"Oh, black-hearted villain," murmurs Hook, as he stares out to sea and
wonders what is beyond the horizon. Wonders how much he has forgotten and
what he has done to deserve this. How does one repent when he cannot
remember his sins? How does one escape a nightmare when he is already
awake?
His hand is wrapped around a glass, half-filled with rum. It does not occur to ask where the alcohol has come from, or why the ships stores have lasted so long. He tightens his grip until he hears a sharp crack, and the glass shatters, the sticky liquid spilling over his hand, and the deck. It is a poor substitute for sinking his hook into the flesh of another.
Yesterday he tried to remember how many he had killed. Lost boys, Indians, pirates. He separates them only in the way one would separate beasts, for they each require a different method to kill, but all are suitable prey for his blood-lust. He tries to remember the individual kills. To appreciate the aesthetic of a well timed lunge of his cutlass; to feel pride in a precisely aimed shot from his pistol. It is futile. These deaths do not matter when the hunted are so quickly replenished.
His eyes drift skywards and fall upon the north star. He imagines other ships are on the ocean, and they too can see this most useful of stars. And they are guided by it. Guided home. It stares at it, vainly hoping for a revelation, for guidance of his own.
He is trapped in some mad parody of war. One does not kill children, and yet they are armed and vicious. Soldiers of a child-general. They have made war on him. But he knows he needs to justification because he will act for his survival.
But it is peace he seeks, finding it only in those blessedly black hours where he does not dream.
+++
Wendy wakes up and it's still dark. Early morning, she guesses. Blood pounds in her hears; she's breathing far too quickly.
It's easy to slip downstairs and get a glass of water. She tries not remember her dream, but pieces of it float into her memory as she turns the tap off. Fear of the dark is silly, she tells herself, but if her pirates and Indians are real, she can't think of any reason why all of the monsters that prowl her nightmares aren't waiting for her. She pours a little water on her face and shivers, but feels refreshed. Ready to face the monsters.
Her hand still shakes when she opens her bedroom door.
It's been months now. The dreams of Peter returning and knocking on her new bedroom's window have stopped. At first she was afraid that meant he was dead, but now she thinks she's just growing up. No more childish fantasies. No more swordfights and pirate treasure.
She isn't sure why she's afraid to let go, but she can't forget Peter. Everywhere she looks there are little reminders of Neverland, and she doesn't think any real boys, any men, will ever make her feel the same way as him. She doesn't think that any of them will teach her to fly.
So she sits in the dark, afraid to sleep and too tired to hope. Her blankets are wrapped snugly around her, and her fingers clasp the glass of cool water.
She wants to dream, she decides, as she drifts off to sleep, but only if it is real.
His hand is wrapped around a glass, half-filled with rum. It does not occur to ask where the alcohol has come from, or why the ships stores have lasted so long. He tightens his grip until he hears a sharp crack, and the glass shatters, the sticky liquid spilling over his hand, and the deck. It is a poor substitute for sinking his hook into the flesh of another.
Yesterday he tried to remember how many he had killed. Lost boys, Indians, pirates. He separates them only in the way one would separate beasts, for they each require a different method to kill, but all are suitable prey for his blood-lust. He tries to remember the individual kills. To appreciate the aesthetic of a well timed lunge of his cutlass; to feel pride in a precisely aimed shot from his pistol. It is futile. These deaths do not matter when the hunted are so quickly replenished.
His eyes drift skywards and fall upon the north star. He imagines other ships are on the ocean, and they too can see this most useful of stars. And they are guided by it. Guided home. It stares at it, vainly hoping for a revelation, for guidance of his own.
He is trapped in some mad parody of war. One does not kill children, and yet they are armed and vicious. Soldiers of a child-general. They have made war on him. But he knows he needs to justification because he will act for his survival.
But it is peace he seeks, finding it only in those blessedly black hours where he does not dream.
+++
Wendy wakes up and it's still dark. Early morning, she guesses. Blood pounds in her hears; she's breathing far too quickly.
It's easy to slip downstairs and get a glass of water. She tries not remember her dream, but pieces of it float into her memory as she turns the tap off. Fear of the dark is silly, she tells herself, but if her pirates and Indians are real, she can't think of any reason why all of the monsters that prowl her nightmares aren't waiting for her. She pours a little water on her face and shivers, but feels refreshed. Ready to face the monsters.
Her hand still shakes when she opens her bedroom door.
It's been months now. The dreams of Peter returning and knocking on her new bedroom's window have stopped. At first she was afraid that meant he was dead, but now she thinks she's just growing up. No more childish fantasies. No more swordfights and pirate treasure.
She isn't sure why she's afraid to let go, but she can't forget Peter. Everywhere she looks there are little reminders of Neverland, and she doesn't think any real boys, any men, will ever make her feel the same way as him. She doesn't think that any of them will teach her to fly.
So she sits in the dark, afraid to sleep and too tired to hope. Her blankets are wrapped snugly around her, and her fingers clasp the glass of cool water.
She wants to dream, she decides, as she drifts off to sleep, but only if it is real.