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31_days2006-09-01 09:09 pm
acesodapop.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-09-01 09:09 pm
[01 september] peter pan | dream of flight, remembrance
Title: dream of flight, remembrance
Day/Theme: 01 sept // and the hearts of all mankind can be embittered
Series: peter pan
Character/Pairing: peter, the lost boys, an illusion
Rating: pg
Notes: kind of silly, kind of sad. not set in any particular '-verse', though decidedly not disney one.
Day/Theme: 01 sept // and the hearts of all mankind can be embittered
Series: peter pan
Character/Pairing: peter, the lost boys, an illusion
Rating: pg
Notes: kind of silly, kind of sad. not set in any particular '-verse', though decidedly not disney one.
It is late, the sun has gone down at least two Jacks and a Harry ago, and Peter doesn't feel tired yet.
"Come on, lads!" He roars with delight, blue eyes flashing with intent. "The night is still young, is it not?"
"Go t'sleep, Peter." murmurs a Lost Boy, lost in all purposes and cradled by a delicious sleep that refuses to welcome the golden boy flittering impatiently by his crew. "S'late-- so late, I mean, just...hm..."
"Sleep denies me, and I deny sleep!" Peter flips his hair back, a mannerism he strangely picked up from an unknown person (the popular suspect is Hook, but only Tink really knows). "For I am the shepard, and I lead my flock in search of a time and place--"
"Shut your face, sir."
Peter unsheathes his sword, too easily provoked these days. "Is that a threat, inferior creature?"
No one answers. This is possibly out of fear of angering Father, or simply a resigned attempt to ignore all else and reclaim slumber.
The boy, disappointed, lowers his sword and stares dully at his vulnerable gang. They're all dead to the world now, breathing softly through their open mouths and snoring and scratching in unsanitary areas, but the moonlight has crept in through the various crevices tunneling their way into the fort, and shines sweetly upon the rumpled pile of sleeping children, giving their youthful faces an ethereal glow that is almost cherubic in quality. If not for the streaks of dirt and pig's blood and something horribly suspiciously brown marring the figures of the picturesque scene, it would have been a surprisingly charming look at an otherwise picaresque throng of juvenile ruffians.
Peter can't handle anything even slightly approaching approachableness in his delinquents. After all, they're his delinquents. He steps nearer to the closest one, lifts back his foot in preparation to give a good solid kick; but something stops him to reconsider, and he merely turns on his heel and walks away.
The night! It is cool and refreshing, and his Lost Boys are sleepy boring idiots, Peter is now positive of it. He considers flitting off to meet with the Chief and the other savages, but remembers their heavy sleeping habits. The last time he tried to wake one of them, the whole tribe was aroused from rest and tried vengeance on him, not even giving him a running start. There is Hook and his sea barnacles -- but no, they had left the isles months ago and had yet to return. (He always forgets this.)
Peter was annoyed now. He was plagued by this restlessness, cursed by an alert and clear frame of mind when no one else was, and it was unfair and he was bored. Boredboredbored. Where was Tinkerbell, anyways? Right, she was a heavy sleeper too. She raised an absolute hell the last time he tried to rudely wrestle her away from sleep, that was something hard to forget.
The night has lost its mysterious charm, and the appeal of the refreshing wind has largely fallen off when it takes on a chill. Peter floats from treetop to treetop, hating and resenting the gorgeous view of the forestry and nearby coast, hating his stupid gang and Chief and Tigerlily and Hook and everything, they were all magnificent asses and he was bored.
He abruptly squats himself down on one particular coconut tree, busying himself with picking at the more obtrusive of the goosebumps dotting his underarms, and watching with keen interest as blood slowly trickled out from the flesh. He could've perhaps passed quite a few hours that way, might've even fallen asleep on that tree and awoke in the late morning quite content, but then He Saw Wendy.
A flash, a shock of golden hair, less bright and sunbleached than his, but a million times more brilliant and lustrous, catches his eye about 50 yards away, to the north, nearest to the Hangman's Cove. Interest peaked, he gets up and soars past trees and owls and slumbering children, careful to lower his body closer to the foliage as he approached the target. He was fully hidden from view behind a few colossal leaves, peeked over to see her up-close, and found nothing.
"Dirty!" He cries out, outraged, and clamps a dirty hand over his mouth, seriously worried for some moments. Silence receives his shout with grace, and he jumps down from his height to the soft verdant forest bedding. He turns with his whole body, alert, hand ready and hovering over his scabbard, and thinks he sees a hint of white out of the corner of his eye. He leaps behind a tree to get a better angle, dashes out to another tree, looks over the trunk to the right and sees bright eyes, a similar blue to his own flecked with green, two inches away.
"Oi!" shouts Peter, jumping back a good distance away, startled and shaken and trying not to show it. "What do you think you're playing at!"
Peter didn't remember Wendy, hadn't remembered her since twenty-eight years ago, one lazy August day when he was dozing off comfortably in a hammock, and was thinking how nice it would be to have a fan directed at his person at that moment, and a sudden random image of a vaguely pretty girl swatting at his head with a palm leaf arose out of the blue. He certainly couldn't be responsible for remembering now, and he stared at her and took her in, and realized she was a girl and thought her much too clean.
"Hullo," he said.
"Hullo!" She trilled back, sounding rather enthralled at being addressed.
"You're not from around here, I 'spect." Peter felt himself relax slightly.
"I'm not from around here." Her eyes glowed feverishly in a telling way (though balls if Peter ever knew how to tell a person's eyes, let alone a girl's.)
"You don't need to give me back my own words, like." said Peter, feeling quite easy and (not yet) bored by this amusing new game.
"I need to give you something!" The girl took a step forward, her filthy, mud-caked foot -- the only part of her that was unclean -- sinking into the lovely soft grass.
"Give me what?"
"A kiss!" She leans forward, and Peter hastily takes two steps back.
"A what?" He fumbles for his sword, but realizes with dismay it is fallen and lying on a flower bed some feet away.
"A kiss, a kiss." Her hands dart out before he can react, and reaches into right under the collar of his shirt, and retrieves a long silver chain with a dead acorn from around his neck.
"Where did this come from?" He asks, but honestly doesn't really care, too fascinated by the appearance of a shiny new trinket from thin air.
"Where did you come from." replies A Wendy, slightly disappointed.
"You're a magic person! You're like that old savage fart, that voodoo Injun!" He says excitedly.
"You don't remember me." She shakes her head sadly.
"What? What are you talking about?" Peter furrows his creaseless brow, perplexed by the creature before him. She bristles with something gentler than anger, lifts her chin proudly in a manner Peter recognized as his own.
"Talk about mermaids." Her voice takes a lighter, heavenly note, saccharine and almost-singing. "Talk about Injuns, talk about pirates, empty cradles, Hook. Talk about fairies!"
"You're touched." He shakes his head. "You're mad as a cock. Ought to be feathered and tarred!" Something inside him stirs, and it's unfamiliar and familiar at the same time and he doesn't like it but he knows it, whatever it is. It's an unimaginably strange feeling, indescribable -- you'd know it if you have ever at all felt it before.
"I must give you a kiss." She breathes dreamily, and comes Too Close again, and Peter has had enough; he jumps backwards into the air this time, and hovers high enough to be a dangerous situation to fall from.
"Peter!" She cries out, and Peter remembers well enough to know he never said his name, and turns to take off.
"Peter! Don't you want to remember? Don't you ever want to remember?" Her small hand is outstretched, and from this far away she looks like a ghost, a pale little thing in a blinding white nightgown with long thick hair and glossy eyes.
He stiffens at her words, and literally feels himself stumble and just barely catch himself to avoid a messy fall, and now he knows he doesn't want to stay here any longer.
"Keep your remembers!" He shouted, wavering and holding out his arms for balance all the while. "And your kiss and all that! I certainly don't need it!"
"Peter! Some day you'll want to remember, when there's nothing left!"
The golden boy, bathed in silver waning light, never looks back and flies away.
"Come on, lads!" He roars with delight, blue eyes flashing with intent. "The night is still young, is it not?"
"Go t'sleep, Peter." murmurs a Lost Boy, lost in all purposes and cradled by a delicious sleep that refuses to welcome the golden boy flittering impatiently by his crew. "S'late-- so late, I mean, just...hm..."
"Sleep denies me, and I deny sleep!" Peter flips his hair back, a mannerism he strangely picked up from an unknown person (the popular suspect is Hook, but only Tink really knows). "For I am the shepard, and I lead my flock in search of a time and place--"
"Shut your face, sir."
Peter unsheathes his sword, too easily provoked these days. "Is that a threat, inferior creature?"
No one answers. This is possibly out of fear of angering Father, or simply a resigned attempt to ignore all else and reclaim slumber.
The boy, disappointed, lowers his sword and stares dully at his vulnerable gang. They're all dead to the world now, breathing softly through their open mouths and snoring and scratching in unsanitary areas, but the moonlight has crept in through the various crevices tunneling their way into the fort, and shines sweetly upon the rumpled pile of sleeping children, giving their youthful faces an ethereal glow that is almost cherubic in quality. If not for the streaks of dirt and pig's blood and something horribly suspiciously brown marring the figures of the picturesque scene, it would have been a surprisingly charming look at an otherwise picaresque throng of juvenile ruffians.
Peter can't handle anything even slightly approaching approachableness in his delinquents. After all, they're his delinquents. He steps nearer to the closest one, lifts back his foot in preparation to give a good solid kick; but something stops him to reconsider, and he merely turns on his heel and walks away.
The night! It is cool and refreshing, and his Lost Boys are sleepy boring idiots, Peter is now positive of it. He considers flitting off to meet with the Chief and the other savages, but remembers their heavy sleeping habits. The last time he tried to wake one of them, the whole tribe was aroused from rest and tried vengeance on him, not even giving him a running start. There is Hook and his sea barnacles -- but no, they had left the isles months ago and had yet to return. (He always forgets this.)
Peter was annoyed now. He was plagued by this restlessness, cursed by an alert and clear frame of mind when no one else was, and it was unfair and he was bored. Boredboredbored. Where was Tinkerbell, anyways? Right, she was a heavy sleeper too. She raised an absolute hell the last time he tried to rudely wrestle her away from sleep, that was something hard to forget.
The night has lost its mysterious charm, and the appeal of the refreshing wind has largely fallen off when it takes on a chill. Peter floats from treetop to treetop, hating and resenting the gorgeous view of the forestry and nearby coast, hating his stupid gang and Chief and Tigerlily and Hook and everything, they were all magnificent asses and he was bored.
He abruptly squats himself down on one particular coconut tree, busying himself with picking at the more obtrusive of the goosebumps dotting his underarms, and watching with keen interest as blood slowly trickled out from the flesh. He could've perhaps passed quite a few hours that way, might've even fallen asleep on that tree and awoke in the late morning quite content, but then He Saw Wendy.
A flash, a shock of golden hair, less bright and sunbleached than his, but a million times more brilliant and lustrous, catches his eye about 50 yards away, to the north, nearest to the Hangman's Cove. Interest peaked, he gets up and soars past trees and owls and slumbering children, careful to lower his body closer to the foliage as he approached the target. He was fully hidden from view behind a few colossal leaves, peeked over to see her up-close, and found nothing.
"Dirty!" He cries out, outraged, and clamps a dirty hand over his mouth, seriously worried for some moments. Silence receives his shout with grace, and he jumps down from his height to the soft verdant forest bedding. He turns with his whole body, alert, hand ready and hovering over his scabbard, and thinks he sees a hint of white out of the corner of his eye. He leaps behind a tree to get a better angle, dashes out to another tree, looks over the trunk to the right and sees bright eyes, a similar blue to his own flecked with green, two inches away.
"Oi!" shouts Peter, jumping back a good distance away, startled and shaken and trying not to show it. "What do you think you're playing at!"
Peter didn't remember Wendy, hadn't remembered her since twenty-eight years ago, one lazy August day when he was dozing off comfortably in a hammock, and was thinking how nice it would be to have a fan directed at his person at that moment, and a sudden random image of a vaguely pretty girl swatting at his head with a palm leaf arose out of the blue. He certainly couldn't be responsible for remembering now, and he stared at her and took her in, and realized she was a girl and thought her much too clean.
"Hullo," he said.
"Hullo!" She trilled back, sounding rather enthralled at being addressed.
"You're not from around here, I 'spect." Peter felt himself relax slightly.
"I'm not from around here." Her eyes glowed feverishly in a telling way (though balls if Peter ever knew how to tell a person's eyes, let alone a girl's.)
"You don't need to give me back my own words, like." said Peter, feeling quite easy and (not yet) bored by this amusing new game.
"I need to give you something!" The girl took a step forward, her filthy, mud-caked foot -- the only part of her that was unclean -- sinking into the lovely soft grass.
"Give me what?"
"A kiss!" She leans forward, and Peter hastily takes two steps back.
"A what?" He fumbles for his sword, but realizes with dismay it is fallen and lying on a flower bed some feet away.
"A kiss, a kiss." Her hands dart out before he can react, and reaches into right under the collar of his shirt, and retrieves a long silver chain with a dead acorn from around his neck.
"Where did this come from?" He asks, but honestly doesn't really care, too fascinated by the appearance of a shiny new trinket from thin air.
"Where did you come from." replies A Wendy, slightly disappointed.
"You're a magic person! You're like that old savage fart, that voodoo Injun!" He says excitedly.
"You don't remember me." She shakes her head sadly.
"What? What are you talking about?" Peter furrows his creaseless brow, perplexed by the creature before him. She bristles with something gentler than anger, lifts her chin proudly in a manner Peter recognized as his own.
"Talk about mermaids." Her voice takes a lighter, heavenly note, saccharine and almost-singing. "Talk about Injuns, talk about pirates, empty cradles, Hook. Talk about fairies!"
"You're touched." He shakes his head. "You're mad as a cock. Ought to be feathered and tarred!" Something inside him stirs, and it's unfamiliar and familiar at the same time and he doesn't like it but he knows it, whatever it is. It's an unimaginably strange feeling, indescribable -- you'd know it if you have ever at all felt it before.
"I must give you a kiss." She breathes dreamily, and comes Too Close again, and Peter has had enough; he jumps backwards into the air this time, and hovers high enough to be a dangerous situation to fall from.
"Peter!" She cries out, and Peter remembers well enough to know he never said his name, and turns to take off.
"Peter! Don't you want to remember? Don't you ever want to remember?" Her small hand is outstretched, and from this far away she looks like a ghost, a pale little thing in a blinding white nightgown with long thick hair and glossy eyes.
He stiffens at her words, and literally feels himself stumble and just barely catch himself to avoid a messy fall, and now he knows he doesn't want to stay here any longer.
"Keep your remembers!" He shouted, wavering and holding out his arms for balance all the while. "And your kiss and all that! I certainly don't need it!"
"Peter! Some day you'll want to remember, when there's nothing left!"
The golden boy, bathed in silver waning light, never looks back and flies away.