Peter never accompanied the Pips on their dare. It was an unspoken law, a silent rule between them that no one had to pronounce. Everyone accepted it, and the newcomers usually didn't dare ask why anyway. Too often, they got dismissive answers, sentences like 'It's just the way it is' with which older lost people tried to explain the world to them.

It was like with, well... curious children. They asked, asked, asked - wanting to understand, to grasp a world full of wonder and new adventures. But you couldn't answer all the questions of a child with a thirst for knowledge; at some point, even the established boys got annoyed or turned away those curious question bolts. Things without explanation could not be made tangible with words - they had to be seen and experienced to be understood.

It was similar to the fascinating rituals of the Natives. When they invoked their gods to ask for help for a sick person, to bless sacred food, or to consecrate their borders. Peter had been there once and experienced how the ancestors' crackling essence poured over the city like warm rain and filled all spirits. Back then... so long ago, he no longer knew how it had happened.

Oh - Neverland visibly swallowed up the memory; the more Peter tried to reach for it, the faster it slipped away from him. Even him, the leader of the lost boys. He no longer knew who had sat with him in that tent, the occasion, or why one had to call upon the spirits. Even the exact course of the ritual and how long it had lasted had slipped his mind... In the end, all that remained was the feeling as the words of the native woman (or had it been an Native?) whirred through the tent like soft chanting and carried his head far away. The smell of smoke, burning herbs... the bluish vapors were sacred, cleansing body and soul.... but from what? Peter had forgotten.

Once upon a time, when there was no bad blood between him and Tiger Lily - he had had so much more access to their culture. In the flowing mist of his memory, there were images of an outstretched hand, rattling chains on copper-colored wrists and a small dagger slipping into the keyhole. Cold water sloshing over rough rock and soaking coloured feathers, like dirty linen shirts and woolen trousers. He might have thought about it longer in another situation, but as it was, there were more important things to concentrate on.

A missing Pip... such events might not be part of the daily routine, but they did not cause nearly as much turmoil as an untraceable lost person. It was due to the short time when the newcomers (timid ones) only sometimes made many acquaintances in the Tree and certainly did not immediately stick in one's mind. Felix, for example, sometimes romped around with the others, but sometimes he just sat under his self-made shelter made of branches and leaves, looked up at the sky, and seemed to be counting clouds.

He stayed a little more in the background, didn't immediately join in every game, and when they frolicked outside Lost Island, he was often quite... cautious. Their life on the island liked to give everyone freedom because there were no rules about how to spend their day - not even how much to fight, hunt, or gather for something to eat. But... Peter and the older lost ones made sure that everyone did their part. There could not only be those who hunted game for everyone, roamed the forests to gather berries, roots, or honey, and fished alone.

That's why the Pips, in particular, were taken on forays through the woods more often in the beginning. They had to learn the boundaries of the areas, the names of the most important edible plants, what distinguished a sturdy branch from a rotten one, or that you could only catch a fish if you didn't stir up the water and were nimble. Such... Details like these were now essential for survival in Neverland, and if you didn't pay attention to them, your own mistakes would catch up with you sooner than you would have liked.

This was another reason why important tests of courage often looked different—for example, killing a wolf and bringing its pelt to the island. Or, diving up a shell from the deepest part of the mirror lake - without being drowned by the small whirlpools.
Attacks were not always counted as proof of a lost person's worth, for who wanted to be able to judge later whether someone had been hiding behind barrels all this time or had raised a saber against a pirate? They chose the Jolly Roger and picked out Hook's coat as a target... Peter's jaws clenched for a moment. This test was clearly too hard for a Pip, an inexperienced newcomer who had barely been here long enough to know which berry he could safely shove into his mouth and which he could not.

He remembered an attack in which a pip had been sent to steal the flag of the Jolly Roger, the red scrap of cloth with the skull and crossbones painted on it from the top of the main mast. Oh - that battle was a messy defeat for the Lost. Two Pips were killed, Peter and Nibs were hit quite severely at the time, and the rest of the boys just about escaped from the ship. No, not all attacks ended with the shining victory in the bag - so this one did not either. Peter wasn't sure what it was that suddenly sparked his empathy for Jake... but he felt sorry for the brother, saw the blame Jake placed on himself for the whole mess, and wanted to help him.

The lost might often seem selfish, closest to themselves and even among themselves, sometimes unwilling to intervene - but first appearances were deceptive. Jake may not have realized the danger they were all putting themselves in again by looking for Luke. It was said for a reason... we'll split up in the woods and each finds our way. They mostly kept to this little commandment when fleeing; it made much more sense than staying together and giving away a big target. It was much better for the boys to shake off or scatter their enemies over treetops, through wild thorny undergrowth, and via small tunnels and caves. 

Those who did not make it back usually had themselves to blame. But that did not necessarily mean that they immediately abandoned a pip or a lost person, and anyone looking at Jake would have felt the horror with which the force of fear hit him.

No, Peter wasn't exactly known for liking to watch. He got involved, jumped into the middle of the action, and always drew attention to himself in a fight. His enemies called him a changeling, fairy-breed, goblin and worse.... but in the end, they all seethed with rage when he rose laughing into the sky and, with a cheerful crow, claimed victory. He tried to pass on some confidence to Jake, putting his hand on his shoulder and quickly squeezing it. Together, the chances of finding Pip were much higher than alone.

Well... Slightly and Crow went on, told of Hook's anger and that he had only been on his red coat's tail. Peter snorted softly, his gaze sliding over those gathered and something like... Disappointment staggered the shimmering gold, interspersing it with greener and obscuring a little of the bright look. Oh yes - Luke should have done something different. After the story, Peter wondered why the Pip had come out of the cabin at all.

It must have been either cursed luck or unnatural skill that he had escaped the stockfish in his own nest. For that alone, the little fellow deserved his recognition, and Peter could not prevent pride from seeping into his chest as well, despite everything. After all, he had chosen this fellow, reached for the shimmering aura, and pulled it out of this grey, dead world. It was he who saw the potential in the boys and believed in them - showed them that they didn't need adults to teach them anything, to allow them to dance to their tune. 

No. Their magic, the essence of each Lost and Pips, had to be allowed to unfold. They all had a talent for something, and Luke was obviously one of the quiet ones who didn't brag about their skills and then surprised you all the more. Because yes, even Pan had to admit that he had not expected such a story.

When the mood started rising again, Peter shook his head and rudely interrupted the bickering.

"We'll talk about who should have done what later," the stern look didn't faze Jake either.

Peter did not miss the way Nibs,' and Pip's eyes kept crossing - blades were silently drawn. In the Tree, he wouldn't stop them from fighting; they should go to some if they felt better afterward. Sometimes a good fight could unite more than a thousand clarifying words. But there was no time for that now; even the leader would talk about the dare with his closer confidants later. Pips had become rarer than before, and it annoyed him that Nibs apparently still sent some of them forward as cannon fodder.

Nevertheless, they couldn't dwell on discussions now, so Peter quickly got down to business. He divided small groups into pairs to cover larger areas without being noticed immediately. Besides, they could keep the brawlers apart, which was certainly to their advantage. As much as they might fight in the tree outside, it was too dangerous for disagreements within their own ranks - Peter had learned that much in all his years on the island. Cohesion was important because, like a pack of wolves, they could hardly survive independently.

The three of them pushed the small group forward. First, Crow and Nibs took a different path, then the twins broke away from them until Peter and Slightly finally wandered through the jungle like invisible shadows. Running would have made too much noise, so they kept a steady, brisk pace. It took a while to reach the beach.... plenty of time to be eaten or at least discovered - but Peter had been roaming the woods for so long that he knew every sound by heart. The soft beating of wings of nocturnal birds, their purring songs lost in the carpet of leaves.

They were cracking twigs where mice pushed forward, and the soundless breeze from the flapping of owls' wings. Here and there, an owl cried, barn owls howled their soft sounds into the night, and leaves moved in the calm wind. The dew was already covering most of the bushes, low plants, and especially the musty ground with a damp layer of water droplets, the sticky moisture cooling Peter's feet and making their steps more silent. Damp foliage was more pliable, yielding silently in contrast to the dried leaves that immediately betrayed any uninvited guest.

The tribal territory was well protected, the borders perhaps not recognizable, but... woe betide anyone who did not respect them. Peter and Slightly knew the tiny details with which natives warned their enemies - still more friendly than some other factions that killed immediately instead of issuing a warning. At times, something resembling wooden beads dangled from a branch, carved and painted with green-brown paint, so the small works of art of sacred symbols blurred with the surroundings and were only noticed by particularly attentive eyes. Or there was a mark in the old wood of a tree, just bark scratched flat, maybe just painted with mud... an intricate symbol on it.

Even Peter couldn't make it all out in the darkness, but he didn't have to. By now, the flowing lines of their borders were as familiar to him as his sleeping cave in the Tree. Just as meticulously, his eyes searched the ground, the trees, and even the canopy for traps. Small hemp ropes, freshly churned foliage, simple mechanisms beneath denser thorny undergrowth. It was dangerous to simply beat one's way through the thicket - no, it was even deadly. But besides the traps, his gaze also searched for... other details.

Perhaps a sticky trail of blood on branches at eye level and where an injured person could have held on. Metallic smell, a scrap of red cloth, or the soft groaning of a dying man? Peter didn't know if Luke was still in the woods - if Hook had caught him, he certainly wasn't. In this case, the leader was relatively sure that Luke was already drowning somewhere, cut open by the barnacles of the Jolly Roger beneath the ship. As much as he hated to admit it, if they didn't find him here... the chances were mighty slim.