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Enough talk, Peter said, and his eyes flashed. It's time to turn you three into killers.

Brom

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Brom
Turn
Eyes
Talk
Turns
Eye
Three
Flashed
Enough
Killers
Time
Peter

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Did he dare trust this insane boy?
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Your dreams are your spirit, your soul, and without them you are dead.
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That's the spirit, one part brave, three parts fool.
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Both sides so blinded by their fear and hate of each other that they couldn't see they were all fighting for the same thing.
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For Peter's smile is a most contagious thing.
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Peter, she whispered and reached out, touching his cheek. My little Peterbird? You flew back to me.
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Had not enough gone wrong?
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Almost lost you, he thought, surprised to find himself blinking back tears. Been through too much, me and you. We're going to finish this thing together.
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There's a reason why we're born with brains in our heads, not rocks.
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Demon or not, it didn't matter, suffering was everywhere he looked.
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But he was sick of this charade. Sick of watching people lose a little more of their humanity each day, and sick to death of seeing people tortured in the name of God. What had happened to these people?
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What will happen, will happen.
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And may God be merciful, because these twisted men will not.
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Burn? Smite? Punish? Why is your god so intolerant? So jealous? Why must there be only one god? Why is there not room for many?
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My name's Peter. Can I play too?
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Peter glanced up at the stars and a wicked smile lit his face. Time to play, he whispered to the stars and winked. And the stars winked back, for Peter's smile is a most contagious thing.
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Men-kind shared this world for but a blink, then, sadly, they became enlightened, found science and religion. The new world of men left little room for magic or the magical creatures of old. Earth’s first children were driven into the shadows by flame and cold iron, by man’s insatiable need of conquest.
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And Peter laughed, and when he did, all the Devils grinned, because Peter's laugh was a most contagious thing.
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Peter stood, cleared his throat, and began to hum softly, then sing, slowly building up the song as his voice cleared. He found the old tune, the song of the Sunbird. And as he sung, as his rich voice echoed off the tall cliffs, the birds and the faeries lent him their voice and soon the tune drifted throughtout the garden.
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Don't let them win. Don't let them beat you. Don't let them steal your magic.
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