Anna-Maria paced up and down the deck in the dead of night, feeling frustrated, tempted, and all sorts of things she did not have names for.
Each day teetered from one extreme to the next. Cutting off the remainder of her hair had helped her come to terms with what she was, but the slack-jawed stares of the newer crew members had made it impossible to forget for even one moment what she had done. And as for the crew who knew her well; their sly, although completely well-meaning, comments about her tentacles would be enough to frustrate even the calmest of people.
"Blue, is it? Looks like you're having a good day, Mistress!" they'd say, or "Oh, those are some right pretty stripes you have there, Miss, that'd turn heads in London!"
It was maddening. Although she couldn't deny that their acceptance of her, to the point of appreciation and humour, had brought her out of a dour mood and into laughter more than once.
Not only that, but the cunning affability of the Captain was driving her to distraction almost as much as his cruelty had. He seized upon any opportunity to increase her comfort and happiness and had not so much as batted an eyelid at her new 'hairstyle', save to offer her the use of his many wigs, which she had pridefully declined.
But despite her frustrations, she couldn't deny that for the first time in her life, she felt free. Free from worry that every misstep she made would destroy the people she loved. Free from expectations and the watching eye of her sister. She was even free of the horror of the sharks and was sleeping properly every night. The creatures even seemed to like her now, filling her mind with their brutish songs of the sea whenever she was bored. She had things to do with her time and wanted for nothing, or at least, she wanted for very little.
It was, in many ways, a very happy time for her, which made her all the more confused. Shouldn't she be miserable? Shouldn't she be mourning for the loss of Charlotte, instead of being a little bit relieved by it? Instead she found herself waking up feeling well, and going to bed feeling even better. She had felt more certain of herself when she had at least known that she was a prisoner.
If she was completely honest with herself, she was the happiest she had been since Father's death.
And then there was the matter of the card games. Oh, they were dangerous. And she played with the rest of the crew most every night, right after writing lessons. Whether or not they had let her play for free the first few nights, it was only a matter of time before things got out of hand. But she could not tell the crew that she did not want to play. Not only because she did not have the strength for it, but because she did not want to draw attention to her obsession. It was a wonder that the men had seen nothing in her face to expose her. She was sure she must have given some sign when the cards were put away.
And as for Hook trapping her with his invitation to use his harpsichord... That had been as transparent as it was effective. But how could she deny herself music when she had been without it for so long? She had had no choice other than to accept. Surely there could be no harm in playing it, even if it belonged to him? God, she had missed music. It had been a staple in her life before everything had gone wrong. As long as she kept her wits about her, there could be no harm…
She knew that she should know better than to allow herself to be tempted by Captain Hook. But he had not asked anything of her yet, nor even shown any intention to. All he seemed to want was for her to be happy, and although he often found some excuse to stay in the room with her while she played, he rarely interrupted her save to make some helpful remark about her playing or to ask if she needed anything. Even if it was all for the sake of winning her favour, she had seen worse behaviour from some of Charlotte's suitors and could hardly fault him for it. And since she had come back aboard the Jolly Roger, he had done many things that she could not fault him for.
Still lost in her thoughts, she came to rest with her hands braced on the railing at the fore of the ship, sighing moodily into the blackness of the sea. There was no moon and the air was sickeningly humid. Her dress clung and fanning herself made no difference at all.
What a horrible night.
The sky mirrored her mood with a great crack of lightning, and the heavens opened, letting warm rain come pelting down. Anna-Maria stared stupidly up at the sky. Then there was a rumble off in the distance, and another crack lit up the sky, exposing the low-hanging purple clouds.
As she watched the far-off storm, a great sense of wonder came over her. The violent glory of nature chased away her melancholy.
The sensible thing to do (and what Charlotte would no doubt have done) would have been to take some sort of shelter from the rain. Perhaps even seek her own bed, since it was long past midnight. Her feet remained firmly where they were, and her dress was soon ruined, but she was enthralled and did not notice.
For a long time, she held vigil over the storm, until she saw something so out of place that it defied her understanding.
On the distant horizon she could see lights. Steady yellow lights gliding above the water. Her breath caught in wonder and for a while she was so struck by awe that she could hardly think. All she could do was stare, open mouthed, at the magical sight.
There had to be dozens of them. They moved slowly, unnaturally, suspended in the air. The beauty of them caught at her heart, and for a long stupid moment she stared at the lights as they shone bravely through the rain.
Then the horizon was illuminated as a flash of lightning split the air and she saw that the lights were ships. Immense and ominous, starkly set against the blackness of the sky. Though they were some ways off, they were clearly headed towards the Jolly Roger.
She snapped right out of her daze. Ships! How many had there been? Three, four? She stood rooted on deck. What could she do?
She waited for the lookout to raise the alarm, but there was nothing. She looked up at the crow's nest nervously. Still nothing. She looked out to sea again, and saw again the lights that she had stupidly thought were beautiful. Now she saw them and could only think of danger. Danger to herself, and the crew she had come to care for so deeply. Were they pirates? Surely they must be. Merchants would never come towards a pirate ship willingly, and no sea-faring man could ever mistake the Jolly Roger for anything other than a pirate ship. And they were sailing towards them, that much she had been able to see.
She had to do something. Should she scream? Should she be discreet? Not knowing what else to do, she picked up her skirts and ran straight for the Captain's quarters, almost colliding with the helm in her panic. She hammered on his door with a shaking fist. For a heart wrenching moment there was nothing, then she heard steps and the door was pulled open.
Captain Hook stood wearing nothing but a banyan of gold silk and loose trousers. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes half fogged with sleep. They lit up when they saw her, soaking wet with rain and outside his door in the dead of night, her cheeks tantalisingly flushed and her black eyes bright with excitement. We can only imagine what wicked things he was thinking as he saw her then.
He squared his shoulders in readiness and he took a step back, motioning for her to come inside with his whole hand. A seductive smile upon his lips, Captain Hook purred, "Finally. Well, do come in-"
Anna-Maria was too shocked and horrified to even notice his assumptions. "Lights." She said dumbly.
His forehead creased in confusion and his smile froze. "What?"
Shaking, she pointed behind her, out to sea. "Lights. No, ships. Ships." She could hardly speak, she was so badly affected.
Hook did not say a word, but a different kind of anticipation came over him and he stalked back into his room, only to emerge moments later with a telescope in one hand.
"Wake the crew." He commanded. She could only obey, being jolted out of her stubbornness with fear.
It did not take long for her to shake, cajole and push the crewmen out of sleep. Dozens and dozens of them followed her up on deck to see Captain Hook standing upon the bowsprit, looking out at the lights. He did not seem to notice the rain. Sharing a nervous look, she, Saltson and Smee all approached him, or as near as they could get without clambering on the bowsprit with him.
She stood with her heart in her mouth. The Captain was frighteningly still. Had she just sentenced innocent men to death?
Smee coughed. "Sir?" He asked.
"Three man-of-wars and a frigate. Two hundred cannon, at least." Captain Hook mused slowly, not looking away from the horizon.
To a man, the crew gasped and swore, but his proclamation did not mean much to her. She knew that man-of-wars were navy ships, but little more than that.
"How many cannons do we have?" Anna-Maria asked.
Captain Hook's reply was barely more than a whisper, "Less than two hundred."
He snapped his telescope closed and turned to face them all, imperious despite his nightclothes. "All hands! Full sails. Bring us about and alongside the wind. Gunners, ready the cannons!" He leapt off the bowsprit and his voice turned low and deadly as he spared a poisonous glare for the crow's nest. "And someone get that lookout and throw him in the brig." The Captain marched up the deck and seized the helm with eyes blazing.
Not knowing what else to do, she followed him. "Are we going to fight them?"
"Fight them?" He looked appalled at the suggestion. "We're going to run. The Jolly Roger cannot beat four ships."
Run? She could see the sense in it, but it seemed unlike a man who prided himself on his superiority to turn tail. But perhaps the pirate valued his life more than his pride, after all.
"Can we outrun them?" She asked, hating how little she understood. Ignorance was bitter indeed.
He shook his head. "All four? No. But we will even the odds. Go down into your room." She turned to leave and his tone became a little gentler, "Miss Westwood, don't look so afraid. I will post men outside your door. No harm will come to you, you have my word."
She could hear the Captain bellowing for someone to bring him his guns and sword as she fled belowdecks.
Anna-Maria stewed inside her room for what felt like hours, feeling useless and angry. Angry at the Captain for refusing to teach her how to defend herself, and even angrier at herself for not sounding the alarm earlier. For how long had she stared at the 'sea-lights' before that blessed lightning had lit the sky? Her romantic nature would be the death of her, and could very well be the death of the entire crew, excluding the Captain of course, who was beyond death. Or so she believed.
She paced her room like a caged beast, shivering in the cold of her sopping wet dress but feeling far too nervous to change.
She almost lost her footing as she felt the ship turn sharply. And then she heard the great boom of cannonfire and cried out at the terrible noise, but on it went, round after round of it. She could hear the yells of the crew up above and felt the ship tremble beneath her. The other ships must have caught up. Had they been hit badly? Was she going to die?
What is happening up there?
Up on deck, the downpour had become a deluge as the sea and the sky unleashed all their fury upon the Jolly Roger.
Looming behind the helm, Captain Hook was furious but unbowed. He had not beaten Pan, banished age and infirmity and travelled to a new world to be sunk by the British Navy, and in his nightclothes, no less.
Hook did not know exactly what he was going to do to that wretched lookout, but it was going to have to be spectacular. They would have had no warning at all if not for the beautiful Anna-Maria's inclination for late-night brooding.
Thanks to her, they had outrun one man-of-war and another lagged far enough behind that it was probably out of the fight. Still, that damnably quick frigate was within range and the third man-of-war was not long behind.
The frigate was bold and started firing off its cannons, perhaps hoping to soften them up for the man-of-war. Hook pulled the ship hard leeward and missed the worst of it, but they were still hit. He sent five men down below to ascertain the severity and bail water, if necessary.
Bold or not, the frigate captain had been stupid to think they could threaten the Jolly Roger. She was quick, yes, but no match for his ship by herself. Hook narrowed his eyes, calculating, waiting for the right moment, then roared, "Fire the first volley!"
The men blasted the frigate with chain-shot at her sails to dismantle her. The frigate, in her haste, had drawn close enough to seal her fate. The sound of cannonfire was music to his ears, a balm for the wound inflicted on his pride. Even from this distance, he could hear the screams of the navy's dogs caught in the blast and the shrieking creak of the masts as the shot struck home.
His blood was up now, the shame of his failure forgotten. "Second volley, fire!" And the rest of the cannons let loose with their iron shots. Hook watched with savage joy as his cannons pummelled the frigate, blasting through her sides with overwhelming force.
Hook left her there in the water, with two masts ruined, a third hanging by a thread and gaping holes in her hull. He ordered the light guns to destroy the longboats as they were being lowered as a final act of spite and cunning. He was willing to bet that the man-of-war behind them would stop to rescue its crew, and that their bravery and charity would give him the time to slip away. As much as he would have loved to decimate the frigate further, he could not let the other three ships catch up to him.
Hook drove the Jolly Roger on, leaving the frigate to die of her wounds.
Anna-Maria had her face pressed to the window, trying to understand what was going on. All she could see was the occasional of cannonfire and lightning setting the sky ablaze. They had stopped for a while, but now they started up again in an incessant roar. The noise sounded louder than before, and more than once she felt the ship shudder and groan beneath her. How many ships were they fighting? Were they winning?
She felt helpless, as helpless as she had been when she had first come aboard. The ship could go down tonight and she would be alone. She would not drown in the water, she knew that for a fact, but how could she ever find her way to land? Could she survive on seawater and the scraps that sharks left behind?
She heard smaller blasts and frowned. Musket fire? Had the navy ship drawn that close? She could hear a voice, unmistakably the Captain's, screaming something, and then the rest of the crew roaring in reply.
She shuddered. A sense of doom fell on her.
In an astonishing display of good sense and bloodlust, the man-of-war had left the drowning men behind and had chased after the Jolly Roger with all haste. Hook could have almost admired that, if their uncharacteristic tactical thinking had not been so damned inconvenient.
The navy vessel was state of the art, and her Captain could sail a ship, Hook reluctantly noted. Few ships on the sea could keep pace with the Jolly Roger, but this man-of-war was one of them. The ship drew closer and closer until finally, they were alongside.
The navy crew wasted no time at all. Their officers bellowed out their orders, and the crew made haste to follow them. Despite the best efforts of his musketiers, one grappling hook found purchase on the decks, and then another, and in no time at all the Jolly Roger was boarded by waves of enemies.
The deck became a charnel house.
Hook relinquished the helm to a lesser man with a sneer and drew his sword in readiness. His heart was racing, delight and hate warring for supremacy as the first usurping boots hit the deck. His deck.
Time vanished, and he could see nothing, think of nothing, but the foes before him. The planks were slick with gore and littered with the bodies of the dead, and the night was alive with the battle cries of the living and the wails of the dying.
Hook stood in the center of it. He had become a maelstrom in his own right. His hook gutted any man foolish enough to think a one-handed man easy prey, and his sword slung ruin all about him.
His rage was upon him as rain and blood poured into his eyes. Hook cut the throat of the sailor in his grasp with a flick of his wrist and kicked him down to join his fellows. Another took his place in a moment, only to be skewered by the point of his sword. He gave a satisfied sigh and struck the man with the flat side of his hook, sending him flying back into the sea.
His blood sang in his veins. This was what it was to be alive.
It was not enough. These peons could not hope to stand against him. Where are my worthy foes? Enraged, he bellowed, "Show yourself, any man who calls himself a Captain! I will send you back home in pieces!"
He could hear Long Eye's bashful reply from across the decks. Only Long Eye could yell bashfully. "I killed him, sir. Ten minutes ago."
Hook cursed under his breath and took his revenge on a man trying to hide himself under the body of a dead pirate. Damn that sharp-shooting-
But if the Captain was dead, who was left? With a snarl, he pulled himself back into the present for just long enough to take stock of the situation.
He could see dozens of uniformed men still living, determined to make heroes of themselves. There was barely enough room to swing a sword, and yet still they kept at it. It was madness. No method or strategy other than to kill anyone they could, whenever they could. He looked at them with open contempt. They all looked terrified. Half of them were little more than boys and were struggling to keep their feet in the downpour. They had never seen a fight like this, most likely. They had chased after him expecting to drive him to his knees, begging for mercy like a common brigand. At worst, they had expected a brief clash alongside the superior force of their fellow ships. They had never planned for this desperate, red slaughter under a moonless sky.
And what of his own crew? The pirates fought like men possessed and the superior training of the legitimate sailors was close to crumbling under their sheer ferocity.
Beside him was Saltson, the hulking african cutting down man after man with expert precision. Hook was confident that no man could come at him from that direction. Closer to the bowsprit, Rickshaw stood front and center of a gang of bullies with his hatchet in one hand and a cutlass in the other. What he lacked in technical skill he made up for in sheer speed and the violent enthusiasm which Hook had seen in him from the start, hacking at sailors and slitting open their bellies by turn. With Toothless behind him, picking off men before they got too close with his pistols, Hook thought they would hold.
Hook was no green boy, so he did not leave himself open by turning around, but by the swearing behind him, he knew Smee was still alive. If those screams were any indication, his bosun was probably twisting his sword in the guts of some sailor.
He had positioned Long Eye, his best musketeer aside from himself, behind a blockade of barrels further down the deck. If he had killed the Captain already, he would now be diligently picking off his other targets; officers aboard the enemy ship and anyone running messages to them. His task was to pull the men still on the man-of-war down into chaos from a safe distance. Guarding him would be George, if he still lived, burying his axe into any man who made it far enough to harass the gunman.
The rest of the crew were either fighting for their lives in the melee or shooting at men still boarding. Someone somewhere- Jack?- was throwing grenades onto the deck of the man-of-war. Beneath him, the gunners on the lower decks still unleashed thunder on the enemy ship. He could trust them to do their jobs, at least. Since Neverland, he had made a point of improving both his cannons and the training of the canonniers.
Without the orders of their superiors to guide them, the navy ship had stopped using its cannon altogether in favour of boarding men, and there could be well over a hundred yet to board. They did not seem blessed with fighters the calibre of Long Eye and Saltson, but the sheer number of them was weighing him down.
For now, the fight was going his way. But he knew that if the other ships caught up, the Jolly Roger would be finished. He needed to end this quickly.
Hook spared a moment, as he was shooting a man through the eye, to regret the fact that during the best fight of the past several decades, he was not looking his best. He bludgeoned another man with the butt of his pistol and kicked him into the teething mass of fighting behind him.
"Captain!" He heard Smee panting behind him. "You're needed on the poop deck! The men there are being overrun!"
Forgetting the astounding skill of his elites for a moment, Hook thought bitterly, without me, would anything get done aboard this ship? He growled, "Saltson, Smee, with me!"
Inch by inch, the three pirates stabbed, shot and beheaded their way down the ship. They could not take a single step without having to murder for it, so inviting a target was the Captain. Dozens lay dead in their wake. By the time they reached the main mast, it seemed that he had killed half the men in the world. Drinker of the well or not, Hook was gasping for breath. He spared a glance for Smee and Saltson. Smee looked ready to collapse, and even the great Saltson appeared winded.
And still more men were boarding.
Hunkering down by Long Eye, he took up his best musket and, taking careful aim, shot three such men into the sea in quick succession. "Hold, dogs! Drive them back!"
Behind him, unnoticed in all the red chaos, a group of uniformed men crept down the stairs and belowdecks.
Anna-Maria was both transfixed and horrified at the sounds coming from up above. She had never heard such screams and ululating screeches in all her life. It sounded like a portal to hell had been opened on the decks of the Jolly Roger. How many of her friends had been pulled down into it?
How had this happened? Everything had gone so wrong so quickly. They had been taken almost completely unawares. And Captain Hook had seemed so confident only a few days ago, so assured that no-one could possibly present them with any real challenge.
His pride could get them all killed. His pride, and her stupidity. What a pair of fools they made.
She heard a noise. It grew louder. Men talking?
Her heart stopped in her chest. She knew the voices of just about every man on the ship, and those were not Jolly Roger men. It could only be the navy sailors.
She heard their steps down the corridor and she stood stock still in a moment of stupid panic.
There was gunfire, cries of pain, and then she heard something hit the floor. Several somethings. Her mouth went dry and she began to tremble. Her guards, not blessed with her keen senses, had just been killed.
Then she heard a bang that sounded like a door being flung open. They were searching the rooms!
She could hear one man protesting belligerently. "I still say we should have gone to the Captain's quarters."
What would she do? How close were they?
"You saw how many men held it! I've never seen such killing. Was that man in the night robe their Captain? The further we are from him, the better. Leave the men up there to handle him."
Another man spoke up. They were coming closer and closer. "There'll be something down here for us, lads, mark my words. Pirates keep most of it belowdecks."
One man said slowly, thoughtfully. "Stands to reason, that if three men are guarding a door in the middle of a fight-"
Another man finished his sentence excitedly, "Then there must be something behind it."
Swallowing a squeak, she hid beside the door. She clapped her hands in front of her mouth to muffle the sounds of her breathing, which to her suddenly seemed very loud indeed.
The door to her dressing room swung wide open, almost flattening her. The floorboards creaked as men stepped inside.
Where is the magic of the Wendy when I need it? Hook thought. He could feel himself growing more fatigued with every swing of the sword. He had been forced to throw down his musket when a knot of sailors had made a desperate, reckless effort to rush him. He had butchered them, of course, but he was paying the price for it now.
The sailors were flagging. In the face of such violence, some had lost their discipline entirely and were trying to get back aboard their sinking ship. It did not matter.
On the horizon, Hook could see the other man-of-war gaining on them.
If he could not end this soon and get the men back at the sails and his hand on the helm, it made no difference if they routed the boarding party. The other ships would finish them off without having to field a single man. The Jolly Roger had taken damage before the canonniers of the navy had abandoned their posts, he knew that much. Another round of solid cannonfire, and they would go down. Down into the sea, filled with monsters.
He would fall on his sword before he let the sea devour him.
A wild-eyed boy threw himself at him and dealt him a stinging slash across his chest while he was distracted. Time stood stock-still and they both looked at the wound, the boy just as shocked as he that his defenses had been broken.
Then the lad smiled, a slow, arrogant smile, and there was something of Pan in it, and Hook's bitter hatred gave him the strength to cut the boy and his damned smile in half. He staggered with weakness, but still they kept coming, driven by heroism and madness to bring him down.
Just when he had abandoned hope, he felt it. Within his chest he felt the last dregs of Wendy Magic stir fitfully. But it did not take. With every movement he made, he grew more and more exhausted.
Come on, come on, girl! Don't abandon me now! He shot a man through the heart with his last loaded pistol. The flame of providence sparked, then ignited. His strength returned to him and lightning raced up and down his veins, and he knew his eyes were glowing red.
Hook began to laugh again.
The men sounded… confused. They muttered to each other as they rifled through her belongings.
"What is all this? Books? Drawings? Do pirates draw?"
Anna-Maria could see some of them through the crack of the door. If they turned, they would see her skirts. She pressed herself against the wall even further. How could they not hear her heart clamouring?
"Why would they guard all this? Where's the treasure?"
"Look here, under the bed! A trunk!"
A laugh. "Now that'll be treasure!"
She couldn't stay where she was. They could turn around at any moment and see her. She had to get out of here.
Holding her breath, she inched out from behind the door. She could see them clearly now. Five men in navy uniforms. All armed to the teeth. Not taking her eyes from them, she took half-steps backwards, towards the corridor. Her lungs were burning.
She watched one of the men throwing her trunk open with a heart filled with dread. The sailor hesitated, then pulled out one of her dresses with a shaking hand.
"A woman!" He cried out incredulously.
The floorboard under her creaked as she stepped out into the corridor.
As one, the men turned their heads, and saw her.
There was a moment, a long moment, where none of them moved. She could not have said who was more shocked; herself, or the men. She looked at them, and they looked at her. She could no longer hear the cannons, the sound of her heart, anything. Every sense she possessed was so utterly focused on the men in her room. Then the man holding her dress clenched his fist, crumpling it.
One of them hissed, "Pirate whore." And the air thrummed with something dark and dangerous.
In the dark of the night, she saw their faces change.
She screamed.
Her spirit took a shuddering step backwards and her body belonged to someone else; as far from her as her crewmates on the upper deck. She slammed the door to her dressing room shut and pulled at the bolt with shaking, sluggish hands, meaning to lock them inside. She was too slow. She'd only gotten it halfway locked when the door burst open, sending her flying back into the wall. Her feet tangled in the bodies of her dead guards and she went down, falling onto their still-warm corpses.
The first man stepped out into the corridor. He moved in a calculated prowl. He looked down at her with an expression that she had never seen before, not even on the pirates that had chased her on the island. Not even on Captain Hook.
She stared up at them, gasping with fear and drenched in sweat. She could hardly breathe. She could not look away as the pack came out, surrounding her in a half-circle. Her hands started jittering over the bodies of her crewmates. They were chuckling. Her terror was funny to them. Her hands found what she was looking for; the butt of a pistol.
The men cocked their heads at her. She could see no fear in their eyes. She was a dog who had learned a new trick. She did not hesitate. She pointed the heavy gun at one of them and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happened.
She looked at the pistol incredulously.
One of the men shook his head. "You stupid slut."
He surged forward.
She threw the pistol at him, staggered to her feet and threw herself away from the wall, thinking only of getting away. Her stomach heaved but she kept her momentum, if only barely, picking up her skirts and fleeing down the dark corridor.
A man grabbed her by the waist before she made ten steps, hauling her up into the air. She reached beneath her shawl and threw the ink she found there at his face. He lurched back and clutched at his eyes, mouth agape in a silent scream, dropping her. She kept running, not even knowing where she was going. She felt a man seize her arm and wriggled out of his grasp with a kick and a frantic scream. An unsuspecting hand curled in her tentacles and drew back bloody and melting an instant later.
She turned a corner, feeling that she had run a mile. Indeed, she had come quite far, as ahead of her she saw the stairs that she knew led to the upper deck. Halfway down the stairs, another man stood in uniform. In his hand was a sword, lean and hungry. He looked her up and down with dead eyes. She almost fainted at the sight of him. She was tired, so so tired. She risked a glance over her shoulder at the metallic rasps of swords being drawn. Three men, perhaps ten feet away.
She could barely stand, barely even think. Oh God, Oh God ohgodohgodohgod. She cast a frantic eye about for something, anything, anyone, to help her.
On her right, she saw a heavy door with a light shining under it. There was someone there!
Hope, when she had thought all hope was gone. She threw herself against the door, hammering on it with all the strength she had in her body. She was weeping desperately enough to make her speech all but unintelligible, but still she managed, "Please, please let me in, oh please, oh please-"
The door swung open and she fell inside, against a mans chest. He shoved her aside and she fell to the floor, still crying. She looked up to see a giant of a man holding a massive cleaver in one hand. He thudded out of the room and slammed the door shut behind him.
In the corridor, the pack of men started to scream.
She raised her head.
She was in a room that smelled overpoweringly of food. It was lit by several glass lamps and spluttering candles. Pots hung from the ceiling and cupboards and tables took up much of the space.
She jerked herself upright, seized a long thin knife from the nearest table, pulled herself across the kitchens and stumbled into a little larder, locking the door behind her. It had three bolts upon it, each heavier than the last. It was only when she drew the last of them closed that she fell back on her haunches.
She took a deep, gasping breath, and let it out. And another. And another.
Anna-Maria came back to herself within a few short minutes, snapping her awareness back into her body with a sharp gasp of surprise.
She found herself hunched in a little room, long and narrow, with every inch packed with every type of liquor imaginable. There were racks filled with absinthe, whiskey and rum, and barrels of wine.
She had found refuge in the Captain's private liquor horde.
It was funny, in a strange sort of way. Only she could find her mindless way into a drinking cache in a time of crisis.
As the thudding of her heart subsided, the sounds of the battle above drifted down into her ears. Her heart ached to hear the screams of the dying and she wondered if any of them might be coming from those that she cared about.
She should be with them. She did not know how to fight, it was true, but she could be doing something. She touched her tentacles and found them dull and unresponsive beneath her fingers. She knew that she would get no more help from the supernatural side of herself tonight. She must have drained them in her earlier struggles. Even curses had their limits, apparently.
As comforting as that thought might be, it would make her all but useless in a fight. Worse; she might serve as a distraction. But still she felt she had to go. At the very least she should not be hiding away like a mouse in its hole.
Bringing herself to her feet she took a shaking breath and took the bolt of the first lock in her shaking fingers and tried to draw it free. But her cowardly fingers would not obey her. They stayed stuck on the bolt no matter how many times she tried. She remembered how men had become demons and chased her, and she wanted to be sick. Her fingers fell from the bolt in defeat. She could not leave.
A thought snuck across her mind. What if the crew of the Jolly Roger were losing? What if they had been overwhelmed?
The thought felt treacherous. This was her ship, at least in part. She was a part of this crew. How could she even think that they had lost?
But if the navy-men had made it below decks to abuse her, that must mean things were very bad indeed. Getting down here would mean getting past Captain Hook, the man who could not die, the man Saltson claimed was the best sword and the best shot on the seven seas. The man who had swallowed her ink and lived, and followed her into the sea where the sharks awaited, and told her stories there.
For all his faults, she thought that Captain Hook was every bit as formidable as his subordinates believed him to be. Beyond death and likely beyond defeat. But still, the men had snuck past him. He was not infallible, not all-seeing. Perhaps his wits and his strength had failed him at last. He could not be killed, but what if he had been restrained? Locked up in chains? Could such a thing happen?
And if Captain Hook had somehow been beaten, the rest of the crew were likely dead, and she would be soon to follow.
She glanced down to see that the carving knife was still in her hand. She could no more release it that she could open the door. She sank down to the floor again, grabbing a bottle of something as she went down.
She was halfway through the bottle of what turned out to be rum when she heard a timid knock at the door. She raised her knife in a sharp flinch.
A voice like a boulder falling down a mountainside came from the other side of the door. "Lady? Are you alright in there?"
She was so dumbstruck by the suddenness of the voice that she did not say anything, and only put down her bottle and gripped the knife tighter.
There was a firmer knock. "Lady? Don't drink everything in there. Please come out."
But Anna-Maria could not come out, try though she might, nor even say a word. All Cook's hammerings and rumbling entreaties got him nowhere.
The battle for the Jolly Roger was won within minutes of the Wendy-magic taking wing once more. Hook had thrown the last of his enemies overboard himself after spitting him on his hook. It had been an act of foolish bravado on his part, but he had needed to do it.
The victory went without much celebration. The survivors were too wounded, too exhausted and too few to be hearty. Smee was rounding up those men who were still fit to work and pressing them to their duty. They did not take much convincing, veteran pirates that they were. A precious minute or so of rest was all they needed before they began the task of taking the wounded belowdecks, or turning their attention to the sails and the hull.
Hook had been at the helm for less than fifteen minutes when it occurred to him that there was something missing. Someone, rather.
Where was Anna-Maria? Why had she not come to congratulate him? Could it be that she was still sequestered in her room? He frowned deeply. But why would she be? Her guards would have told her of the victory, and then she would have come up for news of how her 'children' had fared, if not for him.
He could not ignore her absence, now that he had noticed it. Where was she? The entire crew, what was left of the crew, had cheered him when he had killed the last of the navy on board. They would have carried him about the deck on their shoulders, if they had had the strength. But still his victory tasted false in his mouth. Incomplete.
And then Hook saw Smee approaching, face pale with dread. Seeing his bosun so afraid, countless visions of what might have happened played out in his mind, all ending with her dead or dying. His hand fell from the helm. Smee was barely halfway through his rambling retelling when Hook became so consumed by anger and worry that he forgot the aches and pains of his body and made his way to the kitchens as swiftly as possible.
He took in the numerous butchered and bloodied remains in the corridor with cool satisfaction and strode in, seeing the indomitable Cook on his knees before the door to his own personal drinking cellar. He knew without question that Anna-Maria would be behind it.
At an imperious wave of his Captain's hand, Cook fell back faithfully. Preparing to be spat at, Hook rapped upon the door.
"Miss Westwood? Can you hear me?"
But Anna-Maria gave no reply. How could she put into words the tremendous relief she felt at hearing his voice? If he was alive, the ship was saved. She was saved. Her head was swimming, but finally her fear was gone.
Offended by her silence, Hook looked at Cook with a raised eyebrow, but Cook said nothing. He was staring at the door as if enraptured. Well, perhaps that is to be expected, Hook thought. Anna-Maria had a way of making an impression.
Hook gentled his voice; no mean feat after so much bloodletting. "Anna?"
Almost immediately came the response, "Do not call me that."
His lips twitched. Despite everything, there was that haughty pride he liked so much. "Forgive me. Do open the door."
Inside the room, Anna-Maria shook her head, weary down to her bones. She looked around herself helplessly. "I can't."
His voice sounded almost tender, "Yes, you can. You are safe. They are all dead, and we are away. Come out of there."
Another pause, and then he heard the locks being pulled free. Hook drew his robe over his sword. There was no helping the blood on his clothes and the gore in his hair, but he could at least appear unarmed.
The last lock drew open. He stretched his teeth in the best smile he could manage. The impression was somewhat ruined by Cook's hulking presence behind him; near seven foot tall and wide enough to appear a friendly sort of man, if you did not look close enough at the many scars on his face and throat. Behind his back, he flicked his hook impatiently at Cook and heard him fall back. He opened the door slowly, trying not to frighten her.
And there she was. She was swaying on her feet, her eyes wide and lifeless. She looked exhausted; like all the spirit had been wrung right out of her and only a shell remained. Anna-Maria held a knife by the tips of her fingers.
To see her so struck down robbed him of his speech. Did she even recognise him? The knife dropped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, and a knot of worry loosened in his chest. She could not harm herself. Or him.
Weak as a fawn, Anna-Maria wobbled past him and fell straight into Cook's arms, sobbing in gratitude. "Thank you, thank you."
Cook looked down at the woman in his arms in wordless shock. Inside him, the unquiet spirit of hate stirred and he felt his hook whispering to him as it had not in many years.
Kill him, the iron whispered.
Cook smiled hesitantly, confused but undeniably flattered as Anna-Maria's shoulders heaved, and the whisper in Hook's mind became a howl; Kill him! His need to murder, to crush and splinter, was all-encompassing. He need only pluck Anna-Maria from Cook's treacherous arms, and then-
No. No. He had come too far to throw it all away now. It took all his will to swallow down his jealousy, but he did it.
Still, he thought he might ruminate on it later.
But this is not the time, he thought. Anna-Maria was still distraught, even as she peeled herself from Cook's embrace. She was still so weak.
He did not know how to comfort her, but he tried regardless, "Brave snake, it is alright. You must go to your room, you need rest-"
He saw her refusal in her eyes at the mere suggestion, though she was too proud to openly admit her fear in front of him.
Still, the fact remained. She could not go to her room. Very well.
"Not there, then. But to bed with you."
The only other bed was in his room, so he had Cook carry her there while he walked just ahead. It rankled him to allow him to touch her again, but he was in no fit state to manage it. The crew, sensing his anger, fled before him, and he was in his quarters before long. Tucked into a corner of the room was an unobtrusive carved door which he threw open to reveal his bedchamber.
Cook dawdled at the threshold, shuffling from one huge foot to the other, and Hook beckoned him in with a hiss. He had Cook lay Anna-Maria down on his bed, then sent him off to find Smee. Cook had to duck his head to leave the room.
He paced his room for a short while, seeing that everything was just as he had left it, while he waited for Smee to show himself.
He adjusted a painting of a tiger hunt that did not need adjusting. He checked to make sure that the rifles mounted on the walls were loaded, which he knew that they were, for he checked them every morning and every night. He rifled through his chest, counting the minutes.
Unable to put it off any longer, he crossed the room to where she lay. He looked down at her and saw that Anna-Maria was already asleep, head lolling on a pillow as big as she was, lips parted in slumber.
Here she was, at last, in his inner sanctum, which no crewman would dare enter without his explicit invitation. She was here, and he could barely recognise her. Sleep had robbed her of her spite and her vanity and her laughter and made her something less than what she was. With the exception of her tantalising monstrosity, she was nothing that he had not seen before.
It was a hateful sight. This was not how he had imagined her in his bed. She was only here because she could not bear to return to her own quarters. She was only here because the rest of the crew slept on sacks and hammocks. She was not here because she wanted him. Nothing was as it should be between them.
Resentment clouded his vision, and he saw in his mind's-eye how it should be. And, yes, how it might never be. It was only his fear of waking her that kept him from going on a rampage.
If he saw aversion in Anna-Maria's eyes as she lay in his bed, he did not know what he would do.
It had been a mistake to bring her here. A tremor came over him and his hand shook so badly he had to brace it against his chest, and suddenly he wanted a drink more than he wanted to breathe. Almost as much as he wanted her.
He heaved in a calming breath. He was not himself. Or, rather, he was too much himself. The battle had gotten to him. It had been unwanted, unprovoked, and far too personal. Anger and self pity made his hand clumsier than usual, and Hook was struggling to light a few candles when Smee finally came in.
The bosun could barely walk, but he managed to look ready for duty nonetheless. "You called, Sir?"
Useless. Hook gave up on the candles with a snarl, and Smee flinched back.
Hook did not allow himself to feel pity for his dogs, as a rule. But there was something so terribly pathetic about Smee that sometimes he lowered himself to manage it. It was for this reason, as on many occasions before this, that Hook did not finally do away with Smee altogether.
Hook said curtly, "Get her out of those wet clothes and into something warm, then join me on deck."
This was not a time to pine over a woman who might still be his. He had work to do.
Smee had received stranger orders, and was already carrying them out as Hook left the room to supervise the repairs and the sea-burial of the dead.
A very long author's note on the Jolly Roger:
In the film, Wendy identifies the Jolly Roger as a forty gunner. This would give her as many guns as the legendary Queen Anne's Revenge, which sailed only a little after this fic is set. That sounds like a lot of guns, right? But in reality, this would put the Jolly Roger as being below even a fourth-rate naval vessel of that time.
*puts on my best Smee voice* Rather tragic, really.
Still, this is all very well and good if Hook's only opponents are some 'savages' and Lost Boys, so in the context of Neverland, this is fine. But we ain't in Neverland anymore, Toto, and I have found that first-rate ships of that time period would have a whopping one hundred guns, spread over as many as three decks of cannon. Literally, the only reason pirate ships were as effective as they were was because they often travelled in groups/fleets and often went up against merchant vessels, so when you consider the Jolly Roger fighting alone, armed with a mere forty cannon… You can see how that would end, without the blessing of the Wendy-magic. So, bearing in mind that I have to keep Hook competitive, I've had him upgrade his ship since Neverland, putting the Jolly Roger at approx sixty-seventy cannon. Hook's solitary pirating style makes him a pretty shitty Captain, so we have to make sure his ship is packing one hell of a punch to make up for it. This is why he was able to destroy the frigate so easily as soon as he got it in a one-on-one situation.
So, while Hook may not have as many cannon as many navy ships, he could definitely outgun pretty much anything else on the sea, and that's not even taking his Wendy-Magic into consideration, which, up until about this stage, has enabled him to defeat ships far larger and more powerful than his own.
Hope that's cleared some stuff up, but please let me know if you have any other questions. Please let me know what you think of this chapter! We've officially crossed the 100k word mark now, and we're halfway through Part 2! Feels like a huge achievement. This chapter and next chapter make their own little mini-arc and I love it tbh, probably my fave part of the story.
Reviews breathe life into my body. Please leave them. ;)