Work Text:
even after everything, she cannot hate him.
she can hate what he does, what he stands for, what he wants, what he’s become.
but she can’t hate him.
because he’s not a monster. it would make everything so much easier. but he’s not, he’s not a monster, demon, soulless, untouchable.
oh, she knows far too well that he’s human.
she may be the only one.
to his boys, he’s like a god. to his enemies, a demon. powerful, invulnerable, untouchable, invincible, absolute.
but wendy knows he’s human. he’s not made from divinity’s ichor but of the same mortal makings as the rest of them. she knows his breaths are of the same mortal air, knows the blood running through his veins are of the same mortal blood. she knows that his eyes widen and narrow, his brows lift and burrow, his lips loosen and tighten. she knows that he sweats and bleeds and cries, knows that he smiles and yearns and laughs just the same.
she knows he feels fear just like anyone else, knows he is afraid and tired just as he’s clever and sure. she knows he hurts just as everyone else.
how can she hate him, when he’s so terribly human?
she’s full of too much empathy. her heart, always so full, will not allow her. because she recognizes him, because he’s not a different person than before. that’s what makes it hurt so, what makes it so painful. oh, he’s worsened, as time and the years went on, that his desperation, his fear, led him further down the path than perhaps if he need not be driven, but he had been willing and it was still him. it wasn’t a shade of the person he’d been — though perhaps a shade of the person he could be — and so wasn’t a shade of the person he was. monstrous were his deeds, he hadn’t turned into a monster, he wasn’t gone. this villain was him, the same boy she had known, the same boy she had laughed and had fun with, the same boy she had grown to care for. that bond had been made. that boy still lived, and so did that bond. no matter how painful.
he was still human, and so she still cared.
against rhyme, against reason. so thus her feelings were.
now, she did not love him. not in that way, if she ever really did. she could not love him like that, with what he’s done and who he is. He is unashamedly, unapologetically selfish, and he will not change.
he refuses to.
and though she cares for him, she does not (cannot) love him, not like that. though, perhaps, it’s possible that she loves him, the way Children of God are called to love their fellow Children. a deeper love, born from empathy and human dignity, arisen from the common human birth. this love, deep and sincere, it’s possible she may have.
and it’s this, because she cares, that it hurts. because she cares, that it’s so painful.
because she knows this isn’t good for him. it’s pernicious; how could it be? it’s not good for him, it’s not right, this life, it is a shadow, he’s a shadow, living this way. this is no life for a boy. he had so many years, over another lifetime, a second chance. a hundred years, about. he could go, he could live again and grow up and get it right this time, live a fulfilling life boyhood is supposed to be rewarded with. he wouldn’t be robbed of his life when the hourglass ran out, adding another’s lifetime to his own when he had his time. he could never justify having another boy die, cutting his lifetime short, innocent, when he had enough time to live a full lifetime.
if he did that, he’d die in a body that wasn’t his. old and strange and wrong. he’d been in that body once, before, and he would never again.
but he’d die like that anyway, when the magic runs out. if he fails his scheme to cheat death forever, if he fails to procure The Heart.
which is why he’s so fixated about not failing, why he’s so rigidly determined not to fail. it’s the only path that won’t end with the alien body. it’s not so much that he desires immortality, so much as it is his utter repulsion of that body. he would rather be willing to die as he is, in his own body now, than to die in the one that is old and foreign. it just so happens that between living and dying, he would much rather live. he’d rather live with his youth than die with his youth, but he’d rather die as a boy than die as a graybeard. and that was exactly his plan.
Live forever as a youth through The Heart of the Truest Believer, or die trying.
She didn’t see what kind of life existed if his plan went through. What kind of life there was when one lives forever, what kind of life immortality provided. What quality of life can there be without change? She didn’t, and couldn’t, see.
And he didn’t and couldn’t see what she saw. He could only see his youth, his soul, everything he was, at risk of perverse erasure. He could only see what he was most afraid of, his biggest fear.
Peter Pan was a coward.
She’s not sure when she made that discovery, though certainly seeds had set soil upon her return. Certainly, his pretended indifference, his obdurate refusal to show that he cared, indignant, when he allowed her to leave, had seeds of this. His practiced tactics so that he wouldn’t have to face his emotions, to face the hurt, certainly that is the coward’s way?
Though wasn’t letting her go aware of the pain he would experience brave?
It was the one time, she thinks, that he may have put her happiness over his.
Of course, he tainted it as he acted out, going to steal one of her brothers, she’s pretty sure, just to hurt her. Made worse when he refused to give Bae up, budging only when she began to bargain, and still even then wouldn’t just take him back to her family.
She could’ve forgiven him for a lot of things. She could have forgiven him for the way he acted out, for hurting her, for all the pain that he inflicted on her. Not considering The Heart, she might have.
But he refused to take Bae home, and that’s the crux of it.
He gave his permission for Bae to leave, but he wouldn’t tell Bae that, and he wouldn’t help him, either. The best he would do is not get in Bae’s way, not sabotage his attempts. Bae had to do it all on his own.
He provided so many excuses. Bae wouldn’t believe him if he told him, and he wouldn’t leave without her if she told him. It would give him enough time to change his mind, to realize his belonging, that he really was a lost soul and thus this was home. Their transparency failed to fool her; she saw right through every one of them. She knew that he was loath to let Bae go, that for some reason he had personal investment and incentive to make him stay. He would be true to his word and let Bae go, if he found a way off, but having Bae on the island suited him. The extra time wasn’t so Bae could realize he really was a lost soul, it was for Pan to make him one, to convince Bae that he always was one.
And it’s that she can’t let go of.
No matter how she may care, involuntarily and against her will, no matter how human he may be, no matter how he was human and that was why she cares, she can’t get past it. She won’t. It’s an anchor, preventing her from being drifted away by his sweet words, undone, keeping her firm to herself. It’s why she won’t, why she can’t, believe in him.
Well, admittedly, she believes in him in the sense that she sincerely believes that Peter Pan never fails. But she doesn’t really believe in him, not in that way, the way she used to, the way she had once upon a time. She won’t, can’t, because of that.
She believes that, if, given another chance, to go back, he would handle some things differently. She believes that, if he could go back, he’d handle how he treated her better. He’d handle how he reacted better. He’d handle his anger better, he wouldn’t act out as harshly as he did, wouldn’t try to get back at her as he did. She honestly believes that, if he could go back, there are things he would do differently.
But she knows that Bae isn’t one of them. She knows that he would still not take Bae home, that he’d do the exact same thing, that he’d still do it, that he wouldn’t go back and undo it.
That is what keeps her grounded.
That is what she can’t forget, what she can’t let go of.
That is what disallows her from believing in him.
Because he hasn’t changed. It was that simple. He hasn’t changed.
Maybe if he could he would have been more compassionate, more considerate, would have had more patience, would have treated her better, but he’d still go after The Heart of the Truest Believer, still would kill an innocent boy for it, still would have had Bae linger. Nothing has changed.
She hasn’t changed either.
Oh, she has changed a lot, no longer the same girl who first landed. She wasn’t as naive anymore (at least, she thought so), wasn’t nearly as brave as she had thought she would be (at least, she thought so). She wasn’t as full of excitement and wonder as much as she had been, though traces of wonder still were in her sometimes. She wasn’t the same girl who laughed and smiled so many seconds of the day. In many ways, she did change.
But at her core, she hasn’t changed. At her core, her love for her family is ever-burning, and at her core she’s still a good person.
At her core, she wants to change, change in the way people are meant to change. She wants to grow and develop and mature. She wasn’t meant to live forever, she was meant to blossom and bloom, wants to indulge in the ephemeral life that is hers.
At his core, he wants things to stay the same. He wants things to be like they used to, before things got sour, and it frustrates him that she resists. It’s so easy to pretend. Nothing has to change if you don’t want them to, and he doesn’t want them to.
And this is the heart of everything. Core, fundamental parts of their beings conflicted, ever at conflict.
change, growing-up, morality; staying the same, not growing-up, amorality.
core parts of themselves ever at conflict.
she wonders, sometimes, when she dares to wonder, wonders what if they had met earlier, wonders what if she was born earlier, if they met earlier, once upon a time before the taste of magic. when he was just a boy, a real one, before, before, when he was just a blacksmith’s pseudo-apprentice, before, when he was just a boy.
she thinks they may have had a chance.
but that’s the tragedy, isn’t it? they’re never meant to have a chance.
and so it just hurts.
they’re terribly human, and it hurts.