Disclaimer: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to J.M Barrie. No infringement
is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from this story.
Summary: Hook does not hope, but he thinks, now, of Wendy Darling. The fourth in a series
of vignettes.
Author's note: Sorry about the confusion... I decided to post these as new chapters, instead.
There will be a couple more vignettes, before I'm done.



Time Without End
by Hereswith


He thought it might have been a dream, even though he remembered the moment of waking,
with the same sharp pain that he remembered opening his eyes, on that beach, covered in
blood, the crocodile's carcass beside him.

There had been other times when he had confused the two, dream and reality, as if they were,
somehow, interchangeable. As if they could not be separated, here, in this place, not by death
and certainly not by force of will.

Pan was aware, of course, that he was back, but things had been different, of late. A minute
might pass, during the course of the day, when the flying, flitting boy did not absorb the
whole of his attention. A girl did, instead. A woman. A Wendy. Captain Jas. Hook's very
own Red-Handed Jill, who had chosen not to be a pirate.

He had known her face, as soon as the lantern revealed it. Had recognised the eyes and the
mouth and the sound of her voice, if not the shape of her body. She had grown up. He could
not tower over her, now, but he found, much to his surprise, that he had no wish to. Her fear
did not call to him, did not stir him in that familiar fashion. He was far too tired, and he felt
older, more alone and about as done for as any man could, and still have a beating heart.

She had danced, once, in the air above a canopy of trees. On the island. In the jungle. It was
a stolen memory, frozen inside of him, like an insect caught in amber, wings forever unfurled.
He could picture them together, her and that wretched Pan, high on the wind, so pure and so
perfect it choked him. Because no such purity, no such utter perfection, could survive in his
care. His hand would sully it, and either one of his hooks would cause it to shrivel and rot.

But she had come to him and not, it seemed, to her precious Peter Pan. Wendy Darling had
come to Hook, and she had permitted him to touch her, while no part of him was metal and
steel. She had not flinched, at the sight of the stump. A brave Wendy, in truth. In that respect,
at least, she had not changed. And he was glad.

He did not hope; hope was not within his grasp. He spent his nights sitting in the chair, fully
dressed, trying to pretend he did not want.

No amount of rum could make him believe it.