Azar There had been no bird at Maeve's side, what probably meant that Jack was… Well. He didn’t know what it meant. Jack could be anywhere. The only thing that was for certain, was that he hadn’t been here the moment he had looked. But perhaps he had looked at the wrong moment, or in the wrong time and, most definitely, at the wrong place.
Once, just once, Ren had allowed him to glance upon what it meant to hold all those strings together. She had given him just enough to spark both his fear and his curiosity, leaving him empty as well as filled up. But never satisfied. Despite that it hadn’t been enough, it had brought him a better understanding of this other world, of Jack’s Neverland. He had always known it was not just fun and games, but know he could finally begin to understand the dangers that lurked beneath.
Jack was a charmer - and he loved his demons.
Azar Jackdaw’s secrets might not be that well hidden at all. Azar considered it fairly well possible that they were woven through the trees and the rivers, hiding between the stones, and nesting in deer’s fur. Being taken up by the birds and fed to their children. It was most likely that those secrets were hiding in the petals of the countless of flowers, or in the leaves of the trees that rustled in the wind - and moved when a group of kids rushed by.
It was even possible that those secrets were hidden by the hands of those kids: in the woods that they crafted and the metals they melted. Perhaps it was the biggest secret of all that none of them were hidden, that they were all so visibly laid out that no one noticed them - so much the same for the air that one breathed, until it was bestolen of them.
Immortality of the Gods
Jack was no longer a mortal man: there was that ageless flicker in his eyes, that betrayed every part of innocence he wore.
Jack smiled. It was not a smile that lighted his face. No, it was more the kind of smile that set the room on fire, till the curtains were smoking and everything around you was bright and orange and burning and beautiful. The kind of smile that could turn blood into ice, and waken the terror in one’s bones. The smile in itself was absolutely perfect and perfectly terrifying.
The King of All Things
"the King of all things." Put like that it is an odd name to give to someone, don’t you think? Even so, that’s what we all knew him as. The king of all things. Because, in his kingdom, that was what he was: the king of all things. Emphasising the all part. Did that make him impressive? Perhaps, to some. Did it make him attractive? Without a doubt, to all. Certainly, or perhaps, specifically to me.
Am I a special person? Maybe. My brother and me, we certainly have never been normal. Normal people can’t shape their shoulder blades into angel wings, with sheer willpower. Normal people can’t influence the weather, or make electricity float around them as a token of danger; cuffed around their wrists.
Normal? No. Never. But neither were we gods and goddesses, princes and princesses - of all things. We could have been born into royalty, but we were not, we could have walked and learned how to rule the world, but we did not. From day to day we, in fact, were pretty normal. My mother was born as a lady, bastard-daughter of a duke, but escaped that fate and build a new future for herself in another kingdom. She is living a quiet life now, together with our father, in a quiet place somewhere in the woods.
The King’s Woods, above the Northern border, where the forests are rumoured to have magical powers and where dark mythical creatures hide their songs underneath the rustling of the leaves. You don’t need stories to know you have to be afraid of places like this. It is written on the roads, woven in the air. You know it the first moment you get here, because it is in the first breath you take: here never died what the gods never meant to be.
Inevitably, magic finds his home in the veins of all the creatures that live in such a place. For us, it was no different. Despite, however, being in everything - and in everyone - most people still remained very much afraid of this unnamed thing. And such as it goes with the things that people fear, they either start to worship it, or wage war against it. After the great wars on the other side of the border, the people here settled upon a silent agreement: magic was not used, and in exchange the carriers of magic were not hunted.
That didn’t mean that parents simply accepted their children when they showed their first signs of magic. Most of them ended up neglected, abandoned or dead. Of course there were also the ones that simply disappeared. We, even the ones that lived outside of town, like us, were all familiar with the stories. The stories about the demons that came at night to steal those male children who had too much magic in their veins. Either to protect them or to protect the village, depending on who you asked.
For a very long time I never believed those ghost-stories. If I would be neglected by my parents as those boys usually were, or beaten up like the daughters of angry men, then I would have fled too. So all I thought of it, was that they had just escaped an unhappy home. Feeding more of the stories to keep other unfaithful children in line.
It all changed when my brother disappeared. Now, he was quite good at that. At home we were all used to it. There were times he would stay away for days, even from a very young age. But this time it was different. This time I woke in the dead of night and I immediately knew he wasn’t here anymore. Not in this home not here, but in this world not here. He had crossed some intergalactic border he might never been able to uncross. We had always been bound by more than just blood and when I woke that night, this was the most certain thing I had ever known in my life.
After that my perspective of the world, the kingdom and the stories changed.