Never: an erotic retelling of Peter Pan (41 page)

"It's all right.  You're safe," someone said from beside her.  A man.  His voice was soft and reassuring but she didn't recognize it. 

"Where...?  Who...?" she rasped, her voice not working either.  In alarm, she tried reach up and feel her throat but her hands merely twitched at her sides.  Why didn't they move?  And her eyes.  She strained the eyelids again.  Why didn't they open?

"My... eyes."  Panic welled up inside her.

"You have a compress over your eyes," the man said and she felt a touch against it.  "You've been weakened by dehydration and exposure.  You need fluids." 

Something of the calm in his voice seeped through to her but it wasn't enough to quell her mounting terror.  When she felt a touch against her lips she flinched, instinctively jerking her head away.  The booming grew louder, drowning out every other thought.

"It's only a straw," he said.  "You have to drink."

But she couldn't.  The pain overwhelmed her and she passed out. 

The next time she woke, he was quicker.  The straw prodded her lips straight away. 

"You have to drink or you're going to die," he said, and Dee felt so bad she was sure it must be true.

She mouthed a couple of times, like a gold fish, and managed to capture the straw.  Her throat felt tight and sick but she forced herself to suck, gulping the liquid down before her stomach could protest. 

"Small sips," he warned, but she was already drifting off.  Her lips slid away from the straw as her head fell to the side, the last mouthful going down in a convulsive gulp as the blackness closed in on her.

Again and again she woke from the nightmare to find the soothing voice beside her, always ready with the straw.  She would sip a little or a lot, depending on how long her consciousness lasted.  There was no sense of real-time passing.

Gradually, though, she noticed things in her brief periods of awareness. 

Her body was covered in something damp and cool - something lighter than the compress that covered her eyes.  And there was a musty smell in the air, like drying herbs.  Definitely not the antiseptic environment of a hospital. 

Was it possible then that she was still in Never Land?  It was almost too much to hope for.  But she did hope, knowing it gave her reason to live.  She needed that now.   

She was obviously very sick, but she tried to stay calm.  The man was caring for her.  There was little she could do except obey his instructions.  Drink the water and rest.  She did as she was told.

But there came a time when she drank from the straw and felt different.  Her headache wasn't as blinding and she could move her hands a little.  It was a turning point.  Relief flowed through her like a drug.

He must have noticed.  "Is that a smile?"

"I'm not..."  Her voice was croaky but it worked.  "I'm not going to die."

"Feeling better?"

"Yes.  But weak."

"You will for a while.  But that's good."  He was silent for a moment, then said,  "Can we talk?"  

The urgency in his voice surprised her.  "Of course." 

"I need to know who did this to you?"

Dee frowned under the compress.  "Did what?"

"Don't you remember?"  There was another silence where Dee merely waited, having no idea what he was talking about.  Finally he said, "I found you tied to a raft, floating out past the point." 

"Tied to a raft?" she repeated the words, trying to make them fit inside her mind.  They didn't want to.  "Why would someone tie me - "

"To kill you."

"To
kill
me?" she parroted again, unable to grasp the concept.  "But... I'd thought I was just... sick." 

“At some stage the sail fell and covered you," he continued quietly, as though in deference to her shock.  "It protected you from the worst of the sun and probably saved

 your life."

She shook her head.  "Who would want to kill me?" 

"You don't remember?"

Dee struggled to, fear driving her mind, but the harder she tried the more her head hurt.  Her fingers twitched and she felt the panic returning.  "I can't," she choked.

"It's important - "

But the familiar slide into blackness was already starting and she simply let go, spiraling down until the comforting nothingness enfolded her. 

The next time she woke, she dutifully drank the sweetened water, then pre-empted his questions by asking one her own.

"This isn't a hospital, is it?" 

There was a pause.  "No.  Not a hospital."

"I didn't think so."  She couldn't keep the relief out of her voice.  Once had been enough.  "Then where - "

"I need to know who did this to you," he cut over her.

"And I need to know where I am," she persisted, frustrated by the compress.  "Just tell me.  Am I still on the island?"

There was another pause.  "Which island?"

Dee was determined to keep her hopes alive.  "Never Land," she said bravely, and held her breath.  It was a long time before he answered.

"Yes.  You are yet within Peter's control."

Her tensed shoulders sagged with relief.  "Thank God!"

"You are faithful to Peter."  It was half-question, half-observation, but Dee was too euphoric to bother searching his words for motives. 

"He's my God," she replied simply, then smiled to herself.  "So perhaps I should be saying 'Thank Peter'." 

Her rescuer made no comment on that, so her train of thought continued uninterrupted.  As it did, her smile became dreamy.  "He sees even the smallest sparrow fall," she said with the authority of complete faith in her voice.  "And rather than let it die he sends his angel to rescue it." 

She visualized Peter, as well as she could remember him - the hypnotic green eyes - seated on a vast marble throne sending forth this faceless guardian to pluck her from certain death and nurture her in the warmth of his cozy... 

The compress frustrated her.  She wished she could see.

"That's an interesting interpretation," the man beside her said dryly, "But I'm not an angel, and though you might be thinner for your ordeal, you don't fit the sparrow category either."  This last was said appraisingly and Dee wondered which parts of her he was assessing. 

She realised then that her temporary sightlessness could be exciting, now that the element of fear had been removed.

"You're from Peter, though," she said, then asked, "Are you to be my Champion...?" before stopping herself.  What of Xavion?  He was to have been her Champion.  Yet someone had tried to kill her, and were it not for this man, they would have succeeded. 

Her rescuer obviously had the same thought.  "It appears you are in need of a Champion," he said. 

"But Xavion - "

"Missing."  They were silent for a moment before he added, "Mayhap he died trying to save you."

"No."  She shook her head.  "He can't have died."  That thought was more upsetting than her own near-fatality.  Not Xavion.  Not her poet-warrior.

"Or, mayhap he's the traitor..." her rescuer speculated.

"No," she said again, louder this time.  "Xavion wouldn't hurt me."

"Not even at Peter's order?"

That confused her.  "I don't know.  Do you think -"

"No.  Peter has been away from the island these past few weeks," he reassured her. "But he'll soon return.  And when he does, he'll be an angry God."

They were both silent then, nursing their own thoughts before he said, "Peter will want to know what you remember of your ordeal.  Can you speak of it?"

She shrugged.  "I don't know that I remember much," but she obediently cast her mind back to a starting place.  The concentration required wasn't as painful this time.  "The last thing I remember clearly..." she said, reviving the scene inside her mind, "...was being with one of the mermaids.  Sasha."