Their Hearts' Desire

by Starflight1701

SEQUEL to "BATTLE FOR NEVERLAND" - (I changed the pen-name from Lywhn to Starflight). Five years after 'Battle...', an almost grownup Wendy returns to Neverland. As her suitor follows her for reasons other than 'rescuing' her, it threats Peter and his world. Hook is forced to act - not only to save the day but also 'his' storyteller for whom his heart burns. Full summary inside.

55. Joy, Compromise, and Pain

Hi, my dear readers!

Ooop, not one review? That's a new one. And that after you all certainly shared the thrill with Peter and suffered with him – or felt with James as he learned about Nissa.

Will, just like I promised last time there is a lot going on in the new chapter now – and there will be something very, very special concerning our love-birds!

Enjoy

Yours Lywhn / Starflight

Chapter 53 – Joy, Compromise, and Pain

The telephone rang in Ashford Manor, and Olivia was the one to answer it. From what she had been able to hear, the men were disagreeing about their pay. Well, she couldn't care less what they were paid. Reaching the viscount's study, she took the receiver. "Ashford Manor in Surrey, Olivia speaking." She listened for a moment and nodded. "Of course, sir, I'll get the viscount for you, please wait a -"

"Who is it, Olivia?" Dalton asked, entering his study.

"An officer at the police station in Guildford, Milord," she said, offering him the receiver.

"Dismissed," waving her off. "Viscount Ashford speaking," he announced himself, while he watched as the maid left his study.

"Good day, Milord, Sergeant Cooper speaking. Sir, some passersby came across motorcar at the train station here that's been there for some hours. There was a note left on the seat that says that the motorcar belongs to you. Are you missing a vehicle, Milord?"

"Is it a blue Austin?" he asked.

"Yes, Milord."

Dalton ground his teeth together as he realized Wendy's current whereabouts, knowing she must be in London by this time. So, the little twit had really gotten away via car and train. Clever – he had to give her that. Yet he knew he couldn't admit that the motorcar had been stolen by a young lady who had been a guest in his house against her will, and then fled. He had to keep a low profile if he wanted to go through with his intentions, and not attract official attention.

Taking a deep breath he replied calmly, "I loaned the motorcar to one of my guests who had to return home. A family emergency of some sort. My driver will pick-up the Austin shortly."

"Very good, sir," Cooper replied. "One more thing, the note was weighted down with a starting crank, but it doesn't fit the Austin. It's larger. Do you –"

"We, um, have several vehicles here, it belongs to one of them," Ashford replied, groaning inwardly. He certainly didn't need a curious policeman investigating this. Indeed, he had no clue where the second crank belonged. "Thank you for your diligence, Sergeant. We will get the Austin as soon as possible." After a few more socially necessary pleasantries, Dalton hung up and took a deep breath, cursed 'like a sailor,' then left the room.

Summoning Olivia, he ordered her to find Fulsom, then he returned to the salon, where the hired men sat, drinking "tea" after lunch. "That was the police. My stolen Austin was found at Guildford Station. Obviously Miss Darling didn't drive the whole way to London, but used the railway as well." He looked around. "One of you will have to accompany Mr. Fulsom to Guildford to retrieve it."

Both Wickham and Alister shrugged, lifting a hand.

"Three drivers then. Thank you," Ashford nodded at them. "The police sergeant also told me that a second crank was found. Wendy used it to weigh the note down she left in the motorcar. Take it along –"

A knock and Fulsom stepped in. "You wanted to see me, Milord?" he asked.

"Yes. The Austin was found at Guildford Station. Wickham and Alister will accompany you to bring it back. Perhaps you should use the lorry -"

"The lorry is useless, Milord," Kenly interrupted him. "The crank to start the motor has vanished."

Several of the others began to laugh. "Well, looks like little vixen took it with her," Anders snorted.

"So we couldn't follow her with the lorry," Jackson chuckled. "Clever."

Dalton was not amused. It seemed the girl had thought of everything. But he still was convinced that the professor had a part in it.

A scream pierced the air. And it came from the first level.

Startled, each of the men quickly rose and ran down the hallway. There was another scream, this time it was mixed with horror and rage. Reaching the foyer by the main door, Dalton looked to the top of the stairs. Brynna had appeared by the balustrade, looking down at him, wringing her hands. And then he saw the reason for her screams.

Her hair was again turning silver …

*** PP *** PP ***

Wendy smiled as she helped James lace his shirt. Of course he could have done it alone, but she loved to 'lend him a hand.' In earlier times, he had made no secret of his disdain of being helped, his face was now relaxed and the corners of his mouth even tilted upward. He knew that his 'sweet crabbiness' didn't assist him out of pity or necessity, but to serve him. Him, James, and not as a duty to the captain.

He watched her pretty face as she figured out the lacing pattern. She was still pale and there was weariness deep in her eyes, even if they shone like a smooth sea in the sun. He knew that she was exhausted, no surprise there. He knew some of the emotional ups and downs she'd suffered, which he sincerely regretted. And her body was still recovering from the sedatives. He would have much preferred that they remained in bed, secure in each other's arms, and profoundly asleep, but this luxury was denied them. Mrs. Darling could be back at any minute – indeed, the woman could have shown up some time ago (and gotten the shock of her life, seeing them between the sheets). The same for Wendy's friend, that Ashford girl, and her young reporter, Daniel Kempton. Both were still absent as well. Could it be that some guardian angels understood romance and had delayed them all?

A moment later she echoed his thoughts, "I wonder where Mother is. She should have been back some time ago. And what about Victoria? Could there have been problems at the bank?"

James shrugged. "I'm not disappointed by the delay." He winked teasingly at her – something he wouldn't have done five years ago when anger and bitterness lingered close to the surface. Now this kind of familiar humor came almost naturally to him. At least when Wendy was involved.

The girl chuckled. "That's only because you couldn't keep hand and mouth away from me." She looking up at him, she added, "Or any other part of your body."

He smiled broadly. By Flint's old bones, who would have thought that Wendy Darling, adventurer and decent middle-class girl, could be so … wanton? "You weren't complaining," he jibed. "Or did I misunderstand you when you moaned 'Oh so good, James'?"

Now she blushed, but her eyes sparkled with the memory. "No, you didn't misunderstand anything. But, please tell me, did you also enjoy yourself?" He laughed quietly, then robbed a kiss.

"All done," she finished, stepping back to look at her work, then turned to her own clothes. At present, she only wore her chemise and short bloomers. She squeaked as he gave her a soft slap on her bottom.

"Minx!" he exclaimed.

"Pirate!" she returned.

"I never claimed to be anything else," he countered; blue eyes shining.

"And neither did I!" she grinned.

God, she was a sight to behold! Lace-trimmed lingerie that matched her creamy skin, walnut-brown-gold hair falling in waves over her narrow back, movements natural and elegant as a dancer. And that smile she gave him! It was no wonder that he had fallen for her so hard. If he dared think back far enough, she had already caught him five years ago, when she was merely a little girl – a girl with the fire of a dragoness and the playfulness of a kitten. And now this girl had become a young woman. His young woman. And his alone.

What had she said? That life without him was no life for her? He knew what she meant. He, too, couldn't imagine a life where she wasn't a part. He'd already admitted that she was his other half, but only now, after he thought he'd lost her forever did he realize what that meant. She was his heart. His reason for life. His one true love, and he never wanted to be without her ever again.

He looked at his left hand, bearing two rings. The one on his middle-finger was too large, but the one on his little finger was smaller – and more subtle. He looked at its jewel a moment. It was foursquare with a large ruby on an ornamented golden platform. A red gem. Red … in other times it had only symbolized blood for him, now it stood for the emotion even stronger than hate: Love. And both symbols fit together. He had almost given his heart's blood during his attempt to free her – out of love. His blood boiled for her – out of love. And his soul had bled as he thought he would never see her again – out of love. The ring symbolized all that, and more. She had given herself the pirate name 'Red-Handed Jill', and this ring would put the 'red' on her hand.

Pulling the ring from his little finger with his teeth, he weighed it in his palm, smiling. Then he glanced at Wendy, who was just fastening the skirt over her petticoats. She had rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and the golden bracelet he had given her glimmered at him on her white skin. He would add something to that treasure. Oh he would add so much in the days to come!

Taking a deep breath, he moved to her. He had never taken this step before. He never believed he would be so much in love as to give up his independence, binding himself for life to another. But, truth was, he'd been bound to Wendy already. Her mother was right. There always was a connection between them – even before they'd met in person. He realized that his only freedom could be found in her arms.

She'd known him before she met him, and he'd felt drawn to her the moment he saw her. He had felt her presence on the battlements of the Black Castle, knowing he wasn't alone up there but he hadn't felt threatened. The presence he had sensed had been gentle. And even as he had told himself that she wasn't special – that she was a little nuisance who had dared to trick him and foil his victory over Peter – he had jumped to her rescue. From the beginning she had touched his mind, heart and soul, wriggling beneath the protective wall he had raised around himself. She was now his and he was hers, nothing, no one would ever be able to change that. So, establishing their relationship 'officially' was logical, and above all, the right thing to do. He remembered the unfamiliar pain he'd felt when he saw her dancing with Peter in the air. He hadn't bothered to identify it, for Tink had attracted his attention just that moment.

Oh, if he'd known … But no. As they'd said often enough, the past was past!

Wendy heard James behind her, and glanced over her shoulder. Then she hesitated, smoothing her clothes. He looked very serious, almost solemn as he stood before her and studied her face. With open curiosity she returned his gaze; trust and love mirrored in her large eyes.

The decision was made. No going back. Now to give it feet: Taking another deep breath, James began softly, "You said that life without me would be no life for you at all. I know the same. Those three days when we were forced apart were hell for me. And the prospect of never seeing you again was more painful than any wound by a knife. The loss of a hand was the loss of a tool. The loss of you was … my death." He had closed his left hand around the ring, gently stroking her cheek. "You also told me in the Indian camp that you fear a dull life as an obedient housewife at the side of a boring stranger you didn't know or love. Well, it's quite fortunate that you've known me for years. And I dare say you don't find me boring. And don't I expect an 'obedient housewife', but an equal partner." He watched her eyes grow wide with understanding. He allowed the smile in his eyes to reach his mouth.

He swore he would never kneel before anyone; that he would always stand upright, no matter what. But when he made that vow, he was picturing a stern judge or an enemy. He had never pictured a situation where he would bend the knee to his goddess of love, no longer out of reach for him.

And so, the proud Captain Hook, pirate, villain, hero, went down on a knee and opened his hand toward her. "Wendy Moira Angela Darling, would you marry me?"

The breath hitched in Wendy's throat. She suspected what he'd been about to say when he spoke of her refusal to become an 'obedient housewife.' But watching him bending his knee and offering her his ring while asking her the question of all questions, made the world around her suddenly stop.

He wanted her as his wife, as his 'equal partner'! He wanted to share the rest of his life with her! They would walk side by side into the future – not only as lovers, but as husband and wife. No one could come between them then, no one would have any right to take her away from him. They would be one in the eyes of the law! She would be his, and he would be hers – no longer in secret, but publicly!

She felt suddenly dizzy – overwhelmed. She wanted to cheer in happiness. She wanted to scream from the treetops that she would be James Hook's wife! But all she could muster was a hoarse, "Yes!" Swallowing the lump that suddenly appeared in her throat and blinking back the tears in her eyes, she nodded fiercely. "James Andrew Shalford Hook, I never had any intention of letting you go!"

Then her body obeyed her desires, and she laughingly threw both arms around him. He promptly lost his balance and both landed in a heap on the floor. He barely had time to close his fingers around the ring again when she was showering his face with kisses, repeating "Yes, yes, and YES!"

He felt like crying and laughing, leaping and dancing. She had accepted him! She wanted to become his wife, share his life with him! And from the depths of his soul something began to rise: An all-encompassing wave of happiness. Bright and warm like the sun it soared up, destroying the rest of darkness, hurt and bitterness, and he burst into a loud, hearty, blissful laughter. Wrapping both arms around his storyteller's delicious form, he held her close and allowed his laughter to sound through the quarters, through the ship. He felt light-headed, almost tipsy with joy, before he caught Wendy's lips with his own and then they were sealing their vows with the most precious kiss.

Finally, out of breath, both laughing and stealing kisses from each other, they sat up on the oriental carpet facing each other. James tried a second time to give her his ring. "Give me your left hand, kitten," he said gently. She obeyed, out of breath, and both had to laugh again, seeing that the ring he had worn on his little finger was too large for her. It only fitted almost on her index-finger, but she didn't mind. It was a ring from a pirate for a pirate, because Wendy had always regarded herself as Jill, contrary as she was. And wearing a ring on a finger other than what society demanded was fine with her.

"I'll ask Mr. Kempton if he knows a goldsmith who can make it smaller," Hook chuckled.

Wendy turned her hand, watching the jewel sparkle, thoughtful, with the smile that had taken the wind out of his sails years ago. "I like it this way," she replied.

"Hm, but it's only a ring of engagement if you wear it on the ring-finger," he pointed out. "And it's still too large, even for your index finger. You could lose it."

"Agreed," the girl nodded. "All right, so we'll find a goldsmith." She moved back into his arms as they sat on the carpet, head on his chest. "And I can't wait to see the others' reaction, once they know what it means." She tightened her hold around his waist. "When and where shall we marry?" she asked, peeking up at him.

This elicited another bark of hearty laughter from him. "Of course! A question I should have expected!"

*** PP *** PP ***

"What are you doing here?"

One of the two warders from the washhouse, Henry Shaw, shouted at the two smaller boys who were dressed in jackets and scarves, lugging a large can of kitchen waste.

"We're supposed to take out the rubbish," Frank wheezed.

"Mrs. Ellis said to," Anthony added, referencing the orphanage's so-called cook. They had gotten their jackets and scarves from their dorm; wincing at Peter's screams, ignoring the mocking comments and laughter from the other dorm with the older boys. Of course, Malcom, Luke and Barney would pass the word of Peter's punishment, but not their own defeat. Frank and Anthony would have loved to tell them the real story, but getting to the harbor was more important.

Running to the kitchen, they told Mrs. Ellis, an understandably grumpy woman, that they had been sent by Mr. Lewis to take out the rubbish. The cook had only shrugged, and the boy and the girl peeling potatoes helped them to fill the large container with the garbage from the full wastebins. Frank and Anthony had grinned at each other as they left the kitchen to put the next step of their plan into action. And right now, in the backyard, their plan was going better than they'd thought.

They placed the lug beside one of the larger dustbins, opened it and lifted the lug to empty it into the barrel. The two boys sighed in relief as the warder lent them a hand. The lug was really heavy.

"Yeah, thanks," Frank said, out of breath.

"Sure," Shaw grumbled.

"Could you help us take the dustbins out to the street?" Anthony asked nicely. "The lorry will be around a day early this week," he added.

The man pushed back his cap. "A day early?" he asked.

"Yes, because of the Easter holiday," Frank nodded. "Mrs. Ellis said so."

Henry made a face, went to the gate, opening it with his key, then returned and began to pull the first heavy dustbin to the street. Frank and Anthony helped him. The barrel was heavy and clumsy, but finally it stood on the uneven pavement outside of the orphanage's enclosure.

Frank and Anthony exchanged a short glance. The moment the warder turned back, Frank stumbled against the large, wobbly dustbin, causing it to tip over. The cover fell off and most of the garbage landed on the pavement.

"You clumsy dunderhead!" Shaw exclaimed. "What's the matter with you? Pick this up – all of it!" He pointed angrily at the scattered dross, before he set the barrel upright.

Frank ducked. "Sure, sure we will," he stammered, kneeling down. Anthony did the same and both boys began to pick up the mess, piece by piece. Shaw watched them a moment, then he turned to walk back to the backyard. "I'll get the next one. And when I get back, this mess had better be cleaned up! Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," both said in unison and grinned at his retreating form.

The second he left the street, disappearing into the gate, they rose to run as quickly as their short legs could carry them – down the street and around the next corner to their right, then along that street to turn left at the next corner and further. They knew where they were going: to their primary school. There was a bus stop there, and they knew that a few of the buses rode to London Tower or the 'old docks' – at least that's what their teacher told them once.

They slowed down after they took the next turn, using a detour in case Elmer or Joe decided to follow them. But even as they hid behind some dustbins and looked back, there was nothing to see from the two warders or the one they had tricked. Frank stuck his hand into the pocket of his jacket and sighed in relief as he felt the smooth wood of Peter's pipe he had brought with him as a proof that he really knew Peter.

"That's the first step. Now the next one!"

*** PP *** PP ***

Dalton Ashford stood near the door of Lunette's laboratory and watched the angry woman. The first strands of silver in her hair and new wrinkles in her face were only the beginning. Of this he was certain. Brynna must have been, too, because she seethed with outrage and disbelief, pacing up and down.

"I know that I made the potion right! I did exactly as the recipe instructed, I complied with every minor direction." She stared down at the curdled potion in the cauldron. "It should never congeal. It should still be liquid! But it's stiff and thick – and I'm aging again!" Her voice was sharp, yet hoarse. "I am aging again! This can't be happening!" Dalton had never seen her as agitated as she was now.

"You might have made a mistake, despite your care. You brewed it for the first time ever -"

"Everything was perfect," she interrupted him angrily; her pale eyes blazed. "Everything worked at the beginning, and now look at me!"

The young man sighed, crossing his arms. "I can think of two possibilities: One, you made a mistake, two, the recipe is wrong. Or how do you explain that the effect is wearing off and that it's thick as puree and … well… curdled blood?"

Brynna bit her narrow lips and stared at the cauldron. "I'll brew it again – this time with more blood from the boy."

Dalton felt some alarm. "What do you mean?" he asked. "The boy is-"

"He's still in our world, young Dalton – in that orphanage you stuck him in." She lifted her chin. "Bring him back," she demanded.

"Brynna …" he began.

"Bring him back and lock him in the dungeons. I don't care what you tell that money-grubbing director, but he won't see the boy again! This time I'll take all his blood."

The viscount's eyes widened. "You can not -"

"I will bleed that accursed, young body dry!" She straightened, facing him. "And maybe you can use the boy to force Shalford to leave. He retreats and the boy goes free. Free to go to hell, but you don't have to tell him that."

"I won't allow you to kill the boy!" the viscount said slowly. "My decision hasn't changed, even if I'm glad to be rid of his plagued nuisance!"

She could see in his eyes the determination mixed with uncertainty, which she could use to undermine that determination. She softened her voice strategically. "Dalton, I don't want to press you, but I'm a hair's width away from either becoming old again over the next day or so, or wresting decades away from the Grim Reaper. I cannot and will not lose that. You know the feeling of wanting victory at any price – you feel the same."

"I understand you," he said slowly, a frown appearing. "And I know that something went wrong with the potion, but you can't remake it by murdering a child. I will not allow this. I may have used methods l never thought I could, but this is going too far. I'll try to get him back, but you won't bleed him to death, do you hear me?" He pointed at the dragon egg. "And while I'm away with Fulsom and two of the others to get my car and to drive to London, you take care of the dragonling and-"

"Archibald takes care of the egg -" Brynna began, then stopped, as a thought struck her. "Didn't you say that you found him here, in my room, after you brought me upstairs last night?" As he nodded, she narrowed her eyes, looking thoughtfully at the cauldron with the youth potion. "He destroyed the altar of the Horned King – and this potion is useless now. Maybe he did something to it."

"What could he have -"

"He was against it from the beginning, and called me a fool – a witch," she spat.

Dalton grimaced. He had a point, he thought.

"What if he is responsible for the potion's coagulation?" Brynna mused, looking around.

"Are you sure he could do something like that?" Ashford asked her, astonished. "For decades you studied the art of witchery, his specialties are Celtic history and folklore."

Brynna gestured toward the table. "He knew to destroy the altar."

"Dousing candles and turning over a pentagram is something even I know," he interrupted her. "And, by the way, he was very worried about you, or why, do you think, did he follow you outside in the storm and heavy rain? He might have helped Wendy to escape, but he first went outside to help you."

"Because he's a naïve fool," Lunette snarled. "He thinks he can stop me. He's afraid of the power the Horned King possesses – he's afraid of me! And maybe it's good that he fears me, because he knows he'll face consequences. I've walked long enough behind the powerful ones, now my time has come." She turned away. "Bring me the boy and stop fretting about the little brat's life. He's had lifetimes he wasted playing stupid games and flying around in his childhood world. It's about time that nature takes its turn. Even the nine lives of a cat are over at one point. And this is true for him and for Shalford. Killing the latter will attract too much attention, but the boy doesn't exist here officially. So his disappearance won't alert the authorities – and we're rid of him."

Dalton felt the hair on his neck rising. "I don't recognize you anymore," he said quietly. "Where is my Brynna who -"

"The Brynna who took you by the hand and led you around? Wiped your nose and your bottom? You're too old for that and you're your own man now. You don't need my guidance any longer – but you need my protection should your dirty little secrets come out. And then you'll be glad for what I know." She made a sharp gesture, and the rest of the torches on the wall were suddenly lit. She heard Dalton gasp and smiled at him – a cold, calculating smile. "Do you understand now, my boy? If it comes out that you lied to your father and the managers of his companies, that you have gambling debts, that you held a young girl captive – sedated her, emotionally tormented her – then you'll be cast out of society and your comfortable home quicker than you can call for help. And then you'll be glad when your old nanny remains by your side using her 'witchery tricks' to make everything right for you again." She snapped her fingers and the door behind Dalton opened. "Go! Bring me that boy!"

Ashford took a sharp breath as he was shoved outside by invisible hands. The last thing he saw was Brynna's amused and unpleasant grin, then the door slammed shut by itself, and he was left in the dim light of the hallway in the cellars. She does magic, he thought, half in awe, half in shock. She really does magic! He gulped and backed up, torn between his two dread decisions: stopping this madness or making the next necessary step to solve his problems – problems which could cost him everything.

His weak character took the easy way out; losing a little more of himself.

Brynna was right, he thought, justifying the decision: It would be quite beneficial if he had someone at his side with that kind of power. If they played their cards right, he could get rid of Hook – Shalford! – the boy, and he could pay back his debts. He still needed money, but he already had a plan how the 'honorable Mr. Darling' could be forced to assist him. And Wendy? Yes, he still wanted her, but if he were honest, he would admit that he only wanted the victory, and not the girl herself. Of course she was lovely. He could imagine her in his bed. Now as before he wanted to be the one to have her first. He couldn't know that he was already too late – that she had given herself, body and soul, to the man she'd loved for years. Dalton Ashford certainly would have had a raging fit if he had known those details.

What occupied his thoughts just now was the problem of getting the boy back from the orphanage. He had to think of a good excuse for why he was retrieving the brat. That Mr. Primely may be money-hungry, but he certainly wasn't an idiot. Yes, the man was in his own way ruthless, on the other hand he headed an orphanage and had learned to take responsibilities for children. Though he wouldn't admit it to himself, Dalton felt uneasy when remembering Bryanna's furious eyes and greedy words. The lad was a nuisance, right, but until now Ashford hadn't lost enough of himself to accept the boy's death by the hands of Lunette.

There was still the problem of Hook – or Shalford. He was certain that the cripple would poke around in the events of two hundred years ago. He would find out what really happened and possibly demand that the case be reopened by lawyers. Dalton was sure that his ancestor had … well … acted on his own behalf and not for the crown. Ashford had come to know Hook somewhat. The man was stubborn, determined, unstoppable when he had set his mind on something. If there were the smallest clues that the accusations against his father and brothers (and himself) had been wrong, he would move heaven and earth to get justice – a prospect Dalton did not look forward to. He wasn't sure of the details of what really took place two centuries ago, but knowing his family's … tendencies … he could guess that the Shalfords had been wronged. And he really didn't want it revealed to the public and suffer society pointing fingers at his family. At him.

Sighing, he returned to his study, tail between his legs. He would have to make a few phone calls to set everything in motion …

*** PP *** PP ***

Peter lay in darkness on a cot with a thin, shabby blanket that smelled of the dozens of children incarcerated here. But it hardly compared to the unpleasantness of everything else – especially his back and legs, but also his left arm where the witch had cut him – it refused to heal. And, worse than anything, he couldn't move. He was restricted by an odd jacket that had very long sleeves which were tied behind his back. Peter had never heard of a straitjacket before, but he knew about it now – and it was just about unbearable.

He had fought Elmer and Joe; he really had. When it became clear that they would follow through with 'Smitty's' order and beat him with that stick, he had put up a fierce resistance. But for naught. The two men seemed to be trained to take control over rebellious boys by using force. Elmer had held him down over a table, Joe had pulled down Peter's trousers pulled up his shirt and had used the switch. It had hurt – really hurt! He had screamed, shouted threats, tried to wriggle free, kicked, but after the blows grew worse, he stopped struggling to prevent any more..

Afterwards he fought again. Even in pain he hadn't given up. When they finally left the room – with Peter between them, his left arm bleeding again – the chamber looked like a battlefield. They had taken him down into the cellars, where he tried to escape again, which resulted in being bound as he was now.

"Get used to it," Joe had said. "That's how they handle the insane in the asylum!"

Now he lay there, in that tiny, cold, dark room, with only a candle that would burn out soon. A chamber pot in a corner stank, and was useless for him, for he couldn't move. The blanket he lay under did nothing to protect him against the chill, and the darkness did nothing to soothe his desperate nerves.

Peter bit his lips. He'd had worse – he only couldn't remember when. Well, maybe when he had been captured by S'Hadh, or at first by the viscount, but then there hadn't been pain (at least not much). To have suffered under a switch was humiliating and his pride was still protesting against it. But worse was the knowledge that he was locked away somewhere in the cellars of this bleak, awful house – cut off freedom, from the sky, and that made him want to scream, unable to do anything but for some bigun doctor to come, to take him away, to lock him up again.

How could anyone find him now? In the dorm there had at least been a window from where he might have called for help when he saw someone familiar, but there was no chance of that here.

Hook and Tink might seek him in the viscount's house, but before they learned the truth from Wendy and the professor, he would be taken away to some asylum and imprisoned in another small cell with medicines that would make him dull and tired. Thin Joe had told him that much. Not only would they put him in this strange coat again, but they would pierce him with needles. Maybe even put a wooden box on his head – a practice forbidden now, but Peter couldn't know that. Joe had twisted the imagined knife of fear even deeper into Peter when he added that he, Peter, should call himself lucky that they would do 'only' that to him, because "in earlier days they had drilled holes in the heads of crazy people to let the evil spirits out."

Peter closed his burning eyes. He suspected that the last part had been a lie, but he wasn't sure. He had heard a few things about madhouses – horrible things. And the prospect of being locked away, tortured, bound and treated with poisons, made him shudder. This was not a big adventure, this was … a nightmare. He felt his everlasting optimism slowly fading, as if he were aging, yet he knew he had to cling to the last remnants of his happy thoughts, or he couldn't be the Pan anymore. He would lose his "self" and he feared that the most. But what hope was left for him? Who would even search for him in this part of London? A sob rose in his throat he couldn't hold down any longer. He was so tired of it all: of being cold, hungry, tired, isolated, afraid, in pain. Was there anyone who could help him?

And outside a few fairies flew by and looked with unease and even loathing down on the streets and grey buildings. They felt the mortals' dull minds, vegetating in this never-ending cycle of hard work, poor food and too many worries. Then they heard voices of children – many voices – and they came from a house nearby. One of the males looked through a window and saw the many children of different ages washing blankets and other large things made of fabric. No laughter, no fantasy, no hope. His gaze found a girl with blond braids and for a moment he thought he sensed her rebellious, stubborn hope, but then she looked at a thin woman who screamed at her to stop dreaming, and the girl turned back to her work. The fairy shuddered. Pale faces and dull eyes everywhere, while a man and that horrible woman walked up and down, watching the young work. The same greyness and bleakness that ruled the streets were also in this house. The fairy shook his head. How could mortals do something like this to children?

He sighed. No, the Pan couldn't be here. The Pan's cheer would pierce even this dreariness, but there was no spark, no light anywhere. And so the tiny golden ball flew away to join the other fairies; glad that the eternal boy wasn't in that sad place with no joy. no faith. He couldn't know that in the cellars the delightful boy lay curled into a ball and wept silent tears…

*** PP *** PP ***

In a world in which the belief in fairies and wonders faded, or was lost, people had to learn to do miracles by themselves. And, as often happened, it was the little ones – the children – who became the heroes. With that, we return to two small boys who had run away from the only home they had – Little Haven Orphanage – and made a trip all the way through East London, crossing streets and areas where clean laughter had long ago vanished, the shadow of Jack the Ripper still haunted the corners.

Frank and Anthony had finally reached the familiar building of Deal Street School that originally had been a sugarhouse. The two boys usually loved school: it got them away from the dull routine of the orphanage. But now they grew cautious as they approached the building, empty for the holidays. But no Fat Elmer nor Thin Joe nor the warder they'd tricked showed up. (All three had been sent out to find them after word reached Primely that two boys had run away.) Crossing another street, they headed to the bus stop and got in line there. They dressed like laborers – maybe at the docks. Gathering all his courage, Frank addressed one of them and asked him how to get to the 'old docks near the Tower Bridge.' The man gave them a wan smile. "Tha' next bus drives ter Shadwell Place. Ther' ya've ter switch buses or ya take tha' railway ter Cable Street. From there it's not far ter th' old docks."

Frank and Anthony thanked him, but had another problem: They had no money for the fare. And once again Providence was on their side. Usually an omnibus had two workers: a driver and the conductor. But, perhaps because of the holidays, only the driver was aboard and he had to sell the tickets. Busy as he was, he didn't see two small grey shadows creep up the stairs to the top of the omnibus with a few other passengers. Making themselves small, Frank and Anthony sat down with thudding hearts, and took a breath of relief as the vehicle began to move again.

At every stop, the driver announced the street, and when he finally shouted "SHAADWELL PLAAAACE!", the two runaways crept down the stairs and vanished in the crowd of people around them. They grinned at each other. The first hurdle passed. Now came the second one: How to get to the docks as quickly as possible? Looking around they saw the entrance to the station of the Blackwall Railway. Like most railways in London, the trains moved on higher embankments, and often those viaducts were enclosed when they crossed streets to prevent horses bolting. But this was a normal tunnel of red brick where the street crossed under the railway, the entrance beside it.

Crossing the street, they entered the station and looked around. One sign pointed toward 'Royal Docks,' the other one to 'Fenchurch Street.' Knowing that the Royal Docks lay on the Isle of Dogs in the east, they climbed up the stairs to the train that would go west. No surprise, the platform was crowded. The Blackwall Railway connected the large outer docks with those closer to the town and Inner London – a railway that was one of the busiest. Thousands of passengers and tons of goods were transported every day. The trains arrived and departed in ten minute intervals; during rush hour, every five minutes.

To the boy's delight, a train already stood by the platform, and passengers were leaving and boarding. Quickly they climbed into the next carriage and vanished inside; not acknowledged by the conductor or the safety guards. None of the grownups – busy as they were – took any notice of two ragamuffins stealing a ride.

Finding empty seats, they sat down; looking for all the world as if they belonged to the clueless worker next to them. The train rattled over the track and for the first time ever the two boys could see parts of London from a different, higher level – they had never travelled by train before. For a few moments, they forgot why they were on this little journey and enjoyed the trip. Then they ran out of luck: they could see the conductor was in the next carriage, checking tickets. The two boys gulped. Uh-oh!

Frank elbowed his friend and whispered, "Let's move to the next carriage. Maybe we'll reach the next station before the conductor gets to us."

Nodding pleasantly at their "escort," they rose and trotted down the aisle between benches. Casually looking back, they saw that the conductor had entered the carriage and was checking tickets there. To their relief, the train began to slow, and many people rose, stopping in front of the doors.

Through the window they saw a wider road – Cable Street – and now the train approached another building they hoped was the station. Ahead to their left, they could see the tops of the Tower Bridge rising into the skies. Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Frank saw that the conductor had almost reached them, and counted the seconds until the train would reach its destination. The moment the train stopped, the two boys began to push through the crowd, while behind them a voice called, "Hey, you two, tickets!"

The door opened. It was like a starting gun had been fired. Without hesitation, Frank and Anthony elbowed and pushed through the other passengers and scrambled to the exit.

They were almost out of the car. Frank ignored the conductor, and called out to his imaginary father, "Hey, Da! Don't walk so fast! We gotta keep up!" Other passengers grudgingly made way for the two as they darted forward.

The employee paused at the door, reluctant to chase the lads who were obviously with a parent. He returned to the car.

Dashing down the stair, Frank and Anthony soon reached the street level and left the station. They turned left toward the Tower Bridge. Dashing down the pavement they only stopped as they reached the broad road. Glancing back, they saw that they weren't being followed. The conductor had gone back to his duties.

"We made it!" Anthony said, astonished. "We really made it!"

Frank grinned at him. "Tol' ya – but it was close! Didja see how mad he looked?"

Both laughed, then looked around to orient themselves. The Tower Bridge was to their right now, meaning they had to cross the broad road with all its traffic and walk towards the Thames. But how to get to the docks? Seeing two men in seamen's clothes, ready to cross the street, Frank approached them.

"S'cuse me, sirs," he addressed them. "Can you tell me how to get to the St. Katherine Docks?" He pointed at Anthony. "Our father works there but he forgot his dinner money for the late shift and we brought it for him."

The two men looked down at the boys. "Ain't you good boys! That's nice of ye," one of them said. "Cross th' road and go down that narrow street straight ahead – John Fisher Street. Turn right an' when ye see a little brick chapel between warehouses, then ye're right. There's a side entrance to the old docks."

"Come on," the other seaman said. "We'll help ye crossin' tha' street without becomin' a dec'ration on some motorcar."

This was most advantageous for the small boys. Cable Street was one of the most important shopping areas for seamen. You could buy everything here – from ship's equipment (ropes, anchors, canvas and more) to captain's coats, seamen sweaters, trousers, boots and so on. But there were also pubs, cheap hotels and even a few brothels. The road was thick with traffic.

Together with the two seamen, Frank and Anthony reached the other side of the road with only two or three closed calls, found the next street, thanked the men and trotted south. Sea gulls were screaming, ships' horns blared and as they reached the next corner, where they saw the London Tower Bridge to their right. The street sign told them this was East Smithfield Street. High warehouses were visible and then they saw the chapel between them – just down the street. The two friends cheered and began to run, hoping to find Peter's pirate captain soon.

Entering the dock's area through a lattice gate beside the chapel they went between one of the warehouses and the small stone church. Looking around, both paused – eyes wide, mouths open, awe on their pinched faces.

There, to their right, they saw the old sailing ship with the four masts. They gazed at the gorgeous vessel with the white flag dancing in the afternoon wind. And with the lonely cry of the gulls and the feel of the breeze, the sight of such a glorious old sailing-ship woke in their starving young hearts the yearning for adventure, mingled with fantasies of swashbuckling buccaneers fighting for freedom and gold. Their childish instincts felt the breath of another time, of another world – a world their strange new friend belonged to.

"No wonder Peter's so different from all the others," Frank whispered. "If he belongs to the crew – or to the shore this ship comes from – he would give his life to return."

Anthony nodded slowly, still awestruck.

Not far away a man caught the boys' eye, and no wonder. He stood out among all the others like a parrot among crows. He wore wide, green trousers, and old jacket and high boots. An old red hat with a wide brim was on his head … and he was staggering. They knew this was a 'pirate', and grinning at each other, the two friends ran to him …

*** PP ***

Bryan Smee had had a wonderful afternoon. His countryman owned a really cozy inn alongside the Thames among the old houses near where the Jolly Roger had docked yesterday. He'd had a good lunch, listened to Cody O'Sullivan and his partner, Lugh Hayes, tell stories about good old Ireland, drank real Irish Whisky after two centuries, and now he was on his way back to the ship. He was sure that his captain hadn't missed him. Smee knew that Hook would never admit it, but he was so taken with the girl, so utterly in love, that the bosun rightly assumed what had happened between them over the last hours. He hoped that they Mrs. Darling hadn't returned too soon, that Miss Wendy's friend and her companion had left the ship without much delay.

Whistling a lively, if off-key, tune, he found his way around the docks, returned the greetings of the workers, passed the little chapel and was about to turn onto the path to his ship when he heard running steps coming from his left.

"Hey mister!" a boy called, and out of curiosity, he stopped and turned. He slowly focused on two boys running toward him, waving. They were about ten, if he guessed rightly, dressed shabbily. They were pale, but their eyes shone with determination.

"Do ye mean me?" he asked.

Out of breath they reached him. "'Scuse us, mister," one of them said, "but … but do you belong to that ship over there?" He pointed towards the galleon.

"Aye," Smee nodded with a smile. He wasn't particularly fond of children, but he didn't dislike them either. He'd actually learned to like John and Michael Darling – and the other rascals of Pan's gang. "Why ye'er askin'?"

The two boys exchanged a short glance with each other, before the bolder one blurted, "Sir, do you know a boy called Peter Pan?"

TBC…

Well, Lunette's 'new youth' was of short time – and you will learn later, why. Frank and Anthony made it to the docks – rescue for Peter is in reach now. And you certainly can imagine Hook's reaction when he learns what happens/ed to 'his' boy. Furthermore James made up his mind and asked Wendy the question of all questions. I hope, you liked it the way it went. Concerning his ring: It's the one he also wears in the movie in his little finger. The next time you watch the movie, just take a closer look at it (smile).

In the next chapter Hook is off to the rescue, but not alone. A whole bunch of rescuer will be with him. And it will be a race against time, because Ashford is on his way to the orphanage, too. And then Mr. Darling calls at home and learns about his wife being in the harbor aboard this 'blasted pirate-ship' and Wendy could escape. Guess how he will react?

I hope, you liked the new chapter, and I really would be very happy to get some feedback. Just remember: Applause (in this case comments) are the bread for the 'artist'.

Have a nice rest of Sunday,

Love

Yours Lywhn / Starflight