The storm cloud crept silent and black across the sky, rolling
up wave after wave until it was hovering right above the ship. Only then did
the crash of thunder come, the jagged forks of lightning light the sky,
scratching vivid shapes through the darkness like the claw marks of a beast.
It happened this way every night.
On board the Jolly Roger Hook leaned over his desk, his eyebrows
knotted together as he glared down at the map he was studying. The candle in
his lamp had grown short, almost down to the wick; it spluttered, casting
ragged patterns across the parchment. Hook frowned in annoyance and squinted
to follow the outline of the island, as far as he had chartered over the
years. There were still great chunks missing - unknown territory he had yet to
explore.
At a time long past, his dogs had muttered of the island's inclination to
change without any warning. They had said there was no way out for them, that
they were caught in its web and surely doomed to perish there, mere flies in
the clutches of a gigantic, looming spider.
Well, they had died, not long after. Each and every one of them.
Hook swallowed bitterly. It didn't take the Neverland to kill them, not after
he had overheard their hurried, mutinous whispers drifting up from below deck.
Of course, he hadn't found a route out as yet, but he was certain there was
one. He just had to keep searching, manning his ship as best he could alone.
Sailing in the mornings wasn't too much trouble, once he got going, navigating
his way through the thin ice lacing the black sea water.
Nightfall was a different matter.
The candle putted again, dwindling.
It was late by Hook's reckoning, though it really was difficult to tell the
exact time. Nothing changed - not the weather, nor temperament of the animals
in the forest. Since Pan had left Neverland for the Nether World, the island
had fallen back into a state of perpetual winter. Every day was the same; calm
and cold between the watery sunrise and dismal sunset, then furious all
through the dark hours. It was like being trapped in a reoccurring dream, the
same routine, moon after moon, moment after moment.
Hook's breath danced ghostly in the air and he could feel his eyes starting to
itch, a sure sign he should turn in for the night, lest he freeze to death in
his chair.
Slipping into bed, he pulled the many fur-lined blankets up around himself
with his good hand, shivering. It usually took a moment or two for him to
warm. He counted the minutes, rhythmically moving his feet to gain some
circulation back.
He could make out the vague outline of his hook on the dresser, encased
proudly in its iron and glass coffin, safe from harm.
It was the only servant he needed.
Lightning flashed, glinting off the mirror, off the windows.
Then finally, warm at last, his breathing deepened and his eyelids slid shut.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Hook!"
The captain jerked awake, growling with irritation. He opened his mouth to
yell at Smee for waking him at such an ungodly hour, but halted, realising.
He was alone, as he had been for countless moons.
Looking out of his window, he noticed the storm had moved on, though he could
still hear the rumble of the thunder over the hills, interspersed by the
flicker of the lightning.
He turned over on his side and sighed.
And that was when he saw it.
The outline of a figure standing beside his bed.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, immediately reaching for his dagger that he kept under his
pillow. With no means to lever himself up, he held it in front of his prone
form.
The figure didn't move. It stood about four feet from the ground, still and
silent like a statue.
"Who's there?" the captain barked. He inwardly cursed - he had left his lamp
on his desk, and without a candle or match to hand he could make out very
little of his intruder.
As if reading his thoughts, the cabin filled with light suddenly, one short,
quick flash. Hook gasped, then bared his teeth.
The boy! He was back, and standing in the centre of the floor with his
impertinent smirk and shining golden eyes, his hands on his hips and chin held
high; Hook saw it all highlighted.
"Pan!" he roared.
Desperately, he scrambled out of bed, the bearskin blankets falling in a
crumpled heap on the floorboards. Hook stumbled forward, slicing his dagger
through the air.
But when the next break of light came, dimmer than the last as the storm
ambled slowly away, there was nothing there.
No movement, no sound, but for Hook's ragged breath and the thump of his
lonely heart.
And in that moment it became clear: he was not to be granted rest.
Unnerved, he moved over to his desk and took a fresh beeswax candle from the
drawer. Lighting it, he fixed it into the lamp, pushing the old, still-soft
wax down. Then he retrieved his hook and set it into its rightful place on his
arm.
He had to keep searching, planning his escape.
Only then could he find the boy and finally find his peace, whether in the
form of Pan's death, or his own.
~fin~
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