This story takes place only a few years after Wendy's first visit to
Neverland with Peter Pan, so it is considered a follow-up to the 2003 P.J.
Hogan film Peter Pan (with some references to the original Barrie novel
[1911] and his own Peter Pan prequel, Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens
[1904]).
AUTHOR'S NOTE: In this chapter, it might help if you've read Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens.
This one is kind of short – almost more of an 'interlude' than a chapter really (hence the chapter title) – but of vital importance nonetheless! Hope y'all haven't been too terribly inconvenienced by my lollygagging. :-P
Again, I have no ownership of any of the characters or actors who portrayed them...If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfics, that's for sure! Heh!
Here's Chapter XVII .....more comments s'il vous plaît! :-)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
XVII. STRANGE INTERLUDES
Peter heard the call plainly. Though it was really not something which he could actually hear; it was more of a gut feeling, like one might have whence boarding a train or ship that is headed for some inevitable peril. And it was quite distinctive, often rousing him from the deepest of sleeps, as it had at this precise moment.
Another little boy had fallen from his pram.
On any other occasion, this awareness would have jerked Peter's attention from whatever frivolous activity in which he was partaking and sent him off straight away to Kensington Gardens to tend to the prospective new Lost Boy. But it was not so this particular morning – if one could even call it a 'morning'. The Boy really had no incentive whatsoever to rise from his loft and make the arduous journey to the Mainland. If it were not for Tinker Bell's incessant jingling, he may very have spent the entire day in bed, paying no heed at all to the distressed child calling out to him.
Thus with a fair degree of mumbling and grumbling, Peter wrenched himself awake and to his feet upon the floor of his empty hideout. He had not seen his four existing Lost Boys for a couple days at least, each one of them, having come to him at separate instants, clumsily requesting some such flippant trek within the island for a short spell. None had yet returned, and quite honestly, Peter had yet to be concerned.
His venture to Our World was quite tougher than typical and required much of Tinker Bell's stalwart aid. As they departed the island, it was all the will Peter could muster to not let his gaze wonder toward the Jolly Roger and his mind to amble over what number of wretched indecencies which he could not understand may be taking place therein. The dark ship paid him no mind as he left, as did seemingly most of Neverland – the only one to give him a wink and a glum smile was the Sun, hovering rather flaccidly at ten o'clock over the island. Strange, considering he should have been well risen to at least one-thirty by now.
Peter and Tinker Bell arrived in Kensington Gardens shortly after Closing Time, and already the entire park was abuzz with activity. Such a merry clamor normally met Peter Pan's arrival, but even here everything seemed very changed. Oh, he was greeted heartily and respectfully of course, but he could not help notice the sheepishness in the voices of the fairies as they said their hellos, or the disapproving glares of the swans as he passed the Round Pond. He knew that which vexed them, but he would never fess to it.
Through a maze of prudent whispers, the finches escorted Peter across the Serpentine to Bird Island, where the fallen child would be waiting in the temporary though very capable custody of Old Solomon Caw and his crows.
"Perhaps we should not let Peter take him," one crow suggested warily to Solomon.
The elder Caw scoffed at once. "If he does not take him, we shall have to dispose of him ourselves!"
"A most ghastly business to be sure!" another crow chimed in.
"But, sir," the concerned crow continued, "do you think it wise – "
"'Tis hardly our decision to make, isn't it?" Solomon stated resolutely.
With that, the lesser bird went mum. Peter was upon their turf now. He tried to avoid the black and stern eyes of his one time friend and mentor, but once a crow has fastened his gaze into you, even the strongest of constitutions would be hard pressed to elude it. Only five words were exchanged between them, and these were they:
"He's in the thrush's nest."
Solomon Caw had spoken them, and Peter was relieved that he had not said more. He hastily tore himself from the glare of the crows and toward the far northern end of Bird Island where he would find his newest charge.
He was very robust child, even at such an early age, and Peter decided at once that he would not allow him to grow very much as he would surely dwarf the Boy in no time at all. The young one dozed softly within the nest, no doubt dreaming of all the wonderful adventures awaiting him. Dreams of my Neverland, Peter thought to himself hopefully with the first smile that he had affected all day.
As if having been caressed by his smile, the babe's eyes suddenly flitted open. He blinked thrice, grasping at his strange new surroundings, before inexorably letting his gaze take hold of the grinning demon hovering above his vulnerable figure.
The last thing which Peter remembered after watching the face of the child grow broad with terror was a dull thud between his brow. And then dark.
---------------------------------------
From out of the darkness came a damning sliver of light as the creaky iron door swung open. Before the cursed man could fixate clearly on the two shadowy figures infiltrating the tiny room in which he had dwelled miserably for the past week, he was brutally hoisted to his feet and dragged toward the light.
"On your toes now, 'Sire'," the thug fastened to his right arm spat with mockery. "It's the day you've long been waiting for!"
Both bullies laughed heartily at his plight. His feet lagged as he was hauled through the door, though he did this not out of weakness but out of spite. He would not make this day easy for any of them.
Down countless winding staircases he was led, all the while being taunted into begging for his life as he had done in the days previous. 'Tis true, he'd pleaded shamelessly for mercy, but only as a final resort before having to turn to his secret weapon. This is what kept him mum now. Their precious mercy was no longer needed.
He could hear the din of rabid onlookers even before the gate was raised. All those hideous ingrates, who should have been bowing to him than cheering his doom.
"TRAITOR!" he heard many shout as he was led toward the Hill.
Traitor indeed, he scoffed. He was more devoted to that dreary little island than they could ever understand. 'Twas their dear beloved King at whom they should be spouting their venom.
"Imposter!"
"Fraud!"
"Bastard!"
"Charlatan!" were but a few more of the hateful words strewn in his direction. Amongst these were plenty shouts of support, to be sure. But he did not hear them. Always was the hate so much louder.
More than anything he would have liked to look each of his dissenters in the eye with his own icy ones, to make every last one comprehend his dire position. Why did so many not see whence others could?
But alas, his head was forced groundward as were his knees upon the platform. He felt his long coiled hair, so like his father's, gathered up at the back of his neck tightly.
"Be a shame to get this soiled!" cackled his abuser whose breath smelled unmistakably of rum. "'Twould make a smashing new wig for His Majesty!"
His stomach knotted. It was just something that waster would do.
A beefy hand lurched his head forward onto the block, kept pressed in place with a thick rope. The crowd was becoming more ravenous now as the crucial moment grew ever nearer, but all that he could hear was his own heart pounding madly in his ears. What if his plan failed? Then he was better off upon a spike, and all the rest would be dreadfully sorry soon enough.
And hence, with nary any warning at all – THWACK!
The heavy dark returned.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! And at least four more. And far too vividly.
With a terrible effort, he tried to compel his eyes open, to see just what was happening. And to his astonishment, the Captain saw nor heard not a scornful mob before him nor a loutish drunk sniggering from behind. He was but securely within his own bed, his head not pinned to a wedge but resting comfortably upon the small of a young lady's back.
A wave of relief passed over him as his circumstances became clearer. Wendy's cozy form lay turned on her belly beneath his cheek, completely still save for her gentle breath. Her poor mistreated nightdress hiked up past her hips, which were firm in the grasp of Hook's left arm. He himself lay moderately exposed, wearing little else than his dressing gown; A stocking perhaps.
How everything was just so. Precisely as he had left it before tumbling off into worlds unknown in the mists of his mind. But he had returned unscathed, if a bit bewildered, to awaken with the lovely Wendy once more at his side. So grateful he was to find himself in this sanctuary that he strengthened his embrace around her, placing hearty kisses to the nape of her back.
He saw her stir at once when he did this, his hand lovingly stroking her bare thigh. A soft coo emanated from her throat as she shifted beneath his touch. The Captain, in his still decidedly sleepy yet comforted state, thought this to be an invitation, and he brought his lips and fingertips to the privileged portions of her half-uncovered body.
"James..." Wendy murmured, her eyes still closed. "I am quite tired."
Hook smirked against her skin. "As am I, darling. Which is why I've not yet already ravaged you."
"Oh really..." Wendy huffed in a vain attempt to seem scandalized. Though she could scarcely veil the little grin which appeared when she felt the Captain's lips settle upon the back of her thigh and move stealthily upward. Then he suddenly took a sharp bite of her bare backside.
"James!" she squealed, her torso shooting upright. As she stared at him wide-eyed and gobstruck over her shoulder, Hook laughed robustly and scooted his way nearer to her pricelessly stunned face.
"What?" he asked angelically, resting his cheek on her arm.
She turned over toward him and attempted a glower. "You really are wicked, you know."
"The wickedest there ever was!" he acceded gaily as he took her hand in his and poured kisses upon her palm and wrist, working his way slowly toward her luscious mouth.
His merriment was, however, but a thin disguise for his inner discord brought about by that furtive nightmare. He'd never had such a dream before, and it left him now with an unsettling feeling of déjà vu. Perhaps the words he had just spoken to Wendy were more truth than he realized. Or perhaps they were not accurate in the least.
He knew not and he cared no more to think of it. He had for so long paid far too much heed to his dreams. What was in a dream, really, but images of stories one's mind invents when it is too tired of processing that which is horribly real? But now the two realms were quite reversed, and why dwell on the horrible any longer, when the reality was, for once in his life, ever so much more lovely and lying beneath him with arms wide open?
Hook quietly shed his troubles as well as his dressing gown and sought to disappear completely into the only certainty he ever deemed worth losing himself therein.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: In this chapter, it might help if you've read Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens.
This one is kind of short – almost more of an 'interlude' than a chapter really (hence the chapter title) – but of vital importance nonetheless! Hope y'all haven't been too terribly inconvenienced by my lollygagging. :-P
Again, I have no ownership of any of the characters or actors who portrayed them...If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfics, that's for sure! Heh!
Here's Chapter XVII .....more comments s'il vous plaît! :-)
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
XVII. STRANGE INTERLUDES
Peter heard the call plainly. Though it was really not something which he could actually hear; it was more of a gut feeling, like one might have whence boarding a train or ship that is headed for some inevitable peril. And it was quite distinctive, often rousing him from the deepest of sleeps, as it had at this precise moment.
Another little boy had fallen from his pram.
On any other occasion, this awareness would have jerked Peter's attention from whatever frivolous activity in which he was partaking and sent him off straight away to Kensington Gardens to tend to the prospective new Lost Boy. But it was not so this particular morning – if one could even call it a 'morning'. The Boy really had no incentive whatsoever to rise from his loft and make the arduous journey to the Mainland. If it were not for Tinker Bell's incessant jingling, he may very have spent the entire day in bed, paying no heed at all to the distressed child calling out to him.
Thus with a fair degree of mumbling and grumbling, Peter wrenched himself awake and to his feet upon the floor of his empty hideout. He had not seen his four existing Lost Boys for a couple days at least, each one of them, having come to him at separate instants, clumsily requesting some such flippant trek within the island for a short spell. None had yet returned, and quite honestly, Peter had yet to be concerned.
His venture to Our World was quite tougher than typical and required much of Tinker Bell's stalwart aid. As they departed the island, it was all the will Peter could muster to not let his gaze wonder toward the Jolly Roger and his mind to amble over what number of wretched indecencies which he could not understand may be taking place therein. The dark ship paid him no mind as he left, as did seemingly most of Neverland – the only one to give him a wink and a glum smile was the Sun, hovering rather flaccidly at ten o'clock over the island. Strange, considering he should have been well risen to at least one-thirty by now.
Peter and Tinker Bell arrived in Kensington Gardens shortly after Closing Time, and already the entire park was abuzz with activity. Such a merry clamor normally met Peter Pan's arrival, but even here everything seemed very changed. Oh, he was greeted heartily and respectfully of course, but he could not help notice the sheepishness in the voices of the fairies as they said their hellos, or the disapproving glares of the swans as he passed the Round Pond. He knew that which vexed them, but he would never fess to it.
Through a maze of prudent whispers, the finches escorted Peter across the Serpentine to Bird Island, where the fallen child would be waiting in the temporary though very capable custody of Old Solomon Caw and his crows.
"Perhaps we should not let Peter take him," one crow suggested warily to Solomon.
The elder Caw scoffed at once. "If he does not take him, we shall have to dispose of him ourselves!"
"A most ghastly business to be sure!" another crow chimed in.
"But, sir," the concerned crow continued, "do you think it wise – "
"'Tis hardly our decision to make, isn't it?" Solomon stated resolutely.
With that, the lesser bird went mum. Peter was upon their turf now. He tried to avoid the black and stern eyes of his one time friend and mentor, but once a crow has fastened his gaze into you, even the strongest of constitutions would be hard pressed to elude it. Only five words were exchanged between them, and these were they:
"He's in the thrush's nest."
Solomon Caw had spoken them, and Peter was relieved that he had not said more. He hastily tore himself from the glare of the crows and toward the far northern end of Bird Island where he would find his newest charge.
He was very robust child, even at such an early age, and Peter decided at once that he would not allow him to grow very much as he would surely dwarf the Boy in no time at all. The young one dozed softly within the nest, no doubt dreaming of all the wonderful adventures awaiting him. Dreams of my Neverland, Peter thought to himself hopefully with the first smile that he had affected all day.
As if having been caressed by his smile, the babe's eyes suddenly flitted open. He blinked thrice, grasping at his strange new surroundings, before inexorably letting his gaze take hold of the grinning demon hovering above his vulnerable figure.
The last thing which Peter remembered after watching the face of the child grow broad with terror was a dull thud between his brow. And then dark.
---------------------------------------
From out of the darkness came a damning sliver of light as the creaky iron door swung open. Before the cursed man could fixate clearly on the two shadowy figures infiltrating the tiny room in which he had dwelled miserably for the past week, he was brutally hoisted to his feet and dragged toward the light.
"On your toes now, 'Sire'," the thug fastened to his right arm spat with mockery. "It's the day you've long been waiting for!"
Both bullies laughed heartily at his plight. His feet lagged as he was hauled through the door, though he did this not out of weakness but out of spite. He would not make this day easy for any of them.
Down countless winding staircases he was led, all the while being taunted into begging for his life as he had done in the days previous. 'Tis true, he'd pleaded shamelessly for mercy, but only as a final resort before having to turn to his secret weapon. This is what kept him mum now. Their precious mercy was no longer needed.
He could hear the din of rabid onlookers even before the gate was raised. All those hideous ingrates, who should have been bowing to him than cheering his doom.
"TRAITOR!" he heard many shout as he was led toward the Hill.
Traitor indeed, he scoffed. He was more devoted to that dreary little island than they could ever understand. 'Twas their dear beloved King at whom they should be spouting their venom.
"Imposter!"
"Fraud!"
"Bastard!"
"Charlatan!" were but a few more of the hateful words strewn in his direction. Amongst these were plenty shouts of support, to be sure. But he did not hear them. Always was the hate so much louder.
More than anything he would have liked to look each of his dissenters in the eye with his own icy ones, to make every last one comprehend his dire position. Why did so many not see whence others could?
But alas, his head was forced groundward as were his knees upon the platform. He felt his long coiled hair, so like his father's, gathered up at the back of his neck tightly.
"Be a shame to get this soiled!" cackled his abuser whose breath smelled unmistakably of rum. "'Twould make a smashing new wig for His Majesty!"
His stomach knotted. It was just something that waster would do.
A beefy hand lurched his head forward onto the block, kept pressed in place with a thick rope. The crowd was becoming more ravenous now as the crucial moment grew ever nearer, but all that he could hear was his own heart pounding madly in his ears. What if his plan failed? Then he was better off upon a spike, and all the rest would be dreadfully sorry soon enough.
And hence, with nary any warning at all – THWACK!
The heavy dark returned.
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! And at least four more. And far too vividly.
With a terrible effort, he tried to compel his eyes open, to see just what was happening. And to his astonishment, the Captain saw nor heard not a scornful mob before him nor a loutish drunk sniggering from behind. He was but securely within his own bed, his head not pinned to a wedge but resting comfortably upon the small of a young lady's back.
A wave of relief passed over him as his circumstances became clearer. Wendy's cozy form lay turned on her belly beneath his cheek, completely still save for her gentle breath. Her poor mistreated nightdress hiked up past her hips, which were firm in the grasp of Hook's left arm. He himself lay moderately exposed, wearing little else than his dressing gown; A stocking perhaps.
How everything was just so. Precisely as he had left it before tumbling off into worlds unknown in the mists of his mind. But he had returned unscathed, if a bit bewildered, to awaken with the lovely Wendy once more at his side. So grateful he was to find himself in this sanctuary that he strengthened his embrace around her, placing hearty kisses to the nape of her back.
He saw her stir at once when he did this, his hand lovingly stroking her bare thigh. A soft coo emanated from her throat as she shifted beneath his touch. The Captain, in his still decidedly sleepy yet comforted state, thought this to be an invitation, and he brought his lips and fingertips to the privileged portions of her half-uncovered body.
"James..." Wendy murmured, her eyes still closed. "I am quite tired."
Hook smirked against her skin. "As am I, darling. Which is why I've not yet already ravaged you."
"Oh really..." Wendy huffed in a vain attempt to seem scandalized. Though she could scarcely veil the little grin which appeared when she felt the Captain's lips settle upon the back of her thigh and move stealthily upward. Then he suddenly took a sharp bite of her bare backside.
"James!" she squealed, her torso shooting upright. As she stared at him wide-eyed and gobstruck over her shoulder, Hook laughed robustly and scooted his way nearer to her pricelessly stunned face.
"What?" he asked angelically, resting his cheek on her arm.
She turned over toward him and attempted a glower. "You really are wicked, you know."
"The wickedest there ever was!" he acceded gaily as he took her hand in his and poured kisses upon her palm and wrist, working his way slowly toward her luscious mouth.
His merriment was, however, but a thin disguise for his inner discord brought about by that furtive nightmare. He'd never had such a dream before, and it left him now with an unsettling feeling of déjà vu. Perhaps the words he had just spoken to Wendy were more truth than he realized. Or perhaps they were not accurate in the least.
He knew not and he cared no more to think of it. He had for so long paid far too much heed to his dreams. What was in a dream, really, but images of stories one's mind invents when it is too tired of processing that which is horribly real? But now the two realms were quite reversed, and why dwell on the horrible any longer, when the reality was, for once in his life, ever so much more lovely and lying beneath him with arms wide open?
Hook quietly shed his troubles as well as his dressing gown and sought to disappear completely into the only certainty he ever deemed worth losing himself therein.