wendy darling, district one | finished

You were Gwendolyn Albright first, and then you were just Gwen. A girl sitting by the window, in a room full of childish things longing to be put away, staring out at the streets and their many shadows. Pretty and quiet and dreamy. You would pull the curtains closed and sigh. The darkness was comforting.

So lonely and entitled and ungrateful — you lived your life in a cage, but you never stopped to consider just how lovely it was. A white house down a flower path, two parents that cared, wealth and knowledge at your fingertips. They never expected you to be a career. You weren't sure you wanted to be one.

But you liked having options, or at least the idea of having them. You didn't like being an object, a pedigree on a leash. It was because you pulled so hard that the leather started to bite against your throat. You were ordinary in the most terrible, wondrous way. Maybe you would have felt whole if you could be lethal, too.

That wasn't true, and you knew it. Blood wasn't meant for your hands, but the wildflowers and the ribbons didn't fit right, either. You felt empty, and young, and time was moving too slowly. You were restless in the worst way, making yourself hate a thing you should have loved. Could have loved.

Then Peter found you, so suddenly and so wildly, and you thought that maybe your life was finally going in the right direction. The road curved away from the mansion you grew up in, snaked under the boy's feet and stretched ahead of him, and you followed. It was his path, not yours, but he held your hand as you walked. You thought maybe it would all be okay.

You were Gwen for a time, and then you were "Wendy, darling." He said your new name like it was a hard fought decision, something he knew was right and would not reconsider. You were Wendy now, his darling — and when you called him Peter, that was simply his name. It was not a thing you could ever change.

But he changed you, and you convinced yourself that it was what you wanted. Your new house was grey, and crumbling, but you slept well on those thin sheets. Your new companions were cautious of you, then adoring — you were a lamb stumbling into the wolf's den, after they had already feasted. It would be some time before they turned on you.

You gave up pieces of yourself, and you accepted the puzzle pieces he gave you in return. You tried to make them fit, tried to make yourself blue instead of red — smooth instead of jagged. You liked the way he looked at you, the way he looked at the sun and all the wonders of the world. Like they were his for the taking.

You never stopped to consider that he was taking you, too.

His lost boys liked when you read to them, when you showed them from experience what it was like to have a real family — and even Tink, in all her quiet rage and cleverness, kept herself in line with you. She could have dragged you out of that place without a fight, and you were aware of this, but she knew you made him happy. Peter was happy.

And that was all that mattered in the end.

A king in his castle, surrounded by his soldiers and his advisers. You didn't feel like either of those things. You didn't feel like his queen, either. You felt more like a treasure, a precious thing he had stolen away. Maybe this was just another cage. But at least you felt alive here, flushed cheeks and wild hair and a giddy scream in the night.

"Tell me a story, Darling." His voice was like honeysuckle in a thicket — and you were the bird tearing itself apart to reach that sweet nectar. The blood was wrong on you, but he liked the way it looked. You just liked that his eyes were focused on you. He was the sun, and around you were all of his planets and stars.

And you were a comet.

You didn't want to just pass through.

"Here's a story, Peter." And it's ours.