Hi, my dear readers!

Thank you so much for the feedback. I knew, the end of the last chapter was really a VERY mean cliffhanger and that you all are waiting for the next scenes. Well, just a few days before Christmas comes the new update.

I don't want to reveal anything, but for those, who are rather weepy persons, a little advise: Get some handkerchiefs before you start to read.

Nevertheless: Enjoy

Yours Lywhn / Starflight

75. Chapter – Prices to Pay

It was a long moment of paralysed horror; time stood still as Hook stared at the knife hilt protruding from Peter's chest; the shirt around it began to stain with blood. He felt cold as ice as he struggled to grasp what happened – that Peter had leapt between him and the blade – the blade meant for him, James!

Then Tink made an unholy sound and flew to Peter who began to sway. It released Hook from his state of disbelief. He could only croak "No!" as he caught the boy and held him. "No, Peter! No! For God's sake, no!" He tried to hold the boy upright, but Peter's knees bent and Hook carefully lowered him to the ground; gathering him in his arms. Tinker Bell fell onto Peter's belly, crying in despair and denial.

All the Lost Boys came running toward the site of despair: John, Slightly, Nibs and Curly; the younger boys from the back. Shocked and disbelieving, they knelt around their fallen friend. A few of the pirates circled about them in pity for the boy but also their commander. They knew how much Hook had come to love the lad.

George Darling and Daniel Kempton could only stand; stupefied with horror. Olivia left the dragonling on the table, then pushed through the gathering crowd. She screamed at the sight of the fallen boy. Beside her Akeele cursed softly. "No!" Bumblyn gasped and shook his head, ears flapping. "No, no, no, not happening this is!" Smee knelt down beside the father and son. Mullins, Mason and Akeele saw their comrades outside in the gardens. Cookson and Skylights were holding a cackling viscount between them, Robb and Herbs had him at cutlass point, daring him to provide a reason to gut him. They knew that the nobleman's life was forfeit should Pan die.

All could see the boy's injury was fatal.

Peter didn't understand the sudden silence, his weakness. He felt numb but also dizzy; now lying down; Hook was holding him in his arms, but why? He felt James tearing at his shirt with his left hand, repeating "No-no-no …" again and again. Then another face appeared above him – with startled eyes behind spectacles. Smee. And Tink was somewhere near his waist sobbing hysterically. What was going on?

Holding Peter on his cuff, claw turned aside, James had begun to open the boy's shirt, then rough old hands stopped him. "Le' me, Cap'n," Smee murmured; whose mind was clearer than Hook's just then. With a couple centuries' experience of patching up his fellow pirates and a hot-tempered captain, the bosun examined the boy who was beginning to gasp shallowly as the pain attacked. "Easy, lad," the older man said gently. "Just le' me check which part of yer chest wuz th' target." He met Pan's large eyes, then Peter moaned: "Hurts …"

"Aye, laddy, t' be sure, them blades is dangerous," Smee murmured; feeling his throat tightening. Nissa and Bumblyn stared horrified, tears falling, while above them Kailen and Aurora paused in the air.

Bryan ignored them all. Carefully he examined the wound and finally took a deep breath. Hook looked pleadingly at him and Smee almost hated what he had to tell the younger man, but he couldn't lie; he slowly shook his head. "No chance, Cap'n," he whispered. "Th' blade's directly a' th' heart – or maybe e'en touched it. Nothin' I kin do fer 'im." Filled with pity for both, he rose and stepped aside; his sight blurring. Dammit, he had come to like the flying crank!

The boys gasped. Slightly closed his eyes, Nibs lowered his head, John pressed a hand on his mouth; the younger ones began to weep. They all knew what Mr. Smee's words meant: Peter would die.

Hook's eyes filled with tears – hot, burning tears as something in his chest began to churn. No! Not true! This wasn't real. This was a nightmare! How else could he be holding a dying Peter Pan in his arms? – the boy once loathed and hated, now loved like a son of his own body. Peter had called him his 'Da'; James had called him his 'son' only moments before. It was not possible that this fun-loving, cocky, brave imaginative boy was dying! The boy who had an answer and an escape for every trap!

But other men (with no eternal perspective) had long observed that 'all good things must come to an end.' This one time Peter hadn't been quick enough; this one time he had run out of luck; this one time he would pay the price for his interference and his bravery. The irony was that the fatal blow came because of Peter's love for another.

"Why?" James croaked, throat so tight with grief he could hardly speak. "Peter, why did you do that? You never listen to me …" His voice broke as those crystal blue eyes looked up at him, wet with unshed tears of pain and increasing fear as he realized what it meant.

"Couldn't … lose you again," the boy whispered and took a shuddering breath. The pain in his chest finally reaching him – a burning, tearing pain that made him earnestly desire to fall asleep to forget.

James wasn't ashamed of the sob that escaped him. His saw the knife hilt – the very one he had given to Peter that morning. If he had only kept it – maybe this wouldn't have happened! Blame assaulted him with the bile in his mouth. With a shout of wrath and despair, he carefully pulled the knife out of the boy and hurled it away; the wound was lethal with or without the blade. Then he let his forehead sink against Peter's, his hair spreading like a dark veil, his soul crying out in agony.

Someone came to Hook and gasped sharply: Dark Owl.

John went to his blood-brother, seeing the brave's face fall. He recognized the sorrow in those almond-shaped eyes. "I regret," Dark Owl whispered, while the owl returned to his shoulder again. "I received a vision, but too late."

John wrapped an arm around his newest brother, tears gathering in his eyes. "Not your fault," he said quietly.

From behind them another scream echoed through the hall. "PETER!" Mr. Darling attempted to catch Wendy as she flew past him, but too late. She avoided her parent and raced to her dying friend and her captain, again calling the boy's name in horror.

As Dark Owl had run into the manse, clearly horrified, Wendy knew she needed to follow. Ignoring the other women, she had run after the brave; Victoria, Mary, Millicent, Cora Bailey and Hutchings followed her.

While Wendy fell to her knees beside Smee, she reached out to Peter with trembling hands. The others had been hot on her heels. Mary, still with the necklace and ring, cried out in shock. Pressing a hand against her mouth, she turned to weep in George's shoulder. Millicent looked away, then she laid a hand on Cora's arm as she gasped. "Oh God, no!"

Cora suddenly felt cold all over. The youth couldn't be lying there, dying. He was Peter Pan, for heaven's sake! The boy who wouldn't grow up and lived with the fairies! He was her great-uncle who was a child forever, a living legend! With tears in her eyes, Cora watched the one-handed captain and the young girl holding the dying boy, the golden fairy crying her sorrow to the sky.

Victoria now pushed herself through the group, knowing that something terrible must have taken place. She had told her uncle that Lunette was obviously behind Dalton's unbalanced behavior, and that the old housekeeper had a few of her buttons undone as well. The shots and yells had surprised and alarmed Earl Marlow Ashford and he had ended their conversation with the words: "I'll send help – and Beverly and I are also coming! Try to keep Dalton calm, I'll talk with him when we arrive!" Victoria was not sure what her uncle had meant by sending help, but she now questioned her actions. Maybe it had been a mistake to call him? On the other hand, what else could she have done? The situation was getting out of control.

As she reached the center of the group, she realized that the situation already was out of control. Horrified, she looked down at the bleeding teen, her weeping friend in her mother's coat, a miserable James Hook, who held the dying boy in his arms. Daniel went to Victoria who had clapped a hand over her mouth as her tears started, and pulled her towards him. With a muted sob she buried her face at his shoulder.

Peter panted shallowly as the pain increased with every breath. James had lifted his head; Peter could see Wendy beside him, also sobbing. She held one of his hands in her shaking fingers – fingers which were cold, just like everything else about him. Only the wound in his chest burned like fire. He knew that he was dying. "To die … it isn't an awfully big adventure," he whispered. "It's only awful."

Another cry escaped James as he remembered the moments in the dungeons of the Black Castle, when Peter was at his mercy. The boy had proudly declared that 'to die would be an awful big adventure,' grinning in defiance. Now he wished he could turn back time and tell Peter how wrong he was, to warn him what lay ahead. But time is like water: it slips through your fingers, you can't hold it. Cradling the boy's face in his hand, Hook bent and kissed Peter's forehead; his heart and soul seemed ready to come apart. He would give everything – his left hand, his arm, his life – if only he could save the boy.

Peter recognized the hard wooden cuff behind his shoulders and he moistened his lips. There was one thing he'd been wanting to tell Hook, but was always interrupted. This was his last chance; the pirate's face was losing definition. It took great effort to lift his hand and to lay it on the pirate's head, and their eyes met. Peter had never thought that this man would cry for him, but so much had changed between them. So, so much.

"Your right hand," he rasped. "I'm sorry. I never … wanted to hurt you … like that."

"Peter …" James whispered, but the teen shook slowly his head.

"I wanted to tell you … a few times, but always …" He swallowed. "Always something … stopped me." He took another deep breath that felt like many blades stabbing him. "I'm sorry, James. I never … intended to cut your … hand off. It … it was a … an accident … during the fight." Speaking was growing more difficult. "And the crocodile … I didn't know it was there … I saw … your hand, thought it was … a glove … took it and … and … I was so horrified … when I saw … what it was … I threw it away … the … the croc… I only saw it as … when it swallowed your hand." A tear rolled down the boy's cheek. "I'm begging you … forgive me."

Until recently, they both had spent so much energy trying to kill the other. Then Hook had yearned to see the boy deadly wounded and to hear those words. Now they were like a sword cutting him open. He saw the boy's pleading eyes and cleared his throat; knowing that the child would only find peace in hearing what was already set. "I forgave you years ago, son," he choked out. "Up there, on the volcano." He took a shuddering breath, knowing what the boy needed to hear. "I forgive you, Peter Pan." He placed another kiss on the boy's forehead, clammy and cold. Wendy cried even harder. With blurred sight, James looked at her, then at Tink, who lay on the child's belly, clinging to his blood-soaked shirt, weeping. He felt Nissa's little hand patting his side in a helpless attempt to offer comfort, but he couldn't look at the Brownie.

Peter sighed in relief at the redemptive words. A weight seemed to be lifted from his shoulders. He raised hand again and tried to wipe away James' tears. "You know," he murmured, "I wanted to stay … here, with you … I … I decided … for you and … and Wendy." He fought against the weariness flowing through him, while every breath grew shallower. "I wanted to stay … and … and have you … as my father … and … and Wendy as … my mother. No … no more pretend … It would be … real. I wanted to be … a real boy." A mild cough made him moan in pain, bringing a metallic taste to his mouth. "A family – real parents …" he whispered and soft sob escaped him. "But … but Solomon was right. There are … no second chances …"

"Peter …" James croaked, remembering their talks the night before, and in Kensington Gardens only that afternoon. Good God, it couldn't end like this!

There was one thing more Peter had to do – for Neverland. He tried to lift his head, but couldn't. "Tink?" he wheezed, and she flew above him, crying, he felt for his pipe. It was Wendy, who loosened the little instrument from his belt and pressed it into his hand. With an effort, he offered Tinker Bell the flute. "My … the Pan's pipe. Give … it to Niam … to choose … a new Pan." He coughed again. "I … I think … Runner c … could be the best.

Tink burst into more tears, making even the bushes and trees in the garden shiver, for plants and animals cannot bear a fairy's heartcry of grief.

"Th … thank you for … taking me to Neverland," Peter whispered. Trembling like a leaf in the wind, the fairy took the pipe. He gave her a small smile, then he looked at the girl beside him. Her eyes, her smile, her lips – she had wakened in him the first tender feelings, for which he was grateful, because now – with death approaching him – he knew he didn't want to leave the world without knowing those feelings.

"Wendy? You … your hidden kiss… the best gift I … ever got." He fought to breathe more evenly, but for naught. Breathing was difficult now, yet he added: "My kiss … keep it … to protect you for … ever."

Wendy couldn't speak. She couldn't even think anymore. She could only nod. Peter Pan, this wonderful boy, was dying and there was nothing that could change it. He, who had laughed at death so often, was now facing it head on. Bending over her friend, she kissed his cool lips which tasted of blood from his injured lungs.

Peter smiled weakly. "To live … would be … the truly best … adventure," he wheezed, then he shivered. "Cold …" he whispered. "It's so cold."

Hook pulled him closer and felt the boy claw his waistcoat and shirt. "Come here, son," he murmured, knowing nothing would make him feel warm again. Life was leaving him as blood left the wound with every heartbeat. At least he could hold him close. Peter wouldn't die alone and unloved! Friendless! His friends and he, James Hook, were with him until his spirit took flight. And he was loved. So, so loved – not only by his friends but also by the man once his worst enemy and now his father …

He grew aware of soft keening sound, then Cudrim pushed his little head between Wendy and Slightly. The dragonling whimpered as he saw the dying boy, golden brown eyes wide and troubled. His nostrils flared at the smell of blood. Then he looked at the gentle girl, the man, the two Little People beside him, then on the boy again. Cudrim had come into the world only half an hour ago, but his senses already worked with the acuteness of his breed, a miniature edition of an adult. He felt death reaching out to claim the small one. There was something in his new heart that hurt – hurt enough to make him weep, just like those around him. Then he felt something else: A warm, strong power approaching.

Hook held Peter close to him, lips pressed against the damp cool temple, eyes closed, hot tears running down his cheeks. He rocked the boy gently, whose breathing was slowing. And as the tension began to leave Peter and his fingers lost their grip, James knew that it was nearly over. But even in grief Hook wasn't blind to his surroundings. He heard his men begin to murmur, something bright stood before him; bright enough to see with his eyes closed. Blinking away the tears, he looked up – and frowned.

There by Peter's feet stood Mother Ludlam, a figure of light and mist; the pixies hovering around her, her expression soft, her eyes shining with compassion and understanding while she looked upon the dying youth. An old pixie – Mawgan – spoke to her in his own language, and she nodded slowly. Then she waved the boys away to make room for her. Slightly, Nibs and Curly quickly scrambled out of her way, hoping against all hope for a miracle. Smee took off his hat and bowed his head. As an Irishman he had – just like many of the islands – a special respect for the supernatural.

Wary, Hook watched the ghost moving beside Wendy and kneeling. A ghostly hand combed through the girl's hair, feeling like a cold breeze. "No tears, daughter. This boy needs your strong heart." Her voice sounded old, calm; there was the touch of an echo in it. She glanced at Hook. "And yours, Milord." She looked at Tinker Bell, who still hovered over the youth, holding his pipes, and looking utterly miserable and desperate It touched the white visitor deeply. "Don't weep, little sister, let me work."

She laid her head back, looking toward the evening skies. Then she lifted her hands, palms upwards, closed her eyes and began to sing in the old language spoken on that soil before the Romans arrived. And the stars answered her. They saw it begin in her hands – silver sparks, mixed with gold, bright like the sun and the moon together. They danced between her slender fingers, wandered up her arms, leaving teasing glitters in the wrinkles of her face and twinkled in her white hair.

Then she bent over the eternal boy and placed her star-bedecked hands over the wound on Peter's chest. Closing her eyes she began to chant. Her singing not only called out to the boy's retreating spirit, entreating it to remain in the world of living, it also soothed the hurting hearts around her. Warmth and peace pushed away sorrow and tears, replacing them with hope and faith.

The woman, now dressed in light, opened her old eyes and looked at Cudrim, watching her with the innocence and curiosity of a little child. "Pray lend thy help, young lord," she said softly and the dragonling climbed onto Peter's chest. Hook wanted to protest, but he quickly stopped as the nestling whimpered and then tears fell from his tiny scaled snout directly onto the ugly opening where Peter's life was escaping.

And the bleeding stopped.

Veins closed, torn flesh healed, skin mended. For dragons rarely weep; if they do, their tears carry the power of their hearts and the healing might of their blood.

The adults had made a circle around the little group. The Darlings, all weeping soundlessly, were stunned – bewildered, as were Olivia, Cora Bailey, Hutchings and the boys. And they all began to pray, including Dark Owl in his native tongue. Mullins gulped down his superstition, while his comrades stared at the miracle that was taking place in front of their eyes. The pixies, Kailen and Aurora held their breath, Tink begged the stars for more power, while Nissa and Bumblyn were (for once) speechless. Everyone's attention was focused on the white witch, the dragonling and the healing spell that was calling Peter Pan back from the threshold of death …

* PP *

… so no one noticed Dalton Ashford slipping away from his guards. Quietly he retreated into the darkness of the gardens and then hastened to the stables and the garage; they would conceal his escape. He saw only two options left: Flee or get killed. He had no idea what was happening within the little group, but he doubted that an apparition would save the brat. As much as Dalton had enjoyed Shalford's and 'the little bitch's' anguish while with the dying boy, he knew that the pirate captain would undoubtably kill him as soon as the rascal was dead. And even insane, Dalton Ashford's instincts were working just fine.

He hastened to the front of the manor, sighing in relief as he found the driveway and the front garden empty except for the crumpled figure of Brynna Lunette. He hesitated, and was about to check on her, then he remembered how she had threatened and even betrayed him only half an hour ago; shouting that she never had really cared for him or his family. No, the old hag could go to hell as far as he was concerned. She might already be dead. 'Another now pays for opposing me.'

He sniffed and sneered, then turned to the motorcars parked near the steps: Mr. Darling's Adler, his own Austin, Lunette's Wolseley and a strange vehicle he didn't know. Well, one of them would surely start!

With a frown, he hurried to the motorcars, determined to escape.

* PP *

Mother Ludlam's prayers echoed softly through the evening, like many angelic voices bundled into one. Then – finally – the sound trailed off and she sat back on her knees, clearly exhausted. There was a dark spot on her dress where once her heart beat. It was a mirror of Peter's wound. She lifted her face again to the skies and closed her eyes, a smile now on her pale lips. New lights danced over the dark spot; then it vanished.

With a gasp, Peter opened his eyes, feeling as if he'd just awakened from a deep sleep. The pain of his injury was only a soft throbbing, and the scorching heat in his chest had cooled. He could breathe again; no longer feeling as if he was going to suffocate. The dark shadows reaching for him were gone, yet he still felt cold. He looked to Hook and saw the awe on the man's still wet face. His blue eyes were staring at Peter's exposed chest in disbelief, then in a wild joy. Glancing to Wendy, Peter saw the same expression, and even Tink gaped at him. A moment later his fairy dropped the pipes, pressed her tiny hands in front of her mouth and sobbed again, then exploded with a loud musical cheering.

It seemed a signal, for suddenly the pirates around him began to laugh, clapped each other on the back and applaud, while Smee closed his eyes, sighing deeply in relief. The boys screamed in happiness and whooped, hugging each other in celebration, the pixies cheered loud enough to make the glass in the windows shiver. The two bogeys danced about in delight. George hugged Mary and Millicent vigorously, and Daniel even lifted Victoria into the air and whirled her around, laughing. Dark Owl gave thanks to the Great Spirit and then embraced John, who hugged him back, laughing. And Cora Bailey? She found herself hoisted into the air by a broadly grinning Professor Archibald Hutchings, who then simply hugged her. He had no clue who she was, but he had to share his joy and relief with someone!

But the only people Peter saw were Hook and Wendy. New tears of relief spilled from their eyes and color returned to their white faces. "What -" the boy began, ignorant of what had just happened, but James pulled him into a tight breath-stealing embrace. Wendy, too, threw her arms around both of them, sobbing tears of joy and relief.

"Peter! Alas, boy, never – ever! – give me such a fright again!" James croaked, voice hoarse from too many tears and sorrow transformed while he pressed his head against the sandy hair. Dear God, how much the prospect of losing this cocky little pest had pained him!

Even if he would have liked to, Peter couldn't answer, because his face was buried in the front of the pirate's shirt. Then next Wendy was showering his cheek with kisses. He grimaced and screwed up his face to show his displeasure at the thimbles. Then she sighed deeply and set her brow against his, now weeping in relief.

He smiled, curiously weary, while he tried to sort out what had happened. He knew he had been injured – dying, even – and then … Carefully he turned and looked at the white figure beside the girl. There she sat: The image of Mother Ludlam. Their eyes met and she smiled at him before she rose.

Then Tink was fluttering around him; she bit his ear gently, pulled a lock of hair, threw her arms around his throat. She felt the frustration of being so tiny that she couldn't even embrace more of the one she loved.

Something sneezed beside Wendy. Cudrim had slid to the floor and now picked himself up. Tiny smoke rings came from his nostrils as he sneezed again, but his eyes shone happily. Then he climbed onto the boy's lap and rubbed his rough little head on Peter's arm.

For a long moment, Peter pet the dragon, then he let himself sink against Hook and closed his eyes. He felt exhausted and still cold, like after being rescued from the orphanage. Relaxing into those strong arms, he would have liked to just stay there and sleep. James held him close, feeling him shivering, and looked about for something to wrap Peter in.

George gave a subdued sniff, slipped out of his coat and spread it over the boy, ignoring the blood covering him now. Culdrim squeaked, enjoying the covering. Reaching out, Mr. Darling also patted Peter's hair.

"Gadzooks, boy, you really gave us a shock," he said softly; relieved Peter would survive. There were times he cursed the night Peter Pan first came to Bloomsbury, but was now glad that Peter's selfless crazy life would not end here. Watching him – a child! – dying had been terrible. "Be more careful the next time," he added gently. "So many people love you, Peter, you don't want to hurt them like that." Peter only smiled wearily, eyes still closed, nearly asleep.

Smee shook his head, watching his commander holding the boy as if he'd loved him for years, the young lady embracing them both again. He was happy for Hook because he knew that those two really loved him – and he them. Sighing contentedly, he finally replaced his hat, looked around – and stopped, seeing Skylights and Cookson, Herbs and Robb still holding their cutlasses. The space between them was empty. "Brutes!" he said, pointing. "Pray tell where th' demmed blue-blood went t'?"

Alarmed, Hook lifted his head. No, that viscount hadn't escaped, had he?

"Tweren't ye watchin' 'im?" – "Me? Why me? Y' 'ad 'im first!" – "Alan 'ad th' cutlass. He could-" – "Wha' could I do? Ye've yer cutlass, too, so-" The captain stopped listening to the unfolding quarrel. He groaned, swallowing a particularly vile curse (for the ladies' sake.)

Cadan and Kailen exchanged a glance. Humans! Then the pixie general flew to Hook. "Be not fearing, Captain, finding the drog tarosvan we will! Paying he will for trying to kill the Pan." His little green face bore a fearsome expression as he took off. "Pixies, go everywhere. Every stone turned, every leaf lifted, every shadow pierced. Finding we will the man so cruel to our friends!" He bowed in front of Mother Ludlam. "Wise Mother, quickly we will return." Then he soared away; all other pixies scattered in every direction.

Hook stared after them, amazed by their speed. Then he looked at the four unlucky crew members who had Ashford let escape. "Well, brutes, are you waiting for an order?"

All four started, as if just waking up, saluted, and raced away. Hook's narrowed eyes took in the other pirates. "It would be a good idea, dogs, if you assisted your comrades," he told them grimly. Their confused looks disappeared as they realized what he meant and left. James shook his head. "I do appreciate their loyalty, but sometimes I think they're no better than Pan's gang." Behind him, the former Lost Boys reacted as if offended, and the captain growled, "You know exactly what I mean."

Mother Ludlam moved to the stair leading from the terrace to the garden. She stood tall, raising her face to the sky again and spreading her arms, as if to collect new energy, and Hook wondered if even ghosts needed a vacation from time to time. Hutchings watched the specter with sad yet adoring eyes, then knelt beside Wendy and sighed. "So, she really has become a ghost."

"No rest she finds," Mawgan (who'd stayed behind) piped, "not without her cauldron given back."

"The large metal pot the witch stole from the place where the palefaces talk to God?" Dark Owl asked, the owl on his shoulder again. John, still beside him, readjusted his battered spectacles to sit in front of his eyes again.

The professor nodded with a sigh. "'Tis doon the stair, in 'er 'special room'."

Hook had only been listening with half an ear, but now made up his mind to look into this cauldron thing they were supposed to give back. His stay in Neverland had given him greater awareness of magical things. He'd also heard stories that sometimes the dead roamed the earth until their job was finished. And after all Mother Ludlam had done for them, it was only fitting to repay her by returning the cauldron. Maybe then she would finally find rest.

Before he could send the professor to the dungeon to remove the cauldron, the apparition turned to him. "Marquess Shalford?" she addressed Hook, who froze in surprise. For a fleeting moment she smiled, amused. "I knew you the moment I beheld you. Many summers have passed since you fled, but return you did." She gestured for him to approach. "A word, please."

James and Wendy exchanged a glance, then Hook shifted Peter into her arms. "Back in a few," he told Peter, draping Mr. Darling's coat snugly around the small body. The puff of smoke from beneath the material showed him that the dragonling was still there, certainly as weary as the boy.

Hook advanced to Mother Ludlam. Usually very careful when facing an apparition (the confrontations with the ghosts in the Black Castle unforgettable, but they had been lost, evil creatures) he found the specter in front of him entirely different. In spite of the chill air, she conveyed warmth. "Ma'am," he addressed, and bowed deeply. "Thank you for your help. You saved Peter's life. Without your help, he would have died. Because of your actions, I still have my son."

"You call him your son," the ghost replied softly, head tilted. "But not always you two were so close."

James took a deep breath, surprised at her insight. "Many times I wanted to kill him so badly that nothing else in my life seemed to matter," Hook admitted, glancing at his right arm. "My hatred was based on wrong … information. It was an accident he regretted, but I never saw it that way." He looked at her. "Circumstances forced us to work together, and so we came to know each other better and … and …"

"And learned to see the other with different eyes, growing to regard each other as father and son," she nodded, then her eyes grew sad. "Yet you both are at a crossroad. Time to heal he will need. And the magic of the fairies' land will help him the best."

Hook frowned. Deep down he understood to what the apparition was referring. Mother Ludlam continued: "Fairy magic enveloped him once and the shores of his home filled him with vigor. If these powers are restored, his wounds – the inner and outer ones – will heal without scars."

James felt a sudden cold, understanding that the lady, indeed, was telling him what he already knew. "Peter has to return to Neverland to fully recover," he guessed. As she nodded, he felt his mouth go dry. "But … he chose to stay here!" James said softly; feeling the wave of fierce possessiveness, unwilling to lose this one he now loved.

"That choice can be fulfilled later," Mother Ludlam replied with sympathy. "He can heal here too, but his wounds would leave scars. In Neverland they will heal without a trace, because …"

"Because Neverland makes you forget, and when he forgets these injuries, there will be no scars on his soul," Hook mused. A new fear now rose. "Perhaps he would also forget about his decision – that he ever wanted to stay here. And even if he remembers, the fairies will make certain that he delays his return – just like Mab did when he tried to go home to his mother."

There was pity on the ghost's face. "Yes. It's the price humans must pay when dealing with the Fae. Those strong enough can free themselves from their influence. Others will walk in their twilight forever." She slowly retreated. "The choice … is the boy's."

Hook frowned. "Does he have a choice at all?" he asked bitterly; fearing a pending loss.

"Indeed he has. The power the people need to free themselves from the Fae often lies in the mightiest of all: Love requiring nothing in return." Her glance went to Peter, who seemed to have dozed off in the girl's arms. "And loving he surely does – her, you … but he must make the decision. Do not deny him the chance to make it."

"Not I!" James snorted. "The boy is far too stubborn to hear me!" He moistened his lips. "I will speak with him, but if he doesn't wish to return to Neverland, I will not make him!"

Her face turned serious. "That love means seeking the other's well-being and happiness. Sometimes love means letting go. All parents face this."

Hook felt a new tightness in his throat. "But … he is still a child …"

"The eternal child he is, Milord. He learned to stand up for himself long ago. Special it makes him and gives him rights other children will never have. Don't take this from him. Love can be selfish, but sometimes the best love demands that you stay behind." She reached out to graze his left hand as she stroked it; it felt both icy and tender. "Once your father had the same dilemma. Nissa told me. He feared for you as you chose to travel the seas, desiring to keep you close at hand, but he let you go. Do no less for the boy you call your son." She lifted her hand and stroked his cheek, tears still glimmering in his beard.

James was certain the rest of those tears had turned to ice, but he didn't flinch. Looking straight into her pale eyes, he cleared his throat. "Your … advice … is appreciated, Ma'am, and I will think on it." Then he took a deep breath. "But I can't and won't promise to persuade him to return to Neverland if he doubts its benefits. You were right: Love can be selfish. I never had a family of my own. I never thought I would have one after the Ashfords took everything away from me and I became a pirate. Now I have a beautiful, brave girl who loves me more than life – and I have a boy who seems to be a mirror of my younger self. If he doesn't want to go back to Neverland, I will gladly accept it."

Mother Ludlam nodded. "I understand – possibly better than you know." Suddenly she looked aside; at the same moment shouts and shots were heard from the front, then a pixie dropped from the roof back to the back yard.

"Driving away in one of the stinky coaches does the drog tarosvan!" he squeaked loudly. He turned toward the driveway. "Now you see!" he shouted. "But not far he will get!" Then the pixie took off after the motorcar.

Hook groaned. "Bilge and balderdash, how could that bastard get away!?"

Mother Ludlam lifted her chin the tiniest bit. "My ancient friends will not let him escape, so fear no injustice this time."

Hutchings, knowing that the dragonling was secure, rose and hesitantly approached. Bowing his head, he addressed the ghost. "Ma'am, 'tis a great honour t' meet thee. Th' legends of Mother Ludlam also be known in m' country." He took a deep breath. "Might thou explain what thou didst t' Brynna?"

"Are you worried about that accursed witch?" Hook growled.

"I've known 'er fer years," Archibald told him tightly, then sighed, shaking his head, " 'parently not well enough t' see 'er 'eart …"

"Caring for another is not shameful. And those who choose the wrong path are in even greater need of our sympathy," Mother Ludlum spoke gently. "So your concern is welcome." Her face took on a woeful expression. "My dark sister lost her way the moment she fell prey to the Horned King's false promises of power and influence. But your faith and the foreign seer's help and belief fought him successfully. I only used the powers of the Almighty God and the light of the stars to force the darkness in Brynna away. The breath of the Horned King has left her – but she will pay a high price. Once the Horned King possesses someone, he leaves destruction behind. Her mind is unhinged, her soul is scarred. No memory of the knowledge so greedily gained has remained. She is an empty shell now who speaks without wisdom."

"So, she is unhinged," Hook translated. "Mad as a hatter." His index finger circled in the air about his ear.

Mother Ludlam only nodded sadly. "As I said: Everything comes with a price."

"And Ashford?" James asked. "What about him? I mean, he is already unhinged as well, but what can the pixies do?"

The ghost sighed, a mournful sound. "You will see." Then, after a nod, she returned to the shadows of the garden.

"Where …where are you going?" Hook asked, surprised at her sudden departure.

She replied, "We will see each other at the old abbey, Milord. The portal was closed for days. Magic will be needed to open it again." She lifted her white brows. "Remember: Allow the boy to make the decision to return or not." Her voice trailed off as her shape melted into the darkness …

"Dammitalltohelland back! Ghosts and bogeys! Never saying yes or no, they come, mix everything up, confuse you with their so-called wisdom and leave you with a headache and new problems!" Hook complained, drying the remaining tears on his cold cheek and beard while beside him Hutchings smiled.

* PP *

Dalton steered his Austin down the hillside – not towards Godalming but west, to Farnham. He had escaped! Barely, but his flight had been successful because he had managed to start his own motorcar and had driven off as a few of Shalford's men had rounded the corner and opened fire. One bullet struck the door behind him, but it didn't matter. The most important thing was that he had fled before that cutthroat gang could catch him.

Peering into the darkness, he concentrated on the slick uneven road. The way to Farnham wasn't far by car – a few miles only. He would try to catch the night train from there to Devonshire and travel to Dartmouth, to his parents. There he would blame everything on Lunette – that she had drugged not only him, but also that girl, and that he had barely escaped Lunette's madness. The manor had been assaulted by criminals who were already in the sights of London's custom officials, and their captain had tried to kill him because that very captain was a descendant of the Shalfords and wanted revenge. His father would surely believe him; Dalton was convinced. And he would make certain that Shalford and his men went to prison. He could even accuse Kempton and the professor of trying to steal from him. And those documents George Darling had collected? A few phone calls by his father and the banker would be fired! Earl Ashford would make certain that Darling would be sacked and never find a job anywhere! It would be that family's total downfall!

Dalton briefly laughed – an ugly sound compared to the carefree laughter of almost two weeks ago. It was laced with malice and glee, revealing his mind's condition. Then the motorcar swerved and he had to grip the wheel tightly with both hands. Promptly the pain in his left arm burned and he grit his teeth. Damn Shalford and that blasted hook! Was it even allowed for him to wear such a blade at the end of his arm? Maybe his father's lawyers could strip him of that, as well.

Again the Austin bucked and Dalton finally slowed somewhat. Then there was a movement beside the motorcar. At first, Ashford ignored it – thinking it bats or even an owl – but whatever was flying beside him increased in numbers. Throwing a glance to both sides, he thought he saw … little beings in the air! And then he recognized them: Pixies!

Dalton cursed worse than any pirate. Would he ever be free of those nasty little beasts?

The answer was a hearty NO.

Woe to any who become an enemy of the Little People. They helped mortals with good and generous hearts, they played pranks on those who irritated them or were lazy – and they turned perilous toward those who disrespected or harmed them. And Dalton Ashford had done things the pixies would never forgive: He had killed their brothers and sisters in Neverland, along with other Good Neighbours. He had joined with a witch who stole their beloved Mother Ludlam's cauldron. He had imprisoned people, drugged an innocent young woman, and kidnapped and then tried to kill the Pan! Any one of those would be enough to seal his fate.

Dalton opened the throttle and went faster. He cared nothing for the condition of the unpaved road – and that the heavy rain over the last days had turned it to rutted mud. He careened down Charles Hill, often looking out the side windows, and then – finally – the pixies fell behind, but he didn't slow down.

Leaving the woods, he drove along the road between fields – the same way Lunette had taken the day before Victoria and Wendy came to manor to stay there overnight. Here, the road's condition was even worse. The two headlamps of the Austin were not bright enough. Dalton didn't see the massive dip in the road. The motorcar bottomed out hard and the tires did not find purchase again. Ashford screamed as the vehicle landed in the ditch alongside the road. Having no safety equipment, the viscount hit his head hard on the wheel – hard enough to draw blood. For a long moment he sat there, heart pounding, breathing ragged, then he looked up. Wiping away the blood with the sleeve of his jacket, he tried to orient himself. The engine was still running; he put the motorcar into reverse, but the rear wheels weren't touching the road. There was no way for him to travel to Farnham by motorcar.

Calling down curses on the abused machine, he opened the door and climbed out. He now stood ankle deep in cold ditchwater, and he found new oaths. Looking around there was not much he could see, even if the halfmoon and stars were shining. The thought came to him that they were laughing at him. He shook his head to dispel the thought. Reaching into the motorcar, he found the handlamp stored beneath the driver seat, and switched it on. That was better. He had a few miles to walk, but he could make it! At least he wasn't being pursued any longer.

Scrambling out of the ditch back onto the road, he glanced down at himself. His clothes were dirty, ripped, he was bleeding and sweating – not the best form for a man of his class, but this was an emergency after all. Giving the Austin a furious glare, as if this accident was the motorcar's fault, he turned away – and stopped.

There they were: The pixies. They hovered around him. In the light of the lamp he saw their nasty smirks, their frowns. Their weapons.

"Bugger off, you ugly beasts!" he snarled and struck out with hand and lamp, but they easily avoided him and snickered. Since they kept their distance, he turned and began to walk. Instantly they drew near again and Ashford again flailed at them – again for naught. "Get lost, you absurd insects!" he snarled.

They giggled unpleasantly. It sounded dark, menacing. Dalton realized they hadn't quit yet. Remembering the stories Brynna once told him, he knew he had to get away – now. As quickly as possible. These little monsters could be dangerous. So he began to walk quickly, then to jog as the pixies buzzed around him like angry wasps. Finally he began to run; the handlamp send one more light among many dancing light through the late evening.

Dalton Ashford was a healthy young man who participated in sports on regular basis – riding, hiking, rugby, even swimming. He was sure he could easily reach the nearest houses with lights in their windows which he could see from where he was, but he was mistaken. They were farther away than he thought – and Ashford had been through a difficult evening already. His chest was soon heaving for breath, but he didn't slow. He ran and ran, but the pixies were always beside or in front of him. They were even attacking him now – nothing dramatic, just little bites and scratches and hairpulling; annoying at first, then it hurt.

He peered left and right into to the fields, searching for some place to hide. But even there he saw tiny green faces looking out from the undergrowth, the hedgerows, the grass; almond shaped eyes hard as granite, sharp teeth bared. The pixies were everywhere; their piping voices taunting, mocking, threatening him, telling him that he was lost. It made him run even faster. His heart felt like it would explode, the air hurt in his lungs, sweat ran down his back, his face, mingled with the blood that seeped out of the cut on his forehead – now nearly blinding him. Yet he couldn't stop, because he knew that then he would – indeed! – be lost.

Fear – no, terror! – gripped him. They were chasing him through a wilderness that knew no mercy. Even worse. This here was like the hunt of the Erl King of the legends. A hunt done by supernatural beings, speeding through the woods or racing over the fields. That villain could kill a child with only a touch. He'd only let Brynna tell him that story the one time, but he never forgot. And in many of the legends she related, they were hunting down the doomed ones – people who had disobeyed the Lord's commandments and didn't regret it.

Lashing out with his arms to hurl his tormentors away and losing his lamp in the process, Dalton Ashford finally stopped a moment. Bracing his hands on his knees, he closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. As he lifted his eyes again, he was looking nose to nose at a pixie that was in front of his face. The light of the halfmoon illuminated a kind of armour the creature wore made of two serving spoons. His face was a grimace of fury.

Cadan opened his mouth, and the air was torn by the infamous pixie-scream everyone feared across the country. It made every bone in Ashford's body quiver, his skin seemed to burn, his eyes filled with tears and his ears began to bleed. Then his mind shattered…

TBC…

Well, that certainly was an emotional rollercoaster with twists you didn't expect. Peter was saved, Mother Ludlam showed her real power, the little dragonling's present was essential, a few pirates proved again that they're not the brightest light on the birthday-cake (like we say in Germany), and Dalton got what he deserved. But, believe me, the chaos hasn't found an end yet, only a short pause…

In the next chapter our heroes and friends have a little moment of rest, yet time is running short after Victoria called her uncle who is on the way now and even 'organized' help. It's clear that certain tracks and living beings have to vanish before people arrive who haven't a clue about Neverland and its habitants. And, by the way, Peter has reached the crossroad at which he has to make his decision…

I hope, you liked the new chapter, including the little wonders. After all, it's almost Christmas, and there are 'little wonders' allowed (*smile*). So, please let me know what you think of everything – as you know, feedback is an author's food.

I wish you all now Merry Christmas, and I'll try to update next weekend.

Love

Yours Lywhn / Starflight