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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
Time
Peter
Turn
Eyes
Talk
Turns
Eye
Three
Flashed
Enough
Killers

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What will happen, will happen.
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Had not enough gone wrong?
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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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Did he dare trust this insane boy?
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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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Demon or not, it didn't matter, suffering was everywhere he looked.
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There's a reason why we're born with brains in our heads, not rocks.
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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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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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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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Your dreams are your spirit, your soul, and without them you are dead.
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My name's Peter. Can I play too?
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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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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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Children like yourselves are full of magic, but the men have turned, they've lost their magic to the fear and hatred they harbor for all that they can't explain, control, or understand.
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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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