Title: Island
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook. I do not have the executive right to declare war on other countries without the approval of congress. Woops.
Notes: Oh my! Reviews! Man, a review is a wonderful thing. To quote Best Week Ever, "It's like candy, only more informative." So keep those coming, because they make me feel warm and slightly hyperactive.
The song in this chapter is 'Gather Ye Roses While Ye May.' Barrie cited it in his notes for Peter Pan, but never used it. It was popular during the time Wendy grew up.
Chapter Twelve: Ashes
Wendy was quite alone. Her captor had deposited her in Hook's cabin after receiving an off-hand order from the Captain. He had taken time only to remove her gag and bid her to wait before leaving her. She heard the thud and scrape of a bar moving into place across the door, and with a cold sinking in her chest accepted that she was quite trapped.
She surveyed the cabin in silence, fingertips rubbing the slightly chafed corners of her mouth absently. Wendy circled the perimeter slowly, peering at the trophies and pictures in the well-oiled wood and glass cases. Occasionally her hand would rest on an ornate piece of furniture. The air was cramped and smelled of kerosene and burning candles, and the light was the low sort that trembled up and down the walls with the rock of the boat.
There were framed portraits behind the glass, all of a boy of varying age, but always with the same dark curls. Even in the dull of charcoal sketches, the eyes seemed strikingly blue. There were listings of accomplishments, too, most of them containing the words 'Eton College' in the heading. They grew distinctly sparse as the boy grew older, it seemed.
For the briefest moment, she had the fleeting notion that this was not Neverland where dreams could not be summoned, but someplace else where they flourished and did not fade like the portraits on the walls. She felt that she might be able to lie down on the great bed and dream awhile, only to be woken by Michael's yells.
She crossed to the harpsichord bench and sat, a hand pressed to her side. Her lungs were tight, as if she was wearing stays. Mother's lullabies were warm inside the locket. Wendy breathed a great sigh and placed her hands upon the keys, pale fingers stroking them absently.
A high quavering note leapt into the air. Wendy did not realize she had pressed the key until the note was dying. Another note bloomed and withered, and then another, until one could not tell when one stopped and another began.
It was a simple song, clear and soft and saccharine. It was not until Wendy sang that the notes began to ache.
'Gather ye roses while ye may, old time is still a-flying.'
The pirate shanties faded, and the ship ceased to rock. The light steadied.
'A world where beauty fleets away is no world for denying.'
The acrid smoke and pungent leather became lavender scented washing and rustling skirts.
'Come lads and lasses, fall to play, lose no more time in sighing.'
Michael was there, and the twins, whirling about in a game of ring around the rose-y. There was the pad of bare feet on carpet, and giggles drowning out the words.
'The very flowers you pluck to-day,'
Wendy closed her eyes, and there was her mother's smile. Ashes, ashes, sang Michael. Ashes, ashes, sang the twins.
'To-morrow will be dying,' Wendy's voice had grown very soft.
They shouted the last phrase, and then fell in a great pile of wriggling limbs and laughing eyes. Her mother's lips stilled, and then the limbs stilled and the eyes were vacant.
'And all the flowers are crying,' sang Wendy.
Ashes, ashes; the children were cold, her mother was cold; all turning gray like charcoal sketches.
'And all the leaves have tongues to say-'
Striking blue eyes; Hook's eyes, her father's eyes, her eyes. Their lights went out. And there was Peter Pan, crowing.
'Gather ye roses while ye may.'
The last notes faded into a velvet silence.
'Beautiful, Wendy. Beautiful,' said Hook, his deep voice disembodied until he stepped from the shadows. Wendy flinched, and her hands left the keys. She had not heard him enter. Quite suddenly, the ship was swaying, the lights were flickering, and the taste of the air was caustic. Wendy stood. Hook waved his hand dismissively, and she sat slowly.
'But so sad,' he continued. He no longer used the theatric sympathy that had so drawn her as a little girl, but his words were not genuine in the way he wanted them to be. Wendy was carefully stiff. 'I should think you would play happier songs here,' he finished. He remained standing, idly stroking his hook.
Wendy said nothing, and Hook's expression turned apologetic. He seated himself with a practiced flick of his coat tails. 'I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, my beauty. I only wondered why you chose that song in particular.'
The purred endearment did nothing to lessen Wendy's discomfort, but she hid it well. Her voice was appropriately soft, and even. 'It reminds me of,' she hesitated. She thought of home, then whispered, 'Peter.'
'Pan has all the time in the world to gather roses.'
'But he doesn't.'
Hook frowned and looked at Wendy. Her expression had not changed. There was almost a sense of loss within the Captain, for little Wendy had clearly forgotten her way to the surface of this porcelain young woman before him. 'Whatever do you mean?' he said in a measured voice.
'He only looks at them. He has never seen a rose.' Her eyes were on her hands, demure and still in her lap. 'He might have glimpsed one once, but he has forgotten.' She looked up and bravely met the Captain's eyes. 'He has handfuls of weeds, Captain. He does not know the difference.' There was hurt, somewhere, but her voice was as rigid as her posture.
Hook's hand was loose on his mouth, his eyes pensive. At first his words were muted when he spoke, but then he dropped his hand. 'Everything is the same to one who does not think.' He was sealing something, he knew, something detrimental to dear Pan. One could almost think it unintentional; his tone was so sincerely grave. But even if Hook would not admit it, all of his words had their roots in Pan.
He does not think. Wendy's hand was on the locket, but she did not notice.
Take it back, Wendy. Now her fingertips touched the kiss. No, not a kiss, an acorn. Take it back, Wendy. Just an acorn. Her eyes fell.
For the second time in one day, Wendy knew that she was breaking.
Hook's hand was on his hook, and his expression was unreadable. He knew he would not be able to wipe away any tears if they fell. Something in him knotted in irritation, for dear Wendy was no longer malleable. But she had more feeling than this, he knew; it was trembling just behind her eyes. He reached to his left and poured a glass of rum, then offered it to Wendy.
Wendy looked up. This was the chivalrous Hook she remembered, but his smile did not patronize, nor did it pity. She took the glass delicately, but did not drink. 'Thank you,' said propriety.
He murmured a dismissal while doctoring his own drink. He held the crystal artfully in his good hand and turned back to her, his eyes still that odd, toneless blue. There was a long silence as he swirled the liquor in his glass, the aroma just reaching him when he looked back to her. 'Do you still tell your stories, Wendy?' Jas. Hook was still vain.
Wendy did not answer, for at that precise moment there rang a loud, jarring crow. Despite its battered state, Wendy's heart rose. Peter Pan was calling out.
'Come out, Captain Codfish!'
Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan. I do not own Hook. I do not have the executive right to declare war on other countries without the approval of congress. Woops.
Notes: Oh my! Reviews! Man, a review is a wonderful thing. To quote Best Week Ever, "It's like candy, only more informative." So keep those coming, because they make me feel warm and slightly hyperactive.
The song in this chapter is 'Gather Ye Roses While Ye May.' Barrie cited it in his notes for Peter Pan, but never used it. It was popular during the time Wendy grew up.
Chapter Twelve: Ashes
Wendy was quite alone. Her captor had deposited her in Hook's cabin after receiving an off-hand order from the Captain. He had taken time only to remove her gag and bid her to wait before leaving her. She heard the thud and scrape of a bar moving into place across the door, and with a cold sinking in her chest accepted that she was quite trapped.
She surveyed the cabin in silence, fingertips rubbing the slightly chafed corners of her mouth absently. Wendy circled the perimeter slowly, peering at the trophies and pictures in the well-oiled wood and glass cases. Occasionally her hand would rest on an ornate piece of furniture. The air was cramped and smelled of kerosene and burning candles, and the light was the low sort that trembled up and down the walls with the rock of the boat.
There were framed portraits behind the glass, all of a boy of varying age, but always with the same dark curls. Even in the dull of charcoal sketches, the eyes seemed strikingly blue. There were listings of accomplishments, too, most of them containing the words 'Eton College' in the heading. They grew distinctly sparse as the boy grew older, it seemed.
For the briefest moment, she had the fleeting notion that this was not Neverland where dreams could not be summoned, but someplace else where they flourished and did not fade like the portraits on the walls. She felt that she might be able to lie down on the great bed and dream awhile, only to be woken by Michael's yells.
She crossed to the harpsichord bench and sat, a hand pressed to her side. Her lungs were tight, as if she was wearing stays. Mother's lullabies were warm inside the locket. Wendy breathed a great sigh and placed her hands upon the keys, pale fingers stroking them absently.
A high quavering note leapt into the air. Wendy did not realize she had pressed the key until the note was dying. Another note bloomed and withered, and then another, until one could not tell when one stopped and another began.
It was a simple song, clear and soft and saccharine. It was not until Wendy sang that the notes began to ache.
'Gather ye roses while ye may, old time is still a-flying.'
The pirate shanties faded, and the ship ceased to rock. The light steadied.
'A world where beauty fleets away is no world for denying.'
The acrid smoke and pungent leather became lavender scented washing and rustling skirts.
'Come lads and lasses, fall to play, lose no more time in sighing.'
Michael was there, and the twins, whirling about in a game of ring around the rose-y. There was the pad of bare feet on carpet, and giggles drowning out the words.
'The very flowers you pluck to-day,'
Wendy closed her eyes, and there was her mother's smile. Ashes, ashes, sang Michael. Ashes, ashes, sang the twins.
'To-morrow will be dying,' Wendy's voice had grown very soft.
They shouted the last phrase, and then fell in a great pile of wriggling limbs and laughing eyes. Her mother's lips stilled, and then the limbs stilled and the eyes were vacant.
'And all the flowers are crying,' sang Wendy.
Ashes, ashes; the children were cold, her mother was cold; all turning gray like charcoal sketches.
'And all the leaves have tongues to say-'
Striking blue eyes; Hook's eyes, her father's eyes, her eyes. Their lights went out. And there was Peter Pan, crowing.
'Gather ye roses while ye may.'
The last notes faded into a velvet silence.
'Beautiful, Wendy. Beautiful,' said Hook, his deep voice disembodied until he stepped from the shadows. Wendy flinched, and her hands left the keys. She had not heard him enter. Quite suddenly, the ship was swaying, the lights were flickering, and the taste of the air was caustic. Wendy stood. Hook waved his hand dismissively, and she sat slowly.
'But so sad,' he continued. He no longer used the theatric sympathy that had so drawn her as a little girl, but his words were not genuine in the way he wanted them to be. Wendy was carefully stiff. 'I should think you would play happier songs here,' he finished. He remained standing, idly stroking his hook.
Wendy said nothing, and Hook's expression turned apologetic. He seated himself with a practiced flick of his coat tails. 'I do not wish to make you uncomfortable, my beauty. I only wondered why you chose that song in particular.'
The purred endearment did nothing to lessen Wendy's discomfort, but she hid it well. Her voice was appropriately soft, and even. 'It reminds me of,' she hesitated. She thought of home, then whispered, 'Peter.'
'Pan has all the time in the world to gather roses.'
'But he doesn't.'
Hook frowned and looked at Wendy. Her expression had not changed. There was almost a sense of loss within the Captain, for little Wendy had clearly forgotten her way to the surface of this porcelain young woman before him. 'Whatever do you mean?' he said in a measured voice.
'He only looks at them. He has never seen a rose.' Her eyes were on her hands, demure and still in her lap. 'He might have glimpsed one once, but he has forgotten.' She looked up and bravely met the Captain's eyes. 'He has handfuls of weeds, Captain. He does not know the difference.' There was hurt, somewhere, but her voice was as rigid as her posture.
Hook's hand was loose on his mouth, his eyes pensive. At first his words were muted when he spoke, but then he dropped his hand. 'Everything is the same to one who does not think.' He was sealing something, he knew, something detrimental to dear Pan. One could almost think it unintentional; his tone was so sincerely grave. But even if Hook would not admit it, all of his words had their roots in Pan.
He does not think. Wendy's hand was on the locket, but she did not notice.
Take it back, Wendy. Now her fingertips touched the kiss. No, not a kiss, an acorn. Take it back, Wendy. Just an acorn. Her eyes fell.
For the second time in one day, Wendy knew that she was breaking.
Hook's hand was on his hook, and his expression was unreadable. He knew he would not be able to wipe away any tears if they fell. Something in him knotted in irritation, for dear Wendy was no longer malleable. But she had more feeling than this, he knew; it was trembling just behind her eyes. He reached to his left and poured a glass of rum, then offered it to Wendy.
Wendy looked up. This was the chivalrous Hook she remembered, but his smile did not patronize, nor did it pity. She took the glass delicately, but did not drink. 'Thank you,' said propriety.
He murmured a dismissal while doctoring his own drink. He held the crystal artfully in his good hand and turned back to her, his eyes still that odd, toneless blue. There was a long silence as he swirled the liquor in his glass, the aroma just reaching him when he looked back to her. 'Do you still tell your stories, Wendy?' Jas. Hook was still vain.
Wendy did not answer, for at that precise moment there rang a loud, jarring crow. Despite its battered state, Wendy's heart rose. Peter Pan was calling out.
'Come out, Captain Codfish!'
