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Days passed leisurely. Despite his prior threats, Hook did allow his mistresses to go ashore again. Though only after arming them both with knives and pistols, which luckily enough they already had some basic skill in using. Their powers grew day by day but even they admitted that they were not quite as proficient as they wished to be. And so they carried the weapons he gave them and that was enough to soothe his mind. Abigail would return with news from the pixies, as word had apparently spread quickly of another mortal who could speak their language. Just as he surmised the winged folk were privy to Pan's exploits and plans. The Boy was planning to 'rescue' the ladies from the villainous pirates. The three of them would plot how to shatter the flying imp's noble intentions over dinner, it became a favorite topic between them. Rose would return from the island bearing samples of flora that she hung to dry in the windows of the cabin. Alongside his own collection of poisons she would place her own samples, though whereas his potions brought pain hers were of a more caring nature. She began to infuse her concoctions with magic and so her tattoo, a swirling J and H, healed in record time. Though the ointment that did the deed was gone rather quickly. Apparently the key ingredient only grew on the shore of Mermaid Lagoon and the devil-fish were not keen to share their harvest.

To all this the crew watched and said nothing. At least to his face.

According to Mr. Smee, there was still lascivious talk below deck in regards to his women. To this, Hook kept a sharp eye and an open ear. A good number of the men knew to keep their distance, wary of being blown overboard or caught by a bolt of lightning. But far too many of them had not laid eyes on a decently attractive female in some time. He was just reviewing the possibility of setting sail for port with Mr. Starkey, after the disposal of Pan of course, when a loud ruckus of laughter filled the air. Both captain and first mate turned to the starboard side, where a group of sailors were clustered together over a game of dice.

"Mr. Starkey, do you have any inkling as to what they are placing wages against?"

"Unfortunately I do, Cap'n," the man looked as though he were trying very hard to retain his stone faced facade.

"Do tell."

"Those are the men who never quite warmed up to yer...lady friends," he spoke very carefully, treading lightly as not to incur his captain's wrath. Smart man. Hook nodded for him to continue. "And they don't think all that well of them, to be honest."

"A blind man could see that."

"But a few of them, Scourie especially, be taking bets on when you'll get tired of them. And to add to that, they all been placin' wages on who gets them when you're done. There's a waiting list, as I heard it."

"Is there now?" His words, though unassuming and almost polite, were laced with venom. "Perhaps I should place my own bet, show the men I am not so above them that I cannot spend quality time with my own crew." Starkey followed like an obedient pup as Hook crossed the deck. Several of the sailors heard the heavy fall of his boots as he approached, and hurriedly alerted their mates of his arrival. All throwing of dice ceased, the clang of coins went silent. All eyes were trained on him.

"Afternoon, sir," a chorus of greeting resounded from the motley group.

"I hear rumors of a wager going on amongst you." The men's faces went white, or at least the ones who still possessed a shred of self preservation did. One man in particular stood out, he had no expression of apology in the least.

"Care to hear the stakes, Cap'n?" George Scourie tossed a sack of coins from one hand to the other.

"I have some idea already," he said tightly with the smile of a viper.

"You've been letting them run off lately," the man nodded towards the island. "Can't be all that homey with two females turning the place into a flower shop," a few of the duller men guaffed at that. Hook was silent.

"And you seek to profit from this?"

"Ain't no rules against gambling aboard."

"Indeed there are not."

"As I bet, it'll be that long haired tart who'll come sniffing around first. She's more quiet than the other one, the quiet ones are always the randy ones behind closed doors. But I sees the darker one being more of a chase, she's feisty."

"You seem quite sure of yourself," he began tracing the wickedly sharp edge of his hook. Several men backed up but the fool still continued to run his foul mouth, more interested in his grog than his life.

"It seems to us that you've been being quite selfish, Captain," the pirate Scourie leered even as the hook began to hunger with every word spoken. "Keeping such pretty ladies locked away all for yourself in the cabin….We was thinking you ought to share, sir. Give us all a taste of their charms, as it were." He guffawed, a lecherous grin on his face. "We're sure we could use the sport of playing with them. Whoever catches them first can have the first fuck - "

The musket ball tore into his belly and he dropped with a scream.

Hook turned in surprise - the shot had not come from him.

Standing on the quarterdeck, holding a smoking pistol, with hair blowing in the breeze like a goddess of vengeance, Abigail stood with Rose by her side. Both women stared coldly down at the fallen pirate.

"Good shot, darling," Rose said with all the warmth of a proud teacher, turning to her lover and ignoring the groans of pain. "You're getting much better at this. I'm so glad we had a target for you to practise on."

"I was aiming for his head," Abigail said sourly, frowning at where the blood was staining the belly of the man's shirt.

"That's because you were aiming straight, love," Rose said, "Remember, with this kind of weighted pistol, you aim your arm up and the weight of the muzzle will bring it down a little. You have to line the barrel above your intended target with the wrist tilted down."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," Abigail said, stormy eyes sweeping over the rest of the crew, who quailed. James barely kept back a smitten smile.

"Throw him overboard," Hook ordered.

"Oh no, Captain," Rose said, "He's not dead yet. That would be barbaric. Abigail and I will care for him. At the very least, we'll keep the parts of him we can use for spells."

The witches laughed and the crew scrambled to move the man below deck while James took the steps up to the quarterdeck two at a time to press hungry kisses to his mistresses' mouths.

"Mine," he growled. Their eyes sparkled at the word.

"Come prove it, then," they whispered.

The cabin door slammed shut behind them.

He stood above them, smirking down to where his loves lay entwined in each other's arms. They blinked up at him through sultry lashes, inviting him back to their arms with soft moans and flexing of lithe limbs. They offered him their breasts and their cunts, still filled with his seed. They had satisfied each other again and again, he enacted his claim upon them, much to their vocal delight. At last, he dragged himself away from the tempting sorceresses as they giggled at him.

"You dare keep a captain from his duties?" he smirked teasingly. Rose gave a slow, languid, careless shrug and Abigail's blue eyes sparkled wickedly at him. He grunted an amused reply and began pulling his clothes back on. He had just buckled his belt over his waistcoat when he froze, a slight choking sound leaving his throat as his eyes widened. The women, happily nuzzling into each other's arms, glanced up at the sound.

"James?" Abigail asked sharply, "What is it?"

"James?" Rose pressed when he did not answer. She got up to slip a dressing gown over her naked body, drawing the scarlet sash tight about her waist. James still had not moved.

It was then that they heard it. The tick ticking of the crocodile. They also froze. The horrid sound was growing louder and louder and James' eyes flicked to the panes of his window, from whence the ticking sound seemed to emanate, and the women's eyes followed his. The beast must be beneath the very cabin where they now were. James was as still as stone, frozen in the very act of sliding into one sleeve of his coat, blue eyes trained upon the window where a shadow loomed. The beast must be rearing up out of the water, preparing to strike, to claim the rest of the captain, to snap him up between his great jaws and finish the job he started long ago. There could be nothing worse than an end met in the throat of the great reptile.

Then the window flew open with a mighty crow and the Boy soared into the cabin, pearly teeth bared and dagger in his small hand and James' lip curled in hate.

"Hullo, ladies!" he crowed, hovering before the bed with a cocky grin, "I've come to rescue you from the old codfish like I said I would! Let's go!"

And with no further ado, he snatched Rose's wrist and, with disproportionate strength for such a tiny boy, hauled her into the air. She screamed, kicking as her feet left the ground. The Boy yanked her after him out the window and Rose, looking down to see the Crocodile open its gaping maw, shrieked. James, petrified by the reptile, did not move. Abigail, clutching a sheet to her naked breast, answered with a furious cry of her own and blindly snatched at the pistol at James's hip. Drawing it, she aimed it out the window but could not get a clear shot of the monster. She tried anyway, firing a resounding shot that echoed but found no target. Pan crowed his victory.

"Come on, lads," he shouted, "Back to the Hideout with our new mother!"

It was only then that James and Abigail realised that sounds of fighting were reaching them from the deck. The wretched Boy must have brought his whole band with him to distract the rest of the crew. But Rose was the only thing that mattered. Abigail dropped the sheet and raced to the window taking aim again with the pistol again, but both the monster and the Boy were far out of range. And so was their Rose.

"James!" she shrieked, turning upon him. "Get yourself together!"

He stood, frozen, and her hand cracked across his face. He came to himself to find her naked before him, eyes frozen with rage. She threw the pistol at him and he caught it reflexively.

"We need to save her now!"

Battle was a foul and ugly thing, when one found themselves on the losing side. Where but moments before bloodlust and exhilaration had taken over his every sense, now his veins ran cold with ice.

The skirmish had been going according to plan, the unsuspecting Lost Boys had neither seen nor heard the band of pirates closing in on them. Their mission had been far removed from their usual intent. Whereas usually Hook plotted to discover the secret hideaway of Pan and his miscreants, this time he meant only to track them to wherever it was they made camp. During the Boy's own attack but a few hours previous the vile brat had dared to break into his cabin amidst the fray and take prisoner his fair Rose. He could hear her screams ringing in his ears, see in his mind's eye how closely Pan dangled her above the gaping maw of the Crocodile. And what had he done at the time? Stood paralyzed with fear at the sight of the reptile, his hand actually shaking, lip trembling. All the while, beside him Abigail was barely keeping a sheet to her breast as she pulled a pistol from his belt, but the beast was far out of range. She shook him to his senses, icy eyes ablaze with blue fire as she demanded he come to his right mind or else she would go after them alone. As his courage returned to him, terror gave way to rage and he knew even without consulting a mirror that his own eyes were glowing with scarlet.

It was not a difficult trail to track, the broken branches and marks of feet being dragged through the dirt were easy enough for a child to follow. But the march still took precious time, first to gather their weapons, ready the long boat and finally row to shore. Mr. Starkey scouted ahead, being one of the more silent amongst them. When he came hurrying back it was with news of locating the whole tribe of mewling spawn in a glade not far off, their prisoner bound at the wrists and surrounded by filthy children just starting to realize they could extract a few stories from her. It might have been laughable, had the lady involved been any other than one of his own. When they attacked the brats were caught off guard, out of the corner of his eye he even saw one of them meet his bitter demise at the end of Abigail's cutlass. It was swift, brutal and bloody, beyond his fury he was only just beginning to enjoy himself. And then a volley of arrows was loosed by the triplet boys, taking down two of his men at the legs. Guns were drawn and lead balls answered the primitive weapons. Another feral child fell in a splatter of gore before Pan deemed it time to retreat. But there would be no time to relish their victory, a shrill cry brought his attention to a sight that was sure to haunt his nightmares for time unknown.

Her hands had been freed from the vine rope which held them tightly behind her back. But not quickly enough to allow her to defend herself in the short battle.

"It ain't a fatal wound, Cap'n," he heard Smee say, though the words were muffled to his ears. "But we gotta get her back to the ship for proper treatment."

"And best not risk pulling out that arrow, she might bleed out 'fore we get her there," Starkey carefully broke the greater part of the shaft and tossed it aside. Rose whimpered in pain, jerking slightly, her eyes shut tightly. She was biting down on her lower lip hard enough to draw a drop of crimson. It had struck her high on the right shoulder, painful but not lethal. Yet the agony on her face was a dagger to his heart and fuel to the fire that now roared within him.

For once, James could not find his words and could only nod in reply. An ever growing stain dyed her dressing gown, his really, an even darker shade of red with her blood. Crystalline tears fell from her eyes like rivers, her head cradled in the lap of her lover. Abigail was brushing the hair that clung to her wet cheeks, carefully pulling leaves accumulated on the flight from the long tresses. She was murmuring something that sounded almost lyrical. Dark azure ribbons of magic meandered down her arms, swirling where her fingertips touched the wet cheeks of their lady.

"This will not heal her, but will take away some of the pain." Abigail's voice was chilled and quiet, and several of the crew shivered. Many of the men already possessed a healthy dose of fear for the witches, this however was something entirely different.

"Prepare a stretcher!" he barked at those standing around. A few of the sailors jolted, as though they had forgotten he was present. The nearest fool fell to the dirt, the Hook eager to sate his thirst for vengeance.

"Who shot her?" He turned his gaze to that nightmarish sight at the younger witch's words, keeping his eyes anywhere but what was left of the protruding arrow.

"One of the identical triplets," he ground out as he began to pace. "There will be no way to tell which one of them did the deed."

"So all three of them will die." Abigail said, voice as crisp and cold as the deep winter freeze. Her blue eyes never glanced away from Rose's pale face, still focusing on weaving her healing songs around the body of her lover, but every pirate to a man heard each one of her chilled syllables. Rose's hazel eyes were glazed with magic and pain, lashes fluttering even as she struggled to keep them open to look up at the unnaturally calm face of her beloved. The Hook rubbed his claw distractedly, his own forget-me-not eyes still hazed over with bloody scarlet in his fury at the sight of one of his mistresses harmed at the hands of the Boy and his filthy brats.

The stretcher prepared, the younger of the sorceresses finally allowed her Rose to be taken from her lap and lain upon the canvas. She whimpered in pain at the movement, her hand reaching for Abigail's. Their fingers entwined, Hook watching, and his pale eyed lady leaned down to press a kiss to their wounded love's forehead. At the touch of her lips to Rose's wan skin, a ripple of magic flowed down her prone body and, when Abigail pulled away, Rose's eyes were closed, her breathing even and deep. The dark-haired witch cupped her love's cheek in her hand, stroking at her soft skin with a tenderness offset by the frigid cruelty in her calm, cold face.

"Take her to the ship," was the witch's command and the crew did not hesitate to obey, lifting the stretcher with the wounded witch and beginning the trek back to the beach where the longboats had been left. As the rustling of the leaves faded behind the men's movements, the Hook and the Sorceress were left standing alone in the clearing. The dirt was rapidly soaking up the blood not smeared across the deep green leaves. Abigail's blue-grey gaze followed the path taken by the pirates bearing away Rose's stretcher, her jaw tight and proud. The island breeze blew suddenly chilly, stirring both her dark curls and those of the captain who stood watching one of his beloved witches.

"That Boy has caused me pain immeasurable for far too long," James snarled, his hand curling into a furious fist. "He took my hand from me, set that beast of a croc upon me, stole away our Rose, and shed her blood. I will not stand for it! If ever before I had thought myself turned solely to the purpose of Pan's destruction, those rages of my past pale before my oath here and now that I will have all my grievances avenged!"

"Your grievances?"

Abigail's proud face was still calm though now hard as stone as her head turned to meet his gaze. The ice in her eyes was now turned on him, blue ice meeting crimson fire, and the words wedged in James' throat.

"Your grievances?" Her voice was little more than a cruel hiss, her lip curling in a frigid sneer. "This is no longer about your petty vendetta, James. This is not about you, Man. Your childish obsession with the Boy has brought pain upon yourself and now upon one whom we love. This is not all about you, James Hook, not anymore. You are more a child than he."

And with a rustle of leaves, she was gone and he was left to his rage.

They did not look at each other. They did not speak to each other. They did not acknowledge each other. He was filled with fury, at the Boy who had harmed his Rose and also at the witch who stood nearby as they waited for the surgeon. Her words echoed in his ears and his hook twitched in anger. She did not know his pain. It was not she who had faced the agony of having a hand hacked away, of having a crocodile hunger for his flesh, of facing the mocking face of Pan and be defeated again and again. His obsession with the Boy was perfectly justified, righteous, and not at all childish. But of course there was no point talking to her about it. She stood there as though carved from ice, empty and devoid of emotion as she waited with frigid patience. At least he felt rage and fury and passion. Better than the sorceress who felt nothing - the sorceress who was not fully human. Where her pixie cousins could only feel one emotion at a time because of their tiny bodies, Abigail surely felt nothing. There was nothing in her eyes but ice.

He did not see the way her jaw tightened, the way her pulse beat erratically under her skin, the way her fingers were clenched as she folded her arms over her chest. He did not see the way her eyes flicked across everything, unable to settle on anything, ears straining for any noise from inside the cabin where the surgeon worked. Her coldness was her fear, her worry, and her fury. Her ice was all of her emotions raging beneath the surface, unable to settle on one reaction. But he did not see.

The door creaked open. Hook instantly jerked towards the door, but the surgeon's weary voice called for the sorceress and she, with frigid grace, swept past the captain and into the cabin.

Her feet stopped along with her heart at the sight of Rose on the table. Long auburn hair sloppily braided and tossed out of the way, torso bare and smeared with blood from where the surgeon's work had gotten messier. The wound on her shoulder no longer spouted the shaft of an arrow and, though cleaner than before, was not stitched closed. The surgeon stood off to the side, watching her look at her lover. Rose's eyes were closed, she was still sleeping soundly under the charm Abigail had kissed upon her brow and she looked so pale smeared with her own blood.

"I've done what I can for her short of patchin' up her wound," the surgeon said, "And I was wondering if ye'd be able to do anythin' for her with yer magic, miss."

Abigail's hands shook as she reached out to caress Rose's cheek, her teeth closing on her bottom lip with worry.

"I've never done healing magic like this," she whispered, allowing the ice to melt a little as she faced the surgeon. "Magic in our world is different than here, I don't….I wouldn't be able to control it….I don't know if I could…"

"I have seen ye speak with the faeries," the surgeon said, "call the winds, sing up a storm to rival the very maelstroms of the ocean. Ye and Mistress Rose have controlled nature itself, worked dark magic upon yer enemies - there is naught ye cannot do."

"Destruction magic," Abigail whispered, her voice trembling, "blood magic, death magic, storm magic….never healing. Everything I touch dies, I would make her worse."

"She loves ye," the surgeon said, "Ye can do it."

Outside the cabin, Hook was pacing. Every terrible thought of what could have gone wrong was racing through his head. He unscrewed and re-screwed his hook in his agitation, muttering distractedly to himself. That Boy would pay with his life and more for this. He had only just allowed himself to admit to feelings for his women, he would not lose them so soon. Not even one of them. Pan's attack on one of his loves was only kindling to the flame of his hate of the Boy and his hunger for revenge. He hungered for the sight of Pan's blood upon the very hook which the Boy had forced him to wear since his severed, mangled hand was thrown to the crocodile.

He despised the feeling of uselessness, having fought so hard over the course of his long life to obtain every scrap of control he could. But he had never learned any of the healing arts beyond anatomical sketches in university texts. He could maim and destroy both the mind and body, but he could not mend them again.

All such melancholy thoughts were put to a sudden halt by the glow emitting from the cracks of the surgery door. Deep blue, shining with silver like stars in the night sky, began softly as a candle's light until it nearly blinded him. Covering his face with his sleeve, he waited, slowly peeking out only after several minutes of deafening silence. All around him, members of the crew were rubbing their own eyes, blinking back tears and staring with a mix of confusion and awe. James had barely adjusted to the ordinary light when a sharp, pain filled cry issued from beyond the door. Uncaring of anything other than the frantic beating of his heart, he rushed forward, the door slamming behind him.

"Easy, darling!" Abigail was leaning over the table as the surgeon held down flailing limbs of the wounded woman between them. "I know it still hurts but you cannot rip the wound open again."

"It looks like she's been healin' for days," the aged doctor said in amazement.

"I had hoped for better results but this will have to do."

"What the bloody hell is going on here?" His words were crude but he did not give a damn about his oratory skills. All he could see was the blood on pale flesh and the teary eyes now turned toward him. Her hope at seeing him enter was flecks of gold among the brown, pain already in her eyes.

"Mistress Abigail worked her magic and healed Mistress Rose, at least in part," the man in the blood stained apron reached for a roll of bandages. "It was miraculous, Cap'n."

"Thank you, Doctor Blake," his voice while not hollow, did not reverberate with its usual prowess. "Give me those," he held out his hand. "I will handle things from here." The bandages were relinquished, without a word of protest and the good doctor left with a slight bow to him and a gentle smile to the witch who had yet to acknowledge Hook's existence. For one moment, which passed by far slower than actuality would claim, the only sound to be heard was the shortened breaths of the wounded lady before them. And then he was shedding his black coat, hanging it from a peg on the wall, and rolling up his billowing sleeves. His hook was unscrewed and set upon the doctor's desk, where it could do no unintentional damage.

This was all he could do for his love, carefully bind her wound so that if the tender flesh still red and sparkling with magic should tear, then her blood would not flow too freely. Abigail never moved, forcing him to walk around the edge of the table to stand opposite her. She had done this remarkable act. Doctor Blake was correct in his observation, the wound would not even need stitches. What should have taken days had been healed in mere seconds. With a touch more gentle than any he would have ever known he possessed, he assisted Abigail in propping Rose into a seated position. Her hiss of pain cut him to the quick but he caught himself before an apology slipped from his lips. Already he had caused her enough pain, asking her forgiveness was not something he could do when her blood was still fresh on the surgeon's table. As he wound each length of bleached white cotton around her back and between her bare breasts, he did his best to keep his thoughts far from the lurking darkness of his mind.

Abigail had healed her, so well in fact that there would not even be a scar come morning. Yet Rose was their healer, ever the caring nurse forcing magically infused soups upon the sick. But under duress, the witch's powers would falter somewhat; she could not have healed her own arrow wound. They had been so lucky...the wound had been on her right side but if it had been on the left...Hook refused to think about what horror might have been. But now he felt his uselessness even more profoundly. This was all his fault. He could not protect her from Pan. He could not track her quickly enough, did not even notice when one of the wild boys let his arrow fly.

"Stop...blaming yourself," her sweet voice was strained and barely above a whisper. He ceased his motions, turning his attention to her face. Those ever changing eyes of hers were free of tears but red from weeping, her flesh paler than usual. Rage threatened to overtake him, seeing her brought down like this. "I don't have to hear you...to know what you're thinking."

"You should not talk," he gently scolded her. Why must she know him so well? "Save your strength."

She was mostly propped up on Abigail's shoulder, her head lolled back into the curve of the other witch's throat. Her hand, so much smaller than his own, reached up to twine her fingers with his despite the bandage he held.

"You two are fighting, I can sense it...please don't," her gaze was pleading. "You two make my heart whole...It hurts me when you quarrel." Words failed him so often of late, he wondered if he would ever be able to put into prose how deeply her simple request touched him.

"Shhh, my flower," Abigail nuzzled the top of her head. "All will be as it should be. Now is a time for rest."

"You might be angry at one another...but you still act exactly alike." She sighed, her light grip on his hand tightening ever so slightly. "We will talk later?"

"If that is what you wish." He could not deny either of them anything, even if he was waging an internal battle with one of them. His Rose needed him. For once he put aside his fury for the sake of another and attended to her however he could. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her soft auburn hair.

"I love you both...oh so much..." Those were her last final words before Abigail sent her back into a magical slumber, where pain and anger held no sway. A peaceful place of dreams that he could only hope would be open to him once again.

"Take her to bed."

The frost in Abigail's voice had melted somewhat, but she still refused to look at him. Without a word, he gathered Rose into his arms, lifting her easily and turning toward the door of the surgeon's cabin. At the door, he paused to look back at the dark-haired witch. She was leaning heavily on the surgeon's table, her hand reaching for the bottle of rum the surgeon had used to disinfect the wound. She took a long drink, her eyes fluttering closed as she inhaled deeply. He shouldered the door open and bore the unconscious Rose back to his cabin.

The second the door closed behind him, Abigail slumped against the wooden table, exhaustion washing over her. She could curse without second thought, sing up a storm with little more than a whistle, work dark magic with a flick of her finger, but the healing magic had taken more effort than her usual spells and left her feeling drained. She took another swig of rum, choking on the burning alcohol as she tried desperately to keep herself upright.

She set the bottle down and stumbled to the door, hardly able to move her limbs after all the energy she had expended to heal her Rose. She pushed the door open, the rocking of the ship sending her staggering against the doorframe. Abigail's eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she fought her fatigue, pushing herself upright to make her way towards the deck. She hugged the mast, the night breeze barely reviving her. Her pale skin seemed all the more wan under the night-sky and she leaned heavily against the wood. Darkness gathered at the corners of her eyes and she succumbed to it, sprawling across the deck, unconscious and drained.