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: It is said that, if a bride falls the day before she is married, then she will die within a year. But Wendy is already haunted, when a ghost from her childhood refuses to let the past lie buried. A very dark Hook/Wendy.

A Haunting Reflection

Chapter Four

For true to his word, the Captain had remained as constant and unrelenting in his haunting Wendy as if he were a second shadow. He followed her everywhere, unremitting, tireless, pursuing the Neverland's storyteller as a wolf would its hapless prey, his presence in anything that cast a reflection. She had been subdued by his constant hounding of her. Unable to sleep, let alone dress in the privacy of her room, she had been reduced to a few, precious hours of escape through dreams. Though even then, he has been there, waiting for me, thought Wendy, helplessly. She had barely managed to leave her bed; for in the two days of finding herself haunted had she also found a semblance of peace, where such had been in the form of finding sanctuary in the House of God.

It was Sunday morning, and St. George's bells tolled like a beacon to a ship lost in a tempest; whereas always, like their neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Darling would make it a weekly pilgrimage for the family to attend the nearby church. And as always, Nana herded Wendy and her brothers as she would a flock of sheep, making for certain that her charges were done-up and dressed properly. The old nurse had been far more meticulous in her dressing them, compared to their Aunt Millicent, since the dear old woman never fretted over the attire of those whom she considered to still be very much children—boys, really. Only Wendy mattered. Only Wendy, since she was the eldest, and, by virtue of her own sex, a young woman.

As such, Wendy had been the last to follow in that great long line, notwithstanding the fact that she was indeed the oldest of her siblings. Wendy did not mind, however; she never felt begrudged in any way to be last. In truth, she could pay more attention to her surroundings, since she did not have to worry that one of her brothers might stumble against her. She could take in those passing by, take in the city itself, and the sights it had to offer in the short distance it took to reach the church. She admired the everyday actions of those buying and selling, walking and standing that she so often beheld among the crowded streets. Most, however, since today was the Lord's Day, were dressed in their Sunday's finest, as they made their way to that which fell in line with their personal beliefs.

For among them, like Wendy's family, there were those loyal to the Crown's faith, others to that of Rome's, and then there were, of course, those considered part of the dissenting Nonconformist churches—Presbyterians, Quakers, and the like, traitors, rebel-rousers, who were against that hallowed institution that Henry VIII had indoctrinated upon his break from Rome. A Catholic king had not sat upon the English throne since James II; and as far as the Royal Family was concerned, there would never be another to follow by James II's almost disastrous example.

Either way, Wendy only knew of a few of her schoolmates whose families were Catholic. She had the not pleasure of knowing a Nonconformist, however. Unless I consider Mr. Smee as being among my acquaintances, she thought amusedly, and considered her family's reaction if they realised her association with a Nonconformist who was also, in turn, a pirate! For out of all of those in Hook's dreadful crew, Smee had been the kindest of them, and Wendy could not find it within herself to hold anything against the old bo'sun who had once offered to save her. He only wanted me to be his mother.

Shaking her head, she smiled down when she saw Nana at her side. It was the first real smile she had since…

There was no point in thinking about it—not now, anyway—since, for the first time in two days, she felt as if she could finally breathe. She ignored anything that cast a reflection, keeping her eyes averted to the pavement instead. It was the safer choice, of course. She turned her head when she saw a flicker of something dark—a shadow of another pedestrian, perhaps—in a puddle as she passed it.

It was nothing, surely; just a figment of her imagination. She almost laughed at her momentary fear. Almost. There was still the dilemma of her unwanted visitor she had yet to resolve. She shook her head, her expression darkening in thought. How on earth would she rid herself of him? Even now, she felt him with her, following her, those dead, hollow eyes ever watchful. She almost muttered an unladylike oath, but had the good sense to keep her inner vexations silent. It would not do for her if Nana were to hear such language—and on the way to church, especially. Instead, she turned attention to what lay before her, the church she and her family attended now in sight.

Wendy gave it a cursory glance, with its vaulting high steeple and greying parapets of stone. Rather dark and gothic, if the truth were known. And something in which even Catherine Morland would find, most appealing in her stories of gothic romance. Wendy smiled to herself. She looked up, toward the steeple and admired its stone-faced inhabitants—emblems of the Crown—with a hint of awe.

The Lion and the Unicorn looked down gloomily upon her, their greyscale figures more humane than the impassive Hanoverian king perched high above them. For there the former monarch stood: cold and grey and clad in pagan Rome's attire, his stone feet resting stolidly on an edifice built in the likeness of a Carian king's earth-shattered tomb—a cheap imitation of a former world wonder that most, in their ignorance, could never hope to replicate—though was certainly arresting in its striking composition nonetheless.

The storyteller shook her head. For although the structure was in poor emulation of Queen Artemisia's final gift to her dead husband, having not the grandeur, nor the sentiment behind the loss of a much beloved king and consort, it mattered little to those who entered unto its hallowed domain. No one within the congregation drank from the ashes of the dead, since most would had deemed such a mournful act too sacrilegious for a Christian ritual.

In a way, however, Wendy found the thought of drinking a loved one's ashes…almost romantic.

The neighbours would oppose such considerations with the contrary, surely. Drinking a dead loved one's ashes. What poppycock! The idea in and of itself was completely absurd, if not outside the boundaries of what was considered proper, civilised behaviour. It was abnormal, if not heretical, pagan—shamefully so. But then, Wendy, too, perhaps, had never been one to be considered normal. The thought of it remained with her as she took her seat beside of John and commenced in hearing the rector's sermon.

For the lesson itself, though filled with the grave importance in having the goodwill to save those lost from themselves, fell like a throng of blunted arrows against Wendy's thoughts. She half-listened to the rector, passively acknowledging his message in abstaining from evil, and living an honest, godly life. Wendy almost frowned. Good God, as if she had never heard that before!

She inwardly questioned whether the rector, a kindly old man of seventy-four, ever brought anything new to his weekly sermons. She almost believed—though such was surely considered, most irreverent, in the eyes of the church—that he had covered almost every subject in his many years of studying the Bible. Wendy's internal suffering did nothing to alleviate her present mood, foul and overwrought with torment as it was. Though strangely, the presence that she had felt around her was absent. As if he is not here…

The possibility of such was alarming, if not secretly welcomed.

And so, more attentively, Wendy listened to the rector's words, indulging herself in the momentary peace that came with every heightened syllable. She allowed herself to fall into the comfort of his sermon, the rest of her family, surely, listening with utmost attention. But it was the lesson itself, perhaps, that captured Wendy's interest. For as she listened, she realised that the old rector's words affected her on a more personal level than she had ever imagined possible.

The concept of forgiveness had always been in her thoughts, lingering—somewhere—in the back of her mind, though never to this degree.

The old rector, however, was ignorant of this secret revelation, where his withered hands—riddled with arthritis, long accustomed to the long, midnight hours of transcribing the sacred Word—turned to the page he sought. He looked up at his silent audience, those sharp grey eyes giving everyone a sweeping glance before returning to that which lay before him.

"As such, let us now turn to the Book of Romans," he said, whilst a pious few turned to the book held in their own Bibles, although, like Wendy, most instead listened as he continued on after a moment. "Sin is something that occurs every day, for as the great and selfless apostle, St. Paul, warns us never to stray from the Path of Righteousness, we also must be wary of anything which may seek to divert us.

"Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity; whisperers, Backbiters, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, Without understanding, covenantbreakers, without natural affection, implacable, unmerciful: Who knowing the judgment of God, that they which commit such things are worthy of death, not only do the same, but have pleasure in them that do them. Therefore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein thou judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things. But we are sure that the judgment of God is according to truth against them which commit such things."

He gave pause, his eyes shifting away from the sacred text, to the sea of faces whose mixed reactions bore the expected effect of awe and tedium. He inwardly sighed. "As we must consider the fruits and labours of sins, let us now consider the cost, since sins vary in the price of one's soul. Lies and betrayal, as with Judas, compel us to recall his fate, one whom our Lord and Saviour deemed that 'twas better that he had never been born; for had he not murdered our blessed Lord himself? Sweet, poisoned words, combined with a treasonous kiss, had sealed our Saviour's fate to die a lowly criminal's death. For lest we forget Judas and his treachery, we must also look inside of ourselves, and see the traitor we've long hidden from the eyes of men."

Those who sat remained in heavy silence.

And the rector continued, those wizened hands spread wearily over the Word of God.

"All sins and transgressions, though perhaps unknown to those whom we are closest, are known to God. Every lie, every wrongdoing is known—even those we've long forgotten in our childhood, which are locked away in our memories. We cannot pretend that they do not exist. Nor can we delude ourselves in what we see when we stand in front of a mirror, since a mirror reflects truth, where all outward appearances strive to conceal it." He inclined his head, those grey eyes falling upon the centre of the congregation, to where Wendy sat. He gave her a faint smile before adding, "Our youth, though innocent and beautiful in its transient existence, can nevertheless be devastating in its naïveté as an adult who commits murder, since children can also fall from grace. We are responsible, even in our youth, for the sins that we may commit. For sin is sin, and we are left forever haunted by those we have wronged—the need for absolution long since past—as forgiveness can sometimes come, all too late."

Wendy paled as his words faded away to a grim, deadened silence. She watched him close the thick, white, golden-edged tome, the sermon over. She vaguely heard the muttered whispers among the congregation as the service concluded with its Sunday ritual, scarcely acknowledged the solemn dirge which played in the background of her thoughts, her mind beset with fear and worry, the state of her soul in more jeopardy, than when it had been before she'd entered unto the hallowed, sanctified domain of her Saviour.

For even now, as she walked out of the church with her family in silence, she doubted that Christ Himself would save her.

...

She said nothing on the journey home, merely nodded her head when someone spoke in her direction, keeping her eyes away from the shop windows and anything that dare cast a reflection. She could not afford to look up, no matter the pouring rain, lest she see what already haunted her in her own dark musings—a dark figure, as pale as death and as black as sin, with a burning need for vengeance.

Even now, she could feel the heat of his wrath upon her as it nullified the cold, driving rain. She shuddered underneath her wool coat; her sodden figure doing nothing to quell her inner turmoil. Nor did it allay the internal war which raged inside of her mind. She felt faint, her heart beating rapidly as she came a step closer to the darkness that awaited her. For Wendy knew that he was waiting; there was no question of that, just as she dreaded the outcome of such a confrontation.

She tried not to think of it, her meagre attempt in thinking of a story to tell her brothers failing miserably as treasonous thoughts of a dread pirate captain and his undead crew flooded her imagination. Wendy was taken in the instant, where a ghostly vessel, with its ominous black and crimson sails, treaded the waters of her subconscious. Bawdy songs—surely inappropriate for a lady's ears—collided against the ocean's waves, the crew's toil on deck joining in with the chorus, their minds oblivious to all, save for the task in hand.

She saw Bill Jukes, his dark tattoos stretched across his faded skin; Alastian Foggerty, who still had a few of the Indians' arrows imbedded in his chest and stomach; the Italian Cecco and the mortal stab wound Peter had inflicted—which was enhanced by the bloody shirt he wore—boasted a shared lament among a fallen crew. She did not see Mr. Smee, to join in their otherwise merry song.

From a distance, it would have been a most intriguing sight, although there was one who did not accompany the raucous melody, however; that sole occupant instead playing the part of an observer, as a pair of hazy, forget-me-not eyes looked on, hopelessly lost in thought. Darkness resonated from his noble stature, a melancholy emptiness accompanying it. He imparted nothing from those frowning lips, only silence and the shadows remained where happiness and laughter had once been.

The hem of his torn red coat—which had surely, as with the ship and its crew, seen better days—fluttered in accord with his long dark hair in the wind. His solitary hand, bejewelled with rubies and fine emeralds, clutched the mouldering railing, as a hook, brilliant in its iron casing, glinted dangerously at his side. He was the very image of what a pirate captain should be—a striking personification which breathed reality into Wendy's darkest dreams—since he was a man, a man who, if one looked closely, had somehow broken out of his dark reverie, that dark head turning toward the horizon—east, to where the living dwelled—as a storyteller's gentle voice was heard over the crashing waves and the aching stillness of his cold, dead heart, his eyes focusing on her, burning her mind's eye with their intensity.

Wendy. Wendy Darling...

Wendy gasped, bewildered by what her thoughts had conjured; for it was a dark image her mind painted, and was one to be viewed with caution, if not forbidden to be entertained. She half-believed it an impression from the one whose face she saw, his voice breaking through the hazy miasma of her own, silent misgivings. She could hear him in her thoughts, could feel him at her side, as he stared at her, in everything which cast a reflection. She even felt him in the rain when it pelted against her, that cold, icy feel making her shudder as it reminded her of the cold iron of his hook. She wanted to cry out, but forced herself to remain silent until she found herself alone—in the sanctity of a room which did not boast a courtly looking glass.

Where is my storyteller?

She was the first through the door—after her mother and father, respectively—upon her return to No. 14. Later, she would recall, if vaguely, having thrust her coat in Liza's awaiting arms, her muddy shoes tucked haphazardly near the door. But in the meantime, she disregarded her mother's concerned look when she muttered a need for privacy, whereupon she barricaded herself in the sitting room, a book, which she had blindly grasped from one of the end tables—her only excuse for being there as she sat down, next to the grandfather clock, which ticked away the seconds of her life.

Her mother and the rest of her family left her to her own devices, though each, surely, questioned her strange behaviour. She could almost sense their confusion, though she could not blame them; she hadn't been herself in days now. Nevertheless, she compelled herself to regain a sense of her lost composure, her wet hair and dress doing little to subdue the chill she'd felt when entering the house. She ignored her discomfort, however, as it was only when she found herself able to breathe, that she looked down and beheld what book her hands held. A Bible. How fitting. She almost laughed at the strange twist of fate. Doubly damned and feigning piety. How terribly ironic.

She snorted at the irony, since she had indeed been perfect in her rôle as Hook's storyteller; for was she not every bit as dark and cruel and mercenary as he? He had committed crimes, innumerable to the imagination, where murder and a love of stories were two things they shared in common.

Murder and storytelling.

Their shared interests pained Wendy beyond imagination. And yet, in spite of any feigned cry of childish ignorance, she was guilty—for murder, anyhow. She had been responsible for his death—granted, he was a pirate, and probably deserved it—just as she, alone, had contributed to his condemnation thereof before he fell to the unrelenting jaws of that damned crocodile.

Old, alone, done for.

She shuddered at his reminding her of it, for had she not eagerly chimed in with that last, all-too-condemning acknowledgment? God, how she now regretted even considering it. Perhaps he would still be alive if I hadn't thought of it, much less uttered it.

The possibility of his continued existence aboard the Jolly Roger brought forth another wave of doubt, since she knew that such, perhaps, should have remained, for where would Peter be without Captain Hook? Dead, certainly. As Wendy so acutely recalled, the Captain was on the verge of running Peter through with his hook without a moment's hesitation. Had she and the others had thus not been justified in ending his miserable, pathetic life?

Wendy had no answer, although she felt that they hadn't been—that some higher authority, greater than they, had that solitary right. For if such was indeed true...She dared not consider the repercussions.

Instead, she turned away from all thoughts of condemnation and hell and looked to the heavy word resting on her lap. Her hands lingered over its gilt etching, those slight fingers reverently beseeching the Word of God. She considered the Bible's leather-bound exterior, as if in supplication to a material form of the divine.

It had been her Grandfather Darling's—a veritable saint in his own right—who never committed the lowly sin of murder. No, his granddaughter could only do such a terrible thing as that, she thought wretchedly, and her hands tightened around the Bible, her fingers digging into its leathery surface.

A breath escaped her, and her head fell forward as she prayed for absolution from the darkness that haunted her. She sputtered out half-whispered prayers she'd known since childhood—anything, to acquire that which she sought. Almighty and most merciful Father, I have erred...most terribly.

She prayed for the better part of an hour, before finally having the courage to seek guidance within the book before her. Her hands shook when she forced herself to read from the New Testament, to read that which was spoken from the Christ Himself. She cared not for what any of the apostles had to say; she ignored Peter entirely.

Her search took her well into the night as she studied everything on the notions of sin and forgiveness. She read of Christ's miracles and the pardoning of sins until her eyes hurt; but even then, she refused to abandon her search. She would read until she fainted from exhaustion—anything, to put off from her going upstairs, to that room. She would sleep in the sitting room if she had to, as she knew, if secretly, that he would not enter this newfound sanctuary; the grandfather clock would not allow it.

She cast the massive clock a look of gratitude, before returning to that which held the answer she sought. She considered Christ's miracles—most especially his ability in casting out demons. He had even forced some into the bodies of swine, before sending them into the sea to drown. The thought of such intrigued her, since exorcism, though not widely practised in the church, was performed if the need arose. The ability to expel an otherworldly presence that both tormented and afflicted had not been solely regulated to the papist cloth, since that God-given ability had not been given only to men who answered to a mortal representative of Christ in Rome. Men of the Church of England had that ability, and it was to their good counsel she should seek.

Though to go so far as exorcising him...

Would she condemn his soul to the everlasting fires of hell, or her own?

Christ's teachings had been vague in that regard.

Wendy looked down at her hands. He had been both kind and terrible, thoughtful and manipulative. She could not easily forget the faint look of hope in his eyes, when he said that there was still room for a storyteller. Nor could she deny the anger he must have felt when she forthrightly rejected him, claiming boldly that she would rather die—a claim he gladly accommodated—than to submit her life to him. She shook her head, her troubled expression contorted with her past self. She had been such a child then. Not yet thirteen, and she had caused a world of heartache—not only inspiring her parents' worry, but also betraying that which had been inherently Wendy Darling. She'd fallen in love with a wistful boy made of the very childhood essence of fantasy and faerie dust.

She shook her head. What she had shared with Peter had been of her own imagination, since he would never grow up—not even for her, his storyteller.

As for the other...He had been kind to her; she could not allow herself to forget that. And now he was in her room, waiting for her. She'd sensed his presence for hours, had felt him growing restless in the mirror. For even in the sanctity of the drawing room, she felt bound to the darkness that composed such a striking figure as Captain Hook, her fate ineluctably tied with his. And she knew, deep within herself, that she could not escape him forever. She would have to face him.

But not tonight.

No, tonight another voice beckoned her. As Wendy, in the midst of her own reluctance, fell to the powers of that alluring voice in mid-thought, her dreams unwillingly returning to that rough, cobblestone path she had traversed the night before, to the river where she'd almost drowned, as the voice which called her was her own.

...

There was no surprise in Wendy's eyes when she came face-to-face with her distorted reflection. She noticed the forget-me-nots she had dropped the previous night, her reflection also noticing.

They're beautiful, are they not? it queried with a furtive smile. You should put them in your hair. Perhaps they will not wilt as the others did. That is, if you take care not to drown them.

Wendy glowered at its rippling grin. "I see that you've decided to subject me to another nightmare. And yet, I shall take care to distance myself from that which may compel me to join you."

The pool reflected her other self's smug expression, its sharp teeth enhancing its macabre delight. I see that you've learned your lesson from last night, it said primly. I am certain that you enjoyed every moment, since you could not abstain from revelling in your saviour's embrace after he saved you from that monstrous crocodile.

Wendy snorted. "Wretch! You know very well that they're one in the same. I nearly lost my life because of him!"

But he saved you, as well, did he not? her reflection countered. It appears that you still look at only half of which completes such a complicated figure.

"Complicated does not even begin to describe that man," Wendy deadpanned, her arms crossing in irritation. "You cannot even imagine what I've suffered because of him."

Her reflection tilted its head forward, as if in agreement. Oh, but I can. I know very well what you've suffered, although I believe you've suffered even more from your own conscience than what the Captain has ever said or done. Murder is a most atrocious sin, certainly, and now you've found yourself guilty of it. You've even sought to penance yourself away by seeking out answers in your grandfather's Bible. Oh, don't look so surprised; I know everything about you, just I know what you're presently thinking. Do you honestly believe that cloistering yourself away in the sanctity of your mother's drawing room will absolve you from that which is presently awaiting your return? I've only postponed his coming, and there is little time left until he comes into this realm.

Wendy paled at her reflection's warning. "Oh, dear God," she muttered. "Will I never escape him?"

Her other half moved in the water, its tepid movements slow and indifferent, its carefree air welcoming in its invitation for Wendy to join it. She had the good sense not to heed it this time, as she instead kept herself at a safe distance away from the water's edge. She then posed her question again, her desperation for an answer drawing laughter instead of sympathy.

Still so desperate, still so fearful, it chimed in with a mocking song. You don't even know what it is that you desire answered. You merely broach me with questions and conjectures and what-ifs; you never facilitate that which you truly want.

"And what would that be, pray tell?" Wendy ground out, losing all semblance of civility. "Since you already know what it is I truly desire, then please do enlighten me, for I am quite left in the dark."

Her reflection stared at her, those hollow dark eyes meeting hers, its serene expression countering her frown. You desire for him to stay, it stated simply. For that is your secret wish, is it not? For no matter what you say or claim otherwise, you know the truth. You've known since the first time you saw him in the Black Castle.

Wendy shook her head. "That is simply not true," she contested fervently, as if trying to persuade her reflection to reason. "I may have been fond of him, yes, but I never...I've no desire for a man like James Hook to stay with me."

And yet, you now call him by his Christian name and not by his title, it remarked. Oh, see how you blush! I know you, Wendy Darling, I know you, even more than you know yourself.

"But I cannot have him taking up residence in my mirror!" Wendy objected in a frantic cry. "You know as well as I—about what happened when he captured my brothers and I. You remember what he tried to do to us—to me!"

And yet, he also offered you a place on his ship, the reflection pointed out, pragmatic in its accusation. Or have you forgotten that, as well?

The storyteller in Wendy bristled in contempt. "He was mocking me."

All the same, her reflection replied, its watery movements languid, nonchalant, he did offer, and you denied him. Think you that wise? Will you deny him anything else he offers, when next you two meet?

Wendy's expression turned grave. "There will not be another meeting. I shall find a way to rid myself of him; for even if I have to shatter that mirror into a thousand pieces, I will not be made to endure his dreadful company a moment longer. I cannot bear it!"

Her reflection raised a questioning brow. That is your solution, then, breaking a mirror? It had the audacity to laugh. How simple you are, my other, rational half!

Her other, rational half, however, gave a most unpleasant snort. "Then what would you have me do? You never gave me the advice you promised," Wendy retorted dryly. "How can I manage never seeing him again?"

The reflection took on a thoughtful look, its studious expression a vision to behold. You must accept responsibility for your actions, as there is no cause without consequence, Wendy Darling.

Wendy made a face, frustrated by the useless wisdom it imparted her. "Accept responsibility?" she reiterated, doubtfully. "I was but thirteen! A mere girl! He was a pirate—a vile reprobate and a murderer, for heaven's sake—who has committed far worse crimes than I! He's even killed some of his own crew."

But her reflection would not be swayed. For there it remained, suspended before her, unmoved by the reasons Wendy provided it. And yet, you are guilty in the same regard. For even in your youth, you knew that taking a man's life was wrong. He is merely demanding recompense—something in which you must pay, as hiding away in your mother's drawing room and reading a Bible will not prevent you from what you rightly owe him. Do you think Christ reneged on the debt He paid for those unworthy of Him? You are far less worthy, Wendy Darling.

"God help me," Wendy murmured quietly. She leaned forward then, daring to face her reflection as she beseeched it reflection one, last time. "Is there no other way? Is this how it must be?"

You cannot escape him, it declared. You must face him.

Wendy shook her head, half-reluctant to accept her fate. "And what if I cannot? What if I am not strong enough? London is not the Neverland, you understand, and Peter is not here." She sighed then, as if pained by a sudden revelation. "I've no wish to face him alone. But then, I cannot afford to bring my brothers into this, either. What if he decides to go after them, as well? I cannot risk him hurting them. No, I am completely alone in this," she stated in a determined whisper, but then felt a cold hand fall upon her face. She turned, looking into the face of her own reflection, the ugliness replaced by the true beauty that had been there all along.

Her reflection smiled. I am not so horrid to look upon, as I am you, it assured her, most tenderly, its hand falling away from Wendy's face. We never know what path we should take, or where such will eventually lead us. We know not what fate is ours until the very end, when life is cut too short by ever-patient Death. But you must know one thing, Wendy Darling. Remember, I am the reflection of your own self: beautiful or hideous however you come to make of me internally, I am what you see in yourself in the mirror, itcarefully advised, its hold on her lessening, waning like a hunter's moon, until freeing her of its spell completely. It gave Wendy a final smile before disappearing into the river's darkened abyss, a faded fragment of a dream.

And nothing more, Wendy concluded thoughtfully, taking up a few of the discarded forget-me-nots into her hands. She caressed their fragile petals with her fingertips, their softness impressing a faint smile upon her face. She closed her eyes and breathed in their sweet scent, for once finding a semblance of peace. They almost made her forget the hell she had suffered for the past week, almost obliterating her memories entirely. She almost forgot the moment she first beheld the dark figure which haunted her every waking thought, his eyes as cool and as beautiful as the flowers she now held. She wanted to forget how beautiful they truly were, just as she wanted to forget those phantom arms that had held her in this godforsaken limbo as they moved to hold her even now.

She did not have to open her eyes to see who was standing behind her; she knew already.

"Captain," she acknowledged neutrally, and she turned to face him. "What a pleasant surprise."

The frown he bore did nothing to allay the horror of his decomposed features. Quite, he muttered in return, though he was far from agreement. It is indeed a pleasure to see you, Miss Darling. After being in thy absence today, I felt that something untoward had befallen you. And so, I daresay I am relieved to find you in the state in which I last saw thee. He cast her a withering look, completely devoid of any outspoken relief. Wendy nearly flinched when he seized her arms, forcing her to look at him. Don't feign to play the wronged heroine, my beauty; it doesn't suit thee. I trust your little attempt in hiding yourself away from me went well.

Wendy made a face. So, this was how it was going to be. Very well, she resolved. She would play his little game; she had nothing else better to do, anyhow. Standing to full height, which was, assuredly, dwarfed by the Captain's stature, she met his seething gaze, her expression darkening in sheer defiance. "I enjoyed my time away from you immensely. I certainly wasn't saddened by not having the pleasure of your company, since there are others, far more engaging and wonderful than you." She had the audacity to laugh at his faltering expression. "I never missed you for a moment, Captain. Though if it's any consolation, I did spare you a thought or two."

Silence overcame the conversation, dominating the moment. Wendy almost believed that she had stunned him with her venomous retort, rendering him silent. But oh, how wrong she was.

Hook instead destroyed that fleeting hope, shattering it with his own, damning response. A thought or two, Miss Darling? he queried, a dark brow raising in mutual accord. How kind of you. I'd honestly expected you not to think of me at all, given how you have a tendency to think only of yourself.

She scoffed at him. "You conceited wretch. It wasn't as if I wanted to think of you!" she ground out, no longer caring for maintaining her dignity. She was in the presence of a pirate, and thus, did not have to afford him the luxury of a lady's courtesy.

Hook smiled regardless, as if pleased by her outburst. Language, Miss Darling, he chided her playfully, and laughed when he saw her irritation. My, my, what a tongue you have acquired, in my time away! I never would have expected it of thee, as I recall how prim and proper—the very image of perfection—you were, when you refused to join my humble crew. I certainly never expected the lady standing before me, no matter her unladylike tongue.

Wendy looked away. "It seems that you never expected many things," she returned, vague in her response. She felt his hand come to her face, his touch oddly gentle as he urged her to look at him. She almost blushed. "C—Captain, I—I never meant," she said, stumbling over her words in spite of herself. She almost gasped when she saw felt him pull her against him, his face resting coolly against hers.

Shh, he whispered into her ear, and he silenced her half-trembling pleas with his hook, pressed tenderly against her lips. Not a word, dear one. Indeed, 'tis best for thee not to speak at all, lest you want that pretty throat of thine cut. He saw the look of fear in her eyes, a touch of hurt issuing through their dark depths.He smiled cruelly. It was foolish of you to hide yourself from me. Think you I wouldn't have found a way to thee in that pathetic shame thy mother deems drawing room? You seem surprised. You shouldn't be, considering that I know very well where you hid yourself, he muttered coldly. And I can assure you, Miss Darling, that clock and those of its kind no longer affect me as they once, might have done. I'm quite impervious to them, actually.

He laughed when he noticed her look of defeat. Oh, come now, Miss Darling, don't be disheartened. I know of the pains you went through, just to afford thyself some time to consider thy plight, and I commiserate with thee, truly I do. But then, it also stands to reason that you must accept the fact that you cannot escape from me. He moved closer to her, that horrid visage causing Wendy to shudder. We shall be together a long time, you and I. You might as well accustom thyself to my presence.

A single tear escaped from one of Wendy's eyes, and she nodded her head in accord. She ignored her tormentor's look of triumph, though she felt his victory all the same. She nearly breathed out a sigh of relief when she felt the hook depart from her mouth, only to find it resting at her side. "Captain?" she questioned, believing he had now granted her permission to speak. She caught a questioning black eyebrow raise in her direction. Encouraged by the gesture, she compelled herself to continue. "What are we to do?" she asked, flushing timidly."What I mean to say is, where do we go from now?"

He gave her a thoughtful look. Now? he reiterated. We shall go on as before, although I do trust that silliness in your locking yourself away in your mother's parlour is well and truly over. I should hate to reveal myself to the rest of thy family, simply to learn of thy whereabouts.

Disbelief flooded Wendy's eyes. "You wouldn't dare," she muttered coldly, angered when she saw a flicker of amusement dance in those hollow forget-me-nots.

He leaned down, his face barely a fraction of an inch away from hers, their lips almost touching. Wendy gasped, fearful of his intent, and Hook laughed. Never dare me, he whispered into her hair, before claiming her lips for his own. He ignored her muffled cries, fought off her flailing advances, his mouth forcing hers open as he searched every inch of it with his, robbing it of its warmth, plundering it. He saw a faint glimmer at the right-hand corner of her mouth, and moved in to claim whatever lay there.

It was then that he felt her bite him.

You ungrateful wench! he cried out, before shoving her away. You bit me!

Wendy scowled at him, her pounding heart thrumming in tune with her laboured breathing. "And I shall gladly do so again, should you try to kissmeagain, you wretched man! I will not be kissed by some detestable, shameless pirate. God only knows how many women you've kissed and shamed in such a way, though it was probably a precious few, considering how repulsive your conduct is."

Hook returned her scowl in kind. A thousand, more like, he spat, glaring at her shapely figure, that wild dark hair as luxurious and as dangerous as a siren's call. Her untamed look made him hesitate in his retort, his anger fading however slightly.

He would have to be blind not to see the woman Wendy had become, her beauty as compelling as some of the most influential courtesans he'd bedded. But her defiance...angered him beyond imagination. You're rather poor in your estimation of my abilities to charm the fairer sex, Miss Darling—all of whom enjoyed what I offered them, he said, after a long moment. I've had well over a hundred lovers, I assure you; and every single one of them were willing enough, but you...

"You think of yourself too highly, Captain," returned Wendy coldly. "I can assure you that I would never fall under your charms; I would have to be out of my mind to ever entertain the thought of finding myself drawn to a pretentious, decomposing despot like you." She cried out when he grasped her arm, and forced her against him once more. "Captain, please!"

But Hook ignored her cries as he pressed one of her shaking hands against his chest, to where a heart once beat. A hint of red filtered into his filmy eyes. Dost feel anything? he enquired darkly, and Wendy shook her head. I thought not. I haven't felt my own heartbeat in seven years, Wendy. And do you know who condemned me to such a fate? Yes, 'twas thee, and thy brothers, and that bastard-born Pan. All of you did this to me. I've had to endure this loathsome existence, forbidden an eternal rest, since I'm forced to walk the earth forevermore. And dost think I actually enjoy looking like a corpse? he demanded, shaking her. Answer me, damn you!

"No," repliedWendy brokenly, and she sobbed against his chest, her own heart beating for the both of them. She felt his hand rest against her cheek, and she looked up to gaze into the haunted eyes of Captain James Hook...and almost wept.

Never before had she seen such pain in a single human being, that lifeless stare bordering on hopelessness. She breathed in a silent breath, and one of her hands rose to touch his face, mimicking the alluring feel his hand radiated against hers.

She whispered his captain's title when she saw him close his eyes, certain that he welcomed her curious touch; for although he unnerved her with his ghastly appearance, touching him was quite different, the cold, rotting flesh oddly soft and yielding against her fingertips. She heard a groan—which sounded strangely like her name—rumble in the back of his throat, could feel the tension her close proximity exerted on him. It echoed what she felt in the pit of her stomach, her heart racing when she felt him drawn her near, the curvature of his hook encompassing her other hand. She felt a million butterflies flutter in her stomach at the sensation the cold metal educed, and she faintly wondered what it would be like for him to kiss her again...before becoming ill at the thought.

She wanted to deny this newfound revelation, wanted to deny the feelings he inspired in her. For how could one who was assuredly dead make her feel so alive? She was not supposed to feel anything toward him but revulsion. And now, dear God, what had he done? His presence, as well as the very semblance of his touch, both intrigued and frightened her. She was still haunted by his kiss—or whatever it had been, since she still felt her hidden kiss at the corner of her mouth. He hadn't taken it, but nor has she given it to him. She hadn't even given it to Peter, although, at one time, she believed that she had.

Strangely enough, after saving Peter, Wendy hadn't felt any different than before she had kissed him; he had been the one who had changed. The kiss had remained, secretly tucked away, until she'd almost forgotten its existence completely. Only now, when she'd forced into a kiss, did she now remember it and its hidden power. For if she were to give Hook her hidden kiss...

She doubted it would absolve anything, although it would certainly be a sacrifice on her part. But was she willing to give up that last token she had to remind her of Peter and her childhood? The thought of doing so, conflicted her terribly, even though the pull of what her sacrifice could issue tempted her, no matter the loss of her remaining childhood innocence. Peter no longer mattered; it had been years since she had last seen him. He had doubtlessly forgotten about her. She frowned at the reality, and she closed her eyes, feeling the presence of her enemy—the one who should have forgotten her, but didn't—surround her.

He tore away at her resolve, flooding her mind with limitless possibilities—dark imaginings in which she'd never before dared dream—as what he offered her was of a more sinister nature, certainly. And to her everlasting shame, she was drawn to it—darkly so. She allowed him to say her given name, forgoing all formality, permitting him to run those withdrawn fingers through her hair, encouraging his close proximity when he pulled her fully against him, their bodies, living and dead, connecting, intertwining like a pair Klimtonian lovers. She sighed when she felt his fingers draw against the column of her throat, memorising that most beguiling sensation as the darkness enshrouded them from the rest of her conscious existence.

And Wendy, in spite of her better judgment, revelled in it. She barely heard him whisper his forbiddance in her attending church, just as she was no longer allowed to hide from him. She said nothing in response, however, knowing that she would feel differently about his demands in the morning.

Though right now...

Nothing mattered at that moment. Nothing. Save for only their momentary truce, built upon an unsteady foundation of a kiss that he had stolen from her.

For only tonight, Wendy allowed herself not to see the dark villain who tormented her, but a man whose cold touch burned the very core of her being, rendering it to ash. She imagined him the way he had been before his descent into the crocodile's gullet, those harrowing white features and piercing blue eyes like cold fire, dark and smouldering...before he sent her to her death by the end of his hook...

She wanted to faint.

Her reflection had been correct in its foresight, when it confirmed Wendy's attraction to Hook; she now imagined him as when she had first seen him, on the Black Castle's battlements, his dark-blue attire far more becoming than the crimson garbs that had become his death shroud. She imagined him when he had turned away as a stray bolt of lightning struck in the distance, revealing her hiding place. She had been terrified that he would find her then, and claim her as his prisoner. She then imagined him when he was with her on the deck of the Jolly Roger, holding her, his hook perilously drawing close to her face when he demanded the answer to the downfall of his adversary.

Wendy almost shuddered at how close he had been to her, whereas the strange sensation he presently made her feel had greatly intensified, to what he had made her feel so long ago—a repercussion of the power he so inherently emanated, though her present feelings had transcended above her former, girlish confusion, as Wendy realised, if belatedly, the young woman she had become—a woman of feeling—and she sighed in resignation. Her childlike self was no more, since only a woman now stood in her place—a woman, who innocently fancied the Captain's company, just as he, apparently, wanted hers. The kiss he bestowed upon her forehead was confirmation of that want, just as the touch he exerted upon her bared throat reinforced his claim on her. It was enough to make Wendy cry out and yet hold him close at the same time. Captain Hook had affected her in ways she could not understand, certainly more than any of her previous suitors, and she feared it.

Nevertheless, she said nothing to him regarding her present fears, not even when she heard him ask what dismayed her. She said nothing when he tilted her face toward his, where he again claimed her mouth for his own. She closed her eyes at the feel of those cold, dead lips lingering where her hidden kiss rested, shutting her mind away from the guilt she would carry in the morning. She allowed herself to feel nothing, save only the passion he poured into that possessive kiss—a kiss that she secretly welcomed—as it seemed to last an eternity.

She allowed him to claim the entirety of her mouth, though she never relinquished her hidden kiss, let alone her innermost box; her childish heart wouldn't allow it, although the adult part of her cried for their liberation. For in her momentary madness, Wendy was willing to give in to his devilish persuasion. She almost succumbed to him completely, when he placed a few of the forget-me-nots she held in her hair and deemed her an empress among storytellers.

It was a lie, of course; Wendy had not expected any less from him.

And yet, to her own, lasting perplexity, she found herself in tears when she awoke and discovered herself alone in the drawing room, the grandfather clock chiming away the early hour of six. She vaguely heard Liza in the kitchen, mumbling about how Nana had awakened her by barking in the hall upstairs. Wendy only sighed, already knowing the cause of Nana's odd behaviour. Undoubtedly, he was already expecting her.

She shook her head and wiped away the remainder of her tears as she prepared herself for her elusive adversary, her mind still reeling from the hypnotic poison of his kiss.

...

Author's Note: And Wendy's just a little girl. Trading Yesterday's song truly fits Hook and Wendy's relationship so well. Littleone89 has made a wonderful Hook/Wendy video on YouTube, called 'Wendy's Just a Little Girl.' I cannot suggest seeing it enough! :)

I also apologise for taking months to update again. I'd actually planned to have this chapter up a couple of weeks ago, but I promised a few people to update another story before this one, and it took longer than expected to post. Again, my deepest apologies.

And I honestly hadn't intended for things to end the way that they did; but stories, it seems, have a life and will of their own. Truly, I don't often have characters kissing until way into a story, but it just...Well, here...it just...happened. o.0; All I can say is to blame Hook's rakehell charms, if not a moment of weakness on Wendy's part. I do like how she bit him, though. XD

I intended for this chapter to be a lot longer than what it is; but then, it would probably be well over twenty thousand words, so I decided it best to cut it. I just ask everyone to consider this a precursor to what will happen in the next chapter—a calm before the storm, if you will. Hook is going to rather nasty to Wendy, I can certainly promise that! I wanted him to be nasty in this chapter, but it may be for the best that he wasn't.

Oh, and on a historical note, the lion and the unicorn statues at St. George's had been dismantled in Wendy's time, but have been thankfully returned to their former glory. Sorry for the intentional anachronism, but I wanted Wendy to make a note of their presence there. They really are quite beautiful.

The Biblical quote in italics is from the Book of Romans, 1:28-32, King James Version. I'd love to have used references from the Geneva Bible, but the Church of England in Wendy's time used the Authorised KJV, as well as the Book of Common Prayer.

And I am not for certain if I've mentioned this, but I am not Anglican, nor am I affiliated with the Church of England, so my apologies in advance if I've gotten anything wrong, when mentioning the church's practises. The prayer that Wendy says—'Almighty and Merciful Father'—in this chapter is part of an opening prayer that is allegedly said among Anglicans. I found it online, so I am not for sure of the site's reliability. I trust that is accurate. But again, I do apologise if I'm wrong in any way.

And thanks so much again, everyone, for taking the time to read and review. Truly, your thoughts and comments are greatly appreciated. Thanks again!

Until Chapter Five, then!

— Kittie