Only an accomplice

I know what it sounds like, trust me, I do. It’s easy to paint me as a villain with glittering wings and guilty hands. Just another fairy who helped Peter take those innocent children. A small, unsuspecting monster wrapped in light. But things are never so clean in Neverland, it’s not like I just woke up one morning craving screams.

It’s not like I wanted to help Peter capture those children. And I’m not saying I’m addicted to fairy dust. Truly. I could stop whenever I want to. I just haven’t yet been quite ready to. There’s a difference, and you know it. Or you would, if you were being honest with yourself. You’re telling me you could stop anytime?

When I first met Peter, he really was just a boy. Sharp elbowed. Hollow eyed. All knees and hunger and rage aimed vaguely at the sky. He was running from something he didn’t yet have words for. He fell into Neverland by accident, dragged down by a wish so desperate it tore a hole between worlds. That happens sometimes. Wishes are messy. They fray at the edges.

He didn’t know he’d brought anything with him. Neither did I.

The sack came later.

His father had hidden it in Peter’s coat lining. A fine white powder sealed in plastic, wrapped again in cloth, tucked beneath his belt to avoid detection. A human trick. Humans love hiding their worst decisions inside their children. I didn’t recognize it at first. I thought it was crushed moonstone, or bone ash, or some new alchemical indulgence humans had invented to feel closer to magic without understanding it. They do that constantly. They want transcendence without consequence. Flight without falling.

It wasn’t until one of the smaller fairies brushed it with her finger that everything stopped. She didn’t flutter. She didn’t wobble or laugh or panic the way we do when we push our wings too hard. She rose. Cleanly. Silently. As if gravity had simply…agreed to let her go.

Peter stared. I stared. The island held its breath.

Fairy dust doesn’t come from fairies. That’s the first lie.

It’s a good lie. A useful one. Bright, harmless, marketable. We use it, shape it, refine it, trade it, so of course everyone assumes it’s ours. That it flakes from our wings when we dance too hard or sifts loose when we shed our skins at midsummer. But it doesn’t begin with us. It never has.

Real fairy dust—the kind that makes gravity forget you, the kind that warms your chest and quiets the ache of being small in a vast, uncaring world—comes from children. Not their bodies. What do you take us for, monsters? Don’t flinch like that. It’s their belief. Their unbroken certainty that something impossible might still be true. The part of them that hasn’t learned yet to brace for disappointment.

At first, we only needed a little.

That matters. You have to understand that part. A pinch. A skim. The lightest lift, like pollen from a flower that’s still standing when you walk away. Peter leads them to the island with promises: adventure, freedom, the chance to never grow old. He’s very good at promises. He believes them when he says them, which is the most dangerous kind.

And I told myself that it was kinder than the world they came from. War. Hunger. Fathers with secrets sewn into their children’s belts. Mothers who stop singing because it hurts too much to remember the sound. We take a pinch of belief from each child, just enough to grind into dust, and we send some of them back.

Some.

A little dimmer, maybe. A little quieter. But alive. Still breathing. Still loved. Still fine. You see? That’s important. They’re fine.

That was the second lie.

Because belief doesn’t grow back the way skin does. It doesn’t scab. It doesn’t scar neatly. You can’t skim it without leaving a hollow. The children we return stop asking questions. They stop imagining better endings than the ones they’re handed. They grew up quickly after that…too quickly. But I told myself that’s normal. Growing up always feels like loss when you’re watching it from the outside.

Peter needed more. It wasn’t his fault that his father took so much from him leaving his hopes like an anchor tied to his side.

And anyway, it isn’t my fault that the world finishes what we start.

You see, fairy dust doesn’t just lift your body. It lifts your grief. Your fear. Your shame. That’s the part no one tells you. Every time I breathe it in, the weight of what I’ve done floats just out of reach. The memories soften. The edges blur. The island sparkles like it’s forgiving me.

Every time I say just one more, Neverland glitters a little brighter and my conscience dulls a little further.

And it’s not like it happens all at once. It’s gradual. Responsible. Controlled. We have rules. We had rules: Only children who want to come. Only a little belief at a time. Only until the island is stable again. Only until Peter feels better. Only until I feel better.

Peter changed too. The dust froze him in place. Not in age, but in hunger. He stopped asking questions. Stopped listening. Stopped noticing when children didn’t laugh the way they used to. Eventually…the children stopped going home.

And I helped.

I tell myself I’m protecting Neverland. Protecting him. Protecting myself. I tell myself that if I stop, someone worse will take my place. That if I quit tomorrow, today doesn’t count. That I deserve this, after everything I’ve carried for centuries without relief.

That’s the thing about fairy dust. It makes tomorrow feel…optional.

The children don’t fight at first. Why would they? They’re flying! They’re glowing! They’re being told they matter in a way the world forgot to say out loud! And, when it starts to hurt, when flying gets heavier unless we help again, I tell myself that’s just how magic works. Nothing free lasts forever.

Sometimes they look at me like they know. Sometimes they don’t. I don’t keep track anymore. Keeping track makes it harder to breathe.

So yes. I’ll admit it. I helped Peter steal children. I held their hands. I brushed the dust from their hair. I smiled while something essential was taken from them because it felt better than feeling nothing at all. I guess that’s the dark side of addiction.

Not that I’m addicted.

You want to call me a monster? Fine. Call me whatever makes this easier for you. Monsters don’t have reasons. Monsters don’t justify. Monsters don’t shake when the dust wears off and the island goes quiet.

But don’t pretend this story is only about a boy who never grew up, or a fairy who flew too high. It’s about what happens when magic becomes a drug, when innocence becomes a resource, and when believing you can stop anytime you want is the most dangerous spell of all.

Now – are you done asking questions?

Because Neverland is still breathing.