Shock. Betrayal. Shame at his own naivety and foolishness – how could he have not felt this earlier ? The dream had fogged up his mind, filling it with false explanations for a boy who was no illusion – Peter had intruded on his dream, on his private thoughts. That thought punched Baelfire in the gut – Peter had seen, Peter had heard. Pan had heard him say things he would never have told him in the waking world, he’d seen the loneliness and the buried grief that the boy proudly concealed in the light of day – it made the boy feel exposed, ashamed, burning shame in his throat.
He was angry. He was so angry that the island around them changed – it faded a little and now, there were sounds to be heard in the distance. Over the trees whose color shifted, smoke danced in the air from a pyre hidden in a clearing – behind Baelfire, where he wouldn’t look, there were boys dancing around a bonfire to the music of a cloaked piper. An echo of the night Baelfire had met Peter Pan, but the music that rang through the air was discordant, unpleasant to the air, like a screeching violin instead of eerie pipes.
Baelfire didn’t even notice the change, nor did he notice the darkening of the sky. The glow of the sunrise turned dangerously vivid, casting a terrifyingly red light over the forest. Like a nightmare, but one that Baelfire didn’t fear – he saw nothing but Peter Pan, standing in his dreams, right in front of him.
All those things that Pan had said – the subtle gentleness, the understanding, the sincerity – had that all been a trick ? Why was Baelfire even doubting it – of course it was a trick. Of course. Anger swelled within the boy – accusations tumbled on his tongue, words of indignation and fury – but they couldn’t come out. He couldn’t speak them – couldn’t make that transition so quickly. Go from trust to utter refusal – who had that been, in his dream, then ? A mask that Peter adopted in order to trick him, to get something from him ?
But that sincerity. The openness. The –dare he say it ?- kindness.
The anger didn’t die. It remained present, dormant, tying knots around the boy’s throat. His eyes shone with the burn of betrayal but instead of shouts, instead of sharp words, all that came out was a single syllable, half stunned, half angry :
Why was he here ? Why had he pretended ?
Why was he in his dream, why had he even bothered – what did he want ?
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