Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Felix has been walking for an hour at least. The iron tang from his bleeding nose has filled his mouth more than once but to wipe the blood on his sleeve would warrant a worse punishment yet.

He doesn't even know what he did to offend his family; perhaps they found out he'd cut the strings on the harp in the hall to make his own arrow. Or maybe they just got bored. Or felt the need to punish him for being subpar, for all his old crimes, for not being intelligent enough in his lessons.

It could be any number of things, but perhaps the punishment was ineffectual. Whatever he'd done, he isn't sorry.

There's no point to being sorry. He doesn't want their approval - he wouldn't even if it were possible to get it.

He stoops beside a pond to wipe the blood from his face, and he can tell the sky has twisted into a dark bloody red, melting into violets and dark blues. If he delays any longer, he'll be stuck all night for sure; he needs to find the path before night falls.

He takes only a brief moment to find his bearings before he steps away from the thicket, and back towards the clearing,

The path is all but lit, at least from this position in the sky, a golden haze over the over-trampled dirt underneath him, roots disrupting the glow from perfection, but only for one brief, dark instant, and then it went right back to shimmering in the dying light.

It'd all be black soon enough.

And the path winds on, Felix steps on, and he knows it will go on and on till it reaches the village. Once he gets there he'll decide whether or not it will be worth it to continue to stalk to the manor or if a room in an inn is out of the question. He has no money so it is. Perhaps, then, the falconer's apprentice would be willing to console Felix for the night. But it would be after dark; the mews would be closed and he'd have no way in.

Back to the manor then.

The sun is setting quickly now. Felix can watch the path deluminate. First very slowly, and then the diffusion is quick, from deep orange to a lilac to violet to indigo to black. Every step he takes makes things darker as he heads out of the wood.

Perhaps he shouldn't be so rash. After all, what would have have waiting for him in the manor? A father who ignores him? A mother who abhors him? A brother to throw him about like a rag doll?

If he went home, the battery was certain. remaining out in the forest, his slaughter was only a possibility. The forest will be a much nicer cradle; he might actually get some sleep, enjoy the fire, eat something other than the tasteless slop the family would dine on. They always ate the worst things whenever they didn't have company. "We've got to save face, of course. Save the good food for when company goes. We don't want them to think we can't afford it."

"But we can't."

"Of course we can. We just have to be minimalistic whenever we aren't entertaining."

To Felix, it would make much more sense to serve and live middling rather than scrape at the bottom like serfs till someone comes calling, but in the matter of courtly affairs, Felix has never been knowledgeable.

Nobody trusts him enough; he's sidelined, useless to everyone.

But, nevertheless, the forest is a dangerous place. Everyone knows that, from one corner of Camelot to the other. Bandits and criminals scarcely even remained in the wood after dusk. Tall, blackened trees hid glowing will-o-the-wisps to enchant weary travelers, to leave the world behind and lead the path to certain death. Everyone knows the fair folk wait in the shadows, and their mischief can spell misery. There's been rumors of a Palug cat stalking through, its back arcing up just short enough to remain hidden under the highest boughs of the tree, ready to make a meal of any man foolish enough to wander around after dark.

But Felix isn't quite gullible enough to believe that. There might be fair folk, monstrous beasts, or enchanting pathways, or a púca enticing him away. But the thing is that doesn't matter to him. None of it. Even if a creature did find its way to him and found him worth ruining, it isn't as though they'd get the glory of destroying him completely. That honor was already taken.

Either way, he's better off to stay the night in the forest, among the fae and dracae and all the other horrific creatures they say tumble in the bushes and trees late at night.

He sighs as he ducks behind a tree, looking for a hollow there, or a filmsy trunk he could possibly tilt over to make a lean-to. It's getting late. He doesn't want to be caught in the dark, at least without a plan.

He doesn't have any shale or iron to start a fire. He doesn't have a knife to skin an animal for supper, much less a way to kill it. In the stories, when heroes would camp out in the forest, they usually had a way to make a tent. A hollow log or tarp to shield him from the elements, from the creatures of whom he might stand in the way. Whether wild animal or intelligent monster, his chances of living through the night wane with the sunlight.

It's odd what the night can do, he thinks. Nighttime and the woods and an emotionally delicate state. For a moment there, he thought he heard the faeries singing. He shakes his head, expels the memory from his mind.

But the melody continues, a low haunting sound.

He shakes his head again, and again, waiting for the noise to go away. It doesn't and so he tries the opposite approach. With a bit of focus, it will diffuse and be the chirping of crickets, the bray of bats, creatures and crows and the natural sound of the forest.

It's the strangest song he's ever heard. A pure sound, long wafting melody, enticing. And it goes on. Felix can feel his heart tremor out of his chest in time, incidentally becoming the bassline of the song. And the notes sing to him. Come here, come close, come away with me.

When did he stop walking?

It isn't a harp, Felix can tell for certain. How he ever thought it was one is anyone's guess. It's a flute. A pair of pipes.

By the time Felix sticks an instrument to the music he's hearing - panpipes - he's already turned around, headed into the heart of the forest.

Surely this is a spell, an enchantment. He'll be walking into a ring of fair folk. He'll die here listening to that haunting melody.

The thought's more comforting than Felix cares to admit.

He isn't sure how long it's been since he heard the sound, how long he's been walking, but he scarcely recognizes his surroundings by the time he can view the firelight on the other end of a swath of trees, in a lonely clearing. There's a thick line of percussion, vying to outshine the sound of those pipes. Vying and failing.

The clearing is, at first, little more than bright light to Felix. A circle of boys spin round and round by the fire. There's nothing enchanting about them. Surely they aren't the fair folk - there's nothing that seems magical in their clumsy movements. They're covered in furs and trussed up as though it's a masquerade. Spinning and clanking sticks, bleating out the percussion. Some jump in the air and flip over themselves, acrobatics that try to lick over the flames around them but never seem to quite reach the summit.

There's laughing. Howling. It seems almost animalistic, and yet there's never been anything more fundamentally human than this.

At the head of this company stands a patchwork cloak. It's made of dark browns and deep reds and silks and twill and cottons. A pair of long elegant hands come out from the cloak, holding a small set of panpipes up to a mouth that disappears under the shadow of a hood. Hidden under all these materials, all these shadows, must be the most magical being Felix has ever encountered.

The music thrums inside him, elates, excites, pulses electric flame through every nerve Felix has. Overwhelmed, his legs can't hold him up. He's little more than skin and bones, but even that weight is too much. He collapses on the nearest log, legs splaying under him. Too entranced to do anything but watch.

The company of boys twist and turn and knack their sticks together. Felix can't see their faces, but somehow he knows that every last one of them is grinning like a fool.

It's a moment before Felix realizes he is, too.

The moonlight seems to shine down, just for this circle in the center of the forest. White light covers the trees, pale and milky and enchanting. The fire below is lively and more yellow than red or orange, reaching out from the sky, spit firing all the energy that the moon tries to calm.

That moon is high behind the clouds, but it feels like Felix has only just sat down. But, all the dangers before seem benign in the presence of this roaring fire and this excitable company playing before him.

Even though he merely sat down without notice, Felix senses all of the boys. All of their energy. And he's, somehow, part of it.

Without warning, the pipes stop. Felix looks up towards the cloaked figure standing before them, hands at his sides. The rest of the boys don't seem to notice, still whooping and hollering and spinning and dancing. Felix knows he might miss something important if he takes his eyes away for a moment.

He must have been entranced because the second he breaks his eyes away from the cloak, the fire has died down to embers, the company has stopped dancing, the sky is edging on gray around them.

The cloaked figure steps forward, broad gallant steps, and comes closer to the fire. From his place on the log, Felix can only barely make out his face when he lowers his hood. A pixie-edged face, fiery green eyes, and the most persuasive looking mouth Felix has ever seen drives him to his feet. He's the only boy amongst them who doesn't have a mask.

"Well, my friends, it looks like our party is just about over," The boy says, voice far richer than Felix had anticipated. It's less eerie than the pipes, but all the same, more conductive to the energy he's got broiling inside of him after the sentiments.

"Will you come back again tomorrow, Piper?" A small voice calls in the heart of the crowd.

The boy - the Piper - puts on a face that looks so wistful Felix can't quite believe it's real.

"I'm afraid not," The Piper muses. "This was my last night in Camelot. I'm due back in Neverland."

A different boy - older than the first - answers the question Felix has forming in his skull before it's come into fruition. "What's that?"

"It's my home, a far off place. You can't get there but by a special kind of magic, or else in your dreams." His bright eyes grow excitable and the Piper steps closer, a whole new sort of hush falling over the crowd. "It's a magical land where time won't affect you. Where you can stay young forever, no grown-ups can tell you what to do. You don't have to live in fear of the magical creatures there. No traditions or obligations or caste can weigh you down. And your 'family?' The one you have now? They can't get to you."

A small, mousy voice. "Th-they can't?"

"No," The Piper grins again. "And you'll have a new family. With me. With my Lost Boys. All of us, together, going on countless adventures, one to the next. And there's danger and games and you never have to worry about growing too old for it - because you'll never grow up and your family - your new family with me and the Lost Boys - won't either."

A courageous boy in the back, one standing just off Felix's right, moves to stand on a log, to get the Piper's attention. "Can I come with you?"

Like a thunderstorm rolling in, the company is in an uproar. Constant cries and pleas, "Take me with you!" and "I don't want to go back!" Along with sob stories that can be heard fringing the more desperate wails. "Nobody understands!" and "I'll be alone again if you leave!" and "They'll beat me again!"

The Piper's hands fly up, pacifying the company. He chuckles. It's congenial and smooth and just a little too perfect. Felix sucks in a breath but silences himself when the Piper moves to speak again. "I'll tell you what, if you'd like, you can come back with me. Leave this place and follow me to Neverland. You can never come back but-"

The crowd raises their voices once more. Felix growls at the interruption. What could they possibly have to say that's more important than this speech?

"Oh we don't wanna go back!"

"Yes! Take us with you!"

"Right now! I wanna go now!"

And on and on, all the loudest pleas and appeals were heard and die down as the Piper lifts his hands once more.

"All right. But we have to do it before sunrise and you can never return to Camelot. So make your choice and make it quick."

Felix can't even imagine that there's a choice to make. Although he isn't technically invited. Although he simply stumbled upon their party and spied all night. The way the Piper talks...he wants to hear more.

Besides it's not like he's leaving very much of anything behind at the manor anyhow. And just like it's fate, he pulls up his hood and falls in behind the Piper in the patchwork cloak.

It's nightmarish, what happens next. The Piper raises his hand and, like a puppeteer moves his marionettes, like a druid conducting matters of the spirit, the clearing grows darker, almost pitch black except for the pinpricks of pure white light staring down at them.

It takes Felix a moment to realize what he's seeing. A host of black smoky creatures - human shadows - hover in the air. There's something terrifying and beautiful about them. The boys visibly quiver, a few whimper. Felix stands, rooted to the spot.

"Grab on," The Piper says, "And let's fly."

Flying. Felix doesn't know how to describe what it feels like. The shadow's hand wrapped around his arm burnt, a hollow current of air boiling around him. The elation of whipping through the air. High above the rest of the world, he could see the chateaus of the manor he used to call home.

He turns his back, once and for all, and twists his face to the sky, the sun peeks upwards, pinks and hues of bright blue. The wind in his face, the burning in his arm, it all amounted to one thing: hope.

And then, Camelot's gone and they were nowhere at all. But then the colors roll back, rich and deep and it's still nighttime, with the moon a sliver of a crescent dipping under a mountain. The heavy air smells like honeysuckle. The humidity, however, feels like something else - like a promise of adventure.

And then, just like that, it's over. The shadows let go of their company - the boys tumble onto the underbrush of a second forest, more alive than ever.

Felix's head slams on a root and he takes a moment to comprehend what just happened. Starlight dots across his eyes as he blinks himself back into the situation. He turned his back on Camelot, on his family, without a second thought.

He wasn't even invited to come along with the company. Surely they'd notice. Felix thought, worry creeping into every nook and crevice of his being. Perhaps they'd take him prisoner. Or worse. Perhaps they'd send him back to Camelot.

He couldn't figure why it bothered him so much. He'd run away, to another realm, by magic, all for the sound of a pipe and a boy with a persuasive grin. Perhaps, he thought, he'd gone out of his mind. Mad from grief. It'd be the best explanation whether this was a hallucination or truly happening, a lapse of his logical mind. But then, he looked up at the Piper, who stands gallantly on a tall rock. His hood is down, his hair tousled from the air and a light pink flush on his cheeks. His grin is sinister but, for some reason, Felix doesn't mind. And, while he scours the crowd of boys flung on the ground, his eyes meet Felix's.

Even a siren's song wouldn't be so inviting, so promising. So obviously dangerous.

And, for Felix, that's it.

He can't stop thinking about it, even while the Piper leads them through the forest, the bushes, the vines. Everything has a hazy glow around it, perhaps from the sunrise casting its brilliant colors through the canopies and onto the thick underbrush.

The air is warm and wet, but Felix finds he doesn't mind. It's not hot, and as he looks around himself to see all manners of neon birds and the sort of foliage he'd only ever read about - broad, waxy leaves, bright long flowers - he can only stack it up to one thing - magic. But a kind so unlike what he saw back in Camelot. His stomach jitters as he falls in among the crowds contemplating what this means.

From the corner of his eyes, he takes note of a few boys shucking off the furs they'd donned for their dance, pink in the face and panting. As the layers dissipate through the trek through the warm jungle air, he notices a few different things about his company in his periphery.

There appears to be a broad age range among them. At youngest, Felix thinks he sees a boy of eight. Most of them seem to be between fourteen and eighteen, with Felix as, perhaps, the oldest. Although there's another - one with a handsome heat-flushed face - who looks as though he could match his age. It's an eclectic bunch; some commandeer the vines and grass with ease, some stumble, unused to making trails through underbrush. Some are pale and fair-haired just like everyone else Felix grew up seeing everywhere within the kingdom, some are dark and some have features Felix hasn't encountered before but every last one of them has at least something in common: the same sense of utter wonder smacked across their faces. It grows as they react to the monkeys and the bright flowers. And, although not nearly so impressed by the scenery, Felix figures he looks the same when his eyes circle 'round to the back of that pied cloak.

Felix doesn't know why he's surprised when they come into a clearing. It seemed as though the jungle would continue on forever, as though this pied piper was merely leading his parade of children to walk until they fell over dead. It's a silly thought, Felix realizes shaking it from his head in favor of taking in his new surroundings.

Five boys huddle around a dying fire composed primarily of glowing embers, every one of them in dirty cloaks and fraying clothes. Dirt and streaks from coal line their faces, but they grin as they see the company approaching. Three of the dirty cloaks immediately rush towards them. It's a flurry of movement and the Piper leaves the group to step over, entirely guileless of the fact he'd just left the whole of the new boys to flounder in this small wilderness between the thick of the forest and the glowing embers in the middle of the clearing all by themselves.

One of those boys who had rushed them, one with close cropped hair and a bloodied bandage wrapped thick over his hand whoops and hollers. "Pan! You got 'em!"

The Piper - Pan? - leans back and ticks his head to the side. "You thought I wouldn't?"

"'Course I did," The bandaged boy mumbled, "it's just-you got so many."

"I don't think we'll be going down in numbers so much anymore," A second dirty cloak says, the boy behind is grinning madly. He's got white-blond hair and stands on one leg as though it'd hurt to put too much weight on the other.

As though there's nothing odd about that sentiment, nothing possibly worrisome, the Piper grins right back. And he turns to the crowd. "What do you think, boys? Think you've got what it takes to be a real Lost Boy?"

Around Felix, every last boy raises his hands in the air and cheers, chittering with an enormous plastered grin.

And the Piper quirks a brow. "The day's still young. Go on - go play."

The boys around Felix cheer again, a tidal wave of noise, and the boys in cloaks all seem to huddle together once more - whether the three that advanced retreated to the other two or the two came up to the three or if they met in the middle Felix is unsure - and the Piper jumps up on a rock again, manic grin on his face. "Well, come on, let's see what Peter Pan's newest Lost Boys are made of."

Felix looks up at the Piper - Peter Pan, apparently, and hopes for just a moment he'll look at him again, just like he did by the rock. He hopes for it, prays for it, asks Fionnuala, and Aodh and Fiacra, and Conn and feels absolutely ridiculous for the way he cycles through all of the Children of Lir so readily. It's blasphemy, but he just wants to get that jolt from the Piper's - Peter Pan's - eyes.

A sharp cry - almost a crow and Felix's attention is diverted. It's perhaps the least magical thing that's happened all day but it's sufficed to get him to look over. One of the dirty cloaked boys, one with a mop of curls, shinnies his way up a rope, hissing when that blond boy shakes the rope from underneath. Two of the others, a dark boy who'd stayed behind and a boy with a rather unsettling twinkle in his eye circle each other, fists up to initiate a boxing match. The boy with the puppy eyes and bandaged hand sits on a log, shuffling a host of sticks and pointed stones in his arms. It looks like one of them is about to poke his eye out.

"Well?" Peter Pan laughs when the new cluster remains stagnant. "Go play!"

Like little brown rollie pollies under a lifted rock, the boys fly out into the clearing. Felix stands, now alone. Even Peter Pan has turned his back to watch the more interesting show.

And Felix breathes.

Lest he look like an idiot, standing around doing nothing, Felix starts to walk. He hides himself in the shadows of the brush surrounding the clearing, and makes a slow vulturic circle. Protruding roots peek up from the ground, just inviting anyone who isn't paying enough attention to trip and face-plant into the pit with the glowing embers.

Beside that pit, Felix notes, there's the boy with the bandaged hand and a small crew of new recruits. Next to the boy and the other living, breathing, organisms, there's a woodpile.

-or, no, wait. That's a stack of spears and wooden arrows and clubs. It's an armory, right there, disheveled and disorganized, in the middle of the clearing.

Felix considers the oddity no more than thirty seconds before pressing on. He makes a full circle and, with little more to do, slides down the smooth bark of a tree till he's resting on the forest floor.

There's a hollow in the trunk, just off Felix's left. Leaning to the side Felix can see it's filled with pelts and animal skins. Messy ones that look like they were half tanned with tufts of fur sticking out and pelts intended to showcase brilliant pattern and warmth but had empty patches. There's scratchy cotton in the mix too…

Felix blinks. This can't be...this can't be their camp.

It's little more than a firepit and a boxing ring. Nobody would ever call this home, lay his head here; that just doesn't add up. Maybe the pelts aren't blankets; maybe they're costumes. Felix sighs, certain he'll find out one way or another.

Rotating his head against the smooth bark of the tree, Felix watches as the boys create a circle, whooping and hollering at whatever's going on inside. Wrestling or boxing perhaps. A handful of them have gotten distracted, racing one another up trees. Felix has never seen a company so carefree.

"Don't you want to join 'em?"

Felix jumps at the surprise interjection. He spins around to find one of the senior boys leaning against the tree, one leg propped up on the root nearest Felix's hip. This boy has deep tan skin and twinkly dark eyes and a twisted smirk that tells Felix to be wary within the two seconds that pass before he responds with a slow "No."

The boy blinks. "No? What are you - some kind of stick in the mud?"

Jerkily, Felix's mouth unhinges. He has a dismissive sentiment ready, a defensive wall ready to deter anyone who might want to unsettle him. But this is one of the five who have been on the island before. A slimy voice in his ear, the one that always came with the pain in his stomach, whispering, "You can't undo a first impression, Felix." And so he allows his glare to melt, and instead of retort, he shrugs. "Why would I want to blend in and just become one of the New Ones?"

Cracking a sharp laugh the boy snickers. "And you'd rather be the Sulky Brooding One?"

"It's worked so far," Felix says. To the boy's perplexed frown, he elaborates. "You came to me."

Another laugh and squint to the eyes and the boy lowers his leg from the roof. To Felix's surprise, he plops down beside him with an unceremonious, "The name's Rufio."

A small hunting party returned an hour ago with a shaggy equine. A few of the more skilled boys just finish skinning it down when Rufio claspes Felix on the arm and ticks his head. Felix can decipher the invitation as quickly as it comes, although he's surprised with its congeniality. Nevertheless he does his best to leap to his feet, getting caught in his own limbs in the process. Rufio barks out a laugh but waves him over once more.

You look like a draft horse when you walk like that, Felix.

He blinks a few times, shaking the uncalled memory from his mind at Rufio's broad grin as he comes round to the far side of the fire, kicking dirt up at the other cloaked boys before falling down in a heap beside the blond.

Felix stands, gangly and unsure. He figures he should probably sit down but remains standing lest he offend anyone. There's no way to tell who among these boys is more important, who he's most likely to offend with the wrong gesture. It's obvious Peter Pan is the leader, but after that, the status quo is nebulous and impossible to tell.

The other four peer at Felix from under their hoods. He can feel his face heating up. For a moment he consumes himself with the thought of saying something intelligent, of having some witty remark that will let them know that he should be standing here, in their little semicircle - more organized than all the rest.

When his tongue refuses to wag, however, Felix knows how this will go. He's going to bore them. They'll see Rufio shouldn't have led him over after all, he'll be pushed outside the rest of it, worse off than before.

Why does he have to be so stupid?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Stupid, dumb, giant, fucking waste of space.

Rufio snickers. Felix can feel himself flush, going redder and redder before expelling all color to leave himself cold and shivering. This is it, and all because he couldn't conjure up the words, just like always -

"This's Felix." Rufio says and Felix feels the tidal wave of pure shame crash over him. He'd waited too long to introduce himself and now they're going to think he's stupid. He almost doesn't hear what comes next, "I think he's here for the long haul."

What?

Felix blinks away the scenes in his head to see the five boys before him, looking at him with something that Felix might tentatively want to call intrigue.

"Do you, Rufio?" A strong - orotund - voice asks. After a moment Felix can attribute it to the dark boy poking the flames ineffectually with a winding branch. "Think he'll make it for good?"

Felix stomach jolts. What are they talking about?

"Probably," Rufio grins. "I haven't seen him fight yet, so how he'll be in battle is anyone's guess."

Battle?

"Well," A higher voice almost croaks, this one's from a soft-faced kid with a head full of wispy curls. "I'm just happy to see a full camp again."

"That's just 'cause you like to babysit," The blond from earlier grumbles in an odd accent, glaring harshly at the curly-headed boy. A little too harshly, but Felix won't question it.

A place free from adults is bound to have its own odd politics.

The other three, however, seem to groan at the blond's glare and Rufio rolls his eyes. "Monsieur Overcompensating over there's Slightly."

From Slightly: "Oh shut up."

Rufio pays no mind and gestures to the boy with the curls; announces his name as Curly which Felix thinks is a little on-the-nose. He really shouldn't make judgements like that, though. The dark boy with the orotund voice is Tootles and lounging on his stomach beside him, the boy with the bandaged hand, Nibs.

"And there you have it," Rufio says. "The first of the Lost Boys."

"Or what's left of us," Tootles mumbles, a little wistfully.

Felix moves to reply, but the carefully constructed dialogue in his mind flies from its original trajectory when, with a flash of green light behind him, and a roll to the eyes from Rufio, sounds the voice Felix already knows he'd recognize anywhere: Peter Pan.

"Getting lazy already? How about a game?"

Felix spins. He must have been the only one still standing in the entire camp because, as though automated, every body around him heaves itself up, jumps into the air. A few fists offer themselves to the canopies, a few whoops and hollers. And Pan grins, broad and manic and looking like everything in the world - any world - that's dark and frightening and exciting all at once.

"All you have to do," Peter Pan's grin falls, only enough so that his lips can venture to form words, "Is cross the island to find your prisoner."

Felix knows this game, he realizes with a start. They called it Chivy back in Camelot, it's one Felix used to play with the other children nearby, before they got too old to waste their valuable time in the fields. It's been so long since he's had the time to run for anything other than training. It's been so long since he's got the chance to laugh, it tugs on his lips, foreign.

Pan finishes his explanation. "Whichever team brings their prisoner back to camp first wins."

There's something in that word, in the way Peter Pan said it, that makes it seem as though winning is the most important thing in the world. As though this one victory alone will be Felix's crowning glory.

"All right, then. Let's play."

With a wave to the hands a turret of dark green smoke wraps around the campsite; surrounded by dark and shadowy shapes, Felix coughs and waves his arms around him to clear his line of sight. The sun doesn't return and, with a panicked tremor in his chest, Felix jumps away. He's able to swallow the shout down his throat, although not everyone does and he's suddenly enveloped in a terrifying round of an echoing scream.

A cave, Felix realizes. They're in a cave. That smoke must have transported them here. This must be their home base for the game. The rest of the boys seem to be coming to a similar conclusion, because the last echo of screams dies with an inane reverberation, holding in the air longer than it has to, and everyone is blinking about themselves, dumbly.

In the darkness around them, Felix can make out Rufio standing beside them, and on either side of him, Curly and...that other one. Oh, what was his name?

Felix figures it doesn't matter and takes a step closer to the senior boys, ready to listen to the strategy.

As he steps, there's a faint glimmer by the curly-headed boy's arm. Felix squints and realizes that this boy is their prisoner. He's shackled to the cave wall by something that's glowing. It's not iron or rope or even gold, but something magic. Felix holds his breath and tries not to let it impress him. There are more important things for him to worry about - winning. Victory.

There's, perhaps, eight other boys, besides himself and the two unshackled senior boys. So ten altogether. Depending on the spread of the field, maybe four should stay behind to defend their prisoner and the last and then the other seven should go and look for the other's. But, Felix huffs, perhaps that wouldn't be enough. He doesn't know anything about the other team, doesn't know how they'll want to play. He sighs and looks over to the seniors, sighing, resigned to listen to their plan.

"Well what're you waiting for?" The other boy, the one whose name Felix can't recall - Slightly, he remembers with a jolt - says. "Go on."

Wait. What?

Felix frowns as the cave tremors with whoops and hollers and the entire company flies out from the cave.

This...this isn't the sort of game one can simply run out into the fray and hope to survive.

Taking a step towards the seniors, Felix frowns. "Did I miss something?"

Rufio cocks his head, looking oddly like a small pup confronted with something impeccably confusing. "What do you mean?"

"The strategy." Felix clarifies.

And, to this, Rufio laughs, out right. Felix's ears burn at the sound.

"That's not how we play, Felix." Rufio grins. "You just go for it."

Felix isn't sure he likes the sound of that, but he doesn't have the seniority to say. And so, he nods.

"We're on the defensive, then?"

Rufio chortles. "If you want to be. Do whatever you like best."

With narrowed eyes, Felix looks over to the boy chained to the wall and the blond boy looking very pointedly at his own feet beside him. "Shouldn't someone guard him?"

It seems as though Felix said something incredibly amusing, for in the next moment Rufio nearly doubles over with his laughter. "Oh, don't worry. Slightly's got a handle on that. Don't you, Slights?"

"Wait? Wha? No!" The blond promptly splutters the instant the shorter boy speaks and laughs directly in his face.

"Too late!" Rufio chimes and, pivoting on his heels, dashes from the cave, leaving Felix with Slightly's scorching gaze. He has nothing to say, and so, with an awkward sort of bow, backs out into the mouth of the cave.

This game is going to be chaos, Felix knows, but there's no way he can win if he doesn't even try to play. Besides, except for a lack of strategy, it's bound to be the same as the sort he's played before.

He slips on a swath of slick leaves, his hip slaps against the forest floor and, heart vibrating out of his chest, he starts to curl into a ball. He's not quick enough, though, or else his limbs are too long. The other two boys behind leap over his head. The scuffle between the two starts before they hit the ground. Felix scrambles to his feet. He should turn around and bolt in the opposite direction. He still has no idea where the other team's prison is, but he can't figure it out if he's down and out.

But it's all such a fucking disaster that he can't look away.

The boys in the scuffle strain and tug at each other, pulling hair and kicking and jabbing elbows, they whiffle out their porcine grunts and pouts.

"Hey!" One says, "I pinned ya! You're done!"

"Uh-uh!" The other returns, "That don't count."

A scuffle, someone spits, Felix really should go.

"Why not?" This boy has the other in a headlock, pressed down into the dirt.

"Because we're under a big tree. Pinning people only works under the sky."

"That's bullshit! You pinned somebody two second before I started chasing ya."

"Under the sky!"

The boy huffs, cross and glaring. "Well I kept you down so that counts for something. You're out."

"Nuh-uh!"

The syndrome keeping Felix rooted to the spot dies the second the two plunge into a chorus of "Uh-huh" and "Nuh-uh!" But as he turns to stalk out of the forest, he finds himself abruptly walking into another boy's chest. A stocky trunk of a boy looks up at him, dark eyes glinting.

"Rufio?"

The boy in question grins again and Felix takes a sharp breath. Maybe they've come up with a battle plan of some kind. "What-" he starts to ask but with an expertly calculated kick to the knees, collapses under himself. There'll be bruises on his shoulder blades tomorrow, and he blinks away the confusion that dots in front of his eyes along with the stars.

Rufio crouches over him, grin wide enough to swallow him whole. Felix purses his lips.

"What? We're on the same team!"

The tan boy shrugs. "So?"

"You won't want to get me out."

"But I really did." Rufio grins, he takes a look around himself, barking a laugh when his eyes meet the skirmish Felix had only just turned away from, the two still bickering about rules that were never involved in this game to begin with.

In a fleeting attempt to gain purchase on the ground, Felix shuffles to his feet. Rufio frowns at him. "Where are you going? I tackled you."

Is he kidding? "I'm on your team."

"So?"

"You can't get people on your own team out.'

"Says who?"

Felix blinks. He isn't sure where he's heard that rule before, it just always seemed to inherent. But nobody ever told him that you can't get members of your own team out. And so, he shrugs.

"If you want to get a life back, oh, I dunno, go and find the other prisons. And then come back and tell me where."

A sharp breath in, Felix rolls onto one hip. "You want me to cheat?"

"No. Of course not," Rufio wrinkles his nose with a wag to his head. "We're bending the rules a little. Make it to the other team's side and you'll get to play again."

"That isn't how this game works."

And Rufio, annoying and contrary as possible, grins. "Your other option is to go back to camp and sit with all the other losers."

Gnawing, only a little on his cheek, Felix nods. "Okay. I'll do it."

It's chaos. The children running through forests and ravines, splashing and getting caught in the undertow of less-than-benevolent rivers. A few of them have picked up staves and mimic swordfights right on the uneven ground, perhaps to decide who's out. Some of them climb trees and swing on vines. Some try to mount monkeys and wild equines. Most of the time, Felix figures, it's to decide who will be Out. It's never the same.

And he still hasn't found the other team's prison.

He manages to circle around the gameplay relatively unseen. Or, if he is seen, perhaps he wears a brand on his face that tells everyone he is Out of the Game by his Own Teammate. Or perhaps they figure the tall boy circling in the shadows doesn't promise as much fun as the numerous other rough-and-tumble alternatives. Whatever the reason, Felix hides in the shadows and continues.

Waiting near a thicket for two of the younger ones to finish their skirmish, Felix quirks a small grin in lieu of how quick they both were to extend their claws, slapping and cutting at each others, laughing all the while.

Nails and teeth and heavy wrestling was all he saw, both of them tiny bundles of energy. But then, before Felix's very eyes, it melts. As quick as it had begun, the two young boys sit beside each other. One taps his bloodied lip, the other smears a cut in his cheek onto the other side of his face.

"Which one of us is out now?" The boy with the cut cheek asks, lips out in a pout.

"I dunno," The one with the bloodied lip says. "I think it should be you though."

A pout. "But I don't wanna stop playing."

"I don't either."

The boy with the cut cheek jolts up to his feet, as though rendered with a sudden epiphany. He extends his hand excitedly, the perfect solution so ready on his mouth. "Rock-Paper-Scissors. Okay?"

A boy gets tackled right in front of Felix, under a heavy cover of leaves and nobody as much as whispered that tackling only ever works under the sky.

There's a chill in the air, warm and wet heat gone with the broad-leaved and smooth-barked trees. He presses on, surprised to find himself shivering. Lower jaw beginning to tremble with the cold, Felix shakes it away. There's a pang in his stomach when his eyes adjust to the deciduous and evergreens. It looks like Camelot. Of all places Felix thought this magical land could mimic, Camelot sure as hell wasn't one of them.

A heavy breath and Felix decides to brave it. The memory can't be too damning. If his team had their prison in the jungle, perhaps it makes sense that the other would have their compound in the forest. Or the mountains and cliffs peaking over the tops of the trees that Felix can, suddenly, see. Or if there is one, the desert, the beaches. (But how many environments can one island have?) He sighs huffily, wishing that Peter Pan had given more instructions, rules, the perimeter. Anything.

Blowing air sharply out of his nose, Felix winces when he steps on a dry twig. Waits for a stampede of boys to run from the brush to tackle him down and spit in his face that he's Out! Out! You're out!

What comes instead makes Felix's blood run cold. A low rumbling, like thunder bubbling and boiling on the horizon. Pivoting on his heels, centimeter by centimeter, Felix twists. The rumbling, the thunder, grows and climaxes to an animalistic snarl. Phlegm and saliva crackles in the sound.

But there's nothing there for him to see. No, that's not it. Camouflage. He stands, still as the grass and stiff as a pin.

And then, with a second snarl, it emerges. An enormous cat, red-orange and black striped feline prowls out, arching and displaying the terrifying steeple in his spine. Everything frightening and evil in the world, such an awful beast. Some kind of descendant of the Palug cat.

-it's called a Tiger, isn't it? Felix swears he's read of these before. If he's about to be eaten alive, then, at least he's going to be able to report what killed him when he arrives in the Otherworld in rags and bloody ribbons.

The creature studies him, bears its teeth, and with a final snarl disappears into the ferns and wet heat of the jungle.

Knees almost giving out under him, Felix takes a sharp breath. So perhaps this part of the island isn't so much like Camelot after all.

On the one hand, the mountains are beautiful. Large dark slopes and thick layered sandstone. On the other, Felix feels as though he's about to faint. He groans quietly, quivering in his knees when he sees a bird dart and fly under him. He's never been up this high before, high above the rest of the world. Nothing but the clouds above him.

He's going to faint. He's going to faint and he's going to fall off the cliff. Dead upon arrival. His limbs are going to be strewn on the foliage and he's going to be supper for that tiger.

Focus, Felix.

Inching in closer to the side of the cliff, Felix focuses on the nooks and crannies in front of him, looking for a cave, some place that they could be hiding their prisoner.

The sky is flushing pink and orange, streaked with blues and purples. Utterly breathtaking. He goes to grin at the sight, but finds himself already smiling. The sun falls, retreating almost visibly under the sea. Soon the waters will douse the light, everything blue and black and glinting silvery white. But, for now, it's orange and pink and absolutely gorgeous. Surrounded by color. It's magic; natural magic. Almost like what Felix is accustomed to. But the sunset in Camelot never made him feel like this. Never made him feel free.

He's cut short, a moment later. The green smoke materialized from nothing at all and by the time Felix blinks away the verdigris, he's standing in camp again. Peter Pan stands in the center, holding up the hand of an obscenely handsome boy with dark hair, a thick brow and set jaw.

"We have our winner," Peter Pan grins. A tight ball of electricity surges under Felix's spine and he can't quite pinpoint where exactly the envy hails from. Peter Pan continues: "And only four casualties. Not bad. How about supper and a dance to celebrate?"

Felix loads up a tin plate with dried meats and fruits and retreats to the far corner of camp, intent to sit and chew on his shame. Not only didn't he win, he didn't even get anyone else out. He groaned. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Oy! Felix, where're ya going?" Rufio calls the moment Felix turns to sit in his own secluded corner. "We're over here."

Felix can't hide his smirk as he crosses camp, in front of everyone else, to sit with the senior boys. His pride swells in knowing that they, or at least Rufio, want him around.

The dance passed much like it had in Camelot, with Felix sitting and observing the wild and carefree way the boys whoop and holler and leap over one another as though they hadn't just been accosting each other for the past few hours. The melody was just as haunting, if not more, allowed to swell and crescendo with the forest around them boosting its acoustics and providing a bassline, contributing to it, rather than just lying in the backdrop.

Felix was entranced. He hardly even noticed when Pan removed the pipes from his lips and stood, watching the rest of the boys jump and whoop and holler. A funny notion, really, considering Felix hadn't taken his eyes off Pan the whole time.

And now, to Felix's surprise, the fire has shriveled into embers and coal and the boys are yawning, blinking to stay awake.

Tootles and Slightly seem to take the lead here, walking to the hollowed out tree and throwing out pelts and furs and long cotton blankets with ropes attached to them.

Rufio nudges Felix on his way to the pile. "First come first serve, y'might want to get jumping on it."

As though on cue, the boys leap on the blankets and pelts. There are a few barking laughs; Felix can hear a few good-natured punches, fists slammed into faces and the camp is up in chaos once more.

Camp, though, Felix thinks, is being more than a little generous. A fire pit , a knobby rotisserie, and a collection of blankets isn't exactly a home.

He finds a scrawny boy huddled under one of the roped blankets. With a roll to his eyes, he uses the rope as a latch and pulls it off the kid. He springs up. "Hey!"

And, funnily enough, all Felix has to do is glare at him before he backs away, hands up and walking backwards back to the pile, hoping there's a hide he can huddle under.

With a small chuckle, Felix holds the blanket tight in his fists, lest another boy get the same idea as him. He walks to a pair of trees with low-hanging branches and fashions a slipknot on either end of the ropes holding the blanket up. His is the first hammock fashioned that night.

A chorus of "Ohh!" behind him materializes off his shoulder and Felix tries not to flush red at the realization that they'd been watching him the whole time. He twists around, the crowd of new boys duck their heads down with a gasp, but the group of seniors, pulling out their own hammocks from a separate tree grin at him. Rufio grins, Nibs pumps a bandaged hand in the air, Curly laughs and Slightly gives a mocking applause. Tootles offers him a salute.

Felix's eyes dart around camp to see Pan's reaction. The magical boy isn't here.

Resigned, Felix sighs and carefully slides onto the hammock. He uses his arm as a makeshift pillow, bent under his head as he lies on his back, pleased to see that there's a large gap in the trees right above his head.

And, for the first time in Felix doesn't know how long, he's able to sigh and call it contentment.

Felix's eyes snap open at the blood curdling screech. High and reverberating in the sky beside the scent of burning hair. He sits up straight with just enough time to see a boy, cocooned in a thin pelt and bright yellow flame. His scream brings the rest of the camp to sit up.

The boy continues to roll in attempt to douse the flame, a few others pound their blankets against his body, and after a great while, he stops thrashing.

A weak "I'm okay" is all that's left of the event. Here and gone, so quickly. So ineffectual. Felix sighs and lies back down. The kid must've rolled into the fire. Of course he did, Felix thinks huffly, they're all lying far too close to the embers.

He thinks briefly of the tiger he saw earlier, and suddenly he can empathize with their enormous gap in judgement. He wouldn't want to be away from a defense, left to sleep on the ground to be anything's prey either.

The little ones are the first to cry. Felix isn't sure why it surprises him. Of course they're going to sob through their snotty noses and wail into their arms and blankets. All of the young ones wailing out Mama or Papa or Grandmother or Sissy or Nanny or any other assortment of caretakers, wailing out. Every last one of them wanting to be back in their own beds. Perhaps, Felix thinks, come morning they will.

It does take him by surprise, however, when deeper voices join the wails. Older boys, boys on the brink of adulthood, sobbing, loud and without abandon, crying for their beds.

It's pathetic.

Felix frowns, stares up at the skies. His mother probably hasn't realized Felix is gone. Between waxing poetic about Melot's three-year-old knighthood and running a "respectable" household, Felix would be surprised if she even noticed that he wasn't there. And, even if she did, she wouldn't care. Nobody back home would.

He can still hear the boys weeping. Felix growls at the swell of sound and lies flat on his back to stares at the sky. The stars are patchy in the sky, foreign patterns in the pinpricks of light, spaced out and sporadic. Absently, to drown out the wails and cries surrounding him, he tries to make shapes out of the patterns. There's a triangle, a handful of squares, and a few uniform shapes laid out haphazardly in the sky, as though the gods had decided to pepper the night skies with stars in every other place first and ran out of ideas before they got here, and thus tossed the remaining specks into the darkness with no regard or outline.

Funny, funny thoughts.

Felix blinks as a field materializes in front of him, a dirt thickened arena, covered spaces where the boys from the camp stand and watch alongside townsfolk and courtiers from Camelot.

On the one end of the arena, Felix recognizes his brother through his armor. Tall and wide, his head lifted as it caps over the breastplate of his armor. He looks like a snob of a turtle like that.

In the other, there's the tiger.

A trumpet sounds and his brother charges the beast. Everyone in the arena moves to stand, grows a foot at least. And they keep growing.

And keep growing.

And keep growing till Felix is hidden underneath their shins and their skirts, a speck of a human among the dirt and the insects around them.

"There you are," A rich, smooth voice sounds next. Felix flips on himself and finds himself nose-to-nose with Peter Pan. "Aren't you coming?" He says, the phrase wafts out of his mouth more like a fact than a request. Like a sliver of cake after a bitter meal. Shooting down his throat and through his veins as an absolute truth.

Aren't you coming?

He feels his mother's hand on the back of his hair, throwing his head back so he can't curl in on himself. The birch hits against his skin, it splits open on impact. Pain grows, skin and clothes splits open like a husk and leaving him bared and bloodied.

Aren't you coming?

The Lost Boys laugh, high and manic, flying through and over the enormous bodies of the crowd watching Felix's brother take on a tiger and - no doubt - win. They use the trunks and legs as branches, shinnying up and down, beating each other and racing and laughing and pegging each other with glinting swords.

Aren't you coming?

Peter Pan stands in front of him. Smiles with fiery eyes. Promises him the whole world without uttering a syllable.

Aren't you coming?

He jolts up in the hammock, swaying with the motion. If not for a surprise burst of equilibrium, he would've hit the forest floor.

With deep breaths to calm himself, Felix shakes his head. It was only a nightmare. It's harmless and will be gone in the morning. He knows these things, and yet, when he lies back down to rest on the hammock, he isn't exactly looking forward to falling back asleep.

The stars, with their random array, are fading. The sky is edging on blue, gaining the promise of light. Day isn't too far away so, as luck would have it, Felix doesn't have to fall back asleep. A quick auditory survey of blubbery snores and deep breaths tells him the rest - or the majority, at least - of the boys are still sleeping. No matter; he might as well take in his surroundings. The way the world diffuses from dark to light, gradually yes, but in all places at once. It's free of the streaks and smears of sunset, cleaner and more refreshing. A new promise and a new day. A slate that they'll streak and smear while the sun is high, and the setting sun will pose as a review for all they'll do wrong later. But for now, it's light.

Robin's egg blue. Light.

That time before life begins, when the coals cough out their last breaths and wither and die, the nocturnal creatures scamper off into their beds, rushing to complete their duties before the run reaches actualization. Felix grins and takes in the last toxicity of the night air and the rays of light purifying it.

Periwinkle bordered in orange. Light.

In Camelot he'd just be shoving the covers off his legs, ripping the curtains from around the bed. He never paid attention to the sunrise there, either shrugging on a doublet for the day and groaning as he began the endless list of to-dos. Otherwise he'd be rolling over beside the falconer's apprentice and messing around as long as they could manage before either he or Felix (usually the former) had to bolt and observe his obligations.

The sky's such a light blue it almost looks white. White light.

If he were in Camelot, Felix would have a list of duties to fulfil. Lessons about history and understanding language and chivalry from the Knights of the Round Table and trade and vocabulary and, at the very least, Felix would want to tear his hair out. He doesn't know what the day will bring here, in Neverland, but at the very least it won't be that. He won't have to listen to his brother complain about how expensive it is to manufacture his own seal or how heavy a sword is or how confusing life is in court. He won't have to listen to his older sister complain about her stepdaughter or marriage or how she wants to move to the city where interesting things happen.

One of the newer boys keeps track of the days with notches on a kapok tree. It's been almost a month, Felix realizes when he bothers to look at it. The Boys still cry at night, though nobody has actually asked to go home after that first morning, when a boy ventured to ask and found himself crumpled on the ground, shadow ripped from his body.

"I wouldn't worry about it," Nibs had said, scratching the back of his neck. "He just wanted to set an example, y'know?"

From Curly: "He said you can't leave. He doesn't like to be asked twice."

If you ask Felix, it seems as though Peter Pan is something of a tyrant. But at least he always thinks up fun games to play.

Things are only ever organized when Pan comes down to play. There are days when the boys almost starve, holding their bellies and wailing, lamenting about being hungry before Tootles slaps them upside the head and tells them to go hunting. "Don't whine about it, if you're hungry find something to eat."

And, because there's no way to ration it - people eat what they catch - fights break out almost nightly over who gets the food. If it weren't for Curly going out of his way to feed the youngest of the company, Felix was sure they'd all die within the first few weeks.

But, for some reason, they're supposed to forget that when Pan comes down to play.

Today's a scavenger hunt. Felix can think of approximately twenty ways it can go wrong, not the least of it being that a small group had decided to look for wild boars and fruit at the same time. Despite the fact that Pan's grin beckons him, Felix remains seated beside the other senior boys. Perhaps someday, by association, Pan will look him in the eyes. In the meantime, he sits and leans on his elbows, watches Nibs rebandage his hand after losing another finger. He listens to Rufio and Tootles banter and to Curly and Slightly bicker with pink tinged on their faces. And he sits and waits for Pan to return and notice the kid sitting among his tenured lieutenants.

"What I just don't understand is why you want to mother them all the time," Slightly says, lounging in their semicircle, braiding a few strings of leather together, looking down in a pathetic attempt to hide his blush. "Are you compensating for something, Curly?"

Curly yips."Shut up."

"No, I wanna know."

"I don't wanna see 'em die. If that's not obvious." Curly says, voice hinting at snapping. "Just 'cause they're Lost Boys doesn't mean they can do everything on their own."

"Sure it does," Rufio butts in. "They wouldn't be here if they weren't ready to handle it-"

"Nibs isn't ready to handle it," Tootles mutters under his breath, lips curled down as his friend struggles to untangle himself as he winds cloth around his bloody fist.

"Hey, I've survived longer than most of them!" Nibs sticks his tongue out at Tootles and resumes his task.

From his place in the circle, Felix speaks up. "What do you mean?" All eyes snap to him and Felix's stomach lurches but he presses on. "You survived longer than most of them?"

Nibs sighs and Tootles looks in the other direction, Curly pats down his hair and Slightly seems to think that's enough reason to push Curly off the log.

Rufio responds. "There used to be a lot more of us, that's all. Between games and battles with the faeries and monsters and all that, we just sorta-thinned out."

"So you're just waiting for everyone to die?"

"No!" Rufio says, and then he pauses. "Not exactly. We're bound to lose numbers at this point."

Tootles aims for tact when he says, "We're pretty sure you're gonna make it for the long haul."

"You're not the type to go wandering into dreamshade or nothing." Rufio adds.

"You don't even run off to play the games. You're safer than the rest." Nibs smiles finishing off his bandage.

Felix reclines, mouth creasing in with a frown. They chose to befriend him, so it seems, because he was the safe option. Because he's the old dog who will laze with them and not run off into the forest. Because he's boring.

It stings more than he's willing to admit.

"What does Pan think," He asks, "About you five picking and choosing who you think will survive?"

"I don't think he notices." Rufio says.

With a laugh, Slightly joins in, "He doesn't care right now. He's having too much fun weeding out the new ones to worry about us.

"Will he?" Felix almost whispers, stomach constricting at the thought. Of course. His attempt to get the leader's attention was counterproductive the whole time. Joining the ranks of his lieutenants only meant that the enigmatic Peter Pan wouldn't pay him a passing glance. It makes sense that Pan would assume the tenured Lost Boys knew what they were doing.

For some reason, Felix wants to pull on his hair at the realization. And even more so when he's able to decipher the boys' reaction. They're laughing at him. He can feel his ears get hot and he hopes it doesn't lessen the intensity in his glare. "What?"

"He'll pay attention to whatever gets his attention," Curly explains. "And us taking in one new recruit under our wings isn't exactly exciting enough for Pan's tastes."

"Does everything have to be exciting?"

"'fraid so. Pan's the type to bore easily."