Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

Here's a fanfic that I wrote a WAY long time ago . . . almost two years ago!! It's Peter Pan from Tinkerbelle's point of view. It's not anywhere close to being done . . . but well, just tell me what you think.

A Cold and Broken Hallelujah

I sighed and stretched my small arms out in front of me. The stars above shone mightily in the velvety purple night sky. We’d been sitting here for the longest time, just listening to that woman telling the story. I rolled my eyes in disgust and leaned back on the rose that I was sitting on. My tiny wings were spread out behind me, and glistened purple, blue, red, green and gold in the bright moonlight. I never understood why Peter always wanted to come back to this dratted window and listen to that blasted story. Already, we’d heard it near twenty times, and he kept on coming back for more. It always went the same; girl whines about doing work, lets some old woman make things better for her, a grand ball ensues, the girl loses her glass slipper, and then is made into a princess. Why would anyone wear glass shoes? I stretched my bare toes and wiggle them, happy that my feet have no shoes to restrict them. Really, humans with their ridiculous ideas and crazy made-up stories were enough to make any of my people sick.

Finally! The woman stopped talking and bid her children good night. We heard the children hop into bed, and then the door closed. I stood on a rose petal and stretched, glad that we were finally going to be underway. Peter looked up at me and grinned, his pearly white smile making my heart melt. His eyes shone bright green from out of his face, and in the moonlight, the hair that hung wildly about his face glistened like a halo. One of my yellow moth-like antennae twitched, and I felt sure that we would have been off, racing through the night sky, if the girl hadn’t spoken next.

“John, are you asleep?” she asked, her voice floating from the cracked window. Peter stopped dead in his tracks and turned around to listen in.

“No,” a boy’s voice—John—replied, and in turn he asked, “Michael, are you asleep?”

“No,” came an even younger boy’s voice. I heard giggles from a child, and briefly was reminded of my birth; when the first baby laughed for the first time, it’s laugh splintered into a thousand pieces and from there, the faeries were born. I’d been around ever since, dancing on the stars, skittering through the woods, and having grand adventures in Neverland. None of the Lost Boys could ever laugh like that; so few children could remind me of my birth, that I stopped myself, and sank back onto the rose in wonder.

“Would you like to hear the story of the real Cinderella?” asked the girl, and both boys gave quiet cheers.

“Yes, Wendy, please do!”

“Oh Wendy, you have to! It’ll be better than Sleeping Beauty!”

Wendy, the girl, launched into her story. Peter and I both sat there in awe as she delved into a magical and mysterious place. I’d never heard a storyteller like her. She captured us with words and our imaginations. Everything she said was so exciting that we were hanging on her every word; each change of her voice came as a new thrill, and if I closed my eyes, I could almost see each thing she said playing out before me. The story was even better than the first; it had sword fights, magic duels, poison and intrigue. Cinderella wasn’t a commoner, she was a queen in disguise, trying to hide from those who wanted to kill her. She had to marry the prince or else she’d lose all of her kingdom. I could only imagine the look on the boy’s faces inside the room, as she whispered her tale in the dark, for when I glanced at Peter, the look of rapturous wonder made my stomach jump. I could feel my breath catch in my throat and I stared at him staring through the window.

As soon as the story was over, he jumped off the balcony as a breeze flung the windows open wide. I heard gasps as he sailed through it, and danced on the night air. The boys had pulled the covers over their heads, and sat, whimpering on their beds. Wendy, the girl, however, cocked her head and looked quizzically at Peter. I knew that she knew him, for all young children know who he is, and many of them wish for him to find them and take them away so that they may just be in his presence. Peter chuckled, and in the half-light from the moon, alighted softly on her bed frame. She tossed her mane of wavy dark hair, and for the first time, I felt the cold, cruel stab of jealousy in the deepest pits of my stomach and heart.

The girl’s dark hair fell down to her mid-back, and in the moonlight you could see that her eyes were blue and green and brown, all swirled together and hypnotic looking. She had a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and when she smiled, the entire room seemed to be ensconced in daylight. But the most disturbing thing about her was that she wasn’t entirely young. Oh no, you could tell that she was just beginning to become a young woman; that her face was losing its baby fat, that her body was starting to ripen, and I envied her, not just because she was everything I wanted to be, but because of the way that Peter looked at her.

She looked up at him with eyes full of curiosity and puzzlement, and I knew what she was thinking; she’d seen him somewhere before, but maybe it had all only been a dream. And it had been a dream, because Peter loved to dance in everyone’s dreams at night; the old, whom he loves to torment with visions of what could have been if they’d come with him; the young, who seem to hang on his every word so much that many of them leave this world and somehow make it to ours; and those in between, who know him, but don’t; those are the ones who get the worst of it, for they know that he’ll never come, and they despair, but when he is in their dreams their spirits soar and they start to believe again, only to wake and find that it wasn’t real. And then their hearts break. This girl, this Wendy creature, was almost one of the in betweens, but not quite. For she remembered Peter from her dreams, and I’m sure that she knew he would come.

A moment passed as they stared into each other’s eyes, and Peter must have read something there; something that only a grown up could gather from a child’s eyes. It must have startled him, because he jaw dropped, and he fled, taking to the skies, but not before Wendy had jumped out of bed and slammed the window shut on his shadow.


We had to go back the next night because Peter missed being able to play shadow tag with the lost boys the next day. He moped around the tree house, pouting. I stayed with him, trying to comfort him, but I think he found the glow I put off disturbing, for he couldn’t see his shadow anymore. Finally, I grew agitated at the state of his mood and slammed the door to my small apartment.

“Oh, Tink, I’m awfully sorry,” he called through the door. I harrumphed at him and merely sat on one of my couches with my arms crossed. “It’s just that Wendy, I don’t know, she’s gotten to me somehow. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Well, I want to, so why don’t you just leave me alone!” I shouted, my voice sounding like angry, cold bells even to my ears. I saw Peter’s great green eyes peering through my windows, and I slumped over on the couch so as not to be seen by him.

“Tink, come on, we’ve been friends forever you and I,” he said, his voice pleading. I shook my head and my bright yellow-green hair fell into my face. We had been friends ever since I’d shown him the way to Neverland. I’d been flying about, when all of a sudden, this young child, no more than a baby, pops his head up in front of me and scares me to death. Well, I was in such a state of shock, I didn’t even realize that he’d been flying at the time. He asked where I was going and I told him, and he begged to be able to come too. At first I’d been adamant in my refusal, but something in his great green eyes persuaded me and I broke down and let him follow me. Even though he’d sworn never to grow up, every now and then I could tell that he was getting older—whether it was battling with the Indians or killing pirates left and right—he came back each time with a new line on his face, a new wisdom in his heart. I knew that it would only be a matter of time before he decided to go back to the World of Men and leave me here, all alone. I knew that men have weak constitutions and faint hearts when it comes to women and leaving them behind, and I knew that this Wendy girl was not someone or something to trifle with.

We glided through the night sky, me looking like a star from down below, and Peter’s bright golden hair being rustled in the chilly air. We alighted on the same balcony as the night before, silent as the grave. Peter started to reach out to open the windows, but hesitated, and I could see that his fingers trembled. “You go first and see if you can find it,” he whispered to me, barely audible above the mad barking of the dog that had seen us soar in. I sighed and shot him a glare, my black eyes like daggers of obsidian. I jumped off the rose and sailed gracefully through the window. I laughed silently as I poked about the room, diving into drawers and pulling out all the pockets in the wardrobe. I loved to cause mischief to other people’s things. I loved to dance in the corners of their eyes, and when they turned to look at me I was gone. I loved to pull girls’ hair and then fly away fast. I knocked over trinkets and blew out the night-lights, and finally settled in the jug that sat on the mantle of the fireplace. I’d never been in a jug before, and I thought it was pretty neat.

“Tinkerbell,” called Peter apprehensively, as he poked his head into the room. “Tink! Have you found it?” he came all the way into the room and saw the mischief I’d caused and sighed. “Tink,” he groaned, and I giggled.

“That’s what you get for sending a faerie to do what you should have done yourself!” I called from my jug. “Your stinking shadow is in that chest of drawers,” I said, climbing out to rest on the mouth of the jug. I watched him as he found his shadow and grabbed it, but he couldn’t get it to merge with him again. I laughed when I saw the look on his startled face when it just sat there, limply in his hand. He’d been expecting it to just merge back with him! “Stick it on with soap,” I suggested, teasing. He did try, but when it didn’t stick on I laughed all the harder. He let out a frustrated yelp and began stomping all over it, completely disregarding the fact that three children also occupied the same room.

Wendy had been sitting up for quite some time, only I had been laughing too hard to see it. When she finally spoke, Peter and I both jumped and turned back to stare at her.

“Boy, what are you doing?” she asked, her voice right and light with mirth. Peter paused halfway through a stomp and stared at her, the same look on his face as last night. Contemptuously, I flew down to the drawer that the shadow was in and shut myself in it, so as not to hear them talking or to watch her making eyes at him. Peter, of course, being the great buffoon that he was, pretended to neither notice nor care, though I could feel his heart skip a beat and start to pound.

“My shadow won’t stick on,” he said, and I could hear the childish pout in his voice. Wendy laughed, and my sight practically grew green with envy; her laugh was everything that I wanted mine to be; childish and happy, yet as full of dark secrets and hidden meaning as an adult’s. I balled my tiny fists in fury, and leaned back against the drawer, trying to stop the jealousy from eating away at my heart.

“You shouldn’t stick it on with soap,” she said, and I heard a drawer somewhere above me being opened. “Whoever told you to do that? No, my good sir, it must be sewn on.”

I could hear Peter’s audible gulp. “What do you mean, sewn?” he asked, and heard him back into the chest that I was sitting in.

“Now don’t be so nervous; it may hurt a bit, but I’m sure you’ll be good as new once it’s back on.” I mimicked her with my hand, making snide faces as I heard Peter plunk down on the ground. There was a moment of silence and then the snip of scissors, and I laid back against the drawer hoping that it hurt like hell. Peter gulped perceptibly, but made no noise. I almost jumped up, incensed. The last time he’d gotten a splinter in his finger he’d cried like a baby for nearly three hours. Of course, that was when we were alone. He’d never do something so shameful in front of the Lost Boys. But me, I was his best friend, and I’d been the one to pull the splinter out and kiss it better for him. Was this Wendy creature on the same level as the Lost Boys to him? I shook my head, and a shower of pixie dust fell from my yellow moth-like antennae. No, I’d seen the way he looked at her, and he’d never looked at any of the Lost Boys like that.

“What’s your name?” I heard him ask shyly, almost demurely, and could have spat. Ugh, as though he didn’t already know! Though Peter generally did have a bad memory and a short attention span . . . but that wasn’t the point! I began to feel a bit put out from being ignored for so long, and decided that since he didn’t want to pay attention to me, I might as well hide from him in here, to see if he even did notice that I wasn’t around anymore.

“Wendy Moira Angela Darling,” she said, a pretty lilt to her voice. I could just picture her with her long dark hair falling into her multicolored eyes, glancing at him from under those long, long eyelashes, as she said her name. “And you are?”

“Peter Pan,” he replied proudly, and I could hear her gasp in admiration. Oh, how badly I just wanted to claw her eyes out!

“The real Peter Pan? Are you sure I’m not dreaming? Oh Peter, I’ve waited so long for you to come, I was beginning to think that you never would.” I felt the drawer above me open and close.

“I heard your story last night,” he said, “and I really liked it. I wish someone would come to tell the Lost Boys stories. You see, the get frightfully scared at night if someone doesn’t tell them stories to put them to sleep. And I don’t tell stories well, I always manage to botch them.”

“Oh, Peter!” she exclaimed, and I could hear her hopping up and down. “Take me with you, please! Oh it’ll be wonderful! I’ll cook and . . . and clean, and tell the most wonderful stories you’ve ever heard! I’ve got quite and imagination.” I rolled my eyes. Peter generally didn’t take anyone back to Neverland; that was part of the fun, for them to find it in the beginning. I could feel him hesitate. I knew how he felt; I wanted a storyteller too, especially if it was one like her, but did it have to be her? Why couldn’t she be somebody else, like a girl with three chins and a third eye in the middle of her forehead? If Peter said yes, I was going to give him a severe talking-to.

“Well,” I heard him say, and I knew that he was considering it. I jumped up and attempted to push the drawer open, but it was stuck fast. Enraged, I started hopping about and yelling, hoping to make enough noise that he’d eventually notice me again. I paused to catch my breath with enough time to hear him say, “Do you hear anything?”

“All I hear is the little tinkling of bells,” Wendy said, and I started throwing curse words out.

“That’s the fairy language,” Peter replied, and all at once, the drawer I was in was pulled open and out I streaked, bouncing about the room, yelling at him for leaving me in there for so long.

“Oh, if only she’d slow down and let me see her,” Wendy said, which drove me mad. Did this girl always get everything her way? I zoomed about even faster, my wings beating ferociously, until, exhausted, I alighted on Peter’s shoulder, sprinkling him with a touch of faerie dust from my yellow antennae. “Oh,” Wendy exclaimed. “Oh Peter, she simply beautiful!”