misc

that march with muffled drum

Peter will not grow up, and Wendy will not so cripple herself to stay with him. And so she leaves the island, flies home, has husband and house and child, and succumbs willingly (or so she tells herself) to the slow ravages of time. She forgets the strange feel of air beneath her feet. But she remembers Peter’s name, and the careless cruelty visible in his eyes: cruelty her own daughter is only just learning to bend into civility and generosity and love.

When he comes for Jane, he fits exactly into the shape Wendy’s memory has kept for him, save that the pockets sewn so carefully for him have all torn away. He moves with the same contradictory arrogance and caution around her, and Jane responds with the wondrous fascination her mother once felt so long ago. Some lessons can be learned only if left untaught, so when Jane turns to her with shining face, Wendy steps aside and does not bar the window; makes no protest when Jane follows Peter out into the clouded London sky.

They will be back: Jane because she must grow up, Peter because he can’t, and Wendy will have pity for only one of them. Now, though, she watches the pair of them fly away and can’t help wishing for her own set of invisible wings, just for this night.
Poor Wendy :(

This is such poignant little drabble, and beautifully written ^_^