The boy was bewildered at best. He probably assumed Zarina had come to beat him around some more, because god had he been beaten up. What exactly did the other pirates do down here anyway? Did they get satisfaction from assaulting kids half their age? Then again, the Lost Boys weren’t just some kids, as human as they may be physically they sure were vicious little creatures (which was really all Pan’s fault). And they definitely had a history of tormenting the pirates.
It was only then that Fox realized that this woman had brought him not only one gift but two, the second lying by his feet, now within reach. It was impossible to tell what was on the plate or what it had once been, but that mattered very little in the moment -- it was food, however loosely it fit the definition, and food was second only to sunlight in things that Fox lacked.
It wasn't even that it was never given to him (it was scarce, certainly, but the pirates needed them alive, after all), but rather that its presence had never quite managed to prick his shadowed consciousness, as narrow and clouded as it had become. But in the absence of the cuffs that had come to fill his mind, there was suddenly room for hunger. And Fox was starving. His stare jumped from the woman's face to the plate that she had tossed down.
Once upon a time, he had been a very polite boy, who sat up straight at the dinner table and knew how to use his knife and fork, and knew better than to talk with his mouth full. But that was a very very long time ago -- in the beginning, he had tried to keep track of the days, but he no longer knew how much time had passed since he first set foot on Neverland's rocky shore -- and he no longer harbored any such reservations. For a minute he was an animal, desperate and afraid and burning with the need to snatch up the food before it was snatched away from him instead.
But then the angel-of-death-and-food asked him a question -- his name -- and Fox froze, his shoulders hunched and something breadlike clutched in his grasp. She sounded irritated and Fox's heart started pounding. Had this just been another trick? Oh, yeah let's bring the kid food to get him in a good mood and then try asking him more questions. It'll be fun. When would they realize he didn't have any secrets to tell, no matter what they did to him?
"Fox." His voice was wary, quiet, matching the way he balanced slightly forwards like a startled deer, but it was clearer than it had been before. This was a question he could answer, right?
The sound of a familiar voice tore Baelfire from his thoughts, as though he’d been hit in the face with a gust of cold wind – he inhaled sharply, his fists unclenching. The blaze of tension in his body seemed to ebb a little as he turned on his heels, facing the person that had joined him unexpectedly in the woods.
It was Fox.
And at any other moment, Fox’s mere presence would have been a comfort to Baelfire. A few days ago, it might have been enough – to see his friend’s gentle silhouette, to hear the sound of his voice. Fox and Baelfire’s friendship had been an unexpected ray of light through the boy’s stay in Neverland and it had been enough, at a time, to soothe Baelfire’s urgent need for escape. Quiet conversations by the light of the fire, private jokes, knowing smiles exchanged at the sight of something only the two of them understood – but as Baelfire grew restless, a growing void seemed to separate him from his friend and the rest of the boys.
Because Baelfire knew – he had tried to ignore it, tried to understand it, but he knew Fox had no desire to leave. Or if he did, it was a meek, fleeting desire that the other wouldn’t act on – Fox liked playing it safe. And Baelfire didn’t view this as a flaw, because he understood fear – but in that moment ? He had very little understanding for others, wrapped up in his own little crusade – he perceived, in a quite immature way, those who weren’t with him to be, by definition, against him.
And that included the boy in front of him.
Fox’s tone, more than anything else, sealed it. Because if Baelfire had heard concern and understanding in his friend’s question, his reaction would have been different – he would have sighed and shook his head, tried to explain, tried to talk – but he heard, in Fox’s voice, something close to an accusation. Had he misheard that ? Baelfire liked Fox, probably more than any other boy here, including the ones he got along with the most – but even from a friend, Baelfire refused to back down.
“What was I thinking ?” he replied, disbelief clear in his tone. “What are they all thinking ?” he asked, gesturing wildly towards the distant camp he had left behind in his urge to get away. “I don’t understand why everyone goes along with whatever Pan says. Everyone else might scared or naïve enough to play along, but I’m not. I’m not going to stand by and let him do whatever he wants. He has no right to keep anybody here.”
Baelfire’s words hit Fox like a slap to the face — he had heard them before, true, but they had always been directed elsewhere. Now they were being thrown at him, making his skin prickle and his shoulders deflate. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. They were friends, the two of them; Fox might even venture to say they were best friends, if such a title carried any weight in Neverland. It had always been the two of them, Bae forging ahead and himself following just off his shoulder.
Because that’s what Fox did. He had never liked the spotlight, preferring to watch from the sidelines where it was quiet and safe. Before the Pan’s shadow, it had been his brothers’ shadows that he stood in. Then it was Baelfire’s. But now, the boy was stepping aside, forcing the light to shine into his eyes so they burned, asking questions that he had always been too afraid to find the answers to. He was in no way prepared for this.
"What are they all thinking?" he echoed weakly. He couldn’t believe that Bae was still shouting about this… Yes, it was frustrating, and it was unfair, but saying so wasn’t going to do anything but make it worse. Pan did not take kindly to criticism, and Fox’s hackles were rising with every statement Bae made. Not because he disagreed, not because he was one of Pan’s mindless followers… But he was afraid — terrified — for his friend, breath catching in his throat at the thought of what was in store for him.
"They go along with it because they have to — if they don’t, they’ll be kicked out, or attacked, or —” a lump rose in his throat, incensed by Baelfire’s condescending words. Everyone else might be scared… "Is that what you want, Bae? To get your shadow ripped off?”
Fox never argued, never delved further into any altercation than absolutely necessary, and this conflict was making his hands shake, eyes darting back and forth to make sure that they had not been overheard. “Being all high-and-mighty won’t save you then, you know that.” His voice, shrill and earnest, hung in the air between them, not nearly as satisfying as Baelfire’s had been, but clouding the space nonetheless.
Bae should be scared, He should be very, very afraid. How could he not be?
Zarina sighed as she made her way over to the cells. If there was one thing she hated, it was guard duty. She would much rather be stuck moping the ship’s deck or preparing food (and the fairy was a god awful cook), anything but guard duty. And that’s exactly where she was headed now. What a joy.
When she arrived before the large doors that held the captives, one of the crewmates stopped her. He handed her a plate of guck (was that supposed to be food?) and small cup of water. “Give it to the skinny kid chained up.” The pirate spoke in a gruff voice. “Thing hasn't eaten in god knows when, and we need him alive, so force him if you have to all right?”
"Will do." The fairy nodded, taking the plate awkwardly in one arm, followed by the lantern in another. Pressing her back against the cold wrought iron, she entered the confinement room.
The place was absolutely rotten. It was cold, dark, and musky— and there was a faint but clear smell of blood in the stale air. The only minuscule light was shown from the lantern she carried in one hand. Hell, this place was even darker than the Neverwood, if that was even possible.
Holding the lantern up, Zarina walked past the cells, searching for the boy of the pirate’s description. Each boy reacted differently to her presence. Some spat at her, some howled insulting remarks, some winced at the light being shown in their face, and some were absolutely still. One thing was the same about them, they were all dressed in rags and all had hollows beginning to form where their once boyish cheeks were held.
Finally the fairy saw him. The boy was probably one the smallest, and his wrists were chained up. Why had they chosen to handcuff this one out of all of them? Zarina wasn’t sure, and she didn’t bother asking.
With a disgruntled sigh, the pirate placed down the food and lantern and searched for the keys she had in her pockets. Once she finally fished them out, she began to unlock the boy’s cell.
She was wary of approaching the boy, although it seemed unlikely he would put up a fight. His wrists and fingertips were bloody, as if he had a fierce battle with the metal that entrapped his skin… After a moment of hesitation, she kneeled down and undid the boy’s handcuffs.
Was she suppose to? Perhaps not. But then again, how was he suppose to eat with his hands tied up?
—And there was also a small part of her, which she would never admit. that felt guilty. Although she knew the Lost Boys were malicious children, when it came down to it they were just lonely kids who came from broken families. And seeing them so melancholy in their cages— it was one of her many reasons for despising guard duty.
Once Zarina had uncuffed him, she grabbed his plate and pushed it toward him, the metal surface sliding a couple of feet away from the scrawny prisoner “Eat.” She commanded, her voice monotonous. Leaning her back against the stone wall, her fingers grabbing the hilt of the sword attached to her hip. “I’m not leaving until you do, you understand?”
Over the past few days, Fox had been beaten for no reason that was apparent to him, chained up, and dragged through a maze of dank and twisted passages only to be locked up once more, far away from the only soul who had spoken to him during his imprisonment. So when the echo of boots rang down the hallway, could he be blamed for squeezing his knees closer to his chest, for cowering away from the figure pausing by his own cell — no, just keep walking, please — moments ago, the monotony of the cell and the cuffs and the dripping water had seemed like hell, but now he could imagine a thousand ways that his circumstances could be immeasurably worse. He still had all his teeth. He could still see and hear and breathe and no no don’t touch — the guard was standing before him now, the lantern they held throwing light against the wall like spears, driving his eyes shut. If he had been sure that any god could hear him, Fox would have called out for help. But there was no certainty in prayer in Neverland, where boys played at being gods and life was stolen at every turn.
But there were fingertips on his wrists, and he flinched, trying to draw his hands away — it was a futile effort, of course; he hadn’t eaten in a few days, and hadn’t slept in longer. If a pirate wanted to lay a hand on him, they would manage it easily as they did now. It was a knee-jerk reaction, an ingrained instinct for self-preservation even as Fox waited for pain that was sure to come, knowing full well that any attempt to protect himself was hopeless.
But the blow he was waiting for never came.
There was only a peculiar lightness, freedom flowing over his clenched fingers like forgotten wind, the hands that had removed the handcuffs as gentle as any he could remember. They were swift in their work, almost bird-like in a way that he imagined Wendy's would have been. But no, she was lost to him as he was to her, trapped now in the bowels of the castle.
A tin plate clattered on the ground beside him, but Fox took no notice -- his gaze was fixed instead on his hands, absorbed in their unhampered movement as he twisted them slowly in front of his face. Gone was the constant chafing, the incessant reopening of wounds, the constriction that stiffened his bones. He could have cried in sheer relief.
But though his hands were free, he was not, and he was quickly reminded of that fact when his semi-savior spoke and he raised his head.
With the light thrown upon her cheeks, the woman looked at first glance like a seraph. But she had not come to deliver him, nor to raise him from the depths of this hell; at second glance it was evident that she, if an angel, was a fallen one. Her eyes were dark but her sword was bright, the pommel resting on her hip but encased in readied fingers. Fox blinked as her voice washed over him, momentarily stunned into wide-eyed silence by the appearance of such a person in a place like this. But she had spoken, and he blinked again, wetting his cracked lips and making an effort to close his jaw, to find his voice, as rusty and feeble as it was.
But I’m only human
And I bleed when I fall down
I’m only human
And I crash and I break down
Your words in my head, knives in my heart
You build me up and then I fall apart
'Cause I'm only human
Her eyes widened, filled with surprise. An unexpected turn of events - it was the voice of a boy which greeted her. It was vigilant, somewhat uncertain, laced with prudence. It belonged to a boy. If she was to judge by his voice, he didn’t seem dangerous. Didn’t sound dangerous. Not at all. A vague feeling of relief filled her chest. Was he, too, imprisoned? Was he caged like she was? Her head was overflowing with more questions, such that prickled her tongue in the shape of impatience. Because she wanted to ask, to learn who he was and what he was doing there, but she couldn’t jump into such an interrogation. Not yet.
The exchange of names could suffice for now.
"Wendy. I’m Wendy, I wish you no harm," she replied quickly, as if from fear that she might lose whoever was on the other side of the wall. It wasn’t often that she heard someone any less than menacing in the Castle. This was an exception, a rarity. She couldn’t miss out, not now. Her nails involuntarily clawed the stone wall, an action which looked almost desperate (and perhaps it was, only in the slightest). If only she could see who he was. If only the wall didn’t separate them.
Only now did the facts begin to sink in, his mindless fear fading in the absence of any apparent imminent danger. Fox didn't answer right away, frozen and wide-eyed now in surprise instead of panic -- a girl? He hadn't known that anyone besides the Lost Boys and the pirates were present in the castle, let alone anyone with a soft voice or reassuring words or questions accompanied by hushed urgency rather than cruelty. Sitting back on his haunches, Fox straightened his stiff fingers, still trembling though the imagined threat had been dislodged, and opened his mouth automatically to answer this Wendy -- Wendy?
He had heard that name before. Where had he heard that name? It had to have been important, or else his heart wouldn't have skipped a beat, as if it remembered a past conversation that he himself had forgotten in his hazy state of mind. His head ached, from lack of sleep or food or from some blow carelessly delivered, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had found something, found the treasure that had been long sought-after, completed a quest he hadn't realized he had started. Fox barely even noticed the faint noise of his new-found neighbor scrabbling at the other side of the wall, his fingers curling and opening without notice as he wet his lips, eyebrows drawn together.
There was a fire hot as coal awoken within Baelfire, and there was no way to put it out.
It made him reckless. It made him angry – made him rebellious and fierce where he could normally be soft and subdued. But then again, he had always been an emotional boy, with a steadfast sense of right and wrong – a strong moral compass, one that guided him even when other forces pulled at him from every direction.
On many accounts, Fox should not have been at all surprised at Baelfire’s outburst.
His friend had always been more outspoken than many, full of purpose and fire and an underlying yearning for something more — Fox wasn’t sure exactly what it was the other boy was always searching for, but it was clear he wasn’t finding it within the confines of Pan’s repressive regime.
Because that’s what Baelfire’s saw it as, wasn’t it? It was evident in the smallest of ways: the tension in his jaw when given an order, his fingers flexing and clenching into fists at his sides when he spoke to the boy king; yes, Fox should had seen it coming, in the moments when Bae’s constant itch for freedom bubbled over into frustration, cursing Pan’s name in hushed tones and the safety of the shadows late at night. Fox had always sat quietly by, nodding only as often as necessary, torn between guilty fear and the need to placate his friend, as well as his own repressed agreement. Where Baelfire saw tyranny, Fox told himself that he saw safety.
Righteousness wouldn’t do any good to keep the Neverbird away.
But that frustration had never given way to outright fury, as it did now, and Fox had no idea what to do except stand back and stare at the ground, ears hot and full of the pointed words falling from Baelfire's lips. They sparked a tight sort of panic in his chest -- he had seen what Pan did to those who crossed him -- he had seen what the boy did to traitors -- and few things were considered higher treason than debasing the belief with which Pan ruled. Why couldn't Bae just keep his mouth shut? Didn't he see that there were bound to be consequences? Did he have a death wish? Fox began to sweat, palms clammy with secondhand regret.
Looking frantically around the circle of faces, Fox could see his own horror reflected on some. But far more numerous were those that aligned themselves with Pan, with cold murderous eyes and bared teeth ready to tear the snake in their nest to shreds. Fox's gaze had just settled on Felix, standing in Pan's shadow, his features arranged in a chillingly empty smile, when the space Baelfire had occupied before him was suddenly vacated. He was running.
And the circle of eyes kept staring, feet rooted to the ground, as if they could set the empty air ablaze in Baelfire's stead by sheer force of will. Their heat sent Fox stumbling backwards, his spell already broken.
Why couldn't he just stay quiet?
There was going to be trouble now, later, always; Pan was not one to forgive nor forget.
Why, Bae? Why couldn't you just think?
In his haste, Baelfire's trail was not difficult to follow, foliage pushed aside and trampled beneath his feet, and Fox eventually caught up with him, struggling with brambles that had attached themselves to him.
And there was Baelfire, standing stiff and shaking in the middle of a clearing, his knife buried up to the hilt in a tree in front of him.
What did the tree ever do to you? In another life, Fox might have asked Baelfire that very question -- Bae never partook in senseless violence, even against trees. But that seemed very far away now, and Fox just didn't know what to do with this new version of his friend, not yet.
"What -- what were you thinking, Bae?" It was a stupid quesiton, such a stupid stupid question, wheezed out between laborious breaths, sounding weak and petulant even to his own ears, making him wince.
Fox missed the wind. He missed the movement of air, rustling the treetops and ruffling his hair. He missed the brisk breeze that came in off the sea and he missed the stormy gales that wracked the island; he had not realized how much he should value wind until it was lost to him. No wind made its way into his cell, the window and gaps in the mortar being too narrow to allow any significant exchange. The air simply sat, cycled in and out of his lungs until it turned stale and sour. The room smelled as claustrophobic as it felt, cold damp and dank with water that seemed to wind its way where even drafts couldn't flow. Oh, if only he had appreciated the musky scent of crushed pine needles, of the crackling bonfire, of green things growing and the distant briny salty smell of the sea that drifted inland on the breeze. There was always something new being blown around. Here, it was the same, day in, day out: water, sweat, his own breath. But perhaps that wasn't entirely true -- beneath that was the slight but sickening tang of blood, metallic and cloying, clinging in his nostrils even in its meager presence. He could never quite manage to rid himself of it, no matter how he tried to bandage his wounds and keep them neat. It didn't help that his sleeping self had other ideas, often undoing all the work he had accomplished just before and leaving him to wake in a cloud of the stench, his fingernails red and the scabs torn away. But now he sat awake with something else doing that work for him. He wasn't sure why the pirates had chosen to handcuff him, now. He clearly wasn't going anywhere any time soon, and he hadn't given them any trouble (indeed the thought was almost laughable -- meek little Fox? He couldn't cause trouble if he tried) so he could only guess that one of the other captives had kicked up a fight, and his fellows were simply being punished as a precaution along with him. That might make sense, but as far as Fox could see his captors didn't make much sense, so who knew what was going on inside their heads. Perhaps they were just doing it for a laugh. Whatever the reason, they were effectively making Fox miserable. The cuffs were ill-fitting and dented, chafing against his skin with his every move. Combined with the clinging dampness, this had soon rubbed his wrists raw, etched with arcing slits from the unsanded edges. They refused to heal over, constantly reopened every time he shifted his hands, leaving him in exceptional discomfort and with two choices: watch his forearms run red until the they could run no longer, or simply sit. Fox sat. He sat still and could be, knees drawn up to his chest and back against the wall, the door to his right and his aching wrists cradled gingerly by his sternum. There were 52 stones in the opposite wall. He counted and recounted until he couldn't stand it any longer. Fox sat. He breathed in time with the dripping water, sure and steady as a pendulum. If he strained and pretended hard enough, he could almost convince himself that he could hear the distant crashing of waves. He couldn't. Fox sat. He almost nodded off, stopped by pain shooting up his arm as his left hand slipped downwards. He kept his eyes open, sore and red and tired. Fox sat and wondered if this was what it was like to go mad.
Wendy hadn’t quite realized when the vague claustrophobic feeling had begun weighing her down, troubling her, making her feel more uneasy than she had already been. But it was there, faint at first and then almost suffocating. She felt caged, much like a bird which was denied the ability to fly (something evidently crucial in the lives of the winged creatures). The sense of freedom was long lost, wiped away, no longer considered to be the core feature of the island. Locked up in a room, kept between four stone walls, Wendy had been bound to welcome worry, nostalgia and the newly developed claustrophobia.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid -- he hadn't even thought about who was lording over the light filtering into his cell -- how could he not have thought of that, in his thoughtless scramble for its touch?
And now a slight shadow had fallen across that fragile ray of light, sending him stumbling backwards with shaking hands. Whom had he just surprised? There were many guards who gladly threatened to blind him if they didn't like the way he looked at them; he couldn't imagine what they would do if they caught him scratching at chinks in the wall in search of his own personal sun. In his moment of panicked shock, Fox was almost unable to recognize that the whisper was not hostile, nor was it at all like any of the pirates he had heard thus far. It was cautious, it was young, it was female. He recognized none of this -- only that it was there, right on the other side of the wall, holding within it all of the possibility of danger that he had come to associate with any unfamiliar presence in the castle... It made him crouch and cover his head, as if doing so could protect him from that possibility.
A moment passed, and another, and the wall didn't cave in to reveal an angry sword-swinging pirate in a rage about being inadvertently spied on, so he slowly lowered his hands, squatting awkwardly alongside the wall next to the crevice. When he spoke, it was in a strained half-whisper, high with fear and laced with caution.
The pirates had neglected to give Fox another candle.
He had once had one, in the beginning, but that had soon burnt down to a useless stub. Perhaps it was for the better — it’s not like he had a book to read by lantern light, or anything to do for that matter; any sort of light source only highlighted the dank corners of the cell, revealing things he probably didn’t want to examine close up anyway. But Fox had always been a creature of the light. He flourished in the dusty afternoon sunbeams as spring children do, and the close darkness of his confinement in no way agreed with him. Some light seeped in around the outline of his door, granting him the leftovers of what was lit in the hallway beyond. Sometimes, during what must have been day, there was a faint shift from dimness to slightly less dull dimness, making the moisture that coated the floor shine in the barely perceptible light that filtered in through the narrow window. But that was it.
After a while, it became just a part of the background. He no longer noticed the light in its constant presence — it never flickered, never grew brighter nor faded — in fact, he had almost stopped noticing it. Until it went out.
The blackout was sudden and came without warning. One moment, faint shadows were cast from the base of the heavy wooden door, and the next, the night was all-encompassing, smothering him in its depth, sending him from a sitting position to his knees, blind eyes wide. Where had it gone, his last solace? He hadn’t realized how important that small illumination had been, not until it was gone, and now he could feel the darkness weighing heavy upon his chest. Fox stood, spun, trying to see which way was which — where was the window? It must have been night, because not even a hint of the shrouded sun peeked through — but it was no use.
Fox hated the dark. It squeezed his heart with an iron grip, making it beat faster and faster under the pressure until it was loud in his ears, the only sound in the silence of his darkest night. It’s alright, he told himself, a candle went out, just like yours did, they’ll light it again… But that did nothing to pierce the gloom.
And then, a star.
A tiny pinprick, a hole he had never seen before, worming its way through the cracked stone wall from whatever lay on the other side. It must have lain unnoticed before, lost among the beams from beyond the door.
It was funny; he had never thought much about what lay on either side of him. In the short time he had been imprisoned (although it felt like years, Fox knew it could not have been more than a month or so since the sun disappeared), his world had narrowed to fit inside this cold stone box. He could have convinced himself he was the only person left in Neverland, if it weren’t for the periodic visits of the pirates, bringing bread and knives, which were not always for the bread. But they never brought him stars.
The unfamiliarity of it made him freeze for a moment, staring at the point of light in awe. But he ached for light, starved for it, and it was only a moment before he rushed to the opposite wall to drink it in, scrabbling at the wall in the wild hope that he could enlarge the hole, slowly at first, with no thought as to what -- or who -- might be on the other side.
