And so it begins. My rapid descent, my tumbling after him.
Clouds are whipping past my head, I’m gaining speed, and the planet below me that I know for certain* is not Earth is getting closer and closer, and it is then, right then, that I am met with a horrible revelation. I realise that I’m not flying—I’m falling.
Funny, don’t you think, how similar those two things can feel at the start?
Now so far from my mind are those fucking happy thoughts, and all that remains at present are my extremely bitter ones. I’m acutely aware that I am, in fact, hurtling towards imminent death, and I could have sworn to you that out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter Pan use my newfound （but regrettably and inarguably present） affections for him as a parachute to land.
Maybe someday, much later in life, I’ll be able to eventually draw the comparison of how this feels right now—plummeting to my death and all—to how it will feel when I fall in love. Alas, I am not yet equipped to make such a comparison. Not really.
It somehow feels as though I’m falling faster and faster the closer I get to that magnificent blue that I’m plunging towards, and I brace myself as best I can to die.
There is no clarity. No peace. Just a pounding fear and a screaming that I think is coming from me, but it still somehow sounds strangely far away.
I will say this: it is a terrible crash when I hit the water. It feels like glass breaking beneath me, over on top of me, around me, and through me.
The pain of it all takes my breath away in such a manner that I don’t immediately realise that as fate would have it, now that I’ve landed on Neverland, I am—rather regrettably—drowning on Neverland.
The irony of this is and will remain lost on me for quite some time.
The water swallows all of me. I can’t tell you which way is up anymore; there seems to be light coming in from all directions.
It’s so beautiful, the water. All the bluest blues kissing the aquas, and there’s a lot to be said about drowning, I suppose.
Taking in all that water isn’t too pleasant at first, but after a short while, it’s not so bad.
And I’m thinking, as I float here dying, how tremendously sorry I am for coming to this stupid place, that my mother was right all along, that I should have just gone to Cambridge.
And then something drops into the water next to me. And my heart rejoices a little bit because Peter Pan has come to save me, and I will later recall this moment that’s about to happen next as the part where everything—everything—henceforth changes.
I won’t realise that for quite some time though.
I’m pulled to the surface, I think, because suddenly there’s breath in my lungs again, and I’m coughing and spluttering, and the four suns are so bright that I can’t see a damned thing, but I can feel that I’m safe again because I’m scooped up in his arms, and then he lays me flat on a warm deck.
I’m hacking up water like a burst hydrant, and I still can’t see anything more than a figure looking down at me, but he tilts his head, and that’s when my eyes go clear and I see it isn’t Peter with his head tilted. It’s someone else entirely.
Is there a word that encapsulates being terrified and enthralled at once?
If there is, I should like to invoke it now.
Awe, maybe? The etymological meaning of the word from the fourteenth century. Fear and great reverence. Strange, this terrible awe I have for the man who’s frowning down at me with the most serious pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. I swallow heavy at the sight of them. Something a bit like home in them. Like all the darkest blues of the water on that planet I’m so very fond of. They belong to a man—definitely a man, not a boy. I can tell he’s a man because he has facial hair, and he wears the serious kind of face only men do. That and he’s very tall. Not just in stature but in how he stands too, even though he’s not standing. He’s on his knees beside me. I can tell he’s tall and that given a chance, he’d stand a certain way. Shoulders square, eyes straight ahead.
His hair at first glance is mostly brown, but it’s lighter than you think it is. Longer than it is short too. Around his chin, all wavy. His skin is darkened by the sun, and he’s wet. From head to toe, he’s soaked right through.
“Are ye right?”* The stranger shifts some hair from my face, brow furrowing as he stares at me.
He’s not blinking; he’s just staring at me, waiting. But me? I’m blinking like a maniac because he is deplorably beautiful.
Dug-out cheeks, heavy brow, the best nose I’ve ever seen on any human being ever in all my life,* and even though there’s probably a bit too much facial hair for me to say with absolute certainty, I suspect that one might be able to cut oneself on his presumably immaculate jawline.