Only in Neverland (under revision)

Moira, the Comforter

Hurry was the only thought in my head. Peter's limp body was simply a cold and heavy dead weight that was slowing us down. We just had to get him back in time to save him.

As we flew, I couldn't help but think that everything was my fault. I had come here to Neverland and brought my little sister, sticking her right in the midst of danger. For all anyone knows, we—I—could be the reason for the sudden bad weather. I could remember Neverland being described in the stories as a sunny, cheerful island, with sweet breezes and bright plantation, only changing with Peter Pan's moods and absence. Then I come along and the winds are wicked and the skies dark and stormy. Could I be the reason for that? Could I be making him so angry or so sad, that Peter's moods create deadly weather patterns? Of course I could be! Not only did I want him to grow up and take away his idea of fun, insulting his ego many times, but I also reminded him of Wendy—someone he'd lost.

I was in my head too much. Right now the pressing issue at hand was getting Peter to safety. The issue was getting him home.

Just as I felt as though the journey were taking far longer than it had taken coming, Tinker Bell told Angela to hold on to her fairy rope and to grab on to me (or that is what I assume from her following actions). This is the part when we switch the universe in which we are. This was the part when we exit Neverland and enter a world more real, and with less magic.  It would be much quicker from here, I could feel.

As we were breezing through clouds, Angela turned to me, asking, "What if when we bring him back down, he rapidly grows and dies?"

"It won't happen—we mustn't think like that. ...But if it were to happen, at least he will have lived out an entire lifetime." I rubbed Angela's back, stifling her worries. I looked forward to when I could collapse in my house and allow for Mother and Father to rub my back, instead. I knew growing up was a part of life, but this was too much all at once.

Our house was finally in sight, and we dove through the night winds furiously. Peter's breath was so shallow! He was on the brink of death and I wouldn't let it happen. We burst through the bedroom window and shouted for our parents. "Mother! Father!"

Mother and Father were there in an instant, skittering down the hallway to where we stood, yelling in anguish, with scares of the possibility of Peter's death in our voices. "What is it, darlings?"

The question need not be answered, for when they looked to our arms, they saw the blue-skinned boy, stretched out in our grip, his state greatly feeble. There were many exclamations, as the two adults scrambled to take him from us. "Oh, Mother," I cried out, now sobbing. "Please do hurry, he's becoming iller by the minute."

They rushed him out to the street, putting Peter in the back seat of our automobile. I climbed in beside him, hovering close to transfer heat. I had a sensation to slap him, to scream, "Wake up! You're the only friend I've ever had!" But I just stayed still, prim and proper, trying hard to keep up appearances with the tears streaming down my cheeks.

The hospital was four blocks away, and I continuously prayed that Peter would make it through the short drive. "We just have to make him warm again, right?" Angela piped quietly from beside me.

"Hopefully," was all Father responded back. This failed in comforting her, and she began crying, too.

"William!" Mother shouted, disgraced at his inability to make his children feel at ease.

"Well, Ella, I apologize if I tell our children the truth, which they deserve to hear." Mother followed this up by staring out the window.

"Can you go faster, Father?" I pleaded.

"I have to abide the law, Moira."

"Oh, please, would you revel in life a bit more—you're as boring as your name," I heard Mother mumble. Father must have heard as he suddenly sped off at a daring speed.

We pulled up at the emergency room, and I lunged out, before we had completely stopped, Peter in tow. I hoisted him up and through the doors, struggling to drag him to the front desk. I was about to explain what had happened and that he had hypothermia, but the nurses were already rushing to get him on a stretcher, and before I knew it, he was rushed down a corridor. The woman sitting at the front asked if he and I were related. "Yes, we are half siblings. Peter and Moira Wenston-Darling."

Everyone else came barreling in after me. "I imagine they're all family, too?"

"Yes, indeed. These are our parents, and this is our sister—his half sister," I replied, gesturing toward each figure at the proper time.

"Well, then I'll need either one of you—the parents—to fill out these forms."

Father looked appalled, whereas Mother looked amused. She grabbed the parchment, held by a clipboard, out of the nurse's hand, a smile still just barely showing in the corners of her mouth. I nearly beamed at my handy-work. Mother filled out the forms, in fast and elegant hand-writing, not thinking twice of the fact that she now had a "son". She handed them back to the woman at the desk, with the flash of an exquisite smile. 

My triumph was short-lived, as 30 minutes passed. Then it was another 60 minutes of waiting on word of Peter's condition. Add another 30 and we were there for an two hours. Angela had drifted off in an uncomfortable looking slumber, slouched in her chair, with her neck at a 70 degree angle. My knee bounced up and down at a rather brisk pace, as I became more and more impatient. If he was in there for even another ten minutes, I was sure to begin crying once more—and after I had finally calmed a bit. I had already starting imagining horrid scenarios in my mind's eye. I saw him hobbling down the hall with one leg amputated. I saw him living the rest of his life with blue-hued skin. I even imagined his teeth permanently chattering from the cold he experienced. But worst of all, I imagined him never coming out, not even hobbling. We would all be gathered into the room he occupied, his heart rate ceased and the mischievous adventure in his eyes sucked out from him along with his life.

I took a shaky breath, tears almost coming, when I felt a rough grasp at my shoulder. I sucked in air, terror widening my eyes. My neck and jaw tensed as I froze in my place. "Did you miss me?" a weak, but still overconfident voice asked beside my head. I swiveled to see Peter's thawed blonde hair, twinkling green eyes, and arrogant smirk. This is when I let the tears fall.

"You scared me! And I thought you were going to die, so please never do something as stupid as what you did ever again," I shouted, through a broad smile and happy teardrops.

Mother jumped up, with a concerned, yet relieved face. She grabbed hold of Peter's shoulders and spun him around, "inspecting" him until she faced away from the nurses that must have guided him down to us. "Oh! You had us worried sick, darling. Don't you ever do that again," she scolded with a perfectly executed wink, and then went in for a warm embrace. He looked very confused, but played along.

Angela was awake by the time Father shook Peter's hand, in the way men do, and watched while massaging a kink from her neck. She said, "Just brilliant—he's back," sarcasm dripping off her words like honey. But you could tell she really was glad to have him back. 

Once the last papers and fees were filled and filed, we started on our way back home, with Peter wrapped in a blanket courtesy of the hospital. Before we knew it we were safe back in the nursery. "Don't even try going back," Mother warned. 

"No. We won't, Mother," I responded.

They shuffled out of the room, and it looked like Peter was just about ready to leave with Tinker Bell, so I said, "Back at the hospital when I said to never do it again?"

"Yes?" Peter prompted, turning from the window to face me.

"I meant it, but... so..., how can you...." I wasn't exactly sure of what to say, so I decided on a quote from Grandmother Wendy, "'Peter, I should love you in a beard,'" I paused. "So please stay."