Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners. As for original characters and the plot itself, that does belong to me. Please do not use such without permission.
Summary: A belated birthday gift to my good friend, Katherine NotGreat. After Wendy's return from the extraordinary happenstance that has taken her beloved captain away from her, she comes across a most startling truth. Time machines, swords fights, a host of needful children, and a desperate Hook convince the storyteller to make a journey into Seventeenth Century England to reclaim the man she loves.
An Unexpected Realisation
Caverswall, Staffordshire, England
8th April, 1689
A man of about forty sat at was surely the remnants of a once grand and opulent wooden mahogany desk, his handsome features set into a firm, grim, solemn mask of brooding self-reflection. Books and papers lay scattered about the room, dusty and neglected, and left mouldering among the mouth-eaten carpets and wooden floorboards that supported them. Faded plum-coloured draperies barely hung from their supports, scarcely blocking the depressing scene beyond the cracked windowpanes.
It was raining. It was raining, and there was nothing to be done about it. It was rather fitting, actually. The rain and the thick, grey-clouded skies—so unlike the cloudless-blue heavenly spheres of another world—that reminded one of a world beyond human imagination, and of memories that should, if not needed, to be forgotten.
A pair of forget-me-not eyes—as deep and fathomless as the ocean itself—almost glinted red at the thought, a few wayward strands of curling, wild black hair, mercifully, obscuring the horrendous sight, for a man as dark and haunted as the one who now sat at his grandsire's desk had, perhaps, even the smallest entitlement to move those with hearts of flint to pity. He sighed, forcing the momentary madness aside, a half-empty bottle of wine at his side. He glanced at his silent companion with a note of apathy before he looked down at the mass of scattered papers in front of him, most of which were no longer important—perhaps had never been—from when they had been first drafted. He sighed again.
In all actuality, for if he were to truly consider it, the rain made him consider much—almost too much—since he had been forced back into his rôle as a dutiful husband and father. Oh, yes, the rain was a wonderful reminder of all of the things he had lost, most especially since it forced him to retain a semblance of the good form that he still had, and oh, lest he forget, it also kindly served to remind him that he was still, very much, in a godforsaken, backwater part of England.
Confined in Caverswall.
How fitting a punishment.
It had already been three months since he had been abandoned to this decrepit foundation deemed a manor. There was nothing stately or noble about it, either, this crumbling stone ruin that had once been a retreat for one of his great-grandfather's mistresses. He might as well seek refuge under a cliff in the Scottish highlands, than be forced to abide in this hovel a moment longer. But then, he had brought all of this upon himself, had he not? Everything was his fault, apparently. He should accept responsibility for his actions with dignity, as those of his noble blood would have done. Of course, Grandfather lost his head because of that self-said dignity, he thought mordantly, a hint of disgust upon that noble-born brow. Truly, some of his ancestors could never take stock of the situation for what it was, for some were so stupid to not acknowledge the truth…
He shook his head, the demons that tormented him in his thoughts returning with a vengeance. It was more psychosomatic than anything, since most of his thoughts were self-imposed by the years of pent-up anger and guilt he suffered whilst away. He had shamed his ancestors, the family name, but, most of all, he had shamed himself. He strove to be more dignified, more refined; he truly did. But damn it all, everything was falling apart around him! And not only his own, pathetic excuse of a life, either…Nothing had been left unscathed by the elements, where even his own grandfather's precious library was but a shadow of its former self. He despaired at the pitiful sight surrounding him, knowing well that his grandfather would surely be rolling in his royal, worm-embedded grave, should he learn of the travesty that had befallen a Stuart stronghold. He would blame it all on me, of course, he thought bitterly. For after all, everything always seems to be my fault.
He and his children were restricted to the servant's quarters. The servant's quarters! It was indeed, as one might say, a melancholy comedown for a man of his status. And yet, such lodgings had assuredly humbled his restless spirit, if only slightly. He still retained his noble-born pride, after all. For the master room, as well as its adjoining rooms, was uninhabitable. There were holes in the roof. Come to think of it, the entire roof needed to be replaced.
"Jas. Hook, thou are not wholly an unheroic figure, art eternally alone," muttered a despondent Hook as he watched the rain without.
The saying that he was looking at a glass half-empty implied a very negative, pessimistic view on life. Or, at least, that was what I had been told by a very insightful storyteller, heremarked quietly to himself, almost conceding, almost willing to give in to that sultry voice that inspired only pained moments of enraptured beauty. Perhaps he did look at that proverbial glass in half full. Once. But all the same, he did view it so, if not in a literal sense, since the wine glass before him was only half-full.
The little cretins were surely sent from some vengeful God to torment him for his many, past transgressions; for they were of an unsavoury nature, to be sure. Hook scowled, brooding upon his fate and being forced to accept it. He accepted it willingly, as any man of his station should. Though never had he endured such relentless torture—not even from Pan! His present captors were a hundredfold worse, compared to Pan, and they were his children, of all things! It was not to be borne. None of it. He almost groaned at his fettered existence, trapped by the furtive hand of a deceptive woman. He dare not lovingly call that vindictive creature wife. To Hook, she had far outlasted the privilege in such an honourable designation, even if such was aligned with a traitor to the Crown. "Damned monkey of a king on my throne," he grumbled to himself.
Good God, what had he done to deserve this—of all punishments imaginable and otherwise—for what was surely a wrong turn taken in his youth? "Bloody Jacobite of an uncle of mine, that was what," he answered quietly, sardonically. He shook his head and took another swig of his wine, the clotted, maroon dregs leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Hook grimaced. The wine here was bitter. Everything was bitter. "Just like that noisome wife of mine."
Wife.
There, he had said it. Finally. Albeit the acknowledge did not stir any love or husbandly affection. With Anne, none of it did, since their relationship was more so an agreement, a business arrangement that benefited both sides—or was supposed to, at least in theory. Hook shook his head, wholly regretting his headache. What had he drunk so much, and it being of a poor vintage, too?
Thoughts of Anne were never those of a pleasure nature. In fact, Hook attributed her to something akin to indigestion. Truly. The very thought of his wife made his stomach turn. He could admit, albeit ashamedly, that he had never loved her—not even when he vowed to remain faithful—even when they spoke their vows those many centuries ago. Or was it decades ago? Damned if he was know for sure. He had spent so many wasted years in that children's paradise that the thought of returning to his old life had been nought but a dead hope left in the back of his mind. Only Wendy had ever made anything worthwhile for him—worth giving him a reason to pick up the broken shell of a man who had lost his hand, as well as his dignity, to a child, and make something of himself. Damn it, but he was even willing enough to set aside his vendetta against Pan for her. Oh, how like a girl indeed, to turn his head with such idyllic thoughts of grandeur! It was surely no less than what he deserved. A man like James Hook—or rather, James Scott, as he now was forced to again acknowledge himself—could ever attain that which he sought most in life. It was a dream—a beautiful dream—this his mind conjured. She had been beautiful, so willing, so loving. It was not meant to be.
A resounding crash absolved these dark musings, however, as a plethora of raised voices followed in the wake of some ever-present discord. Hook closed his eyes, his deep-lined face falling into his one good hand in visible despair. They were worse this time around, as he had not the slightest inclination in what the fight was about this time. He almost sighed. He had already broken up so many that he now failed to keep count. He groaned out his frustrations in a muttered string of poetic French curses, followed by a heavy swig of bitter red wine. His teeth ground against his nerves, which were so poorly strung together that he could scarcely understand how he remained in a state of composed sanity. He heard another crash—surely in one of the guest bedrooms—as the continued bout in screaming ensued. God. His own dig-bitten crew was never as bad as this. But then again, he would never have allowed such insubordination, since those who questioned his authority usually found themselves shaking hands with his hook.
But these rebel-rousers…were a little more than his lowly band of pirates. For they were much more than that—so much more. As they were, after all, of his own blood. For they were, whether he wished to acknowledge it otherwise, his children.
His children.
Four, to be exact. The number in itself was staggering, considering that he had not the slightest in how to raise them. The servants and their mother saw to their upbringing, he thought dryly, his eyes falling upon the rain that spattered against the cracked windowpanes. He would have to replace them, he knew, if he were to make a go at living up to his fatherly duty, and look after those whom he had left in the wake of a botched execution. Foolish executioner. The blade had not even struck him. His cousin Anne had, mercifully, seen to that.
But then, he had escaped the executioner's block, only to find himself trapped in a hell deemed the Neverland. And what a hell it had been for him. From his understanding, centuries had passed, considering that…someone dear to him had come from the early Twentieth Century. He had been trapped for the better part of two centuries, ignorant of those closest to him living and moving on, and then, later dying. He had been the last true remainder of his father's legacy, since their blood had been diluted down through marriage and the carrying off of the Stuart name. Not that he himself could carry on his father's name, of course. Bastard children were not often afforded that courtesy, since he had taken his wife's surname for his own.
That wife. Hook glowered at the thought of her. She had caused a lot of havoc with her wishing to be with him again. Wishing to be with him again! An iron hook collided against the desk, its sharp tip embedding itself deeply in the rotting wood. He uttered a most unapologetic curse, his regard for the one who 'wanted to be with him again' dwindling to a new, all-time low. Wanting to be with him again! What rot. As far as Hook understood, her heartfelt desire had only lasted for a matter of hours, before she—the harpy he had shackled himself to those many years ago—became, again, the woman he remembered, if not despised and dreaded with every fibre of his being. God, but would he ever escape from her imprisoning hold? Well, there had been the Neverland, and the two centuries' furlough that came with his being trapped there. But still…to escape her hold on him, which strengthened with each passing day, to elude her completely—it was something that James Hook—he refused to acknowledge his former name—wanted more than anything.
She did not love him. Nor, could he say, that he retained such a deep and most sublime feeling for her—not by any stretch of the imagination, by any means. Perhaps he had, maybe once, long ago. But they had been so young then, so innocent and naïve in their convictions of the world. They had been too young—yes, too young—to have married when they did. They had been all but children. And now they had children of their own—the second reason for her 'wanting to be with him again'. Oh, yes, what a loving mother she was, to abandon her children in this hovel-deemed-a-home.
Hook could not fathom it. Did she truly despise him so much, to punish their children in the process of hurting him? Did she hate him so much? He had been nothing but faithful to her until…But he cast the thought aside with his hook. Some memories, he knew, were too painful to bear. It was not to be; he had to accept that if he was to move on with his pathetic half-existence here, in this decaying manor. His children needed him, since their mother had made herself scarce in her affections for them. And by his hook, he would be a father to them—the best he could be! Damn it all, but he would be that which ten thousand fathers could only dream of being!
He took another swig from the half-empty bottle. He was hopelessly beyond drunk—rather foxed, if he were to say so himself. He groaned at his impending migraine, the reason for his indulgence evident with every drink he took. But he did mean it—his being a real father, rather. And he would be—after he had another drink.
Downing the rest of the wine, he set the now-empty bottle aside. He gave it a passing glance, his fingers idly tracing its faded ivory paper—wine from Bordeaux—a gift from his father's cousin, who was, if Hook recalled, still very much alive. Such a pity it was that the Sun King himself would not come to his aid. And why would he? thought Hook darkly, when Louis is supporting my thrice-damned bastard of an uncle? Brothers in the Roman faith through and though, the hypocrites.
He brooded on his uncle's good fortune in retaining the throne a moment longer before a crash from below shattered his thoughts. He muttered an oath when he heard something shatter—a window, a vase, a priceless family heirloom, who could say for certain?—as a string of voices followed in its wake.
"Oh, no you don't! I shall…I shall tell him!" one of them cried out in a sharp shrill voice, one of which Hook undoubtedly knew belonged to his youngest son, Richard.
He nearly flinched at the sound. Merciful God in Heaven, could they not at least have the decency to call him by his paternal title? Why were they so hesitant to call him father? Had he lost all respect and favour in their eyes? He almost looked askance when he heard his eldest son, who was granted his own namesake, speak:
"You will do no such thing! I'm the eldest, and therefore, have the authority over all of you! Do you think that he will save you, when he himself cowered away, like a dog at his own execution? He's nothing like our great-grandfather, who at least had the decency to behave like a king!"
Hook scowled at the remark made by his eldest. Such insolence was not to be borne—not while he still drew breath!—in his household. His melancholy eyes glinted a dangerous crimson, his hook shaking in dark anticipation at his side. It was just offended as he as it called for blood—his son's blood. Dear God, he could not bear to consider it…
Shaking his head, he rose from his seat, the papers and empty wine bottles momentarily forgotten as another concern filtered through his broken mind. He would have to intervene, again, and put an end this burgeoning brawl before it got too out of hand. He could not afford to lose another of his ill-begotten issue—not as he had the others. He had already lost half of them as it was…
He was halfway down the stairs when he heard his middle son cry out:
"Brimstone and gall! A pox on of you both, you proud and insolent scugs, as he would say!"
The boy's claim was greeted by a disheartened sigh, as another voice—one that both comforted and tormented its father—pleaded for a moment's respite.
"Richard! Henry! James! Brothers, peace, please! You will tear our family apart, if you continue to fight over this ridiculous nonsense."
Hook inwardly sighed. Isabella. What a shock to his nerves, but a voice of reason! She was a most perplexing child, to be sure. A young woman of only seventeen, who had the wisdom of an elder; and from what little time he shared with her already, he knew that losing her to another in marriage would pain his heart, for he did feel a semblance of fatherly affection toward the girl. She almost reminded him of another in temper, as well as in beauty. He frowned at the thought, since the lady in question, unfortunately, was not here for him to make a true comparison between she and his gentle Isabella.
Setting the unhappy thought aside, he considered his daughter instead. He would have to thank her in some way, knowing well that she was the only one who ever considered him kindly, who called him father. It was with this consideration that he made himself known to his unruly brood, the scraping of his hook against the wall commanding their attention. He almost smirked when he saw them shuffle, scurrying like frightened mice before a cat. They stood like statues of stone, shards of shattered glass surrounding them. Hook inwardly sighed, a broken window from behind them evidence enough of their crime. For what a sight they were: silenced and humbled before the very man they had mocked and teased only moments before.
He gave them a cursory glance, noting how their eyes were averted to the floor—forget-me-nots, like his—as their dark heads inclined a fraction of an inch lower in recognition. He stepped forward, his grin materialising in full. "I heard a noise, whilst in my study. I trust that everything is in order?" he enquired, fully aware of the broken window behind them. He glanced at his youngest son, Richard, before turning his eyes toward his eldest son. "James, what is the meaning of another broken window? I daresay that 'twould be passing queer for another bird to fly against so frail and fragile a glass. I want the truth, boy."
James, however, remained unapologetically silent. "There is nothing to say, sir," he said, after a long moment.
Hook glowered at him, his impassive gaze darkening. "Nothing to say?" he reiterated. "Nothing, truly? My hook believes there is." He took another step forward, the iron appendage brandished in all its frightening horridity. He regarded his son coldly, those icy forget-me-nots meeting only defiance. He smiled, cruelly. "Do you doubt me, boy? For thou art bold in thy convictions, to be certain. But wouldst thou think it advisable to at least humour the hook?"
Isabella looked up, sheer terror in her eyes. "Father, please," she whispered, bravely stepping forward, a trembling hand falling upon the aforementioned hook. She caught his stare, clearly afraid, but held his gaze. "It was an accident," she murmured gently, as if hoping to allay his internal discord. A few wayward curls—as dark and as fathomless as the midnight sea—falling against those pleading eyes—eyes that were as blue and timeless as his own, yet reminded him of another's entirely.
The hook lowered in the instant. "An accident…of course," was all that escaped from him, before he turned away, his thoughts no longer entertaining the bloodlust it had only moments before. He felt Isabella remain at his side, drawing closer to him.
"Father," she breathed out softly—so unlike her mother—as she took his hand in hers, and smiled when he looked at her. Her beloved father had returned from whatever madness that had plagued him. "There is something that I—or rather, we"—Here she acknowledged the rest of her silent siblings—"need to tell you. James," she prompted with a nod, "would you be so kind as to tell Father what we saw only moments ago?"
James grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. "It was nothing, honestly," he bit out. "She was just a girl in some very strange clothes, wandering around in the woods."
Richard shot him a look. "It was more than that!" he groused. "You didn't mention the thing she was standing next to! And I still cannot believe that we had to argue over not telling him about it or her!"
"What thing?" Hook found himself asking, though he failed to understand why. He merely gave the boy a deciding look, if partly humouring him. "And as for her, if such is the case over this…disagreement to inform me, then why hast thou hesitated to aid this young woman? And what of this thing you speak of?"
Henry beamed at his question, wholly disregarding the woman in question entirely. "Oh, but we saw the most striking and alluring thing, whilst walking in the woods today," he told a speculative Hook. "It is…unlike anything I have ever before seen! It certainly outshines that contraption I saw—remember the one that Da Vinci fellow sketched, the one he sent to our great-great-great-grand-cousin, Francis?" he furthered, undaunted when no one encouraged his enthusiasm. "Well, it was better—from what I saw of it, on any count. I wonder what its purpose is."
Isabella gave Henry comforting smile. "Well, whatever it is, I am sure that Father will discover its purpose, as well as to understand why that young woman is wandering about on our property." She regarded Hook with a tender expression. "Truly, Father, I am rather concerned by this young woman wandering about, unaccompanied, in the rain—she looks to be my age, and she is certainly no one I have ever met, or have even seen in town. I don't believe she is from around here."
Hook returned her stare. "It matters not as to how or why this woman—whoever she may be—is here. She will surely find her way—even without our intervention."
His daughter gasped, her eyes widening in disbelief. "But, Father!" she cried out. "We surely, cannot, leave her to the mercy of the woods! And in this rain! It shall be nightfall soon, and we saw her an hour ago. She could still be out there, lost and alone. How can you suggest that we leave her? For is such not considered bad form?"
Hook bristled at the suggestion of his being in bad form. Dear God, but this unfortunate revelation was but a blight to plague him, a double-edged sword that could, possibly, reveal him to the world, yet place his form in peril if he did nothing about it; for if this young woman, lost and alone, as she most assuredly appeared, were to recognise him…he would be all but done-for.
But then, to leave her out there, to the mercy of the night and this weather…
He turned to his eldest son, a look of resignation heavy upon his noble countenance. "Tell me where last thou saw her, and I shall go myself, to give aid to this damsel in distress."
James half-smiled: a timeless replica of his father's. "We saw her, not too far from the lake. She appeared hesitant to wander too far from that…thing of hers. I daresay that she is, still, likely there."
Hook only nodded at his son's assurance, knowing exactly where to find her. With a soft-spoken command, he issued them to remain at the manor as he took up a lantern and left them to the duty of preparing another room, as well as the family's supper, to which, Hook knew, mortified his sons, since Isabella could not prepare such completely on her own—not for their vast number, at any rate.
"I shall return directly. I expect all of you to be on your best behaviour when our guest arrives," he said, standing in the doorway, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure, his tone demanding none of the rancour he had encountered only moments before.
With a final look at his children, he closed the door behind him, the lantern, unsurprisingly, a much-needed guide against the forthcoming darkness and driving rain. He could only hope that he would find this unfortunate creature that had disrupted his life in all but a single evening. And when he did, he vowed, as he sloshed through the mud, dirtying his already threadbare coat and trousers, he would make her suffer under the worst and most terrible of torture.
He would make her a prisoner—a servant—who would wish that she had never ventured into a duke's domain.
For if I cannot have her, then another shall ease my suffering…
The thought remained with him throughout the rest of the evening.
…
It was nightfall by the time he reached the lake, the lantern his only source of light, since the stars above were heavily obscured by the onslaught of clouds and pouring rain. Hook muttered a curse under his breath, his red velvet coat and matching waistcoat—not to mention the plain linen shirt underneath that—clinging to him like a second skin. Of all the things to force him into the night, and in this weather…Whoever this wench was, he would assure her that she would pay for his ruined attire—not an easy task if the lady in question was a peasant; since, knowing his dire fortune of late, she probably was.
He shook his head, a few wet tendrils lapping wildly against his grim-faced visage. His eyes gleamed with a hint of crimson amid their blue, melancholy depths, his thoughts in terrible disarray. He was still quite drunk, though close to bordering on being sober. He almost regretted his weak indulgence, since it did nothing but give him a most abysmal and wretched headache in the end. And it wasn't even good wine, he thought lamentably, before something—a flicker in the distance—caught his eye. He moved toward it, catching something—a movement, he was sure—not twenty paces away. He raised the lantern, his hook at the ready, should there more than a simple maiden. He was half-tempted to speak, to acknowledge that which he sensed, but remained silent. He would not make himself known until he saw this unseen intruder that had dangerously ventured into his lands.
For there, not fifteen feet before him, stood a most peculiar sight. A dark mass of what appeared to be canvas covered most of it, though he could see, if faintly, four golden posts at the bottom. What in God's name…he almost uttered, though mercifully held his tongue. Surely, this was the contraption that had captivated his children so.
Setting the lantern down, he continued forward, his eyesight, though proficient during the day, excellent at night. He perceived every shadow, the sound of the wind and the falling rain disregarded completely. Hook paused in his movements when he neared the dark mass. For amid all else, he heard the faint whisper of another human heart. For it was a heart that had been in accord with his own. A heart that belonged to…
He jolted back from the canvas, as if burned, his eyes darkening in wild disbelief. No, it cannot be. You are fooling yourself, James. Do not fall prey to tormenting yourself so. It is not she. Glowering, he inwardly cursed his momentary weakness as he stepped forward. He closed his eyes, briefly, his hand falling upon part of the dark canvas covering, his fingers tightening around its wet, enclosed surface. He did not hesitate further, his hook poised for whatever he might encounter underneath the deathlike shroud.
With a violent jerk, he pulled the canvas away, his hook blindly coming forward, as if by instinct, before it suddenly halted when a voice—as familiar and beautiful as he remembered it—said his name. His eyes opened in pained disbelief at the sight he saw. For there she was, his precious Wendy, sitting there, beautiful and innocent—a vision that haunted him in his waking dreams—with his hook at her throat.
Dark eyes, although wide with fear and surprise at first, suddenly countered his with unspoken disbelief. "J-James, is that truly you?" her soft voice carried in the surrounding darkness, fear of the weapon between them shattering the moment.
The hook lowered from her throat in the instant, as, with its master's head. "F-forgive me," muttered an apologetic Hook. "I…I did not think. I…I would never," he mumbled brokenly, but was silenced when a throng of gentle fingers fell upon his lips. He turned to look at her, for he knew that she had already forgiven him. Him! A man who had almost killed her in his blinded madness. He almost collapsed against her, just as her touch, if not her very presence alone, was enough to make him cry.
"Oh, Wendy," he said, pulling her against him, no longer caring about the cold and the rain, even though he vaguely noticed that she had been warm and dry underneath the canvas. But such did not, mercifully, seem to matter to her, since he felt her return his embrace. He pulled her closer, kissing the right-hand corner where her hidden kiss rested.
They held each other for a moment longer, saying nothing in the wake of their happy reunion. Hook had returned the canvas to its rightful place upon the contraption—or, rather, a time machine, as Wendy called it, since she had explained, rather hurriedly, how she had managed to return to him in the first place—before putting his own sodden coat over her shoulders. "I am afraid it is not much, my lady," said he, in a most gentlemanly fashion, as he took up her satchel with his hook, "but I daresay that it shall have to make do until I can afford thee with more comfortable attire. But come along, dear one, we shall return to my manor, where you shall stay at my side, for I've not intention in letting you go again, ma belle captive," he teased, as he took her hand in his and purposefully led her away from the machine that had returned her to him.
Wendy only smiled at his tender-taken jest, taking in the man whom she loved with the entirety of her heart. He had frightened her at first, with his deep-red coat and hook, raised dangerously above his head, before it had descended upon her. In that moment, he had reminded of the man she had both loathed and feared as a child—not the man she had grown to love and care for. She mentally shook her head. It would not do to think of him in such a way, since the man who presently held her, was not Captain Hook, but her beloved James. She smiled at the thought of him, taking in every aspect of him that had compelled her to return to his side.
He had not changed during the many months of their separation, although she noticed a certain hint of weariness around his eyes. She had also noticed the faint smell of wine upon his lips when he kissed her. He had been drinking, and apparently in excess. He would have to temper himself, for she would not allow him to destroy himself—not when she had returned to him—as he had so much to live for…just as there was so much that he needed to know.
It was with this understanding that Wendy said his name and asked that he wait. Hook turned to her, concern in his eyes, as he patiently awaited her. Wendy hesitated, if only for a moment, before she summoned the courage to tell him that which she intended the moment she saw him. "James, my reason for returning to you is because of how I feel for you, but there is something else, something that I must tell you."
Hook frowned, concerned by her sudden upset. "What is it? What is it that you have to tell me, my beauty?" he asked, coming closer, a warm and patient hand resting at her side. "What is it that I must know? Come, Wendy, pray, tell me. I cannot bear this look of sadness."
Wendy bit the lower half of her lip, as if uncertain as to how to proceed with the truth. She shook her head, her eyes solemnly meeting his. "When I was at university, I discovered something—something that concerned you, as well as your family, but mainly you. It was what compelled me to return to you, knowing that I could not let you go on, not knowing the truth about your—"
"Oh, so this is Wendy," a cold voice broke in harshly, its demeaning tone not lost on the one to whom it had directed it.
Hook turned toward his eldest son, disapproval written on his face. "I thought I told thee to remain at the manor, and yet you have the audacity to disobey me. Return home, now, James; we shall discuss this when I return."
James snorted at the harsh reprimand. How dare this man try to put him in his place, and in front of this…harlot! "I think not, Father," he spat out Hook's fatherly title as he then glanced toward his right, where the rest of his siblings stood, having remained silent and hidden behind the trees all along. He returned his father's frozen stare. "I doubt any of us shall be going home, since we have something to discuss with you."
Isabella and the other children joined their brother's side. "Father, what is this?" said his only daughter, a stricken look pervading her soft features. She glanced at Wendy, who was held so protectively—so affectionately—in her father's embrace, her pained confusion visible in her eyes. It was enough to shame Hook, for he looked down, the hand which had grasped Wendy's hand so lovingly only moments before loosening in its hold.
"Isabella," he began, unable to lie to his daughter, "I can explain everything, my dear, for this is—"
But James interrupted him. "This is the woman who usurped Mother's place in his heart," he abruptly interjected, a hateful glare directed at Wendy, who secretly flinched at his cold words. "I daresay that she is lovely—quite the beauty, even. She must be an absolute treasure, compared to all of the other jewels you've surely collected over the years. She is probably beyond priceless—surely worth more than our own dear Mother's heart, which was broken in your absence. Oh, yes," he drawled, "surely she is worth more than the woman, who was devoted to your noble cause in attaining your crown, isn't that right, Father?"
Hook glowered at him. "I do not have to answer for my actions—least of all, to someone such as you, my son," returned he, ever the noble-born prince he so inherently was. He nearly cringed when he felt Wendy's hand grasp his arm, a hint of disapproval in her eyes.
"Perhaps we should continue this discussion, inside," she calmly suggested, unable to bear seeing her beloved's children in the rain a moment longer—no matter their disapproval of her. She smiled when Hook inclined his head in agreement, giving in to her request as he again took her hand, kissing it.
James snorted at the display, and he turned to his siblings. "So weak," he muttered to them. "Good God, she's already made a fool of him, and now she intends to take over our home and become our stepmother!" He then rounded on Hook, half-ashamed by his father's acquiescence, his anger augmenting at the sight of their joined hands. "You're practically besotted with her. Oh, won't Mother be happy, to learn of such tender and most genuine affection, and over such a choice of lady, too? It's positively mortifying."
"James," Hook warned, though was cut off by his younger son's amusement.
Completely ignoring his father's displeased glare, a bright-eyed Henry chuckled at his brother's remark. "Oh, indeed, quite right you are, James!" he laughed, taking note of the woman his father held. "She is a treasure, to be sure! But I daresay that Mother got the better of her, despite her beauty, since she remarried and left him"—Here he pointed a jovial finger at Hook—"to look after us in that ruin of a mansion, just so she could be alone with that man she married."
Isabella gave him a withering look. "Henry!" she chided, disapprovingly, whilst an angered James scowled at him.
"Fool, you weren't supposed to mention that—most of all, to him!" he shouted. "You remember what Mother said: he was not to know, to never find out! And now you've revealed it, damn it all!"
Henry looked down, crestfallen. "Yes, I remember," he mumbled, wholly ashamed that he revealed a most secret truth. He did not have to look up to see the anger that assuredly clouded his father's reserved expression. Nor did he have to wait for the explosion that would follow, for Hook was not one to disappoint those who had kept a most painfully, degrading secret from him.
"Remarried?!" he practically roared, a dark and most terrible rage claiming him in the instant. "I shall show her remarried!" He blindly wrenched himself free of Wendy, his hook rising against some unseen adversary.
"James!" Wendy cried out, attempting to break through the madness that had overcome his reason. Though to no avail, for she watched, helplessly, as her beloved approached his children, the hook remaining in its most deadly position. She watched in horror when Hook's younger sons ran behind their sister, who tried in every way to both protect and give them comfort against the monstrous tyrant that was their father. Wendy shook her head. This was not the man she loved; this was someone else entirely. Someone else, I had believed long dead, she thought dejectedly, tears brimming in her eyes, the wind and cold rain compelling them to fall. She held them back, however, when she took a step forward, and once again came to her beloved's side.
Hook, however, paid little heed to her presence, his crimson gaze now fixed upon his eldest son. A rush of blood surged through his veins, the colour—which was claimed by many to be a yellow, sickly shade—pulsing just beneath the flesh. He moved closer, numb to the gentle hands resting upon his good arm. He stared intently upon his son, those blue forget-me-nots quenched of all humanly compassion, for there was no love in those murderous red eyes. "I shall deal with thee and thy siblings accordingly," he said, his voice a shard of ice. "You should not have kept thy mother's betrayal from me."
James glared at him, his stony expression devoid of fear. "Bold words, Father," he retorted bravely. "For I'd rather suffer the punishment from which you so cowardly escaped a hundredfold, than to betray the one woman who suffered and sacrificed everything, so that she could see to her children's happiness. I would never betray her, not even to you." He then gave Wendy a pointed look. "And if I had known that it was she, who had been so lost and alone in our woods, I would have left her out here. I honestly would not care whether she lived or died."
A resounding smack echoed against the rain when Hook struck his son's face, a vile, poetic curse erupting from a pair of crudely smiling lips. "That was very bad form, my son," said he, lightly, casually, a hint of red in the corner of his eye. "Indeed, I daresay that my hook is much offended by thy conduct."
Wendy paled dramatically at his words, knowing well what his calm demeanour meant. She stepped forward, placing herself in between father and son, her hands boldly restraining the hook at her beloved's side. "No, James," she said to him, her dark eyes countering his red ones. "You are not going to do this—not to your very own son. I will not let you; for your hook shall have to come through me, first, before it does something that we both shall regret." She felt him try to push her away, but she held herself firmly against him. "James, please, just consider what it is that you are about to do! This is not you, my love!" she cried out, as it was then the madness in Hook's eyes lifted, the red dissipating, disappearing completely. Wendy hearted at the sight at the return of those forget-me-not eyes.
Hook looked at her, a semblance of recognition overcoming his momentary lapse in sanity. The red in his eyes departed as quickly as it had come, and his head drew down in shame. "Wendy," he whispered, his broken voice returning to the deep, solemn timbre that she knew and loved. He felt her arms wrap themselves around him, a single, fearless hand resting on his hook, which had, only moments before, been on the verge of tearing both in two. He closed his eyes, unable to look at her or his son. And as such, he failed to notice the look of shock on his children's faces. Nor did he notice their timid approach until a gentle Isabella spoke his name.
"Father," she uttered, a soft whisper against the cold wind and rain.
Hook opened his eyes and regarded her open features in response, her timid smile a heartening sight to behold. He returned it in kind, before looking upon his other children. Dismay clouded their previous gaiety, a hint of fear resting their eyes. Hook swallowed, a shard of guilt roiling deep within his heart. He could not bear to see their faces, to see what they truly thought of him. Nor could he bring himself to look at his eldest son, since he already knew of the hatred and spite the boy harboured for him, deep within. He instead turned to Wendy, who out of all who knew him, would understand, would know what to do.
Gazing deep within her eyes, he considered her silent expression, already knowing what he must do. He nodded to her, silently, before acknowledging his children. "It will not do to continue this discussion in the rain. I'll not have any of you succumb to illness, where I might lose a single of you. Let's go home," he said, as he finally looked upon his eldest son, a touch of remorse, so subtle, and yet so clearly visible, if only to the one it was directed, in those sorrowful forget-me-nots. Hook accepted the cold stare he was given in turn; he did not expect anything less from his son, yet the unforgiving coldness directed in that stare lay like a leaden weight in his heart.
Nevertheless, he urged his children on, the small entourage following close behind him. He half-smiled, realising it a victory—however a small one—that his children, for once, were finally listening to him. He could only thank Wendy, for he knew that it had been she, who had given him the strength to take a stand and manage his children. He glanced down at her, offering her a smile. His face brightened when she returned the gesture, a bright look in her eye as she allowed him to pull her even closer to his side, their hands joined in silent accord.
Isabella and the others followed closely in behind where even James—whether he wished to acknowledge or not—followed in his father's footsteps, grimly noting how, again, his bastard of a sire clung to the woman who had torn their family apart. He glowered at their joined hands, hating Wendy and all that she represented all the more, a deep thorn embedded in his chest.
He glowered at Wendy's retreating figure, half-aware that he wished that she had not existed at all. And yet, he realised, to his disappointment, that it had been she who had saved him. She, who had stilled his father's anger before it could be exacted upon him. She was even willing to put herself in danger, in order to protect him—him, a complete stranger, if not blight upon her love for the man that he and she both had a claim on—from his father's wrath. He failed to understand how she had managed to assuage his father's anger, for James had heard stories of the man who had once captained a pirate ship. He not so naïve as to believe that his father had been above murder; he knew that Hook had committed acts, more detestable, even beyond that. And yet, this woman, this mere slip of a girl, had braved a tempest that few—if any—survived.
James shook his head. It made little sense to him, though he could admit, if only to himself, that the woman—whom he despised for taking his father's heart away from his beloved mother—was something of a rarity—something, now, he could see to which his father had inevitably been drawn. He still hated her; that much was certain, but he would, at the very least, confess that there was something intriguing, if not magical about this woman, who had apparently crossed both time and space to find his father. There was just something about this young woman, this Wendy. Something, he surmised, that he would have to discover for himself.
Thus resolved, the eldest Scott son continued on, as he followed in behind Isabella, who, like he, would attain the answers he sought. It was only a matter of time before he would have them—the moment they entered their sham of a home and dried off, that was.
…
When they finally reached the manor, everyone made to dry themselves by the roaring fire Isabella had made before she and her brothers snuck off to follow their father. Hook had automatically sent the younger children on to their rooms, issuing that they dress and go on to bed, to which Henry and Richard did, knowing that they had no wish to be party to the inevitable punishment their father would impart on their older siblings. For Hook indeed bade that James and Isabella stay, no matter their waterlogged clothes and tired expressions.
"This shall not take long," he assured them, having no wish to cause either of his children further discomfort, even if he somewhat felt that they deserved it—especially his son. As such, he was brief in his explanation, as he took his coat from Wendy and replaced it with a blanket, urging that she take his chair, next to the fire. His hardened gaze softened at her smile—a smile that was not lost on his children.
Isabella looked down, timidly, whilst an impassive James baulked at the loving exchange. Really, it was as if no one else in the world existed, except the woman whom his father appeared so enamoured by. But then, even soaked and pale, the creature his father apparently loved was no less than lovely. Her beauty even rivalled his mother's—perhaps even surpassing it. James scorned the very thought of it, for he count understand why she had left him, as well as his other siblings, here in this decaying ruin with a man they barely recognised as their father. He had been young—barely fourteen—when his father had been tried for treason and executed. A man, he knew, was still in his thirties and, to his memory, still in the fullness of youth, as the man before him was anything but. For if this man was indeed his father, and he had yet to prove otherwise, then the man had aged considerably in his time away. The hook was an added disgrace, a final insult to a family with an already tarnished name.
And now, after a failed campaign to acquire the crown, this man—one James had yet to consider a true father—was caught by a girl, twenty years his junior. James scowled at the sight of them. Indeed, his father had better damn well explain why he allowed the source of his mother's pain into their sham of a broken-down home. He caught Hook's eye, and silently bade him to explain.
Hook did not disappoint him, either, for he explained the truth in which neither of his children knew. He told them of the moments before his execution, of how his cousin Anne had come to him in his cell and gave him a potion. "A tonic to ease the nerves and dull the blow of the axe, she had said," he furthered. "I took it, of course, although I did not realise it actually an escape, at the time," he added, a little ruefully, before continuing. "I could not even feel the axe, even though I knew my executioner tried, time and again, to sever my wilful head. It felt as if only air fell across the back of my neck, and then, after the eight or so time, everything disappeared around me…" He shook his head, his composed countenance revealing a hint of the confusion in his voice. "I cannot explain it; but, from that moment on, I found myself transported far away from that horrid execution block, far from England itself—into a world that I had never before seen."
He regarded his children quietly. "I soon found myself placed into a position of being a pirate's bo'sun. I daresay none of you would know him, since he is not…from this time. It is a very long and confusing story, to be sure, but one you deserve to know, no matter what thy mother has told thee of me."
And Hook continued, furthering his story of how he came to be a pirate and captained his own ship. He spoke of the Neverland and its inhabitants, including Pan, which he grudgingly commented on in passion mention. He then came to how he had met Wendy, of their first meeting, and of their strange relationship, which had transpired over a matter of years. He told them of how he had believed them dead, since Wendy herself hailed from a different century altogether, and how he, having lost his family, and being unable to return because of the Neverland's hold on him, found himself comforted by her presence. He then took her hand in his, finding it impossible to continue without her most-comforting touch.
"For you must understand," he persisted gently, "that she was the one good thing that had happened upon my miserable tenure there—the only thing that gave me a reason to continue living." He gave her a most tender look. "Just as I daresay that she is, perhaps, the only person who saw what little good was left in me, and decided to save it—if not endure my constant change in mood."
Isabella laughed at the latter remark, already accepting the story as she would the most concrete truth, since she, herself, questioned her mother's motives. She smiled at Wendy, who returned the gesture in kind, and gave the storyteller a most assuring look. "Our father has suffered much," she said, giving a short glance to an appreciative Hook. She offered Wendy another smile. "And as such, I believe that your presence here is, indeed, most welcome—not only by my father, but by us, as well. I do hope that you remain here, with us, during the duration of your stay."
Wendy's dark eyes brightened at the warm greeting Isabella offered. "It would be an honour," returned she, most sincerely. "I should be glad to remain with your family."
Isabella clapped her hands together. "Excellent!" she exclaimed, truly happy that her offer had been accepted. "I shall prepare a room for you, then. And, in the morning, after we break our fast, I shall give you a tour of our home—that is, if you do not mind, Father?" she asked, turning a careful eye to Hook, who, simply indulged her enthusiasm. "Thank you, Father!" she said, and then turned again to Wendy. "Our lands here are quite vast, but I am sure that you will not mind the walk. Indeed, I feel that we shall much to discuss!"
With this, Isabella bade Hook and a broodingly silent James good-night, before taking up Wendy's satchel and giving her one last smile. "I shall prepare your room now. I hope that you do not mind one, next to mine. It is far more comfortable in the servants' quarters, since the family rooms are in disrepair." She then frowned at the satchel in her hand, which surely contained a stack of wet clothes. "I shall also set out one of my nightgowns for you, since I believe you and I to be one of the same size." She then beamed at the thought, but refrained from speaking the thought which came to mind. She would leave it for another day, since there was much to be done already.
With a final good-night, Isabella departed, leaving only her father and brother to look after their most unexpected guest. James stood next to the fire, his silence a dark, impenetrable force. Hook shook his head, just as the storm without, matched his mood perfectly.
"James," he began, using his son's name for the first time since their return home, "I know what it is that you must surely think, about Wendy and I, but—"
"You know nothing about what I must think," James cut in abruptly. "Good God, I know not what to think of this—any of this, at all." He made a face, his eyes clouding over in tangible disbelief. "I still cannot bring myself to believe that you lived, and the story that you told us…I cannot bring myself to believe that, either. I cannot believe any of it, honestly, just as I feel that it would have perhaps been better that you had died, than Mother having found you in some godforsaken children's land."
Hook said nothing in response, but instead took in his eldest son's words. Perhaps it would have been better if he had faced the executioner's axe, instead of escaping it. It almost pained to admit it, but he understood how he had disappointed his son—how he had disappointed all of his children. He opened his mouth, but then closed it when he saw James leave the room without a word. Hook frowned after his son's retreating steps. The captain in him did not attempt to stop James; he could not even summon forth the effort to enforce such a fatherly demand. Instead, his eyes fell upon Wendy, a trace of uncertainty lingering in their dark-blue depths. "He despises me," he muttered, half to himself, and then felt Wendy take his hand in hers. She placed a sweet kiss, full of understanding, on its roughened back, and she smiled.
"He needs time," she responded gently, assuringly, those dark eyes full of certainty. "I did not think of your children's reaction to me, but my arrival…was too much for him, James," she said, thoughtfully, and she shook her head. "When I learned the truth of what your wife had done, I could only think of returning to you, for she had done you a most terrible wrong. But in spite of my good intentions, I did not realise the pain I would visit upon your children." She looked at him, her sorrowful expression full of shame and regret. "I never wanted to hurt anyone. I just wanted…"
"Shhh, I know, dear one," Hook whispered, and he took her into his arms, comforting her, in spite of his sodden clothes crushing against her now-dry ones. He kissed the top of her head, revelling in the feel of her, so close to him, her warmth absolving the coldness and hatred, welling up inside of him. He could scarcely imagine how he had survived all of this time without her, and he cursed his wife's name all the more. She would regret hurting him so—hurting their children so, since their children were the only good thing that had come of their marriage.
Their marriage.
He had the grace not to snort at that most reverent notion. For as far the courts were concerned, they were no longer bound by their vows, let alone in the eyes of God, which meant…
He almost laughed at the realisation, and he smiled into his beloved's hair. "There is no need to worry over anything anymore, ma belle," said he, and he looked at her with what appeared to be unspoken delight. "There is nothing to worry about, at all, since it seems that Anne's betrayal of me is more so a blessing than a curse."
Wendy frowned at him. "What ever do you mean, James?"
He barely had the strength not to smile at her confusion. "That bigamist of a cow has already bound herself to another—even if such had transpired, however innocently, during my apparent death —since she has now made our marriage void; we are no longer bound to each other. I am free, Wendy."
"Free," Wendy reiterated. "But that means…"
Hook grinned at her sudden realisation. "Exactly," he heartily confirmed, and he kissed the back of her hand. "I can choose another for my bride, another with whom I can share my life. Wendy," he broached, taking her hands more firmly into his one good hand, his expression serious. "I have never wanted anything more than this, for you know what it is that I ask of thee."
Wendy heartened at the implication of his words, and her smile widened, her dark eyes brightening in apparent happiness. But then, all too soon, that radiant image dulled, fading to a face devoid of hope. "I know what it is that you propose, but I cannot accept—not now, anyway," she murmured, pained when she saw his face fall. "I am sorry, James, but I cannot marry you—not when your children would be hurt in the process."
"Wendy," Hook tried to intercede, his hand tightening in his grip around hers.
She pulled away from him, turning an uncertain gaze to the fire. "It was a mistake to even come here," she muttered with a shake of that dark head. "I cannot stay here a moment longer. I must leave at once." She barely heard a resounding crash in the background as Hook displayed his sentiments in her imminent departure.
"I hear none of it!" he roared in retaliation, his hand claiming hers once again, though more forcefully. He pulled her toward him, forcing her to look up, to acknowledge him. Her shocked expression made him hesitate.
"James, what on Earth are you—" Wendy tried to speak, but was cut off by a desperate Hook.
"Don't tempt me with your notions in abandoning me because of some momentary lapse in conscience. I daresay that you shall quite finish me off if you do. You cannot leave me, Wendy—not when I need you here, with me!"
A soft, almost reluctant sigh escaped from Wendy, the storyteller in her wanting nothing more to ease his pain, to say yes to his proposal, and thus stay with him forever. She closed her eyes, almost willing to sacrifice her conscience and stay. You have one month, the voice of a confiding Nibs broke in, and Wendy opened her eyes. "I shall stay," she found herself say, and she saw a small flicker of hope in his eyes. Her heart ached at the sight of it. "I shall stay with you and the children, James, since I know that you have no one here to help you. But I can only stay for a month and no more."
A dark eyebrow rose in disbelief. "A month?" Hook echoed, incredulously, and then shook his head. "A month, dear one? Oh, no, 'tis completely out of the question. A month is nothing, since I've no intention in letting you go ever again, Wendy Darling."
Wendy stared at him, nonplussed. "But it is all I have," replied she. "I promised my brothers that I would return after a month; it is all the time I can afford before Nibs' time machine loses its magic completely."
Still, her beloved remained unconvinced. "A month, you say?" he questioned with a grin, a dark and most sinister thought already coming to mind. Wendy almost shuddered at the sight of his kind expression. "Very well, ma belle, I shall let you return to thy family in a month, but be forewarned: I shall try in every endeavour to have thee stay. I shall not give thee up so easily."
Wendy could only return that insidious grin. "And I would not expect any less from you," returned she, as she made to retire for the night. "But we shall continue in this discussion tomorrow, since I know that both you and I need rest after this most eventful evening."
Hook beamed at her suggestion in retiring for the night. Without a further word, he led her away from the foyer, up a flight of dirty marble stairs, down a set of darkened corridors, and, finally, to her room. A curtain of light danced underneath its closed door, and Hook opened it, already knowing that Isabella had already made the guest chambers—for what was intended as a guest's chambers, at any rate—presentable for Wendy. "I trust that everything will be to your liking," he whispered, fully aware that the manor was anything but to someone's liking. But, knowing Wendy as he did, he knew that she would not look down upon his misfortune, since it was all he could afford. And Wendy had not disappointed him, for she gasped at the sight of her newfound quarters.
"Isabella has outdone herself," Hook commented gently from behind, truly admiring his daughter's work; she had even used her own coverlet to ensure that Wendy would have something warm to sleep under for the night. "You shall quite happy here, I am sure."
Nodding gently, Wendy turned to face him. "I have no doubt of that," replied she, truly touched by Isabella's gesture, for she knew that she and the girl were, relatively, of the same age, and apparently had no reservations in Wendy's feelings regarding Hook. "She appears to approve of my stay here," she said, half in thought.
"That she does," Hook agreed mildly, before glancing at his room, just down the hall. He considered it, briefly, before looking at Wendy. "Thy room is lovely, to be sure, but you could reside elsewhere. You could…stay with me," he offered quietly, lest any should hear him.
Amused by his caution, Wendy only smiled. "Already you are trying to tempt me into staying, James," she returned in an equally soft whisper, that smile of hers never faltering, her eyes revealing her answer. "Indeed, I am half-inclined to agree without cause or consequence, since it reminds me of our time on your ship, but you know that I must decline in your most generous offer. I cannot, in good conscience, stay with you, when I know that it would hurt your children even further."
Hook grimaced at her words. "But your rejection hurts me in turn," retorted he in a grim whisper. "How can I fain dream the dreams that I often yearn to dream, when I know that thou art not but three doors down from me? You tormented by your absence; and, now that you are here, you torment me still by your refusal to stay. Good God, woman, how you torture my poor, cold black heart so! I daresay that I shall never wish to know love again. Can you not understand how be separated from you pains me?"
"And such a most unwanted feeling is shared, my love," Wendy assured him, her gentle hands coming to the sides of his face, those curious fingers tenderly smoothing away the frown that had been so deeply embedded on his noble brow. "I long to be with you, but I cannot, knowing how your children's mother hurt them so. I want them to trust me, James, and I know that I cannot have that unless they know that I was not the reason for driving you and the duchess apart. And perhaps it is the mother in me, but I want to be someone in whom they can confide. I want to be there for them, just as I was for my brothers when they were still Lost Boys. I cannot imagine how alone they must be, without their mother here." Again, she shook her head, her gaze locking with his. "She has done them a terrible wrong, by leaving them here. But you, James, are their father, and they need you. They need you so greatly."
"Wendy," Hook attempted to interject, but she hushed him.
"No, James, they do need you. They need a father, since I doubt that they have had one—a real one—since you disappeared, and I highly doubt that their stepfather has been one to willingly assume that fatherly title in their lives." She inclined her head, catching a hint of red in his eye. "Yes, James, I am sure that you do not wish for Lord Cornwallis—for that is the fellow's name, to whom the duchess has attached herself—to assume your place in your children's lives. They need your approval, James, just as they need your patience—for you do have it, my love—as well as your understanding. But most of all, they need your love; and you have it, James. You do, most sincerely have it."
A moment of silence followed in the wake of her words, since neither dared continue to speak. Minutes passed in the dark hallway, where the captain and his storyteller stood together in the wide expanse of un-thought-of possibility. And it was as such that, after another moment of silent reflection, Hook inclined his head, a few wayward strands of ebony falling upon his blackavised visage. "Then I shall endeavour to be both the father and the gentleman that you so irrefutably believe me to me, Miss Wendy Darling." And for the second time that night, he took one of her hands and placed a most gentlemanly and chaste kiss upon it. "I shall be everything that desire of me, for I shall not disappoint you or my children, as I so desire to again be part of my family—with you at mine and my children's side."
He received a quick kiss on the lips for that most ardent declaration, before Wendy, in almost coquettish fashion, bade him good-night, as she shut her bedroom between them. She missed her beloved captain's chagrined look, for Hook was, indeed, rather exasperated by the door barring him from that which he desired most in the world: a certain storyteller, who had a penchant for confounding him to no end. And yet, as with most stories, neither of the lovers realised that they had been watched all along, for Hook and Wendy had not been alone as they so innocently believed, as four sets of eyes had watched their every movement and heard every word exchanged. They even heard the profane list of French curses that their father uttered when he, himself, retired for the night—in the coldness of his own chambers, completely and undeniably alone.
Not a word was spoken, only silence prevailed as Hook's children retreated to their own, respective rooms with much to consider, regarding their father and newfound guest, as such would weigh heavily upon their own dreams for many nights to come.
…
Over the course of the next few weeks, Wendy found herself placed in a routine of habitual intrigue. For after that first, tempestuous night in meeting Hook's children, had she found herself becoming close to them. It had taken her a few days to win the younger two of Hook's brood over, surely, since Hook had, in no uncertain terms, threatened their very existence, should they ever upset Wendy in any way. It was a threat in which none of his children took lightly—not since that night when they had found Wendy, lost in the woods—since they knew of their father's temper.
But it was their love for her stories that had truly brought them over, bit by captivated bit, to her side. They were intrigued by her stories of pirates, and faeries, where even Peter would make an appearance in some of her stories, much to Hook's displeasure. They were most especially fascinated by the stories she told of the pirates and how Hook—their very own father—had captained a ship loaded with them.
"Once, he had even forced me to walk the plank, since he believed that I was his enemy's greatest weakness!" she had told them one evening, to which the boys happily cheered until they realised that it was Wendy who had nearly met her end by the gaping jaws of a most hungry and terrible crocodile. They had then confronted their father on the matter, to which Hook grumbled an apology to Wendy, and all—as far as Henry and Richard were concerned—was forgiven. They had acquired a greater respect for their father, and were thoroughly enchanted by the young woman whom they now considered part of their warring family.
As such, they followed her almost everywhere. For like an extra pair of shadows, Wendy discovered how much Henry and Richard reminded her of her brothers at such an age. They did not call her Mother, and nor did she expect it of them, honestly, but she found that she enjoyed how they remained, constantly by her side.
In truth, she could also say the same of Hook's only daughter. For Isabella, who had every right to question Wendy's place of her father's side, had only welcomed Wendy with open arms, albeit with a touch of uncertainty. The young woman's misgivings, however, dissipated when she and Wendy grew closer in the days after Wendy's arrival. In all appearances, they looked the same age, even though, in all actuality, Isabella was a good three centuries older than Wendy. But such, apparently, did not matter, since they connected on levels in which only women their age can connect. Even Hook failed to understand his storyteller and daughter's connection, though he never discouraged it, since he merely smiled at the long hours the two women his heart held would share with one another.
For in the days that passed, Wendy and Isabella shared in the housework, whilst they toiled away during the long hours of the day cooking and discussing their favourite hobbies—many of which both shared an equal interest.
"For I greatly enjoy attending university," said Wendy one day, half-surprised to note a gaping Isabella.
"You attend…university?" the wide-eyed girl asked, wholly transfixed by the very prospect.
Wendy had only nodded her head in deft assurance. "The right for women to attend has only been enforced recently. But yes, I attend Cambridge, whilst my brothers, John and Nibs, attend at Oxford."
"Your brothers?" Isabella broke in suddenly. "You have brothers?"
The storyteller smiled. "I have eight, in fact, though only two are related by blood; the rest, Mother and Father adopted when we returned from the Neverland for the first time," she said at length, half-amused by the wistful expression on her companion's face.
"How I should love to attend a university! Oh, what I could do there." exclaimed a very thoughtful Isabella. But her pensive look soon shifted into a look of regret. "But I am afraid that I cannot, concerning, well…everything. I doubt that even Father would consider the idea of it."
"I am sure that he would consider it, Isabella," Wendy said earnestly. "Your father is a good man, and would surely want that which would make you happy."
Isabella had half-smiled at the kind assurance, though said nothing more on the subject as she instead chose to question Wendy on the matter of such a large family with which Wendy had been blessed. The course of their discussion remained on each brother for a solid hour until Hook, unable to bear a moment more without his storyteller, bade Wendy to join him and tell him a story, for having exhausted himself by his younger sons' wild excursion of hide-and-seek completely.
Wendy, half-reluctant to leave, could only give Isabella a regretful smile, silently promising to continue their discussion when Hook was further distracted. She then joined a rather impatient Hook, taking sheer pleasure in his company, though the memory of Isabella's excitement over attending university and the expression on her face never, quite left the Wendy's thoughts, as she continued to think of their exchange, even during the time spent with her beloved.
She could not necessarily say the same for Hook's eldest son, James, who had been the most reluctant, in not the most critical to welcome her among their makeshift family. It had taken him a full week to acknowledge her, and another to even speak to her. But when he had…Wendy still recoiled at the memory of it, for she remembered his words all too clearly…
"You look lovely, Miss Darling," he said as they caught themselves together under and old oak tree.
Wendy flushed heavily at the compliment, though she maintained her composure. "Thank you," she said in response, still unsure of what to address him as, since none of the other children had issued her to call them 'my lord' or 'my lady, though they very well were within their right to enforce such upon her, considering that their father had once been a duke himself. But still, none of them, not even James, had ever, once, made her feel herself to be lower than they; they, in truth, treated her as an equal to their father.
But James had, evidently, not finished in his praise of her, for he continued on, much to Wendy's discomfort. "Oh, there is no need to thank me, Miss Darling, since I know that any man with eyes would also see the truth of such for himself. You are indeed beautiful—a true sight to behold, as 'tis such a sight that my father does not deserve."
Wendy frowned at him, her confusion visible in his eyes. "Pardon me?" she enquired, half-taken by surprise by the young man's audacity.
James regarded her without preamble. "You understood me perfectly," said he. "My father does not deserve you, Miss Darling. For indeed, I shall now admit that I was wrong in assumptions of your trying to take our father away from us—not that he was much of a father before you came, to be sure—but you didn't. You wanted him here, with us, instead of going back with you, to whatever time it is from which you come." He looked at the ground for a moment, before again catching her gaze. "I never wanted to believe it, but you are the opposite of what my mother said you were. She had claimed you a heartless witch—one who only thought of taking our father away from us. But now I see the truth, as I understand why my father had no wish to part from you."
A semblance of what could not be anything but appreciation burned in Wendy's eyes, where again, she thanked him, though her gratitude was premature. For in the course of a split-second, did Wendy find her hands caught by those of a version of their father's. Wendy stared at James blankly, her vacant expression one of pure, unadulterated shock.
"What are you—" she began, but was cut off by a swift kiss to her lips.
It lasted for only a moment, but was enough to instil a sense of disgust in Wendy. Was this how her beloved's son saw her? Merciful Heavens, did he not realise that her heart already belonged to another, to his father? She had little time to consider the enormity of the situation when she felt her ardent pursuer wrenched away.
"What in God's name is going on here?" a very familiar, very angry voice questioned.
Wendy gasped, when she looked upon the face of her beloved James, whose grave expression, she noted, was anything but loving. She tried to place herself—as she had once before—in between father and son, but found herself swept carefully away to the side. "James!" she cried, trying to offer reason, but unable to gain his attention, since his eyes remained firmly upon his son.
"I thought I'd made myself clear, in our respect towards our guest," said he, mordantly. "I had even allowed myself to foolishly believe in thy sincerity regarding her sensibilities. But this travesty…What hast thou to say of thy conduct, boy? What of thy form?"
James, however, remained deathly silent, his clenched hands his only response. "I can say nothing of my form, but of yours, Father," he spat, his eyes falling upon Wendy, and knowing that he was already defeated. "You could have had any woman, but you chose the purest, most earnest of them all. Why, Father? Was Mother not good enough for you? Why choose a young woman, free and innocent of the world, halfyourage?"
Hook visibly flinched at the question, and he took a long, thoughtful moment to speak. "I never intended to leave thee, thy siblings, or even thy mother that day," he answered quietly, the rage in his eyes disappearing within the instant. "I had tired, oh, so many times to return home, but could not. I was lost for centuries, lost in my own madness until a merciful storyteller came and visited me in my hell." He looked at Wendy then, with only love in his eyes. "I never believed that I would find happiness again after losing all of you. I had honestly believed that part me had died along with you until a certain Wendy showed me otherwise." He caught her silent look, realising that his feelings were requited. "I never expected to find love again, and certainly not in a woman, whom I had met at the tender age of twelve. I never believed that such a child would grow into a woman who rivalled the very of my crew."
James soon apologised for his actions, although a part of him still questioned how his father could have that which he could not, and how a woman, as lovely and innocent as Wendy, could ever find it within herself to love a man who was as old and repulsive as his father. James realised that he would never know the answer, not in full, since he, himself, had never been in love, though he liked to think that Wendy could have possibly been the one to have shown him that most universal and everlasting sentiment.
For Wendy's love for Hook was known, if not accepted—with the exception of James, perhaps—among his children. They often turned a careful eye at one another, when in Wendy and their father's company, a quick smile, and a secret knowledge that all of them shared, for they knew that their father and Wendy tried to hide it from them, believing that they needed to 'think of the children first' before thinking of themselves. In truth, Isabella and the others wanted anything but to be thought of first; they wanted to see that which they had long suspected, come into fruition, since it was on a most pleasant Sunday afternoon—after restoring their home to a level of what it had once been, and still, could be—that the children found themselves basking in the warm, afternoon sun underneath an old oak tree that their great-grandfather, Charles, had commissioned to have planted, an April wind teasing their hair and faces when they saw that their father and Wendy decided to join them.
"I hope that do not mind our joining you," Wendy said, a little timidly. "It is such a lovely day."
Isabella offered her a kind smile, whilst Henry and Richard, who had yet to pull another good-natured prank on their father, urged her to sit by them and tell as story. Glancing at Hook, she took him freely by the hand and bade him sit down beside of her, where, of course, Hook could only comply, since he did everything in his power to keep his storyteller happy, if not to keep her with him—indefinitely. James stood against the tree, wholly indifferent by the exchange.
Hours had passed, as the afternoon drifted into the evening, the sun setting in the distance. Hook lingered close to Wendy, though refrained from touching her, let alone claiming her hand in an innocent token of love. And his children saw his restraint, his hesitation in openly showing his affections wearing on their remaining nerves. It was then, when a very cheerful Isabella came close to Hook's side, that she whispered, rather loudly, that Hook take Wendy's hand. "A young lady happens to appreciate the many kindnesses afforded by her host.
Hook looked at his daughter, as if he had been thrown by a horse. "Isabella," he warned, knowing full well that Wendy, as well as the rest of his children, had heard Isabella.
Isabella remained firm in her convictions, regardless of her father's disapproval. "Truly, Father, you must know that a lady such as Wendy would be honoured if you held her hand. In fact, a lady such as Wendy would want it."
Henry and Richard seconded their sister's suggestion, although they giggled and teased their poor father into humiliation, before, finally, he gave in to their heckling and took Wendy's hand into his one good one. "There now, art thou satisfied, my brood of ungrateful and unruly children?"
He received no for an answer.
"You must kiss her, too, Father," asserted Henry.
"Yes, Father, you must kiss her, here, on the cheek, since ladies tend to want their…ah…host kissing their cheeks," Richard added happily.
Hook gave both of his sons, who had only thirteen and five years' experience shared between them, a withering look. He almost groaned when he heard the others, Isabella and, most surprisingly, a partially amused James, support their younger brothers in this wild endeavour. He looked at Wendy, wholly defeated by a barrage of relentless children, and desiring nothing more than to escape from his enemy, since such an escape was by one way alone: through Wendy's kiss.
And whilst Hook and Wendy, who could only concede to their captors' wishes, drew close to one another, their faces only a breadth apart, their lips barely touching, barely kissing and tasting what would surely be Heaven, that reality came crashing down heavily upon them in a fatal instant. For there, standing in the shadows, almost unseen, was one, wholly unimpressed by the sight of two lovestruck hearts.
"My, my, what have we here?" a soft, sultry, yet very much refined, feminine voice drawled out, her cold gaze falling upon Wendy, as a smile, as venomous and deadly as a viper's revealed the poisonous amusement of one, whom Hook himself considered an ever greater adversary than Pan himself. For the one before him was one he desired to forget and never think of again, as he, to his regret, stared upon the cold and deadly, if not beautiful face of the Duchess Anne, his wife.
…
Author's Notes: Ooh, cliffhanger! And a rather naughty one, at that, I dare confess. But it had to be done, truly. Really, I just couldn't resist, since this last segment has been in my thoughts for a while now. Bringing in Anne at the end was just something that had to be done, since she always tends to ruin the perfect moment for our most unfortunate lovers in these parodies.
Nevertheless, here is Part Two of Three. I daresay that I shall, hopefully, have the last segment written and posted, sometime, very soon. Really, I cannot wait to see what transpires between Hook and his…ah…former wife. But even more, I cannot wait to see what happens between her and Wendy! Now, that should be something of interest.
I also have to say that the last part will probably be as long as these first two chapters, since I have intention in writing an epilogue. Really, I do not think this story, in particular, needs one.
Oh, and before I forget, I did, whilst trying to remain true to history, choose to alter the Duke of Monmouth's children's ages a bit. In this story Isabella is around seventeen, whilst James is around eighteen. In reality, James was about fifteen in 1689, and Isabella…well, I could never find an actual date of her birth. My apologies for that, but I simply could not find anything concerning Monmouth's children in any history book or even online, which was a complete pain in the backside, to be sure…
As for any grammatical errors on my behalf, if I missed any—which I probably, most assuredly, have—I shall correct them accordingly, since they are a veritable thorn in my side. They are almost like cockroaches in a way…but, without the nasty yellow stuff in them… o.0;
And, by the way, Kate, I do hope you enjoyed this little in-between segment, since the last part…will be best saved with a certain quote you mentioned! I daresay that Hook shall probably say it, and rather dryly, too, I might add! (Grins.)
Well, until the final part! ;)
— Kittie
