The Lost Girl ✨Once Upon A Time✨

Chapter Three

   Wren's head stung with the rush of adrenaline. What she was seconds away from attempting was impossible. She needed to be quicker than darkness, quicker than shadows, quicker than the wind, and most of all quicker than Peter Pan.

   Sure, Wren was nimble. What she lacked in muscle she could make up for in incredible speed, but nobody was quicker than Peter Pan. No mortal could stop a rock an inch from their face with the ease that Pan held. He hadn't even flinched. It had been more of an annoyance than a decent threat. Who is their right mind doesn't take a heavy projectile being launched at their head as a threat to their well-being?

   Then, there was every single other danger surrounding Wren. There were Pan's crazed lost boys, the shadows that glared at Wren from behind each tree practically licking their lips, and of course, her own clumsiness was a new brand of ultimatum on its own when dealing with arrows drowned in poison. This plan could never work, but it had to if Wren wanted to live to see tomorrow.

   The girl's muscles tensed. The sound of Wren's heartbeat flooded her ears. Apparently, there was no escaping that sound when you were trapped on Neverland. The adrenaline's draw was too strong as her eyes dilated in concentration. It was enough to drive a person insane (if she wasn't already). Anxiety was the state she lived in, so if its yellow glare thought it could scare her away now, then it better stop while it was ahead. For once, Wren was glad she was unstable. Otherwise, this plan would never work- otherwise, Pan would play her like a game of chess.

   Everything occurred in a flash, a flash of insanity- or maybe of rationality, Wren was having a hard time distinguishing the difference lately. In this moment everything made perfect sense. She knew why she was here. She knew the true horrifying tale of Peter Pan. She knew of his demise and his weakness. She knew what the future would hold for every boy in this clearing. She knew the true danger she was facing, and the disturbing satisfaction that this was real, it was all real.

   One moment Wren Elair had been standing nose to nose with smug, grinning, egotistical Peter Pan- only seconds away from being dragged into his schemes. The next moment her hand shot up with an unconveyable new speed, one Wren would've never believed herself capable of, one to rival that of even the great Pan. Her vision swarmed with flashes of color, her emotions swirling around her. There was the violent blood-red of anger, tense electric yellow streaks of fear, but mostly the rich plum of power filled her gaze as her muddy-hands found the wood of an arrow shaft. There was the dangerous shift in shadows at her new movement, the sound feet against the muddy ground edging closer and metal touching metal. Bows were loaded and aimed. None of it mattered, they were too late. Peter's cold hand clasped around Wren's left arm as the arrow hovered in front of his throat. Her right hand grabbed the back of his head and shoved him closer to her weapon. She turned- revealing his face to the crowd that had gathered.

   Despite the sharp tip dripping with poison at his throat and Wren's tight grip on his head, Peter seemed rather unaffected by his current situation. With a sharp wink towards Wren, he released her wrist from his clutch, dropping both his hands to his sides. His cheeky grin was unwavering, which only made Wren scowl further.

   A colossal guy strolled leisurely through the crowd, tense boys with weapons at the ready parting to let him through. He must have been at least 6'3", making both Wren and Pan look short. Most of his face was veiled beneath the shadow of his cloak, but what Wren saw she didn't like. He didn't even need to speak to be intimidating, his pale scarred face said enough about how lovely of a personality he had. The boy was one of the oldest there, eighteen- maybe nineteen years old. Had he even been with the boys chasing her? His chiseled features should have been handsome, but it looked like his face and been beaten up so much over the years that it had healed back twisted. His stringy blonde hair was a mess, falling into his colorless eyes. Just like the other boys, his gaze was hungry for pain, only this new boy's gaze was more intense. He didn't want to watch people be in pain, he wanted to inflict it, to listen to their screams as he fell asleep. The blood-coated scythe still strapped across his back certainly furthered this impression.