Pan
DISCALIMER: I am not J.M.Barrie, I am not the guy who wrote the movie, and guess what – I'm not Peter Pan either! I would also like to say that I am sorry if I offend any Micronesian people by spelling Wendy with only one 'd' I have been informed that this can be taken as an offensive word.
SUMMARY: After she left, Pan hated Wendy Darling most of all. The girl who had enchanted him, who had insulted him: the girl who had killed him. (Metaphorically of course!)
Chapter 7.
"Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved." -William Jennings Bryan
Confused, Pan ran. What was he doing? He left Tink in the woods, surrounded by oblivious dancing fairies.
He had once heard that very little fairies only had room for one emotion at a time; the Tink Pan left was angry.
She had screeched and launched herself at him, berating the man in front of her in a tiny, shrill voice and using fairy dust to illustrate all of the ways she was going to kill him. For a forever young fairy she certainly knew a lot of hideous ways to maim, to torture and to torment.
Once back in the safety of his cabin, Pan leant against his large desk and looked at his hands speculatively. They were long and slender, the underneath of the nails still dirty. As his breathing slowed Pan sat in a large chair and took out a hook which lay on a velvet cushion next to his narrow, single bed. He watched the sharp point glitter in the candle light, his two good hands held the one once used as a replacement in careful contemplation.
He brought the point down to the pale skin above his wrist, remembering how it had felt to cut off the hand of someone else.
He had been terribly nostalgic recently.
The sharp hook tugged on the edge of his skin but loosed before it could tear, leaving a thin white line where it had scraped the edge of his palm. Musingly Pan traced the outline of a blue vein up his arm; he stopped above a vein, uncommonly close to the surface, pushed the point gently but lifted it away before blood was drawn. A small bull's-eye pin-prick showed a way out, but it was not a way he was willing to take.
Slowly he leant back in his chair, resting his eyes and felt the quiet stinging which came with lack of sleep. Behind his lids he saw a curious young girl, her face alive with stories and her head impassioned with courage and honour and huge feats of immense bravery.
The door burst open and Pan slammed the hook, still held in one hand, on to the desk, causing it to quiver in front of him. Smee's plump face twisted to first a sigh of dismay and then a mildly puzzled expression, as Pan's face formed a slow smile.
"Mister Smee." Pan said slowly, rolling the words off his tongue
"Yes, Captain Hook, sir." The man's red cheeks shone in the candlelight
"How old are you Smee?" The question threw the small man,
"Why," His face frowned, the bristles of his white eyebrows clumped together, a prickly expression to summon up uncomfortable thoughts, "I was a boy once, and… then…I became a pirate and here I am Captain."
Hook picked up the pistol on the table in front of him and smirked as Smee squeaked nervously. He shot into the ceiling more for effect than to display any anger.
"Very good, Smee. And has there ever been another Captain Hook?" The little man's eyes bulged.
"Another C…Captain James Hook. Captain?" Pan did not bother to hide his frustration,
"Yes. Smee,"
"No, Captain, no one else could be as great a captain as you, Captain?" Pan did not answer, noted the cautious flattery after the pistol shot, asked one more question, one he could not help slipping out,
"Are you happy, Mister Smee?"
"Happy, c…captain? We could do with more rum I suppose every now and again – that's just a suggestion mind – and maybe a storyteller, or a pipe player…"
"Leave, Smee."
"Yes, Captain." The little man backed out and Pan stroked his chin pensively before dragging a hand through his hair. The dark ringlets were separated by lithe fingers as he considered what he had discovered.
At once a plan formed in his minds eye. A selfish plan, a plan not like one Hook would hatch and not like one Peter would joyously detail to his gang of Lost Boy's. Pan had tried to separate himself from Hook, from the memories he and the island held of the man. A man who he imitated, emulated, a man he embraced but now shrugged off like a heavy coat in too warm weather. A man who he wasn't. In this plan hide the first steps of his separation, the dividing line, the true death of Hook. Pan would not demand others deaths to allow him to put right the workings of Neverland. Pan would not tell others about the workings either. A medium. His two selves becoming one.
If he was the only one who did not fit in Neverland was it fair that he forced others to leave? He thought of the new Peter, the doomed boy with blonde locks who only Pan knew what would happen to.
The next Captain James Hook.
An ill-fated, destiny guided, star-crossed boy.
But the plan was formed and all decisions finalised, carefully Pan stood and forced the hook from the desk where it left a splintered hole. He placed the point of the silver relic against the pliant wood and carefully dragged the blade against the grain.
'WENDY.'
Pan knew himself very well, and therefore he knew Peter, one half of himself. The boy would realise the cunning of Never Neverland and would then see the solution, literally glaring at him in the face. If he didn't, Pan had tried. It was enough.
Pulling a large bag of emeralds, rubies, gold tiaras and model flowers towards him Pan gently grasped a small, silver thimble from where it hung in the hollow of his throat; another relic from a past time. Carefully he left the Jolly Roger and strode into the forest towards the old tree house, his old home, his last place of happiness.
What would he find there?
