FORGET-ME-NOT

You have lost (too much love)
To fear, doubt and distrust (it's not enough)
You just threw away the key
To your heart

You don't get burned
'Cause nothing gets through
It makes it easier, easier on you
But that much more difficult for me
To make you see

Your heart's a mess
You won't admit to it
It makes no sense
But I'm desperate to connect
And you, you can't live like this

('Heart's a Mess', Gotye)

– Completion –

Part I

Cold –

A whirling of noise and confusion and pain. Someone was screaming. Battered and bruised, turning over and over with a sickening feeling of spinning, endlessly falling. There was only cold darkness. The water was so deep, a crushing weight pressing on her lungs like a band of iron. And she couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.

Then Wendy broke the surface of the water, eyes burning, choking on salt, the paralyzing shock of intense cold a physical pain that lanced through her. The water closed over her head again with a deadly, fatal slowness, and for a moment she could hear nothing but the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears, but this time she knew which way was up, and kicked her legs hard, pushing her body to the surface.

The world dipped and turned around her. She could hear the sea on all sides. She struggled to get her bearings amid the surging waves, the vaulted breakers arching high and dark, blocking out the world. Then the convulsion, the crash, the shatter of spray. The swirling current sought to pull her under once more, but Wendy's mind was her own again, and her legs thrashed within the drenched confines of her clinging dress as she gasped in raw, urgent breaths.

Think – reason –

The cold, clear light of dawn broke over the surface of the water, the current chilled by the early morning winds that swept across the sea from the east. The mist that had brought the mermaids had lifted, so that at least was one danger she did not have to fear. The wind veering in her face, Wendy blinked water from her streaming eyes and tried to focus on the near horizon. There – the tall-masted ship swaying in the turbulent seas, the smooth curved sides rising upward, daunting her with its threatening size. She could dimly hear cheering from the men aboard, see the dark figures patrolling the deck. Instinctively, she moved away from the dangerous motion of the churning rudder as it whipped up clouds of white water, trying to put as much distance between herself and the Jolly Roger as possible. But she was close to the shore, she had seen that from the deck, she need only –

Then Wendy's heart sank within her.

She gazed up at the windy, seaward heights with something close to despair. It was high tide and there was no beach, no cove to cast her ashore. Only the tall cliffs frowning over the water, vast and high and impenetrable. The realization turned her cold. She was stranded, abandoned on the high seas without hope of sanctuary. Wendy tried to think calmly, and not succumb to panic. There must be an inlet or bay further along the coast. So long as she was free of the ship, it mattered little where she washed ashore. The coastline – her freedom – was so close, she could not give up now. As she wavered, hesitating, she could feel the irresistible pull of the undertow, dark and deep and swirling. Her imagination began to play hazardous tricks on her, suggesting any number of gruesome possibilities. Who knew what warped, primordial creatures might be gliding beneath the treacherous surface? A shiver passed through her, violent and painful.

Move, she willed herself, Swim.

She was a passable swimmer at best, and she had never been thrown into a situation where she might one day have to test her skills. But the trembling aftermath of shock was passing, and the iciness of the water had abated to a cold burning against her skin that warned her she was probably safer moving than not. The fall, though jarring, had not robbed her of her strength. Between her and the coast lay a stretch of deep, thunderous water, and she suspected all too well what lay beneath. The ship, though a prison, had at least been familiar, and had shielded her from other possibly worse dangers. But she could not go back. Her life as she had known it was gone. If she could adapt, she would live. If not, she was going to die out here.

Wendy started to swim, trying to follow the motion of waves rather than fight against the current. Her skirts tangled heavily around her legs, dragging her down, but she fought on stubbornly, the effort bringing tears to her eyes. Every inhalation was a burning pain. Distantly, she was aware of shouts and coarse exclamations from behind. Was she to be a spectacle, then? Mocked and derided, as Peter had been? Very well. She would give them something to watch.

Just let me get the shore, she prayed silently. Just get me to the shore, and I can do the rest. Gather the Indians and the rest of the Lost Boys, rescue Peter… If it was war the captain wanted, then she would give it to him.

Suddenly, she became aware of a disturbance aboard the ship. The raucous sound of cheering had entirely died away. Men were gathered at the deck, running to and fro. Shouts, cries of alarm that rose above the violent crash of the sea. Wendy stopped uncertainly, struggling to remain afloat. What new danger had come to threaten them?

She turned, chancing a glance over her shoulder, and saw –

Only the vast sea surrounding her, glittering green and white-flecked, but no, there –

Something dark and impossibly vast moving just beneath the surface of the water with blurring speed. A flash of grey-green through the waves; dirty, old scales, dulled as copper, thick and scarred from countless wounds.

And, over all, the sound of a ticking clock.

Wendy felt her consciousness begin to recede, first slowly, then dizzyingly fast, slanting far away. Darkness rose up, spreading and tightening around her throat. There was a roaring in her ears, a howling white noise of vague sounds and sensations. She could not move. Everything had narrowed to the stretch of white-crested waves unfurling before her, still and silent.

Then a great spray of water shot up from the sea, frothing and foaming furiously, and through the glass-green depths emerged a cavernous jaw extended wide, rows upon rows of blood-stained teeth dripping inside the gaping maw –

Wendy gave a loud cry that she never heard. She stared uselessly, blind and frozen with terror. Close enough now to catch the assailing stench of death. Close enough to glimpse an eye, sickly yellow split with black, reptilian and utterly inhuman –

The crocodile had come for her.

The world slowed and stilled. Her heart thrashed madly inside her chest, as though clinging to those last precious seconds of life. But all her fight, all her instincts of self-preservation failed her. Even her legs stopped their rhythmic motion beneath the waves. Through the whirling mist of fear, a sudden idea, like a shadow, darted through her mind – the sea could take her before the crocodile. The faintest possible chance of ultimate escape. Almost in a dream, she let her gaze fall to the unplumbed depths tugging at her hair and clothes. Better to drown than be devoured. After the first struggle, drowning was supposed to be painless, wasn't it?

In that moment of crisis, she felt the imagination becoming reality; the dizzying faintness, those last struggling moments, the awning wave of unconsciousness, and the final bitterness of the rushing and headlong descent. There was a ringing in her ears, her mind spinning, and she could no longer resist the pull of the unfathomable depths. With a feeling of half-horror, half-relieved oppression, Wendy let herself sink down beneath the waves, salt spray washing against her lips. Blackness pressed around her and heavy, heart-pounding silence. The total darkness which enveloped her, the terrific compression of her lungs was more awful than anything she had imagined, but still the horror was less than the alternative that awaited her. The beating of blood in her ears, thick and heavy, seemed a steady countdown to her destruction, the knell of her death. She could feel her hair floating around her face. It wouldn't be long now. She waited until her chest started to burn.

There was a low rumbling, deep as thunder, and a roar of deafening sound split the grey skies. A volley of gunfire swiftly followed. Wendy came up gasping and opened her eyes. A haze of white smoke drifted along the surface of the sea. She drew in a sharp breath, at once tasting the oily tang of gunpowder and smelling the acrid sharpness of cannon fire. The waves surged and fell around her. She was alone in the water.

More shouts, further away now, but it was impossible to see through the cloud of smoke –

Slowly, the fading wisps cleared and the Jolly Roger rose clear in her vision as it ploughed through the rolling breakers. Then a foaming mass of red, the tearing splinter of wood as the creature – the crocodile – collided with the ship. There was a shuddering groan, twisting, breaking timber. The sea hissed against the lurching vessel, red-hued eddies of white water frothing and surging over the fractured planks.

Madness, motion on the decks. Shouting fiendish curses and commands, and over all the same cry of the cannons! The cannons! Those that had pistols were firing at will. Most of the shots fell wide, stubbing ineffectually amid the waves, but there were streams of red floating in the water from those rare hits. The atmosphere had turned dark as a thundercloud, flashes of vivid fire flaring in bursts through the mass of smoke. The heaving, shuddering creature moved swiftly through the waves. A bunched coiling of scales and there was another sickening thud. Splintered wood stuck out sharply from the sides of the ship, jagged edges swiftly submerged in a rush of green water that bounded over the widening cracks and rushed into the gunwale.

But by now the men were thirsty and aflame for battle. Hanging over the sides of the deck, rifle barrels gleaming in the cold clear morning light, they waited upon command. The water had fallen deceptively still, but there remained the horrible presence of a massive, live thing. Then a flare of light, swift as the burst of a comet, and a cannon fired again. Something splashed into the water with an explosion of white foam, the spray soaring high over the wild chaos of wood and scales and gunfire.

Wendy felt a deadly sickness; stranded in the water, she could do nothing to save herself. She felt that threatening wave of blackness rising up inside her again and fought it down with sheer force of will. Dimly, her reason struggled to reassert itself. She had to get away from here. If the crocodile didn't kill her, the musket fire certainly would. Yet somehow, she could not move. Her body refused to obey her mind. She was dulled and slow with shock.

She looked up at the smoke-plumed sky. Now would be the time for Peter to fly free and rescue her, appearing in a flash of brimming colour and laughing away her fears. But no one was coming for her; she had no choice but to swim or perish. Her legs were tiring, every surging motion of the waves threatening to pull her under. The cries from the ship seemed dimmer now, more distant. Shards of splintered wood floated around her and Wendy instinctively caught hold of one of the broken pieces of timber, clutching it tightly in her numbed fist. The wind was blowing more violently now, scattering the drifting billows of vapour and gusting into her face, a wet, salt smell. The sharpness of it had a reviving effect and she inhaled deeply, steeling herself for the exertion ahead.

Another explosion rocked the skies, vivid red light illuminating the dawn, swiftly flaring and dying. The horizon glowed bright as an inferno. Through the billowing cloud of black smoke, Wendy saw someone dive down into the tumultuous depths. She looked distractedly from side to side, eyes streaming from the haze. Impossible. She had lost her mind. Her senses were deceiving her. Who would be mad enough to cast themselves willingly into the sea? Who would dare? She strained to discern the figure through the grey-green surf. Someone fleeing perhaps? Chancing their luck on the tide rather than go down with a doomed ship? The white foam flew as the deserter cut through the waves nearer and nearer with a continued grim persistence. The pounding of her heart quickened. There was such a single-minded determination in the approach that Wendy became more and more certain that she was the intended target of the swimmer. The wild instinct to flee seized her, but she remained where she was. She was almost completely numbed in every limb to the point of being unconscious of all sensation. Her breathing came in short, sharp gasps. How could she fight someone out here, alone? The splinter of wood trembled in her white-boned hand. One swift thrust through the neck, use the sharp edge… she would have no second chances –

The spray rose again with the cresting waves, settling upon her face. When her vision cleared, a lithe, dripping figure had emerged from the depths, a wet hand outstretched.

"Move," the captain snarled, "Unless you want us both to perish here –"

Still half out of her mind with terror, Wendy could only stare at him. His face was paler than marble, his extended hand shaking excessively with agitation. It was the crocodile, Wendy realized distantly. The only thing he had ever feared.

Cursing furiously, he pulled her towards him, heaving her limp form over his shoulder. The effort sent him under the water, and he emerged moments later, coughing; black hair glistening with salt spray and streaming like ink down his pallid cheeks. Wendy's head rested across his shoulder, the grey light of dawn slanting across her vision almost unbearably bright. The gulls wheeled and cried overhead, far above the troubled world of storm and madness. Her arms hung lifelessly at her sides, but she willed herself to an effort, pushing at him and straining to disengage herself.

"It's alright," she protested. "I can swim –"

"You'll do no such thing," Hook retorted, carelessly ignoring her struggles. "Do you think I've taken such a risk for you to drown yourself out of stubbornness?"

The strain of lifting her head was almost blinding as she cast her gaze around wildly. She couldn't see the crocodile, but she could see the ship, partly-submerged, hear the groaning of splintered wood – "Where are we going?" she asked faintly, "The ship –"

"That blasted creature will bring it down around us if we stay. Now hold on to me, if you can endure it."

His arm pressed into her waist, cutting painfully into her ribs. She caught the flash of silver as he started to swim, the hook now rising, now falling beneath the surf. She felt herself pulled along in a haze of exhaustion, dimly aware of the violent, buffeting motion of the waves, the dull, repetitive pain of the water beating against her sides, but it was something distant and outside herself. The cold had numbed her to almost all bodily aches, for which she was vaguely thankful, but she could not hold her thoughts together; they strayed, unconnected, and she no longer had the energy to try and rationalize her situation. Fatigue overcame her, and she resigned herself to the swaying, jolting movement, longing only for the darkness of oblivion. Where she was being taken and by whom no longer mattered. Her body was limp and weightless, something that did not belong to her. It was only the cold damp air blowing upon her face and the sharp tang of salt that kept complete unconsciousness at bay.

Gradually, she felt the vast space around them narrowing, the great land masses ahead rising upward to impossible heights, a wall of great dark rock frowning over the water. Driftwood and seaweed and loose shingle floated past. Darker still, they passed under the shadow of the cliff. She heard the captain hiss a curse, her own body a hopelessly cumbersome burden over his shoulder. She glimpsed an iron grate, heavily rusted and slick with lichen, which he was wrestling with, until with a protesting groan of metal, the gate lifted slightly. He pulled her through with him into the blackness, the water trembling dark and cool, and she heard the gate close behind them with a resounding clang. Slowly, her senses started returning to her. Flickering, luminous lights passed over the cavernous ceiling in varying hues of blue and green, evanescent, ever-changing. The drip and echo of a hollow place. They were in a subterranean tunnel, the realization bringing with it a flicker of apprehensive fear, but to struggle or resist would be all but useless. Where else was left for her to run to? All the fight and energy within her had died. Wendy stared blankly at the shard of wood in her hand, then painfully unfurled her frozen fingers, watching as it drifted away.

She barely noticed when the tight pressure of the captain's arm around her eased and he gently set her down in the shallow water. Hard stone was beneath her feet, the lower half of her body still submerged in the chill depths, but it was possible to wade ashore – they were only in a narrow channel that disappeared into the darkness of the caves beyond. Dimly from outside, she could hear the steady, rhythmic sound of the sea crashing against the high, impassable headland.

Wendy was shivering, wet hair hanging in a curtain over her bare shoulders, the dark water lapping around her waist. She could barely stand, and when she lifted her hands to brush the dripping strands from her face, she realized her arms were trembling violently. She let them fall to her sides, unnerved by this uncharacteristic weakness in her body. She felt ashamed now, and angered, once again feeling that this feminine frame had betrayed her. Frailty, faintness – these were the burdens of womanhood she must bear, to be treated like a child when any man thrust into such a situation would have fought fiercely, proving himself an ally instead of a hindrance. Even the captain, insisting on carrying her himself, had taken her loss of strength and spirit without any show of surprise, and that perhaps hurt most of all. With a sigh, she started towards the embankment of tumbled rock that led upward to the relief of solid ground in the cavern beyond.

A shadow darkened her vision, and she realized that Hook had stepped in front of her with alarming swiftness. Droplets of water clung to his hair and ran in quicksilver trails down his throat, streaming from his heavy clothing. Wendy felt her pulse jump as he caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to the unsteady light as he examined her carefully.

"Are you hurt?" he asked in a low voice.

She shook her head, feeling at once vulnerable and exposed under his intense scrutiny. There had been no artifice or irony in the question; his face was serious and contemplative, as though he could see through her tattered façade into the very depths of her being. Wendy swallowed hard. She realized then how close he was standing, knew with a trembling rush of anticipation what was about to happen. His gaze had fallen to her lips, his eyes suddenly alight with the cold brilliance of a northern sky. The silver of his rings seared cold against her jaw, but she could feel the hot beat of blood in his fingers that lingered on her skin, the faintest hint of a caress in their slight movement. His thumb ran over the swell of her lower lip. It took everything she had not to lean into that touch. Then his face was drawing impossibly close to hers, so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her lips that parted instinctively for him. A shuddering sigh escaped her, her mouth barely a whisper away from his. Her expression was almost pleading, silently entreating mercy from a man who professed to have none. He couldn't kiss her again. Because if he did, she would no longer have the will to stop him.

As though he sensed her thoughts, the captain released her and moved away. He was breathing hard, his good hand thrown against the wall as he pulled himself out of the water with a visible effort. The pallor of his face was almost unearthly in the ghostly light, blue eyes burning bright in contrast. His coat hung loosely from his shoulders, the deep ruby red brocade drenched almost to black, and he shrugged the cumbersome garment off with a wearied motion. Only then did she realise the exertion he had undergone in rescuing her. Wendy opened her mouth to thank him, but closed it on the realisation that he had thrown her into this situation in the first place. Never mind that he had saved her from mermaids and crocodiles – she would not be bound under obligation to him.

She struggled with some confusion to climb the stony bank, taking particular care over the slippery rocks and dank seaweed and felt an overwhelming sense of relief when she stood on dry land once more. She examined her surroundings more closely. The rock she stood upon was slick with a cool dampness that had never known sunlight. Chains hung from the ledge, trailing into the water. Vast pillars stretched upward to a stone archway that yawned overhead. Abandoned stairwells started and finished nowhere, the rock disintegrated and slowly gathering dust. The immense structure of the edifice hinted at higher levels dimly visible in the deceptive aquamarine light, rendered forever inaccessible. Metal brackets were set deeply in the walls, once intended to hold candelabras, but had crumbled into ruin and disuse long ago. That gave her pause. Could things decay in Neverland? Or had it always been this way, a fortress conjured from an irresistible imagination that had wanted to add just the right dash of fear to his adventures? There was a haunting familiarity about the place, an echo of stories from long ago.

Wendy looked at the captain and tried to speak through the rawness of her throat - the first words she had uttered since they had arrived here. "Where are we?"

"The Black Castle," he said.

Of course. She should have known it at once. The flash of recognition must have shown in her face, for it seemed to stir a memory in the captain. His eyes narrowed slightly. "You told me you had been here before. When?"

Wendy hesitated. "A long time ago," she said, evasively. "With Peter." When you took my brothers and left them as bait for the crocodile that should have taken you. Of course, he did not know she had been there that night. He had passed within a hairsbreadth of her as she had crouched among the battlements – a terrified child, then – he, the figure of nightmares, breathed into life from her darkest imaginings. She remembered it as clearly as though it had been yesterday; his sharp features illumined in a wreath of pale green light, midnight blue garments swallowing his deadly form in darkness. Ruthless and unrelenting, and even then, impossibly beautiful. A unique combination of grace and danger.

Wendy stole a glance at him, unnerved slightly by his unaltered appearance. The years had glided off him, leaving no permanent trace – outwardly, at least – of the suffering he had endured. He had not aged a day. Even after the struggle of rescuing her, there was a deceptive strength in that graceful, lounging body. Yet beneath the cultured ease, there was something metallic and strangely disconcerting, the hint of cruelty. A hardness in those aquiline features, the cast of his countenance arrogant and disdainful. A face that had little patience for fools and no mercy when it came to enemies. She wondered which he considered her.

"If that beast destroys my ship, I'll finish it off once and for all." He cursed imperceptibly under his breath. "A hellish unfortunate thing to happen; as though Pan and the mermaids were not trouble enough."

"Did –" Wendy's voice was unsteady as she asked the question, a sudden, awful fear suddenly seizing her – "Did you know it was there when you –?"

He cast her a look of such evident surprise that the words died on her lips.

"My dear girl," he said, forcing himself to lightness. "If I wanted you dead, I would have cut your throat your first night here and saved myself half the trouble. Not that you've especially made it worth my while," he added darkly. "Since I've had you aboard my ship it's been one misfortune after another. Mayhap there is some truth to old superstitions after all."

Misfortune that he had brought upon himself. But for the moment, Wendy did not have the daring to see where voicing such an observation might lead, so she said nothing.

The captain ran a hand through his wet hair. Slicked back, without the heavy frame of black curls over his cheeks, his face seemed leaner and sharper than ever. "I know these caves," he said, a hoarseness marring his usual melodic tones. "We can't leave; the tide is too high. The underground channels that lead to the surface of the island will be flooded; at best we'd be dashed to pieces on the rocks if we didn't drown first. There is nothing more we can do than wait for low tide."

He cast himself down with a sigh, reclining against the slick stone, his dark head braced against the cavern wall. One long leg drawn up, the other stretched out before him, metal-capped boots catching the gleam of shivering light.

Wendy stared at him, silently doubting the sight before her. She had expected him to be decisive and forceful, to take command, not this calm acceptance. She was not nearly so willing to remain here. To leave the way they had entered and chance the fury of the sea again was madness, but not every eventuality had been exhausted. Movement at least would be a means of fighting against the biting cold that wracked her body, forcing shudders out of her, setting her teeth chattering painfully against one another.

The captain had said there was no way out, and it seemed futile to doubt a man as masterfully clever as he was. Save perhaps for Peter himself, Hook knew the island better than any creature living, but that did not mean she wouldn't look for a chance to escape him if she could. Wendy moved with an unsteadiness in her limbs, leaving slick trails of water in her wake. Curling tentacles of fog clung to her clothing and her hair in chill droplets. She tried to wring the excess moisture from her sodden gown, the skirts stiffened with salt, but it was a rather hopeless effort. The sensation of being on solid ground after days at sea had a vaguely unreal quality. After the turbulent, ever-changing motion of the sea, there was a disconcerting stillness to the slab of rock beneath her feet, an ageless silence that seemed to hide foreboding secrets.

She wandered around the castle, following the narrow passage entrances that led away from the vast hall. She had hoped to find some way of gaining access to the exterior ramparts but the tunnels were flooded ground to ceiling. The black waters stretched away into further darkness, deep and silent. The crumbling staircases were perilous; even placing the weight of her hand on one of the stone steps dislodged a shower of dust and small pebbles. Monstrous stone gargoyles leered down at her, and Wendy recalled how much this place had frightened her as a child. How thrilling that feeling had been – fear and exhilaration living in tandem, keeping her heart beating at an ever accelerated rate. Perhaps then she was not so changed from the girl she once was.

She looked around the immense interior, unease transforming to reluctant interest. Her innate love of adventure was stirred by the gothic surroundings that were evocative of a time long before the lightness and ease of the modern age they now lived in, where life could be lived more intensely, more fully. It would have been reasonable to imagine that after her close deliverance, her passion for excitement would have cooled, but never had she experienced a more ardent longing for exploration. There was a vivid beauty to Neverland, wild and clear, a beauty that caught her heart and lost her in wonder. It would never stop fascinating her. Here she could walk enchanted, dreaming with no cruel chain of reality to pull her back. But those were thoughts to be closed away in the glass room that was her life. There was family, reality and responsibility. What call had she to dream of anything? She would have to return. Back to the world again, the pattern of her existence laid out with perfect precision. Letters to write, engagements to be met, flowers to be arranged. The little rituals of domesticity. And those formal gatherings, so heavy with constraint, the empty compliments on her dress that had to be worn in the latest fashion, the whispers of idle gossip in her ear that spoke of scandals or social faux pas. The triviality of it all filled her with despair. When had the light gone out of ordinary life? Had it always been this way, this feeling lingering just beneath the surface? The intensity of her secret life burned within her, demanded expression. Just a few hours more, Wendy thought. Give me that at least. Let me feel the wind on my face. Let me hear the cry of gulls and see the crests of the waves, white-tipped and wild, beating against the shingle. I want to feel rocks and sand beneath my feet. I am so tired – so tired of a life that is changeless, where no choice is truly my own. I am trapped in a torment of inertia and my heart is dying.

She walked up and down in distraction, no longer preoccupied with escape but simply lost in thought, rubbing her chilled hands together to ease the numbing pain. The captain watching her all the while with a curious, secret smile, a glimmer of amusement in his hard blue eyes. She supposed he thought her merely stubborn and childish, and flushed in the darkness. Her emotions had not been her own ever since the night he had come to her window. Love was the death of sanity and composure. Whatever will or courage or intelligence she might have possessed meant nothing now, as all would be cast aside for a man that even now might care nothing for her. At least, not enough to abandon his sworn path of vengeance. Gone was that calm surety she had felt out on the deck, that bold lightness of heart and spirit. Those unsettling doubts had crept in again, turning him once more into her foe, a danger to be avoided. She would not remain here alone with him. She was not afraid that he would touch her – he could have done that long ago, had that been his sole intention – she was afraid of the idea that she wanted him to. She no longer trusted herself. It was not the captain she feared, but herself.

Wendy shivered suddenly, and when she glanced down, she saw her bare arms had turned pallid, the tracery of blue veins weaving startlingly close beneath the surface of the skin. Hook had not lied, and now she was trapped here with him. She flung herself down wearily, fighting off the insidious chill of despair. The saturated dress clung to her like a second skin, the sheer material translucent against her prickling flesh. She could sense his gaze on her body, remorseless and daring, lingering on the swell of her breasts visible above the damp bodice, and a sudden flush of heat warmed her through and through, a low flame that sparked to life in her chest. But the cold had crawled too deeply inside her, settling around her bones until she could concentrate on nothing else. Wendy drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them, shivering. Her fingers were numb, and when she flexed them slowly, the rush of returning blood caused her to wince in pain.

"You're wet through to the skin and half-frozen," the captain observed, with an appearance of courteous disinterest. "You would do better to come closer."

"No," said Wendy stubbornly. "No, I am not cold."

He smiled thinly at the obvious falsehood, and Wendy was consciously aware of her weakness; loathed that he could make her feel so unsure of herself. She was certain he was inwardly laughing at her.

"Try to imagine yourself in love with me. You would have no such maidenly reservations then. I'm inclined to be generous."

"All the more reason not to."

He said nothing, but it seemed to her that suddenly he was the Hook of old again, with his pointed, malicious smiles and disdainful looks. His detestable self-assurance should have angered and appalled her, not set her heart beating fast with challenge and excitement. She thought of the young men she encountered among polite society; never a flirtatious word or a look that might be misconstrued, their manner always so deferential and restrained. Even Charles Quiller-Couch, inexperienced and eager-to-please; his kissing her had been a thing of clumsy impulse, and he had been blushing all the while. Why then, must she be drawn to a man that acted like a dissolute libertine, who had brought her down with all the ease of a practised seducer? Treacherously, she was reminded of the heat of his body, the hardness of his muscles, the strength of his arms around her. Every convulsive shudder that passed through her frame impelled her to go to him, to seek that warmth and comfort, but Wendy did not move. She couldn't trust herself; were it just her body she had to fight, she might hold the mastery, but she could not fight her heart. She almost wished he would do something violent or vindictive or cruel, so as to give her justifiable reason to flee from him.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against her drawn-up knees. The cold enveloped her, and she sank unresisting into its chill folds. The fear of what was yet to come was a distant thing, and insignificant. This waiting was the worst, and yet waiting was all she could do. She thought of Peter and the Lost Boys and hoped that they were safe. Far better, perhaps, that they stayed away. But she knew Peter too well; knew that it was the risk that fascinated him, the infinite possibilities dancing before him that he was powerless to resist. The last time he had been here, it had almost been his undoing. It had been the first fight she had ever witnessed; Peter blazing larger than life, and Hook, his head cast back, arms thrown out in dark triumph. This is your requiem mass, boy!

She was constantly aware of his presence, how far they were from any other life, flung together in this cold sphere of eternity. There was no sound but the sigh of water in its rocky channel, cast against the stones, bound for no shore. And outside, the inevitable monotony of the sea breaking against the slick stone promontory. In her mind's eye, she could see the tide rising higher and higher, engulfing them both in that insidious dark embrace, binding them together as water rushed into her throat and lungs.

Other times, she heard the drip and echo from the hollow walls. The mournful sound seemed to come from the stones themselves, deep in the crevices of the rock, like the footsteps of the dead. A sightless, faceless multitude trapped in these caves for years without number, silently waiting. The chill clamminess of fog sharpened to the ghost of a breath on her face and a hand creeping around her shoulder, cold and intimate. A shapeless form emerging through the phosphorescent lustre. Then Hook laughed lightly, touching the nape of her neck with thrilling, icy fingers, even as his eyes degraded her. Then she saw that he had not one hand, but two, and both were encircling her throat. Cold and brittle against her skin, dry as old bones, and his laughter was the rattle of the grave.

I do believe, he said lightly, just as he had earlier on the deck, That I am going to kill you.

Wendy started forward with a cry, her body still trembling and fighting off this non-existent being, and she realised that perhaps only a minute had passed in time, that she was still in the Black Castle, her back stiff against the dark and immobile wall of rock, the captain across from her several metres distant, watching her with an arm resting behind his head.

"You fell asleep," he said calmly, and she shook her head in useless denial, staring at him in confusion. He was reclining with a graceful ease as though he were in the refined grandeur of his own quarters and the hard stones beneath them were the finest of silks. Wendy pressed her cold hands against her brow, the memory of the dream still strong and vivid in her mind, the blood pounding hard against her temples.

"Your dreams might not be pleasant, but you had best try and sleep," he said. "You've not rested all night. And you should save your strength."

She lifted her head. "For what?"

"Once the tide allows it, every living creature in Neverland will be making for these caves."

Her heart jumped with a sudden, frenzied bound. Peter. But Wendy crossed her hands over her lap, so as to hide the excitement that trembled to her very fingertips, and asked with an appearance of outward composure, "And what will you do?"

"That all depends on who reaches us first."

Several thoughts darted through her mind. The Jolly Roger under attack – the Lost Boys scattered – Peter trapped – the mermaids possibly lying in wait. For the captain, stranded and unarmed, it was a perilous game of chance. She looked at him, shaking her head at his apparent calm. "You have no weapons."

In response, Hook merely raised a leather-clad arm, the flash of silver ever-present at the end of his sleeve a chilling reminder that he always carried with him the power to kill. He examined the sharply-honed edge, turning it this way and that under the luminously shifting lights with a look of dark gratification. "I assure you, this is all the weapon I need. Moreover, a pistol would be useless after the cursed mess that brought us here; there would be no keeping the powder dry." A hint of mockery crept into his deceptively courteous voice as he regarded her with a shadow of amusement. "Not that I expect you to have a working knowledge of firearms, as I think you've already demonstrated."

A rush of embarrassment and anger flared up hot inside her. Would he never let her forget that failure on the deck? "I should have used that pistol on you when I had the chance," she said with a flash of bitterness.

"I thought you might come to regret that. Not that it matters now. Whatever happens, this all works out rather well for you, doesn't it?" His tone was lilting and light, but she could sense the darkness beneath, heavy as a gathering storm.

"What do you mean?"

"You know by now that I cannot kill you, nor is it within my power to lay a hand on you in violence. You realised that the moment I cast you from my ship, your hands unbound, well within striking distance of the shore. Captain James Hook, unstoppable by death, the terror of the high seas, no more able to stand against an untried girl than the weakest child. How you must have triumphed over me in your contempt. But enough. You give yourself enough airs without my adding to them."

Wendy swallowed down the tightness in her throat, unwilling to face the implication behind his words. "So you choose to be cruel instead."

"A poor thanks for a man who saved your life not an hour ago."

"Only because you were the one who put it in danger to begin with," Wendy returned swiftly, goaded into a passionate response.

"You seem fairly adept at doing that yourself. Was there any specific reason you chose to throw yourself headlong into a mermaid attack earlier? Or do you simply disobey my orders as a matter of course?"

"I couldn't watch your men die and do nothing."

The captain lightly ran the tips of his fingers along the edge of his hook, allowing himself the dark gleam of a smile, but there wasn't the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. "Only my men?"

Her throat burned with unspoken words. I disobeyed your orders because I couldn't stand the thought that you might be hurt or killed, or worse. Yes, for that I risked my life without a second's thought, and I would do it again without question, if in doing so you might live. I need you to live. This, then, was the agony that came with love, the sorrow and the pain and the torment beyond all enduring, all the deeper for the necessity of keeping it hidden. She had surrendered enough of herself already; if he was trying to draw a confession from her, she would not oblige him. The thought of revealing something so deep and intimate, so close to her heart, was unthinkable. She was bound by a strange determination to conceal her love forever. Wendy felt that she would resign herself to a lifetime of misery rather than give him the power to break her. Hadn't she humiliated herself enough for his sake? She had not resisted for even a moment the last time they had been together, and he probably detested her for the weakness more than she did herself. Didn't all men secretly despise the women that gave themselves? What a young, graceless fool he must regard her, how feminine. Wasn't it enough that she was already possessed and haunted by him so fully she no longer knew herself? Without the strictest discipline over herself, her mind would inevitably stray towards the memory of his lips trailing cold fire over her skin, the insidious endearments whispered in her ear, his slender fingers stroking an exquisite rhythm between her legs. She felt the colour rising again in her cheeks. And yet he remained polite and unmoved, a smooth courtesy overlying all his words and actions.

How strange it is, Wendy thought, this elaborate performance of formality after such intimacy. How one can fall back into ritual to bury the desire that burns beneath, the necessity of concealing passions that would otherwise consume us. Only a thin sheath of silk and lace, light, delicate, that preserved her modesty. Without that, she would be open, exposed, with nothing to protect herself. Where was she now, the lady adorned with pearls and long white gloves, so coolly undisturbed by sentiment? This deep, soft femininity had been awakened in spite of herself; she could only cling to the pretence of indifference as a comfort. Her heart might have lost the battle against him, but her dignity still remained. It was the only thing left to her.

The hint of a smile remained on the edges of his sensuous mouth. It was strange seeing him stripped of all finery, deprived of his adornments: the rare vintages and exquisitely cut clothing. It was a reminder that beneath the cultured veneer there was something ruthless and wild in his nature, a spirit that turned to the thrill of piracy to satiate that ceaseless craving. His countenance was strangely elusive in the mist of mirrored blue light, somehow even more dangerous like this, when cornered. "You needn't trouble yourself over me for much longer. I'll die standing, for what little it might be worth. And then you, I imagine, will return to your life."

"I believe so."

But even as the words left her, Wendy felt an inexorable sadness, a heaviness in her heart. She regretted more than anything else that she had wasted her life. Her will and her thoughts had been bent and twisted to suit the needs of the world around her and never once obeying her own desires. Less free in speech, less demonstrative in action than her younger self had been, that passion and impulse overwritten by the polish of society. John, with his passion for scholarly pursuits, and Michael with his passion for mischief had been left free to do as they pleased; it was only she, a daughter, who was to be restrained and tied down. If I live through this night, through these next few hours, Wendy vowed silently, I will be true to myself. I will not be caged and restrained. I will not be a slave to fear.

Already, the horrors out on the water had faded to little more than a faint recollection of unease, akin to the aftermath of an unpleasant dream. She was young, with that vigour of spirit that could banish all apprehensions that were not immediately before her. Cannons and crocodiles did not daunt her imagination. Wendy feared only one thing; that dreaded future of dull monotony, where all hopes were banished and dreams long dead. Then all her fortitude would leave her, and she shrank from that awful vision as she would from a spectre hovering over her grave.

It was impossible to tell how much the captain guessed of her thoughts, but it was evident he had discerned enough. His expression would have almost been pitying, were it not so set with scorn. It was clear that he had not believed her little show of indifference for a moment. How was it that he could see right through her? He knew her far too well. She could hide nothing from him. "So you will leave this place without a single regret?"

"I abandoned a world of imagination once; I can do so again."

"Yes, I believe you would. How disappointing." He regarded her with more than a hint of malice. "I thought you had spirit, a sense of grandeur. It certainly seemed so that first night you dined with me."

If the captain was trying to get a rise from her, he had succeeded. His casual dismissal of her was more than her strong sense of pride could tolerate. Why was it that she cared what he thought of her, in spite of all her dignity and endeavours to recall her own superiority? She had borne enough for his sake, and Wendy felt her cheeks flush hot with indignation at this final humiliation. "My leaving is no more cowardly than your determination to stay. And for what? To prove yourself cleverer than a child? Is that how you convince yourself of your strength, your cunning? This entire charade is beneath you. I think it's become an indulgence for you, to satisfy yourself that you can fall no lower, that there are no further depths of degradation to which you can sink. There is almost a pleasure to wallowing in the darkness, far simpler than stepping out to embrace the world. You are a coward. Because if you allowed Peter to forget you for even a moment, then who else would remember you? Isn't this what you believe? That you have nothing, and so you try to destroy anything that matters? You speak as though you are fated, doomed to remain here, but you're not. It is simply a matter of choice."

Wendy laid her head back against the cold stone, exhausted by her outburst. The torrent of words had left her before she had given them any thought, but she knew them to be true. And Hook did not laugh, as he had at her other endeavours to appeal to his better nature. Instead, he inclined his head with a hint of bitter mockery, extending a long white hand. "Touché."

The silence between them was heavy with unspoken emotions. She could have endured ridicule, summoned eloquence against arguments, but this desolate acceptance unsteadied her. Wendy couldn't confront that nihilistic despair, didn't want to touch it. Every moment he seemed to want to share with her how cold and harsh his existence was, how fervently he wished for a way out. The loneliness and horror had become too much to endure, the pain of it like drowning in a deep dark sea. It was a suicide mission. First, to destroy Peter, and then himself. She recalled the words she had overheard in his cabin. Death and glory. What else is left in this blighted world?

He was contemplating the very real possibility of his own destruction and he seemed entirely undisturbed by the prospect. Try as she might, it was beyond her power to feel indifferent towards a man so hopeless. She truly was warm-hearted, for all her appearances to the contrary, and could not hold back the tide of feeling towards him, a kind of compassionate understanding. Pity overriding the brief flare of anger in her heart. Her low voice was very soft. "When did you decide that you have nothing left to live for?"

Hook was silent a moment. She had thought him unchanged by his experiences, but that wasn't fully true. Suffering had deepened him, brought an eloquence and richness to his expression that would have been elevated by nobility were it not being eroded by despair. He raised a thin dark brow, regarding her curiously. "Did you feel it, I wonder, when the crocodile appeared? That sense of resignation? Would you have died calmly, and with a smile on your face? Seven years ago I faced that same grim prospect. I would have allowed that creature to devour me without a moment's thought. But fate had reserved for me something far crueller. The things I have seen, the torments I was forced to endure – horrors, threats, inexplicable mysteries… Oh yes, death would have been sweet compared to that. I might live and breathe, but in truth, I am a haunted man. A ghost with a beating heart."

"So you simply choose to give up."

He flashed upon her a look so fierce that she was immediately silenced. The chill light hardened his features as he leaned forward, his voice cold and sinister. "You speak to me of giving up? You had given up the moment I found you. Tell me; how will you enjoy your dull marriage in ten years? Will you have resigned yourself to a state of domestic bliss? With children pulling at your skirts, clamouring for your attention while your husband drinks away his boredom? What of your happiness then, my dear girl?"

Wendy's grave expression did not falter. Nothing he said was worse than what she had already envisioned for herself. There was a distant wistfulness in her look, resignation in her tone. "It might not be exactly the life I want, but at least I am choosing to live it. You should do the same."

"Then what would you have me do, Wendy Darling?"

I want you to leave Peter. I want you to leave this place. I want you to love me, and most of all, I want you to live.

"I want –" she closed her eyes. "I want you gone." Out of Neverland, out of my life, out of my heart. But no, that wasn't true anymore. She no longer wanted to fight her feelings; she wanted to lose herself in them. It wasn't simply his appearance or his character that mesmerized her, but his tragedies blended with the hints of nobility, the shadows that lingered just beneath the surface. Had he been truly the image of perfection he appeared on the surface, she would have had no interest in him. As it was, she was bound to him, body, heart and soul. She could no longer look ahead, no longer envision what might yet come. All her future, all her fate, rested with him.

She stared entranced at his fingers; long, white, delicate, trailing in idle patterns along the ground. There was something darkly sensual in all his movements that captivated as much as disturbed. Too vividly she recalled taste of him; wine and musk and smoke, distinctly masculine. Wendy quickly glanced away, fearful that her face would betray her thoughts. He was inside her, beneath her very skin. Like a dark poison in the blood. She was almost faint with forbidden desire. How could she live like this? Wanting him so much that she could scarcely breathe with it? She slid further down the wall, knees drawn up protectively to her chest. Every shuddering breath she took was far too loud. She heard him shift slightly, but mercifully, he maintained his distance. Unwillingly, she looked up into those blue, blue eyes.

"So you wish me to live, but far away from you, is that it? So you can triumph over my humiliating retreat while priding yourself on a dishonour averted? Well, my lovely, perverse girl, I have no desire to make things so easy for you. You still mistakenly believe that my life is something infinitely precious to me. Let me assure you that there is nothing I care for in this world, that if it comes to my life or my vengeance, I made that choice a long time ago."

"I don't believe you. Do you think I don't know what pretending not to feel looks like? I have spent the last seven years suppressing every true thought and impulse I had, doing what others expected of me." There was real anger in her voice now. The overwhelming sense of betrayal that adulthood had not given her everything it promised, the despairing realization that cataclysms as great as fallen empires could reside in the breast of an outwardly commonplace woman. "You might feel miserable, but at least you feel something. Why won't you admit it? I would have given anything for just a moment, a flash of real emotion, for any sign that I was alive – even pain is better than apathy."

"You want me to admit that I feel? Very well. I feel, Wendy Darling. Oh, I feel – fear, madness, violence, hatred. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that worth living for? All is over with me. I played the game to its end, threw in my lot and lost. Now, to be trapped here – condemned to wait for my enemy to cast me down! One whom I would have killed in a heartbeat, were it not for –" He broke off abruptly, cold fury in the hard lines of his face.

Wendy found herself on her feet, shock almost trapping the words behind the tightness of her throat. "You found your conscience."

"No – something infinitely more humiliating."

The captain drew himself up with a slow, feline elegance. Subaqueous lights slid silver along the line of his exposed throat, glinting upon his buckled boots. There was something sinister about the way he stood in such silence, brimming with murder in the shadow of his clinging garments, his hook held aloft as though he intended to strike her down. The tints of azure illumined the cold gleam in his eyes and there was a hint of venom in his caressing voice.

"You, dear girl, have brought me to this. Dealt me the killing blow without so much as a stain on your pretty white hands. Would you like me to enlighten you?" He took a purposeful step forward, stopping just short of touching her. Wendy felt a spark of dread, a low, pulsing thrill that set her heart pounding wildly out of control. His expression was accusing, tortured, without hope, eyes deep and blue and fathomless as the darkest ocean. "This revenge had become a burning fire in my blood, and I gloried in the pursuit of it; nursed it like a blade to my heart when those cursed nightmares of the netherworld would have made an end of me. I expected to rejoice in my vengeance, and now, on the brink of its fulfillment, I find it hollow. I had him – precisely where I wanted him, had him by the sword and the heart – and then you, my beauty, must come stumbling onto my ship with your notions of conscience; prying into my doings and casting judgment and reproach on me from every direction. How you angered me with your courage and your contempt, and how I admired you for it! I was in the depths of obsession before I knew I had begun. I no longer knew which idea possessed me more – that of killing you, or claiming you. And now that I have you, do you think there is anything I wouldn't do to possess you?"

Curving metal pressed into the stone above her head, his proximity causing the blood to surge in her veins. Coldness and anger, yet there was a fierce heat radiating from his body, bound in muscle and leather, strong as steel. Her back trapped against the unyielding slab of rock, Wendy could not move. The surrounding air was heavy and charged as an oncoming storm, vibrant with static. She could hardly breathe through the thickness of it, as though she was under the water again, drowning. He was bearing down on her like a hail of ice, a wild, unstoppable force, and she found herself terribly afraid of what he was going to say. It would destroy her.

"Upon my soul, I can neither eat, drink, nor sleep; nor – what's infinitely more contemptible – think of any woman in the world but you. Yes, low as you have brought me, I love you – I'm maddened with love for you; I'm cursed – damned – to want you as I do, to adoration. I believe that even now, I would stay my hand for your sake – even at the cost of my own existence! But you, in your indifference! You would, in a moment, cast me aside for the sake of Pan, sacrifice me to the malice of my enemies without hesitation! So tell me again that I am a devil, that I'm detestable to you. Curse me, rail against me if you dare. Tell me how wicked I am."