Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners. As for original characters and the plot itself, that does belong to me. Please do not use such without permission.

Summary: It is said that, if a bride falls the day before she is married, then she will die within a year. But Wendy is already haunted, when a ghost from her childhood refuses to let the past lie buried. A very dark Hook/Wendy.

A Haunting Reflection

Chapter Three

…

A single cry was heard in a solitary corner of London. A single cry, which drew that of angels from St. George's to tears. For no mortal, piteous and hardhearted—as most inherently were—had heard it. They had been ignorant of such delicate, timeless beauty, where they instead chose to go about their daily rituals, in deifying the 'Change instead of their acclaimed God.

The Friday commute was one of chaos and uncertainly, as there the city's denizens would walk among a maze of streets and passageways, methodically dodging human traffic and street corners. As it was there, in the midst of London itself, they would walk, all dressed tastefully in their greatcoats and bowler hats, calculating the time it would require of them to buy or sell on the pocket watches held in a gloved hand before them, their souls a fettered appendage to that great monstrosity whose monetary veins were the lifeblood of its people.

It was the common practise, first indoctrinated by a Virgin Queen, to spread wealth and prosperity among her people, a river of commerce flowing freely, un-dammed by the foresight of that noble-born brow. And yet, the great River Thames—the true lifeblood of its people—flowed on, constant, unfailing in its means to assure that which all would come to know in life and death—much unlike the Royal Exchange, an erratic and undependable method of predicting the direction of stocks and shares—trade, as the grandees and grand dames of society would bitterly deem it.

As such, the river and the angels—heavily bodies, who remained forever frozen in pillars of stone—had only heard that cry, soft and remitting as it had been, as such had been the cry of a storyteller.

For amidst the bedlam in the streets below, Wendy Darling cried out in her sleep. She stirred, her arms and legs thrashing madly about the sheets, wrestling some unseen foe, fighting to remain conscious. I will not let it pull me under. I will not let it find me. Not again…, she thought distractedly, those great dark eyes finally opening to the mid-morning light.

Her vision was hazy at first, her eyes sensitive to the sun's radiance. She flinched against the blinding pain, turning away from the light instantly, breathing heavily. She composed herself, however, forcing her reluctant self to look again, and welcome that which she had long yearned to see.

Her head lowered a fraction in relief. The light was not so blinding as it had first been, and Wendy marvelled at its warmth—a searing opposite to the coldness she presently felt for the sheets had done little to shield her from the cold. She sat up, shivering, her arms coming about her in a weak attempt to fight off the chill. She felt as if she had pulled from a frozen river, the entirety of her body covered in a thin layer of ice. Of course, it is not the coldness of the room, but…

Shaking her head, she cast all thoughts of the previous night aside. She bit the lower half of her lip, her look one of exhaustion, her nightgown and hair a dishevelled mess. She cast a wary glance at her reflection in the mirror before turning away in apparent shame. Her skin was pale, her lips a deep, solemn blue. And yet, it could have been worse. So much worse…She dared not consider the possibility as she pulled her knees close to her chest, her arms wrapping around them, her chin resting upon both in thought. She dared not remember what had transpired before waking. She did not wish to recall anything, but found herself denied that comfort, as she remembered—remembered the cold, icy water and the darkness which had dwelled therein…

A mournful sigh escaped her in a shallow breath, and her eyes closed in defeat. And yet, protested her better judgment, her release had been one of mercy, not regret; for amid the dusty, rudimentary precession of dreams and nightmares, which had drawn her further, deeper among the river's winding rushes, had she found herself trapped—a prisoner of her own mind—in a dream that was not a dream, but a nightmare. As it is a nightmare I wish to forget, she thought dejectedly, those haunted dark eyes closing, remembering…

…

She had traversed the clay-cold path along the riverbed; feet bare, with flowers in her hand—forget-me-nots. Her white gown flowed freely in the gentle breeze, her hair free of the confining pins and exotic feathered plumes her Aunt Millicent often prodded her into wearing. That long black mane fell about her face like a shroud of midnight, wild and beautifully untamed; a veritable Boadicea with her warrior maiden's heart. Her Aunt Millicent would be appalled by the comparison, claiming it some wild blood, hidden away by their forefathers. Of course, the old girl would be affronted by anything that could indeed prove that madness lingered in the family blood. As she would certainly concern herself by what the neighbours thought if they considered her wild! Wendy internally quipped, smiling at the thought. She walked along the garden path, keeping close to the river, her thoughts remaining firmly upon her solitary presence in this Miltonian version of paradise.

It was almost like the Neverland to her: a place of freedom from the dingy, smoke-infested purgatory she had long come to acknowledge as home. It was nothing like this wondrous place, which was all forest and meadowland, the sun unhindered by a blanket of artificial night. London could never compare, with its meagre garden of earthly delights and blackened skies. No, this place, Wendy realised, was something purer, more virtuous, like the last shred of childhood innocence she would have to forfeit in order to take on the mantle of woman. As such, she looked on this untouched Utopia with silent wonder.

For there was no Aunt Millicent here; no dreadful hair pins to pull at her hair, and therefore fashion it into something she abhorred; or even those flamboyantly expensive peacock feathers to pierce at her scalp and tickle her nose. Wherever here is, Wendy casually observed before placing one of the forget-me-nots in her unbound hair. She marvelled at it, finding its beauty simple, almost alluring. She idly wondered if a knight had gathered such for his ladylove before falling to an untimely fate, his lovelorn cry calling out to her, pleading that she not forget him.

Forget-me-not.

Hollow. Dead. Cold.

Lifeless.

Like his eyes…

"…Beyond the looking glass…" she whispered, those midnight eyes widening in remembrance. She stilled in her movements, thinking, deliberating, as if trying to remember something forgotten in the clouded expanse of her memories. She could feel something out of place here, something terribly wrong, even when she could not recall what it was that made her feel so. Like a creature of darkness veiled behind a mask of beauty.

She shook her head, setting the unpleasant thought aside, her curiosity of her surroundings mercifully taking hold. She vaguely noticed her reflection following her, mimicking her every movement in the river's black water. She paused in her step, the river a veritable ribbon of stars and moonlight, all murky and dark, fathomless. Her reflection smiled at her, that familiar face a welcoming comfort as a pair of white arms reached out to her, imploring her to return the gesture, to touch those hands which were very much her own. Water coursed down those twin pillars of ivory, patient, enduring as it waited for their earthbound counterpoints to join them. They appeared so warm and inviting to her, completely harmless…

But then, Wendy's good judgement came to mind, and she retreated from the water's edge, fearful, reticent of such captivating beauty. For as she looked upon herself in the water, her reflection's entreating smile almost looked as that of a portrait: false and devoid feeling, as if contrived by a painter's clever hand. She stared at it, watching its face and smile before its visage shifted to that of pure malevolence, its teeth like those of a nyxian nymph, sharp and carnivorous, a doppelgänger. She retreated even farther, those long white arms reaching out to her once again, suspending toward heaven, beckoning her, drawing her close with its siren's song. Wendy recoiled. It was nothing like the incessant clicking of the mermaids from the Neverland. No, this sound lured her. The flowers fell at her side, her hands moving in a poor attempt to cover her ears, to block out its tempting voice. Though all in vain, when she heard it speak nonetheless:

Come, come to the water's edge, itseemed to chant as it swam about languidly in the water, its beautiful hands, now web-fingered and clawed, adding life to its watery movements. Drink of the river of forgetfulness, my pretty treasure. Drink. Drink, before 'tis too late.

Wendy frowned. "Drink, before 'tis too late? Whatever do you mean? Too late for what?" she found herself question the mirrored image in the water, before drawing a hesitant step forward. She saw her twinned reflection smile, those sharp white teeth gleaming wickedly.

My sisters of the waters speak like whispers on the current. They foresee much, as they foresee your fate. The reflection moved closer, a clandestine glint in one of its lidless black eyes. It laughed, finding that it had succeeded in upsetting Wendy, before whispering, I, too, have also seen that of which they speak. It knows you are here. Even now, it has been waiting, waiting for you, storyteller, it replied, mockingly, and its quarry paled at the revelation.

"It knows of my stories?" Wendy echoed hollowly, before rejecting such an absurd possibility. "How could it possibly? I do not believe it—whatever it is—is even here. I do not even know what it is."

Oh, but you do, her reflection countered. And it knows of your stories. It waits for you, Wendy Darling. It longs for you, to take you with it, under the water, trapping you, never letting you go as you forever remain joined to it, pleasing it, submerged beneath it…

Wendy blanched at the crude implication. "It cannot possibly, for never have I heard of such contemptible…Oh, what would you know?" she huffed, turning away from her distorted, shadow self. "You are nought but a figment of my imagination, conjured by some wild fancy. You are not even real, as I am sure that this is only a dream."

The reflection merely laughed. You deny your own existence, how pragmatic of you. You think this but a dream, how unfortunate. You refuse to see the truth in what I say, as I am certain that it shall have a marvellous time with you, in proving all the difference!

"How dare you?" Wendy rasped, infuriated when her dual opposite continued in its meaningless prattle. Losing all patience for its disjointed babble, she took up one of the many river stones, which had lain, neglected, at her feet. She stroked its smooth grey surface, its coldness leaching into her skin before casting it into the water. It barely upset the river itself—an insignificant drop in the water—and yet was enough to end her other half's crazed ramblings. She almost smiled when it disrupted the water's surface, her reflection bobbing along until settling once again into that collected mask of certainty. Wendy's face fell, as she knew that she could no more rid herself of her reflection than she could of her shadow. "Very well," she murmured to her other self, half in resignation. "If it is indeed your wish to give advice, then I shall grant you a chance to counsel me. You warn me of this impending force from which I must evade. What would you have me do?"

The dark facsimile did not speak, only held up a cupped hand in answer, the water within the colour of straw-spun gold. It flickered, the ripples within capturing the starlight above. Wendy edged near it, though remained wary of this other self. "You wish for me to imbibe in that which you hold?" she questioned.

Her reflection smiled. Drink, it said, speaking at last. Drink, and you shall know of what pursues you.

And Wendy conceded, for so overcome she was by the voice and what it offered her that she drew near the water's edge. Like an enchanted Hylas, a timid hand extended toward that rippling chalice of gold, those curious fingers barely gracing its sinuous, ever-changing surface. Shimmers of gold dripped from where her hand had touched the water, and Wendy marvelled at the sight of it—a hand of gold, a Midas touch—before turning to the one who held such wonder. She inclined her head in deference, and looked into the eyes of the creature which offered her guidance with its vivid blue stare—blue, not brown. Wendy gave pause, thinking once again, remembering. They were colour of the flower that adorned her hair—blue, as the forget-me-not. Blue, as she had seen in her vanity mirror—blue, like his eyes…

Oh, my God.

Her heart slowed in her chest, its beating almost drawing to a standstill. "No. No, it cannot be," she whispered, horrified by the connection. She turned away from her reflection and its placid stare, denying the truth, doubting everything. "This cannot be real," she muttered, her voice quavering in a vain attempt to sound rational.

She made to stand, to forget that which she had seen. Though before she could leave the water's edge, she found herself restrained, her arms captured by the cold, watery hands of her deathlike twin. The water in its hand had all been a trick, an illusion made by this insightful creature to draw her near. Wendy trembled when it pulled her even closer, though not drawing her into the water fully. A hollow breath escaped her, and she belatedly realised that, unlike the Neverland's mermaids, her other self had no intention to pull her down into the drink—not presently, anyway—as those cold, forget-me-not eyes instead reflected what she could not remember, forcing her to see what she had encountered before finding herself in this farce of a sanctuary; and she remembered—everything—before her world had faded to black. As then I found myself here… she reluctantly acknowledged, looking to her captor for confirmation.

The reflection grinned in accord, those fishlike hands pulling her forward, drawing her close. Wendy nearly recoiled at their diaphanous, ichthyoid feel, though found it futile to free herself from that imprisoning hold. The darker half of herself granted her another smile. Now, you know that which hunts you, it said, forcing an aggrieved Wendy to look into its now, dark-brown eyes. He has long searched for you. Indeed, he has spent many years in trying to find you. And now that his search is over, and he has found you at last, he will not let you go. Ah, you remember, I see, it muttered, as if darkly pleased. You remember everything.

"The mirror," Wendy returned, a little forlornly. "He was in the mirror all along, and I did not realise it until too late."

And now you know the truth, it concurred, a fishlike hand sliding over her arm in mock comfort. Such an unfortunate revelation for you, I am sure.

Wendy cast it a miserable look. "What do I do now?" she asked, hoping for a means to escape her unavoidable fate.

Her reflection glanced at the space between them, where transient sea met solid earth, before meeting her gaze once again. You wish to elude his very presence, to force him to leave. Oh, my dear girl, are you still the naïve child you were before casting your ill-fated eye upon him that first time in the shadows of that great and terrible castle? You were entranced by him then, taken in by his charms. I daresay he almost seduced you with that come-hither smile of his. Oh, do not bother to deny it; you cannot lie to me, no matter how hard you try to escape from the truth of it.

"You speak poisonous lies," Wendy returned firmly. "You only say such to deceive me."

Do I? it archly rejoined. Or perhaps 'tis you, who speak the poisonous words of deceit. You lie to yourself; ever-doubting in the truth—even when it stands in a mirror before you! A single white hand rose in accusation. 'Tis probably better that he comes, if only to absolve you of your stupidity.

Wendy glowered at the reflection's baleful remark, those soulful eyes narrowing into dark slits of rage. She threw another stone into the water, the treacherous likeness broken once again by the rippling current. "You cannot compel me to face that which I do not wish to see, as I am sure there is a way to purge my life of him. There must be," she avowed, before casting another stone into the water. "You cannot make me do anything I do not want. You have not the power." She stared in opposition at the river's surface until the water receded, returning to the sleek, allaying surface it had always been.

And yet, her dread opponent was not there, as only darkness—where the twisted white figure had been—remained.

Perhaps it was only a dream, an allusion, Wendy thought, half-tempted to be taken in by the self-indulging fantasy. She watched the river's surface, warily, before sighing in relief. Nothing. Only darkness. Sweet, pacifying, wondrous darkness. She almost smiled at the fact of it; for in her present delight, she took up a handful of the forget-me-nots at her feet, and cast them into the river. She inclined her head in deference to the watery body which openly embraced them in its meandering girth, as if in some pagan form of appreciation to whatever water-born spirit was responsible for her reflection's absence. For there the flowers floated on the surface. Peaceful. Innocuous. A touch of melancholy in the hue of each as they floated downstream. Wendy smiled at their silent exodus, feeling a sense of satisfaction, in ridding herself of the dark reminder of a memory, best left forgotten. For all of them were gone now—carried beyond their storyteller's limited sight.

All, but one.

As one remained amidst the winding dark tresses of her hair. A guarded hand fell over it, and Wendy vaguely considered casting it to the same fate as its brethren. She shook her head, the flower remaining unhindered, untouched by its mistress' discerning hand. I shall allow it to remain, she thought, finding that of her former fears exceedingly childish. There was no reason for her to be afraid—to be frightened by an illusion in the water; and as if to prove that all had been part of her imagination, she hovered over to where the illusory vision had dwelled. For there she had been, leaning—perhaps a little far—before two white hands broke through the water's surface, blindly grasping her by the arms, before pulling her into the river—a fatal plunge into a world of darkness and despair.

Wendy cried out against her reflection's sudden hold on her until that, too, was drowned out by the coursing river. She pulled at that cold, deathlike grip, fighting her way to the surface, struggling for breath. Though to no avail, could she escape as her reflection held firm, pulling her closer until both she and it were facing one another, a crude juxtaposition of good and evil. Her eyes widened when she saw the hideous likeness smile, those sharp teeth glinting in the blackened miasma surrounding them. Wendy nearly recoiled when it moved closer, pockets of precious air escaping to the surface when her reflection's face was a scarce inch from her own.

It regarded her, wordlessly, before placing a sisterly kiss upon her cheek. It comes now, it whispered quietly, furtively. Fight it. Fright it, with every fibre of your being, Wendy Darling; for it will not yield so willingly to that which it desires most, it carefully advised, releasing her from its imprisoning hold before disappearing back into the shaded depths of the river.

Wendy's eyes, though stinging from the river's cold current, widened in disbelief. She had been freed by her other self; whereas such, she found herself once again left to the mercy of the river. She felt her lungs succumbing to the weight of it, her time almost up in its dark expanse, which housed a thousand unseen horrors and more. For God only knew what lay beyond her own hindered sight, the mass of stones and underwater reeds the only things remotely visible. She frowned at the sight of each as she tried to ascend to the river's surface, but only found herself caught—not by her reflection—but by the natural plant life which resided in the river. She tore at the watery depths of her own subconscious, fighting desperately, the brambles and reeds tugging at her sodden skirt, twisting round her arms and feet, silencing those piteous, Ophelian screams, almost quenching that lovely voice before burying it in a silent, watery grave.

The storyteller in her fought against her imprisonment for as long as she could, however in vain. A shadow had begun to cloud her sight, the corners of her eyes falling to the darkness until only a fragment of her eyesight remained. She began to lessen in her movements, her arms drifting at her sides, limp and useless, like that of a rag doll. Her breathing became slow, shallow, faint under the water. She felt the bitter taste of Death looming before her, a yellow poison, virulent and deadly, slipping past those parted lips, like sweet ambrosia. The alleged drink of immortality—poison, to any mortal—quenched the light within, dousing it. Wendy sank to the bottom like a stone, the reeds and brambles covering her like a death shroud.

To die…to sleep—No more, she mordantly thought, that sightless gaze succumbing, giving in to that most unfortunate fate of death and dreams. She breathed out with one of her final breaths, and moved to touch the forget-me-not in her water-laden hair, half-surprised that it had remained throughout her struggle against one more powerful than she.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick.

She gasped in a hollow, choking whisper, her final breath wasted as that incessant ticking drew close. Wendy did not attempt to rise from her makeshift grave, the blackened hand of Death now rendering her inert, helpless.

Finding no other alternative she thus gave in to it, as she had known, deep within herself that, her screams, drowned out and guttered as they had been, could not save her from a tragic end. Something had been there, with her all along, in the water: swirling about, swimming, the tic, toc, tic, toc tickingrumbling in the deep—a distorted requiem—as it came closer, nearer, before closing in around her. Wendy could not even muster the strength to acknowledge her own end, for already on the verge of death as she was, the water in her lungs weighing down the rest.

But her death would not be one of peace. No, her death would be one of agonising misery. She nearly cried out, convulsing in the final death throws of life as a thing of a most wondrous, terrible beauty claimed her for its own, capturing her in its monstrous jaws as it tore her away from the brush that had imprisoned her. It clenched her in between its massive teeth, where Wendy, feeling only a numbed shard of those sharpened daggers, came alive in the instant.

The pain had been unbearable, excruciating, as those teeth—dear God, those teeth!—closed in around her, consuming her in the instant. The flower in her hair died along with her cries, wilting, shrivelling to a purple, papier-mâché mass as her captor reared its ugly head—this Leviathan of a creature, brought into existence by some unseen hand—in barbaric held her close in the water, pulling her under—a perverse baptism—as it growled at her in triumph, looking at her lewdly, blasphemous in its intent.

Did he who made the Tyger make thee?

She vaguely considered the possibility of it, since she believed that only the fallen one's hand could have fashioned the monster that now tormented her. For like a creature striped by both fire and shadow, she felt its teeth puncture her flesh, grinding into the bone. She nearly groaned at the pain it elicited; she would be nought but dust and ashes, if it continued in its pursuit to rend flesh from bone, tearing her soul asunder by its greed-stricken need to consume her.

Wendy's face drew into a mask of defeat. The river would have no need to end her life; this scaled monstrosity would do so for it. The river would only harbour her remains—a grave without an epitaph—as it had always done for all sweet maidens in tragedy.

Rosemary is for remembrance…

Ah, but who would remember her, as she, a captive to the monster which held her in between its closed jaws, plummeted to a bottomless hell, sinking, falling to the blackened depths of oblivion? Wendy knew not the answer to her own fate. She could not; her free will had been forfeit the moment she had stepped into this creature's nightmare world. She closed her eyes, ashamed of her own stupidity, as it was the first invocations of a nightmare, from which she would never awaken. And yet, she felt herself remaining in this world, a shred of life left in her. Her breathing returned and her vision cleared as she felt the lips of another upon hers—the breath of life—returning her to consciousness, and the world above.

The sudden feel of dry earth was shattering. And Wendy, for the first time since her plunge into the unknown, felt liberated from her watery prison. She breathed out in unsteady, quick short breaths as the monstrous entity, which had held her only moments before, was replaced the smooth embrace of humanity. She almost cried when a firm, yet gentle, hand lingered near her face, its deft movements soft, purposeful, those lips which had saved her now hovering close to her own.

You nearly drowned yourself, foolish as you were to wear such a frivolous gown, you realise. If I had not happened along, to see thy folly, thou wouldst have surely succumbed to whatever madness that drew thee to the river so carelessly, she heard him—for the voice was definitely masculine in its intonation—whisper in her left ear.

Wendy frowned at the soft-spoken admonition, and her eyes narrowed when she tried to perceive her saviour's face. She saw a hint of a smile waver upon a strong, beautifully sculpted mouth, a dark moustache obscuring most of that imposing gesture. A shadowy mass of darkness framed most of his face in a wealth of curls, wet and unruly as her own dark hair, and yet suiting that noble-born brow. She had been rendered speechless by him, where only her eyes could express a fraction of the churning emotions that she assuredly felt: gratitude, uncertainty, wonder, curiosity. She felt much for this man whose name she did not know, whose eyes she had yet to meet.

Though to say that the storytelling part of her had been entranced would be an understatement; she had been completely taken aback, awestricken as she was by this man who had saved her from an untimely end. For indeed, Wendy had never seen such beauty in a man, for so overcome she was by this living entity which delivered her from death. She almost giggled at her girlish behaviour—surely he would disapprove of a momentary intrigue. And yet, in spite of the handsome visage now before her, it was upon seeing his eyes that compelled her to withdraw from that arresting touch.

She opened her mouth to cry out; but she could not speak, could not scream, her voice devoid of sound as the one who held her gaze spoke:

Oh, such an insightful wench you are, Wendy Darling, her saviour derided, that dreadful hook coming to where his hand once rested. He chuckled darkly as the truth of his appearance was made evident, his ghostly features returning in all of their gruesome horridity.

Wendy almost flinched when that all-too-familiar instrument caressed the side of her face, as that grim visage of his neared, almost capturing her mouth with his own, dead lips. "Captain, please," she whimpered, fearfully, before turning away from the nauseating feel of his mouth.

Hook glowered at her evasion, undoubtedly disgusted as she was by the sight of him. A dead hand snaked behind her neck, coiling around the back of it, before tugging at her wet hair. He laughed when he caught her frightened gaze, relishing in her fear of him. I should have dispatched thee, when I had the chance. I daresay I should have ended the beating of that merciless heart of thine long ago, selfish as you are to even thank me for saving thee from such a shameful fate as that with a crocodile, he muttered. And yet, I find it time for thee to awaken. Wake up, Wendy. Wake up, for I am here—even in thy thoughts and dreams—as there shall be no escape from me.

He received from her a torn look of acceptance, and a single tear fell in defeat, its crystalline beauty tainting that pale, ivory cheek. He grinned in triumph, that solemn look a soothing balm for that un-beating black heart. He pulled her close, her pounding heart resting against his silent one; for even amidst her pitiful, half-hearted protests, he held her—even closer than he had on that ill-fated night of his own passing. He placed a mocking kiss to her temple before whispering, Wake up, Wendy Darling. Wake up, and see the truth before thee. Wake up, to thy cold and forgiving world and the harsh light of day. Wake up for me, my beauty.

Wake up, wake up, wake up…

…

"Wake up," Wendy muttered to herself, her eyes opening once more to the world of the living. A single breath escaped from those tightly-drawn lips, the entirety of her body frozen in a state of apprehension. Unease filled her every waking movement, her nerves closely strung together, as if she were walking on a tightrope, stretched to the point of breaking. She scarcely felt conscious of her own existence, vague and insignificant that it assuredly was, though was aware of her invisible audience watching her, waiting for her to fall. She looked down at her hands—anywhere—but at the one place she knew he would be.

"I know you are there," she muttered to the mirror in a half-uninviting whisper. She considered it for a moment, with its pristine silver surface and delicate oval framing it was indeed a beautiful furnishing, practically antique. Her mother had once claimed that it had once belonged to a lady of some noble-born family. Her Aunt Millicent had only superimposed the story by giving the lady a name, claiming it had come from one of their own line. As the Darling family, Aunt Millicent would time and again claim, was once part of a powerful noble family in the court of Richard the Lionheart.

Of course, her aunt's claims were never proven as fact. And yet, whether the rumours of such an ancient heritage were true or not, it had intrigued her storyteller's imagination for hours, for it was indeed an intriguing fantasy, just as the mirror had the ability drawn her gaze with its silent reflection. But oh, the unseen horrors that it held…

Wendy regarded it with a look of trepidation before turning her gaze to the window. She waited for a reply—a response of some kind—but received nothing. Only the looming stillness provided any basis of conversation, and Wendy was not in such desperate need to commence in speaking to the corners and empty spaces in her room. She needed no inanimate companion; she needed no one this morning.

Gazing down at her hands once more, she moved out of the foetal position in which she had presently held herself, and stood by the bed. She disregarded it altogether, with its tousled white sheets, left in terrible disarray. Oh, what would her mother say, if she were to see her daughter's neglect of leaving it undone? Though even more, what would her Aunt Millicent think? Wendy grimaced at the consideration. I care not what Mother would say, or for what even Aunt Millicent might think. I shall attend to it later, she thought offhandedly as she made to stand at the window.

A tired sigh escaped from her, the cold air the window emitted a comfort to her against the sun. She placed her face against it, and closed her eyes. Silence. Blessed silence. It was a fleeting comfort, which could not last. But for the moment, Wendy cared not, just as she cared not for the phantom dread weighing heavily upon her thoughts. She was half-willing to believe it all a dream, a terrible fantasy contrived in her desperation to escape from the inevitable call of adulthood. I am not even given a choice in any of this! she mused in a despondent whisper. I cannot even be what I wish, let alone choose someone whose company I enjoy, someone whom I could lo—

A wakeful night, Miss Darling? an all-too-familiar voice derided from behind, as it continued in its relentless teasing of her. Oh, how unfortunate. I should have imagined thee to have a…ah…sunnier disposition this morning. Truly, this dark look of thine does not become so fair a beauty. Indeed, Miss Darling, I thought thy behaviour upon seeing one who has longed to see thee last night…fainting at the very sight of me…It left me in a terrible position, having to place thee upon thy bed. Canst imagine what thy parents would have said, to see their daughter collapse at the sight of a well-meaning gentleman? And in such attire! I daresay I almost feared that thou wouldst catch thy death in such a garment. What possessed thee to wear such a frivolous thing?

Shocked beyond speech, Wendy hastily covered her nightgown with a sheet. She looked down to the floor in utter humiliation, unable as she had been to face the man who had so baldly pointed out her state of undress. She coloured at the thought of his seeing her in anything less, for what if he had actually seen her…She dared not even consider the possibility as she reluctantly turned to meet her tormentor's gaze in the mirror. He merely nodded to her greeting, thoughtful as he was to offer her the first word.

Wendy said nothing, however, as it puzzled her how he could be so calm, so infuriatingly at-ease when she was so terribly apprehensive. And yet, it had been he all along, who had put her abed. She could scarcely remember anything after seeing him. His appearance had both repulsed and frightened her—surely as it did even now. But the thought of him touching her…conjured a feeling of disgust more potent than of his kissing her in a nightmare. She glowered at him, despising that gloating expression. "You, allofpeople," she bit out in a harsh whisper, hating him all the more, for she was certain that he had been the cause of her nightmare.

He nodded to her in mock reverence. Yes, I, he concurred, dryly. You are surprised by my presence? I can come to thee in the day, as well. I am not restricted to only seeing thee in the night. Oh, do close that lovely mouth, Miss Darling; thou art bound to catch a fly if you keep it in such an unsightly position for long enough. Really, a beauty such as thee gaping at the sight of snorted with a shake of that long dark mane. I hazard to admit that I have left many a fair maiden bewildered in the past. But thou? he questioned with an imposing grin. Fain would this cold, dead heart yearn to believe such a possibility! But then, 'twould be considered bad form, to bemuse such a lady, he mused and, adding with a rakish wink, I should imagine thee to be immune from my charms, my beauty.

Wendy cast him a withering look. "I am not your beauty. I have never been, and will never be, Captain." She shook her head at the absurdity of it, almost laughing at his grim-faced visage in the mirror. "You are nothing more than a black-hearted villain, come to torment me!"

The black-hearted villain in question, however, offered her another grin. Oh, but you are! he countered. Indeed, Miss Darling, you cannot bother to deny it, just as I cannot bother to deny such for myself. We have a history together, you and I, since 'twas you who came under myflag and became our storyteller. Dost not recall how you regaled my humble crew with a tale? They were completely besotted of thee—enraptured, if you will.

Wendy frowned at the recollection, for she did indeed remember the crew. How the eager they had been when they listened to her, how attentive…Even Smee was, if only in doing his captain's bidding, taken in by her story. It had surely been a ruse to lure her to their side, to secure the whereabouts of Peter's hideout; but it had been a wonderful feeling nonetheless, to finally feel needed, wanted. But it had all been a lie, injected Wendy thoughtfully. A clever pretence made by a vengeful Hook.

The truth of it grieved her, as the storytelling part of her—the part of herself that she loved so much—was, again, set aside. Only a careful acuity in gauging the captain's true intentions could save her from his honeyed words of remembrance, for she would not be caught in his trap again.

Meeting his gaze, Wendy braved to look into those hazy forget-me-nots. "You speak of my presence on your ship as you would of a fond memory. I was but a child, Captain," she returned frankly, boldly shrugging her shoulders in like civility. "I had no idea what it was to be in your service then, what it was that you offered. I know not why you are even here…" She almost faltered when she caught that insidious grin widen.

The spectre in the mirror feigned surprise. Ah, do not be precious, my dear. I despise precious women, coquettish, heartless creatures that they are. I would not waste my time on thee if you were one of those wretched witches of society, as you already know why I am come, was his enigmatic response. For didst not sense my coming on the winds of thy despair? He eyed her, critically. You have been in want of company, as have I been in need of a good story.

A cynical laugh almost escaped from his quarry. "And that is all you desire, Captain, only a story?" Wendy echoed in disbelief.

The Captain tilted his head to the side, that torn, sodden mass of his crimson coat obscuring half of the mirror in diaphanous thought. You are correct to assume that I require more than a mere story from thee, Miss Darling, he said at length, his cryptic tone making her inwardly recoil. He must have sensed her unease, for he gifted her with another of his disturbing grins, the hook sliding across the mirror's surface, scratching it as drew to the side. I do require more than a story, as you shall know of what it is that I desire of thee soon enough.

"Soon enough?" reiterated Wendy impatiently, for she, having grown tired of his presence and his games, would deny him the pleasure in waiting. "I shall not wait, Captain, for I will have you tell the reason for your being here. Why have you come?" she questioned, glaring at his sallow countenance. "After all of these years, why have you come to me? Why now?"

That mocking grin she had come to despise faded in the instant, and was replaced with an even more frightening expression. It chilled her blood to even look at him, for so hollow, so dead those forget-me-not eyes were as they regarded her. It was as if he could stare into the very hollows of her soul and find nought but something as dead and lifeless as he. Wendy instinctively shuddered as that dead man's gaze drew upon her, a foreshadowing of her own demise. For in that moment, James Hook was more frightening dead than when he had been alive.

"Captain," she began, hoping to somehow avert that terrible gaze, though in vain, as Hook at last spoke:

Oh, Miss Darling, he returned, shattering her hopes, thou knowest why.

Wendy shook her head, all confidence gone. "I am sure I do not."

A disdainful snort countered her guarded response. Ever the needful child, in want of instruction, I see. Then allow me to absolve thee of thy ignorance, he ventured, a callous offer, as he drew himself to his full height.

The mirror barely contained his massive frame, though he managed his limitation well, as he smiled grimly when he saw Wendy retreat a step. He almost laughed at her sudden evasion of him; for in the many years he had spent in wandering among the shadows of the living, did he find that Wendy Darling was still a child in many ways. He could only marvel at the irony in her plight to remain a child, when even her own body had betrayed her. She had deluded herself into believing a part of her childhood would exist—even when she had abandoned all hope in returning to the Neverland. Peter had allowed her to believe in such an ill-contrived fantasy, and Hook could only thank the boy for his childish stupidity. Pan had been most unkind to keep their storyteller waiting on so frail a hope. He would not allow her the same discourtesy.

He nodded to her in all gentlemanly fashion, where a grim smile lingered in the wake of his words. And so you wonder why I have come to thee, of all people, Miss Darling, he muttered, his hook pressed rigidly against the mirror's edge. There are many reasons for my sudden and most unexpected intrusion upon thy life, I am sure, but there is one reason for which I cannot deny, since thou art the reason for my coming.

Dark eyes countered his as his voice drew her toward the mirror. He said her name, repeatedly: Wendy. Wendy. Wendy Darling. And yet, the sound of it never grew old or dull, his voice the antithesis of his horrid appearance; for whether Wendy wished to accept the truth or not, she was caught in a state of perilous fascination, wholly transfixed by the voice that had haunted her in her youth.

"And what reason would that be, Captain?" she queried, bravely, as she stood in front of the mirror. "Why have you come here, to me, after all of this time?"

He gave her a droll look. And why would I not, if not to see how beautiful and becoming thou hast become? he rejoined, drawing nearer to her, those luminous forget-me-nots uttering his words before he spoke them. I have wanted to see thee, he reiterated, calmly. For how could I not be drawn to such timeless beauty, and hope to be remembered by such an arresting creature? I had honestly feared that the great Wendy Darling would be the same as that foolish, inconstant, ever-forgetful Peter Pan, he spat out Peter's name as he would a poisoned draught. But no, unlike Pan, you have not forgotten me, as I simply wish to repay thee for thy every kindness shown to thy ever-faithful Captain Hook.

"There is no need to repay me for anything," answered Wendy, a little too abruptly. She silently scolded herself for speaking so hastily—even to one considered very much dead, not to mention a former enemy—when he had claimed to having wanted to see her for so long. In a way, his words had affected in ways she dare not consider, for fear of what such might foretell. She gave her head a mental shake, putting it from her mind completely, before returning her attention to the man before her. "Forgive my impertinence, Captain, as I surely mean no offence, but I require nothing in payment," she said, in all polite rejection.

Hook's sceptical look, however, countered that hollow demurral. Oh, but you do, he objected, just as courteously, a menacing grin lingering at the right-hand corner of his mouth. A dark, shadowy length of an arm escaped from the mirror then, and Wendy almost screamed as it tore the sheet away from her and encircled her waist. She trembled, her only barrier of decency lost, as that dreadful appendage pulled her forward, forcing her to acknowledge its owner. Hook looked down, noting her frightened expression, and he laughed. There is much on my part for which to repay, said he, as his shadowy hand pulled her closer to the mirror's edge. I dare confess that I find myself wholly indebted. To say it kindly, my dear: you murdered me, and I have no intention to leave thy company quite so soon.

Wendy shuddered at the feel of that cold, dead arm, doubt overshadowing that ivory countenance like a pall. "I never forced you into the jaws of that terrible crocodile," she returned, trying to escape, yet failing miserably as he held her tighter.

Ah, but you did chant me to my doom, he reminded her. Oh, what was it that you said? Ah, yes! I remember! He advanced on her, eyeing her darkly, forcing her closer. She was barely an inch away from the mirror, barely an inch away from him as his mouth descended, a breath of a whisper away from hers. You remember what was said; you remember it as well as I. And yet, I suppose I am not so old, alone, and done for as you first believed, he mused, a crude whisper, the enormity of his demise falling upon her captive shoulders like a deadened weight.

Guilt suffused Wendy's torn features, her voice as silent and profound as the grave that surely encased his rotting corpse. He had made a point—a point in which she, in her naïveté, never considered in her youth. Did he speak truly in the cause of his death? Had her words sealed his fate, even before his demise in the gorge of that mindless crocodile? Dear God, if so, then she would be accountable for his death. It was almost too much for her to bear, where, admitting defeat, Wendy at last succumbed to that crushing will. "What do you want from me, then?" she asked in a terrified whisper.

The Captain only smiled. There are many things that I want from thee, as there is surely one thing I desire from thee most of all. Oh, I daresay that thou shall certainly learn of it, for you and I shall be together for a very, very long time, Miss Darling. He laughed at her horrified expression, for Wendy knew that this inconvenient happenstance in Hook's return, and the feelings of guilt and despair derived from it, only foretold that this story—one that she would surely, never have considered telling to her brothers—was far, far from over.

…

Author's Note: First off, I want to apologise, for taking this long to post this chapter. I have long been struggling with this story, along with quite a few others. In truth, I had originally intended for Chapter Three to be quite a lot longer than this; but, after looking at how long it wouldhavebeen, I decided to cut this chapter into two parts. Chapter Four will pretty much continue where Chapter Three leaves off, as I feel that it will be better to take this particular story in that direction—not to mention that I am sure that, if I had not cut it, this chapter would have been, probably, around, 20,000 words or so. o.0; Yeah. Hence, the much-needed split.

Nevertheless, I hope that everyone has enjoyed Chapter Three. We see quite a bit more of Hook, as well as a very strange, if not disturbing vision of Wendy's dreams. Her shadow self…a creepy thing, that. I should honestly dread to see mine…o.0; Really, I believe the first half of this chapter is more so one of poetic prose and imagery than anything, since dreams, also, tend to exude the same manner at times. But at least the last half, hopefully, makes up for that. For even dead, Hook can be quite seductive—no matter his ghastly appearance. ^.^

Oh, and lest I forget, there were, also, quite a few allusions to classic works of literature in the dream sequence, as well, since they set up what is to come in the next chapter. (Hint. Hint.) Milton, Dante, Shakespeare, and Blake…Hmm. It would seem that Wendy thinks of DWGs (Dead White Guys), even in her dreams. :)

As for the Ophelia bit, yes, I must confess that Wendy is compared to Ophelia in this chapter—unashamedly so! (Grins.) I thought of comparing Wendy to Ophelia, since the latter met a watery end in Hamlet—whereas, in some respects, so did Hook. Honestly, I wanted to draw a parallel between Hook and Wendy, by emphasising the darkness and the unknown dangers that lie, just beneath the surface, since both are associated with water—very much like in the mystery/thriller/horror film, What lies Beneath, actually. And I also realise that, in Hook's case, he was consumed by the crocodile; but, interestingly enough, crocodiles generally drown their prey, instead of killing their meal by tearing it apart/swallowing it whole. I did not particularly wish to have a gashed and bloody Hook, so I stuck to how a drowned person appears, after being in the water for a few days. Not a pleasant sight, I realise, but I simply, could not resist having Hook described in such a way! And, well…at least he's not like poor, unfortunate Herbert, from The Monkey's Paw. Call it a morbid fascination, but a drowned, decaying Hook is rather thought provoking, I think.

On a side note, Samurai Chopstick's 'Ophelia' on Deviant Art reminds me greatly of Wendy. If anyone is curious about her rendition of Ophelia, I wholeheartedly suggest taking a look at her work; it is certainly worth the time! :)

But again, I really want to thank everyone who is reading/reviewing this. Thanks so much for your thoughts and comments; I greatly appreciate them! And most especially, I also want to thank pamelawright, who, most certainly, encouraged me to continue this story. Truly, Pamela, without your asking me on whether I planned to continue, I doubt I would have posted this chapter even now. Thanks again, for the encouragement!

Until Chapter Four, then!

— Kittie