss, like coals shifting in a hearth.
Finn laughs, handing me a pair of iron shears. “Smolders when touched,” he says. “Shears only.”
We gather teargrass next—slender, silver-blue stalks that glisten with dew even in the dry morning air. “The faeries use this to make calming elixirs,” he adds, his voice softening. “Tink brings me the seeds from her glade. Some of these are gifts from them.”
A soft breeze stirs the air, rustling the leaves. As I kneel beside Finn, hands buried in the earth, a fragile calm unfurls inside me. It feels almost foreign now, this peace. Brief and delicate as a soap bubble, but real nonetheless.
“Finn,” I ask, brushing dirt from my palms, “have you ever noticed anything… glowing? Symbols, runes, in or around your garden? Or even on yourself?”
He glances up at me, brows knitting. “Runes?” he repeats. “Can’t say I have. Why?”
I shrug, forcing a light tone. “Just curious.”
But inside, unease coils tight. Peter had looked startled when I said I could see them, like that wasn’t normal. Like he was used to being the only one who could.
We fall back into easy silence, the rhythm of work filling the air—the soft snip of shears, the rustle of leaves, the trickle of water from the spring.
It feels good to have my hands in the soil, the sun warm against my skin.
I glance toward the tree line encircling the meadow.
The light doesn’t quite reach beyond the garden’s edge, where the forest looks on dark and imposing.
My thoughts drift, as they always do, to Peter Pan.
He has never strayed far from the edges of my mind.
I try to picture the boy he once was, wild and golden, his laughter bright as starlight.
I remember my own foolish curiosity, how easily I’d offered to sew his wayward shadow back onto him, never questioning the wonder of it.
How quickly I’d gathered John and Michael, urging them to follow a boy who promised we could fly, to chase an impossible dream.
I’d worn my blue ribbon that night, tied it into my hair for luck.
That first time stepping into Neverland, everything had shimmered with wonder—colors brighter, stars closer, the air itself alive with promise.
But the memory twists. The moon gleams ominously above the treetops.
The forest closes in, branches like grasping claws.
Peter’s hands grip my hips, his voice a rasp of command as the vines wind tight around my limbs.
The brutal rhythm of him, the heat, the loss of control—
And me reveling in it.
A shameful heat floods through me, spreading until even the sunlight feels unbearable. My dress clings to my damp skin. I press a trembling hand to my chest, trying to breathe past it.
How easily the mere thought of him unravels me. A moment ago, I was at peace, hands in the soil. Now, I’m burning. A simpering fool who would crawl back to her monster at the slightest whisper of his voice.
I can’t reconcile the woman I thought I was becoming with the woman I actually am.
Finn steps beside me, jolting me out of my spiral. He offers a ceramic cup. “From the well,” he says softly.
I take it and drink greedily, the water crisp and clean. It slides down my throat like mercy, cooling the heat that had been threatening to consume me from the inside out.
“Thanks,” I murmur, wiping a stray droplet from my chin.
He smiles—warm, boyish, a little shy. For a heartbeat, the world feels still again. Then his expression falters. His blue eyes go wide. Before I can ask what’s wrong, a sharp tug jerks my head back. Pain sears my scalp.
“Ow!” I cry out, reaching for my hair.
A voice, shrill and venomous, cuts through the air. “Peter’s not enough for you, Wendy?”
Tinker Bell stands behind me, her tiny hand tangled in my ponytail, wings quivering with fury. Her eyes blaze like polished silver. “You need Finn to soothe your lust and stroke your fragile ego, too?”
I wrench my hair free. “I was helping him garden,” I snap, gesturing at my mud-streaked dress. My pulse hammers, anger sparking beneath my skin.
I turn to Finn for support—but he’s frozen. His mouth hangs open, then shuts again. His cheeks are flushed crimson, gaze locked helplessly on Tink.
The bitter laugh that escapes me tastes like ash. Of course. Now I understand why he came back to Neverland.
I meet Tinker Bell’s glare head-on. Her beauty is sharp enough to wound, her rage near blinding.
Was she… jealous? Of Finn and me?
The thought almost makes me roll my eyes.
“Thanks for letting me help today, Finn,” I say sweetly, brushing the dirt from my hands. “I’d be happy to lend a hand again sometime.”
Tink hisses, a soft, animal sound that makes the fine hairs at my nape rise.
I keep the smile on my lips, but I feel it hollowing as my voice sharpens. “And Tink?” I say. “Don’t ever put your hands on me again.”
Her wings still.
I take a step closer and shrug. “Or I’ll tell Peter.”
The color drains from her face. The silence that follows hums with tension, the kind that makes the garden feel suddenly less like a sanctuary and more like a trap.
If I had to endure the monster, I might as well let him serve as my shield against this vicious little faerie.
After last night, I believe he hasn’t touched her.
I’m still angry that he went along with her plan to rile me up, though.
Without another glance, I turn and make my way toward the edge of the clearing, where the path winds back to the treehouse. I already have enough chaos of my own to navigate. I have no intention of getting caught in theirs.