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When Peter woke, cold and disoriented in the crystal cave of Red Dog there was a disappointing absence of James. And a storm was raging outside, a nasty blizzard that was overtaking the whole island.
Peter flew relatively unhindered around the island, despite the howling winds and snow. Occasionally he trudged through the mess of it, like when he lighted upon the edge of the cove to enter a firelit cave in the hopes of seeing—well he wasn’t entirely sure. It was just the Lost Boys though, pale and incensed.
They told him about Hook’s—James’—attempt to convince Ernest to leave Neverland. One that was successful if the boy’s absence said anything.
“You’ll stay, won’t you Peter?” Tootles asked.
Peter couldn’t place why, but he felt . . . uneasy with the Lost Boys’ eyes upon him.
“I need to find them,” Peter said, in lieu of a real answer.
They didn’t like that.
Tootles and Nibs lunged for Peter, latching onto his arms with vice grips. Their eyes were blank and glassy when he looked them in the face.
“Let me go!” Peter demanded, thrashing to try and remove the boys from his person.
“We can’t do that, Peter,” the boys intoned as one.
Peter ended up cutting them to ribbons.
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The storm was harsher when Peter finally escaped the cave. He flew like a bat from hell, right into the blizzard which did its utmost to smack him back down into the frozen sea. But he managed, just barely, to skim along the shore and catch up to a tall figure making its way along the beach.
It was Ernest, beaten, bloody, limping.
Peter landed hard beside him, nearly rolling his ankle in the process.
Ernest startled at the sound and reared back as if preparing to strike him. But then he saw it was only Peter and relaxed somewhat.
They walked along towards the place that would lead Ernest back home and Ernest told him about what had happened with himself and James and the Lost Boys. Peter told him about slicing the boys up in order to escape.
Then they heard a dragging sound behind them and when they turned there were Lost Boys, or what was left of them after Peter was done with them.
They were shambling messes, barely recognizable except for the animal pelts they wore. There was blood all over them, dripping from the wounds he’d inflicted. They still bled, leaving smeared crimson trails across the snow and sand.
“Stay . . . stay,” they were saying as they dragged themselves along.
Peter felt the blood in his veins freeze still.
Peter struggled to pull Ernest up into the air with him, away from the staggering remains of the Lost Boys, but he managed, even with the snow caking on him and the lightning crashing around them. Even with the way his mind tried to drift away from what he was doing, from his grip on Ernest.
Together they landed on the other side of the collapsed cliff, panting from exertion and shivering from the cold.
But at least they’d escaped the Lost Boys.
They kept their hands clasped between them until they reached the turn where Ernest would disappear from Neverland.
Ernest turned to Peter before letting go of his hand and placed a gentle kiss upon his brow.
“I hope you get out alright, Peter.”
And then he let go and turned back to the cliff. He went around the turn and disappeared. Peter may not have seen Ernest disappear in a blink from Neverland’s shores, but he was certain that he was safe and sound on the other side.
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The island was a winter hellscape as Peter searched it for James. Everything was coated in a thick layer of snow and ice and there was hail raining down on him, scraping up his already reddened skin.
Eventually he found his way back to the fairy commune tree which sat in a circle of frost and dead flowers.
And there was the fairy queen and a note from James about how to get to his home from Neverland.
The fairy queen buzzed with displeasure when he turned, note clutched in a white knuckled grip. His mind was made up. He was really going to leave Neverland. Her eyes glowed brighter red, more menacing than ever, and the clearing filled with an awful cacophony of humming fairy wings. The holes in the commune tree lit up with a million fairy eyes.
They swarmed him, biting and stinging and shooting out golden webs that snared his thrashing, swatting limbs. He was yelping and screaming and doing everything he can to fly out of the mass of them with the storm bearing down on him harder than ever.
It was a miracle when he managed to soar up and away from the commune tree with shiny webs tangled around him and trailing behind.
It was a bigger miracle when he spotted a shape out to sea, caught in the ice.
Peter touched down on the front of James’ dinghy, balancing carefully on that frozen prow and looking down on James who was equally frozen, and snow caked.
James looked up and squawked at seeing Peter there. He gathered Peter up in his arms and held him tight against his chest, hand in his hair.
It was all very wholesome up until they heard the pounding. Something was hitting the underside of the boat and the ice sheet surrounding it. Hard.
That was when the first hand cracked through the ice near the boat; it was deathly pale except for the frost blackened fingertips that clawed at the wood and grasped at the oars.
Peter was quick on his feet and slammed one of the oars down on the thing. The problem was that, in doing this, Peter also broke apart the ice around the opening that the hand had come through, making it larger. Large enough that the body of the pirate that the hand belonged to was able to come through, dragging itself up by the edge of the dinghy.
Peter wound back with the oar and brought it down over the pirate’s head, sending it back into the black water. But more sprang up around the boat, the whole crew of the Jolly Roger that had disappeared under the waves when the kraken attacked. All of them deathly pale to the point that their skin was nearing translucent except for their blackened fingertips and the red caked around their mouths.
James took up the other oar and began beating them back alongside Peter, but there were so many of them, clambering to get at the men in the boat. The lot of them started grabbing at the edge of the boat and pulling themselves up the side. And the boat tipped dangerously until it flipped completely, dumping James and Peter into the freezing water with the dead pirates of the Jolly Roger.
Their mouths filled with ice water as they gasped from the cold of it and they thrashed, trying to get their leaden limbs to cooperate enough to find the boat, to find each other, to do anything that might help.
But the pirates were all around them, holding them in bruising grips and pulling them down.
Peter got one final glimpse of James before a massive wave came from the sea beyond and shoved them both under completely and his world went black.
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He woke up on the shore of a stream, awash in warm sunlight. Peter looked around frantically and found James just beside him, asleep on the grassy bank.
He shook James, crying out for him to wake up. He nearly wept when he saw those forget-me-not blues flutter open.
“P-Peter?” he asked, then his eyes really opened and he shot up, looking frantically around “Peter! What happened?”
“We’re safe, Captain,” Peter said with a smile, tears still shining in his eyes, “We’re safe.”