Chapter 5
Hook watched and listened to the two children speak and he felt a lead weight growing in his heart. He wasn't used to feeling guilt, and he didn't like it. Damn that boy! Damn him for spiting me to the end! I fight him for years, intending to kill him, and yet he escapes me every time. But for once I intend for him to live, and he decides to die! He wanted to blame the boy, wanted to believe that the child was giving up too easily. I lived through it, why won't he? He knew it was irrational. Peter was much weaker, physically, than he was, and it was a grave wound that he'd given the child. It really had been a miracle that he himself had survived. I remember Pan coming to my room when I was ill… Smee was always asleep then. Pan would come and play his damned pipes and I'd feel better when he left. But I still wanted to tear his throat out while he was here.
The things Peter said to the girl disturbed Hook. The boy was giving up and preparing to die. Hook had been like that for a short time. His grief for his loss and his shame in letting a child disfigure him had driven him to the depths of depression. He would have died had he not found something to live for. He'd lived for Pan. He'd found his rage and vowed he'd recover and kill the brat. And now the boy lay dying, and he began to wonder what he'd live for once the child passed on.
Hook smirked as Wendy bent to kiss Peter, but soon that smirk faded to open mouthed wonder. A soft glow arose around the two children, like a white mist. It seemed to rise off of Peter to surround them for a few long moments before disappearing into Wendy. Only then did Wendy break the kiss, and when she slowly sat back up, Hook saw that Peter's eyes were closed.
"By Pew's deadlights, what was that?" Hook asked the girl.
Wendy ignored him; instead she wiped Peter's face until all the tears were dry, then she straightened the blankets around the boy. "Goodbye, Peter," she whispered and gave him another gentle kiss to the cheek. Only then did she stand and look at Hook, and the man nearly dropped his book at the gaze she affixed upon him. She was changed, he could see that in an instant. Her eyes held all the wildness, all the innocence and wonder that Peter Pan's eyes once held. She's just like him now.
"He's going to die," she said softly, "and you killed him. I love him and you killed him."
"Aye," Hook agreed. There was no point in denying, and he offered no excuses. It didn't matter if he intended for Peter to live or not, the boy was dying as a result of what he'd done. But he steeled himself for an attack. He had no doubt that if Wendy attacked him, he could defeat her. But if she was like Pan now, she may be able to give him a good run first.
"I want nothing more that to kill you, Codfish," Wendy said as she took to the air, flying to hover halfway between Hook and the bed. "I want to hurt you like you hurt him, to rid Neverland of you forever!" Her fists came up as her voice rose, and Hook could see her shaking. Wendy took a deep breath, though, and calmed down. "But he doesn't want me to. You've already been hurt like he's hurting, and he thinks its still between you and him. I know what Peter knows now, though I don't understand it. I have to go home, to see Tinkerbell and tell her what's happened. I have to comfort my boys. Will you stand in my way, or do I get to kill you after all?"
Hook shrugged. "I care nothing for you, girl, so you can go where you wish. Peter is mine, though, so you'll go nowhere with him."
Wendy's eyes narrowed in fury, but she said nothing. Instead she flew to the window, unlatched it, and left. Several seconds passed after she disappeared before Hook remembered to breathe. Somehow the thought of Wendy Darling with Peter Pan's abilities frightened him. She had much more conviction, and a woman in a protective fury was a force Hell itself could not rival.
Hook glanced at the box on his desk. If Wendy knew what was in there, she really would try to kill him. Cookson had brought it to him earlier today, and he'd spent much time debating what he was going to do with it. He'd commissioned the man to preserve the bones of Peter's hand, and given him strict instructions on how to do it. None of the crew had been able to eat Cookson's fare for two days, the pot of water boiling on the stove, cooking the flesh off the hand, had sickened them all too much. Mason had foolishly made the comment "Pan soup" the first morning, to which everyone that was near enough to smell the evil brew had turned green. Billy Jukes had thrown up on the carpenter. Once only the bones were left, Cookson had let them dry out and then given them to his Captain.
Hook put his hand on the box and smiled. My trophy. Much better to keep it than to put it in the belly of the croc. If he dies, I'll always have this as a reminder of my victory. He opened his book again and returned to reading. Unnoticed and forgotten by the door, Smee went to the bed to check on his young charge.
Hours later, Peter opened his eyes for one last time. Smee was asleep, but Hook was just beginning to get ready to turn in and sleep on the thin pallet on the floor. He heard the boy's low moan, saw him shift in the bed, and decided to see what he needed instead of waking the bosun. He wetted the cloth again and put it to Peter's lips. At the cold contact, the boy opened his eyes and stared at Hook.
"I hate you," the boy croaked.
"Am I supposed to be surprised by that?" Hook asked mildly, letting the water drip onto the cracked lips. Peter caught the drops with his tongue and gave a soft, regretful smile.
"What's it like to grow up? Does it hurt?" he asked.
Hook thought for a moment, remembering his years as a youth at Eton. "Yes, in a way it does," he answered. "Its not a sudden hurt, it's a long drawn out kind of hurting that sometimes never goes away."
"I suppose that's why grown-ups are so bitter," Peter mused. "I'm glad I'll never know that bitterness myself."
Hook began rubbing the boy's face with the wet cloth. The fire in the child's skin was unbelievable, so he tried his best to give Peter some kind of relief. "You would have made a fine man one day," he offered.
Peter laughed, but the sound caught in his chest and turned into coughing. "No," he gasped when he caught his breath. "I knew I'd die a child."
Hook said nothing, instead he re-wet the cloth and continued bathing the feverish boy. Peter also remained quiet, his eyes closing as he savored the coolness of the rag. After awhile, Hook set the rag aside, thinking the boy was asleep.
"I'm sorry," Peter said softly.
"Pardon?" Hook asked, startled.
"I'm sorry I hurt you, Captain," Peter repeated, his voice halting and weak. It was harder to stay awake, but he needed to speak. "Forgive me?"
Hook stared at the boy, incredulous. "Forgive you?" he asked at last, his voice filled with disdain. "It's a little late for forgiveness, boy! If you'd truly regretted harming me, you'd have asked for forgiveness long before now."
Peter stared at Hook, tears welling up again. But he didn't ask again or argue with the man. Finally Hook stood and finished getting ready for bed. Once he was done, he turned to look at the child. Something wasn't right, he noticed that right off, but it took him several seconds to figure out what it was. Peter's eyes were closed and he looked to be asleep. Then the Captain realized that he wasn't breathing. Peter Pan was dead.
Hook didn't sleep that night, and Smee sat up with him, making the boy's shroud. They committed his body to the sea at first light, which the mermaids promptly claimed and carried away to the group of children, fairies and Indians standing upon the shore. Hook wore the pouch for the first time that day, and not a day passed afterwards that it wasn't around his neck. They were sailing away from the island before the boy's body had even reached the shore.