The Storyteller… chapter 11
A/N: I’ve had a general sketch of where this story should go for a while, but it’s been slow going. It’s picking up a bit now, so I should be posting (somewhat) regular updates. (of course, now that I say that, who knows what’ll happen.) Thanks again for your reviews; they truly make my day!
Chapter 11
Wendy stretched, smiling sleepily, her arms above her head. She’d had such a delicious dream. It had been so difficult to sleep at first, but as she finally dropped off, she could have sworn that someone had been with her, lulling her to sleep with his steady breathing and soft touches to her hair. She slid her hand to the place beside her, only to find that the sheets were cold. Strange, I could’ve sworn…
The doors flew open with the now-typical flourish that preceded Smee’s appearance. She sat up in bed, blinking as he carried in a tray of questionable-looking porridge and a steaming cup of… something. But what caught her attention was the fact that he was accompanied by the Captain, looking as pristine as ever. She was suddenly aware of her tousled hair and the fact that she was clad in only a nightshirt—his shirt. Wendy hesitated, then drew up her chin, refusing to be intimidated by his mere presence.
“Good morning, Red-Handed Jill,” Smee said cheerfully as he placed the tray on the bedside table. “Did you sleep well?”
She smiled gratefully at the friendly pirate, realizing that she was hungry. “Yes, thank you.” She turned to the Captain, and offered a smile in truce. “Thank you, Captain, for the use of your quarters. It was quite kind of you.” And, she realized in surprise, it had been unexpected. Their discussion the night before had certainly raised a few questions in her mind. He’d been polite and courteous to her, while she had been tense and combative. Perhaps she needed to reevaluate both his position and her own.
His expression did not change, although she thought he seemed pleased as he said casually, “Well, we couldn’t place you below with the men; you’d never get out alive.” She flushed slightly, but couldn’t keep a cough of shocked laughter from escaping. His lips twitched in return.
Smee looked as if he were torn between amusement and embarrassment. “Yes, well, we have clothes in the hold that may fit you. When you finish eating, come find me and I’ll help you look through them. They’re not ladies clothes, but you can’t exactly be picky, now, can you.”
She merely nodded, and Smee turned and left the room. The Captain stood in the doorway, avoiding her gaze, looking at a book that he’d selected at random. He seemed uncharacteristically off-kilter, and she wondered where he’d spent the night, and whether he’d slept at all.
“Is there something you forgot, Captain?” she asked sweetly.
He hesitated, staring at the book he’d lifted, then looked up at her. “How long has it been, for you?” She looked so comfortable in his shirt and his bed that he nearly groaned. Why was she sent to torment him so?
She instinctively knew what he meant, and swallowed hard. “Years. Many years.” Much had happened since she’d last been in Neverland.
He looked confused. “Yet you say that I have not aged.”
She blinked. “I don’t recall mentioning such a thing,” she said, willing herself not to turn red. She could not let him know that she had memorized his every characteristic, that she had been so aware of him in her younger days that she’d been able to tell instantly that every line on his face had been the same. Her attention had not changed, either; she was still hyper-sensitive when it came to the Captain.
He relented, surveying her silently for a moment, then said softly, “The men do need a Storyteller, Red. Simple pirating is not enough. It never has been.”
Suspicious of this apparent non sequitur, she nodded wordlessly. He closed the book, put it on the shelf, and left the room without another word.
Wendy bit her lip as she pulled the breakfast tray towards her. A Storyteller was needed, and she just so happened to have thousands hidden, repressed deep inside. Perhaps she could truly become Red-Handed Jill once again. It wouldn’t bring back all of her memories, would it? Some could still stay hidden?
-+-
Wendy made the giant bed, then donned her clothes from yesterday and went to find Smee. She was pleased to discover as she walked that while her wounded leg still throbbed with pain, she was able to get by with a limp. She wouldn’t need a stick to lean on.
Smee took her down to the hold, chattering all the while. As she walked through the ship, she was uncomfortably aware of the many eyes upon her. She wondered if the Captain had made a general announcement about her presence on board, for the eyes did not seem curious, but simply watchful. Some felt rather predatory, however, and she quickened her step behind Smee as he led her to the giant trunks in a corner of the hold.
“Here we are.” Smee groaned with effort as he opened one. An explosion of fabric lay inside, and he began pulling out pieces of clothing, one by one. “We’ve been gathering booty for so long that we never know exactly what we have anymore. We’ve gone through about eight cabin boys, and I’m sure some of them left their old clothes behind, so we’re bound to find something to fit you,” he said kindly.
She pulled aside shirts that looked about her size, and found a few pairs of trousers that could fit. There was so much inside the first trunk that they didn’t need to look inside the second, although Smee insisted upon opening it as well.
As she looked at all of the fabric, an idea came into her head. “Smee,” she asked cautiously. “You say that you and the men never use these clothes?”
“Not to my knowledge, no,” he said, then looked at her curiously. “Why do you ask?”
A slow smile began to cross her face. “Oh, no matter. I need to bring something up with the Captain later.” She got to her feet, stretching out the soreness in her leg, and began to help him put the clothes away. “Tell me, is there anything I can do to help pull my weight around here?”
Smee paused. “Well, you could ask Cookie if he needs help fixin’ the meals. The man’s a master chef but I’m sure more hands won’t hurt. Anything else and you’d be stuck with the men for long periods of time, and that wouldn’t be fun for anyone, least of all you.”
She smiled at Smee even as she fought back a shudder, grateful for his thoughtfulness. “Well, would you show me where to find Cookie?”
-+-
Wendy growled at the full five-gallon buckets she was attempting to drag towards the stairs. The cook hadn’t taken kindly to her intrusion upon his domain, and had relegated the task of water retrieval to her. Of course, the freshwater hold was kept down two flights of stairs; something about the necessary relocation due to dry rot and rat infestation had been muttered as he’d shoved the buckets into her arms and pointed her to the steps. She’d shouldered her burden and marched away, as best she could. It seems the man took a personal dislike to her, and had decided heavy labor would be the best punishment. Had he heard her thoughts on the porridge that morning?
“Men,” she muttered as the bucket sloshed alarmingly. “Too stubborn to know what’s good for them.”
Footsteps sounded down the shadowy corridor, and she fought against the sudden pounding of her heart. She hadn’t seen the Captain since his cryptic words before breakfast, and he was not likely to show his face down here. She forced her breath to slow; she did not like the way her heart leapt at the first sound of boots on the steps. Calm down, Red. He’s a bloodthirsty pirate who may or may not be holding you captive on this boat. Simply because you happen to dream about him in disturbing detail does not mean that reality will comply with your imagination.
Yet she still looked up eagerly as the footsteps drew nearer, only to see an impeccably dressed pirate making his way down the steps towards her.
She waited, shoulders back, eyes focused on the bucket, hoping that the man would simply ignore her and walk by. She moved back into the wall as he approached, giving him ample room to pass her, but he suddenly stopped and looked at her. His immaculate appearance began to fade upon closer inspection; he appeared out of place in the spotless clothes, as if he were playing a part, but felt ill at ease in the material.
His expression, however, was what caused chills to run down her spine; his gaze was fixed upon her and there was a hint of hatred as well as anger and desire on his face. Yellow eyes narrowed as he closed in on her personal space. “Well, if it ain’t the Captain’s newest pet,” he growled, his breath making her gag.
“Please step aside; I need to be on my way,” she said resolutely, but he moved in closer and lifted a hand to trail down the side of her face. She flinched away, but he pressed closer still and chuckled. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end in sudden premonition.
She tried to push him aside, but he grabbed her forearms and squeezed, making her bones nearly grind together and bringing tears to her eyes from the pain. “Now, now, girlie, I’ve had my eye on you, and you’re going to appreciate it proper, like a good girl should.”
Oh, God, here came the memories. Wife is second to Husband. When will you learn to speak properly to your betters? If I’m going to marry you and take you out of this hovel, you are going to learn some respect! He had appeared so pleasant at first, and her family had liked him. Too bad the most innocent looking sheep often turned out to be the worst kind of wolves.
She shook off the past and focused on the alarming present. “Let me go,” she said firmly, willing the tears in her eyes to disappear even as she wished her voice could be louder.
The pirate laughed. “Why isn’t that charming, she’s trying to tell us what to do.” Fear rose in her as she realized he wasn’t talking to himself, that another man had appeared in the small corridor. Her odds had just gone from bad to worse.
Making up her mind quickly, she flew into action. Twisting her wrist around, she kneed him in the groin and pulled away as he let go and yelled in surprise at the pain. Whirling around, she raced towards the stairs only to find herself falling suddenly. The second pirate had tripped her, and was pulling her backwards by her injured leg. She kicked out desperately, but the first man was stepping over her now and pulling her up by her hair. She gave a strangled cry of pain, but he punched her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.
Panic flooded her, and she found herself desperately crying, “No, please stop, not again,” wordlessly as they pushed her against the wall. Help, please help me. The first man grabbed her neck and began steadily squeezing as the world slowly went black.
-+-
The Captain was moving before he realized it, striding, nearly running across the deck of the ship to get down into the hold. His men moved out of his way quickly once they saw the look in his red eyes; they recognized the spectre of death in his gaze.
He couldn’t quite understand the deep-set trepidation that motivated him; he only knew that if he didn’t get somewhere now, something horrible was going to happen. As he raced down the stairs, he heard a yelp, then a thud from the darkened corridor ahead. Another voice cried out, and his blood ran cold. Help, please help me.
Wendy.
The Storyteller… ch10
Chapter 10
The Captain gathered a few necessities from his cabin, then paused before he left the room. Feeling more than a little foolish, he returned to the bed and plumped the pillows, then began digging in the closet for suitable nightwear for one as small as she. Perhaps one of the women who visited the men had left something behind? Even as he searched for a nightgown, he frowned at the thought of her wearing something that had been worn for such purposes. She should have something untainted.
Caught in a moment of rare indecision, he finally yanked out one of his old, well-worn shirts, and laid it on the bed, then turned and stormed out of the room with his belongings, refusing to look back. He’d already done enough foolish pandering to the girl; if he wasn’t careful, she’d be running the ship before long. It was hard for a Captain to be regarded as bloodthirsty whilst asking a dainty chit if she’d like sugar with her tea.
-+-
Smee opened the door for Wendy, grinning all the while. “Captain’s orders, Red-Handed Jill,” he said cheerfully as he pushed her in.
She took in the scene with one wide look, then whirled, eyes flashing with anger. “I beg your pardon? Surely you are joking.”
Smee raised his eyebrows. “You don’t like it? This is the Captain’s room. There’s nothing better in the whole ship!”
She folded her arms. “I am well aware of the Captain’s tastes. I simply object to being forced to share occupancy.” She knew there had been a spark of attraction, an electric arc connecting them, and something more subtle that bonded their very souls together, but for him to have the audacity to assume that she’d repay his actions on her behalf with her body… well. She had a few things to say about that.
She realized that Smee was laughing so hard that he was clutching the door for support. She assumed her most regal posture and stared at him imperiously. “Is there something I have overlooked?”
The man wiped his eyes and resumed grinning at her nearly maniacally. “Why yes. The Captain ain’t here, is he?”
She looked about, paying special attention to the shadows where he was wont to lurk. “I suppose not.”
Apparently that was her answer, for he blinked at her as if she were slow. “Well, then.” The little man began to walk out of the room, then paused and turned. “The Captain isn’t in the habit of forcing women to his bed,” he added in a confiding tone. “I would’ve thought you’d know that.” Then he closed the door, leaving her gaping after him, uncertain if she were confused, insulted, or simply annoyed.
She finally decided to ignore it, tantalized by the opportunity to look about; it was not every day she was given unrestricted access to the personal chambers of the very man who captivated her so.
The most prominent object in the room was the bed, and she found herself drawn to it relentlessly. It was large enough to sleep three men comfortably, and she forced herself to refrain from thinking about who had shared it with the Captain in the past. That sick feeling in her stomach had nothing to do with jealousy, it was simply a result of fighting with him before dinner.
She forced her concentration back to the bed. The pillows were down, and the sheets were made of silk. Laid out on the end of the bed was a large shirt. Had someone set it out for her? It could fit as a nightgown for her, so she assumed it had been left intentionally. She touched it hesitantly, and found that it was quite soft. It didn’t seem new, instead it looked as if it had been worn often, but it was clean. Had he left her one of his shirts? She found her cheeks flushing at the idea of wearing something of his to bed, especially as well worn as it was.
Wendy blew out a breath in a sigh. “Snap out of it, Jill,” she muttered, and turned her attention to the rest of the room. Unsurprisingly, the walls were lined with bookshelves, and the books did not seem to fit any one genre. Apparently the Captain had varied taste, as she looked over the shelves. She could easily enjoy her time here.
She forced herself to just skim the titles, since she didn’t have official permission to disrupt his belongings. Scattered around the room were various weapons in form of disrepair; it looked as though he was in the habit of mending his own artillery. On his desk lay a rather detailed sketch of the inner workings of new machinery, alongside a book on philosophy. He seemed to be rather more complex than she had first imagined.
She smiled as she looked back at the bed. As grand gestures went, allowing her his room certainly fit the bill. She wondered if he knew that she’d have trouble sleeping in his bed.
-+-
Wendy sat up again, and pounded her pillow in frustration. She kept rehashing her earlier argument with the Captain, and retorts were cycling through her mind. He had brought up valid points; she had thought him a villain, so he had acted like one. Had he truly been ready to kill them? When he had forced her to tell Peter’s story, he had seemed so tormented, driven by a frustration that ran deeper than a mere boy’s game.
And when they had been arguing, she’d felt… something from him. When he’d accused her of orchestrating the story to her own happy ending, she could’ve sworn that he was feeling pain so fierce that she nearly gasped aloud at the sharpness of the ache. And she’d caught a glimpse of a memory of herself and Peter, dancing on air together. Her face had been suffused with light, joy and hope shining in her eyes as she gazed at the Boy Who Would Never Grow Up, even as she wished he would. Had the Captain seen them together?
She groaned aloud, and turned over again. She was never going to fall asleep.
It was his fault, really. His very presence surrounded her; she was trying to sleep in his bed, wearing one of his shirts, and yet she was trying not to think of him. It was hopeless.
-+-
The Captain puffed his cigar in the library, purposefully thinking of nothing, concentrating on keeping his mind free from the clutter of memories and emotions. So far, he’d been able to keep from thinking of her a grand total of–he checked his pocket-watch again. Seventy-two seconds.
He gave up, and began pacing. She’d been genuinely upset when he’d accused her of manipulating the story. Had she truly been unaware of her power? She’d seemed so fierce in her defense that he wondered if she knew the power she carried even now. She still seemed constrained, limited. As if there was a part of her that held on tightly to control, no matter what. The only time he’d seen that control flicker had been when he’d discovered the bruises on her arms.
He frowned to himself, lost in thought. Those bruises had been mottled blue and green, showing signs of nearly healed skin, instead of freshly inflicted injuries. She had received the blisters on her hands here, but not the bruises. Where, then? And who was so bold as to inflict pain upon her?
When he thought about it, her pain threshold was quite high. She’d been bleeding profusely and had been knocked around quite a bit, but hadn’t cried, or whined about her injuries. She had only objected when he treated her as inferior to him.
What was in her past that she was so unwilling to allow him to probe?
He stomped down to Smee’s room. Since he gave up his quarters for Red, he had kicked Smee out of his room instead. He was a gentleman, but he was not about to sleep in the common area with the rest of the men. As Captain, he needed to maintain an air of superiority as well as fear, and both were rather difficult when the men discovered you snoring in a hammock in the galley.
He took off the harness for his hook, groaning as the weight came off. It was a helpful contraption, but difficult to bear at times. The leather strap chafed, so he had taken to smearing the pulp of an aloe vera plant on his skin where it bled. Chief Tiger Lillie had shown him that useful trick; too bad she hadn’t given him an extra arm to reach his back where it truly hurt.
He lay down on the lumpy mattress, grumbling at the courtesy which had necessitated giving up his own soft bed. The little chit should be grateful to him; if she was not, he toyed with the idea of forcing her to bunk with the men, but quickly cast it aside. Even he was not that cruel.
He sighed, and closed his eyes once more, his mind returning to her as if by default. He was not unwilling, this time, and indulged himself by wondering absently what she dreamed. He slowly drifted to sleep, with the scent of lavender surrounding him and a small hand on his chest. He touched her hair hazily and sighed with contentment as sleep took him.
The Storyteller… ch.9
Note: this is still a little rough in a few places, but I’m impatient… let me know what you think! :)
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Chapter 9
When she had returned from Neverland, finally ready to move on from her stories and don the mantle of Woman, Wendy had certainly never imagined that once she attained the title of Grown-Up, she would find herself back in the land of her youth. But even if she had, she would have imagined herself with considerable more dignity than she had at the moment.
True, she had nearly been eaten alive by the monster, and had been rescued by a swash-buckling villain-turned-hero. This was something that she might have dreamed up, although she certainly would’ve placed herself in a more heroic role. And yes, the aforementioned man had been featured quite prominently in more than a few of her waking dreams lately. But still, had she been in charge of the particular story she was living out, she would have changed a few details, namely the fact that she looked worse than the Lost Boys on their best days, and her hero was acting more gruff than dashing. She tamped down the voice in her head that stated, quite unequivocally, that she’d rather be with a brusque Captain than the most gallant of dull and empty-headed boys back home. And she certainly preferred him over–she shoved that thought quickly aside. While Neverland was not Utopia, it was certainly too happy a place to be marred by the shadows in her past.
She stumbled suddenly, and realized that the Captain had all but dragged her to the Black Castle, where a rowboat waited with members of his crew. The Captain single-handedly swung her onto the boat, grunting, at her shocked look, that it would take too long to wait for her to clamber in. Without another glance at her, he snapped at the few members of his crew who were now gaping at the appearance of a woman, albeit a bloody and bedraggled one.
Sufficiently cowed, they rowed toward the Jolly Roger in silence, the Captain’s intense gaze upon her. She met his stare evenly, taking the time to evaluate his overall appearance. She noticed, with some surprise, that he hadn’t aged since she had seen him last. She frowned at this realization, and leaned closer to him without thinking, wanting to have a closer look.
“If you don’t mind,” he said suddenly, startling her so much that she jumped, rocking the boat slightly. “I was about to suggest that you lean back, so as to not capsize the vessel,” he finished, a smirk hovering about his mouth. She steadied herself primly, leaning back onto her seat once more with poise.
When she looked up again, his gaze was fixed on her lip, which she realized she’d been biting absentmindedly. Without a word, he smoothly shifted his gaze to the area above her right ear, and refrained from speaking for the duration of the journey.
-+-
They arrived at the Jolly Roger with little further ado, and clambered aboard with few mishaps. If Wendy slipped off of the ladder and nearly kicked the Captain in the shins as she found her footing, it was not mentioned.
She clutched her bag as she looked about the ship, wide-eyed. Not much had changed in her years away from the island, including the ship itself. It seemed as impressive and regal as ever, and that included the Captain who now stood beside her. She took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air and reveling in the feel of the ship rocking gently in the tide. It was as if time ceased to matter; she was both the grown Wendy and the adolescent Storyteller that had once stood upon the deck. She couldn’t help a relieved sigh escaping her; she felt, strangely, that she’d returned to a place where she was welcome.
She glanced up at the Captain, noting the slight differences which indicated that the man who had rescued her was overshadowed by the persona of leader, commander of the ship and all its inhabitants. He stood taller, prouder, with a slight sneer on his face as his men scurried around him. She could sense the pride and satisfaction he felt as he surveyed his crew and ship. His face looked hard, perhaps even cruel, yet fiercely protective of what he considered his.
Wendy wondered what it would be like to experience this side of the Captain, the pirate ruler, rather than the crooked man who had tricked and lied his way through their last adventure. She absently wondered why she wasn’t afraid, but was distracted by one of his crew members brushing past her with what might be considered a grope if her clothing hadn’t been so bulky. She glared after his retreating form, too tired to chase him down, wondering if she’d be forced to protect herself against lecherous advances with a weary sigh. The man beside her hadn’t seemed to notice, instead conferring with a smaller man beside him.
“Smee!” he suddenly bellowed, startling her again.
The obsequious man appeared at once, and recognized her instantly with some delight. “Why if it isn’t Red-Handed Jill, all growed up!” He made to grab her hands, but Hook stepped in at once.
“Later, Smee, your medical expertise is required at once.” He gestured at her leg, which was caked with blood by now. The little man said nothing further, but disappeared into the bowels of the ship.
“This way, Red.” The Captain led her by the elbow to the same rooms she’d been wined-and-dined in, years ago. Giving her no time to admire the surroundings, he dragged her in and bodily hoisted her onto the rather sturdy oak table in the center of the room.
Unperturbed, she watched him as he brought over a brandy decanter and two glasses. “Captain, if you please, I would appreciate it if you would kindly refrain from manhandling me in such a manner. I do not appreciate being thrown about as if a rag doll.”
He simply arched a brow at her, and poured some brandy into a glass and offered it to her. She hesitated, hearing the unspoken ladies don’t drink, and shrugged, taking the glass and sipping. God knew her nerves could use it. She found him watching her with an unreadable expression as he poured a generous amount for himself. She paused, then held her glass out for more, daring him to comment.
He gave her another splash, then held out his glass, for a toast. “To clocks… and such,” was all he said. She bent her head in acknowledgment, then tossed it back. Feeling her eyes begin to water, she closed them and put the glass down, bowing her head as her body suddenly resumed feeling again. Her leg fairly burned, and her head was throbbing. She was overwhelmed by the events of the day, and took a shaky breath, forcing away the emotions threatening to spill out through her tear ducts.
The Captain stilled, then reached out to her once more, tipping her face up to meet his gaze. He surveyed her silently, then brushed at the tears beginning to seep out despite her best efforts. “Long day, Red?” he asked quietly.
Surprised that he hadn’t bellowed at her for such a womanly thing as tears, she lost the tenuous hold on her composure, and the tears began to fall in silent earnest. Thankful that she was at least refraining from sobbing aloud, she took the handkerchief he offered and allowed herself a few moments of unrestrained release. He remained silent, but reached out and touched her head gently. She finally smiled up at him as she wiped her eyes, feeling better by the moment, and said, “You don’t interact with many crying women in your life, do you, Captain?”
He actually grinned, his eyes sending warmth through her cheeks. “You’re the first beleaguered woman I’ve encountered in years, Red.” His hand had slid to rest against her jaw again, in a position she was quickly becoming familiar with. When her lips quirked in a returning grin, his gaze fell once more to her kiss, there, just at the corner of her mouth. Before she could think properly, his thumb had brushed against it, once, twice. She had stopped breathing, and raised her face to his questioningly, ever so slightly.
Smee chose that moment to burst into the room with two others in tow, bearing a large box, a bowl of still-steaming water, and yards of bandage. “Well, well, Red-Handed Jill, let’s see what we can do.” She looked up to find the Captain, only to see the door closing with a click.
Smee patched her up, carrying on a steady stream of chatter the entire time, which required little from her but the occasional grunt in acknowledgment. When she blinked again, she found herself seated in one of the high-backed Captain’s chairs, with a book apparently selected at random by one of the nameless pirates who accompanied Smee. It was a book on bird-watching, of all things, but she found that it was easier to read than dwell on her thoughts.
The door opened again, and determined footsteps announced that he’d reappeared in the room once more. He remained silent as he crossed the floor and sat across from her in the accompanying high-backed chair. She maintained her focus on the book, unwilling to speak first, uncertain of what to say.
He watched her in silence for a time. When he spoke, she jumped, from the broken silence as much as the question posed. “Where have you been, Red?”
She looked up, careful to keep her face blank. “I was in England. At home,” she replied evenly.
He made an impatient gesture. “You know full well what I mean. It has taken you a while to allow yourself to be rescued. I felt your arrival.” The latter statement seemed almost an afterthought, as if it had nothing to do with the previous sentence.
Her nostrils flared. “I allowed myself to be rescued? By you? And what, brought back here to live the high life?” She flung out her arms to encompass the entire ship.
His hand captured one of hers, the movement deceptively lazy, belying the steel grip. He brought her arm up to examine more closely. He frowned suddenly. “What is this, Wendy?” he snapped. Her arms were covered in healing bruises. He pushed up a sleeve to discover how far the bruises extended, but she yanked her hand out of his and scowled at him, more than a little disconcerted at his use of her real name, which she’d thought he’d long since forgotten.
Choosing to use that point as her means of distraction, she smoothed her face into a relatively bland expression, forcing the memories at bay so that she’d be able to keep him from pursuing his queries. “Wendy? No more Red-Handed Jill?”
He surprised her by chuckling. “I hadn’t realized that I still remembered that name until I saw you crouching in the forest, ready to fight that beast to the death.”
She found herself absently wondering which name he meant. Had he remembered her as the storyteller or the girl? She grinned, ready now, in the safety of his ship, to admit how helpless she had been. “I figured it was better than fainting on the spot and letting it drag me into the water,” she admitted.
His eyes shone with approval, though his words were teasing. “With a stick?”
She shook her head with a laugh, then a thought occurred to her. “Wait. What were you doing in the forest, anyway?”
He shrugged, making the movement relaxed yet elegant. “I was in the area, and found that my services were required.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yet I wasn’t screaming for help. It was a rather quiet altercation, actually. How did you find me?”
He sighed, still not meeting her eyes. “The creature still has the clock, or have you forgotten in your years away?” He brushed at invisible dirt on his breeches.
She leaned forward, trying to force him to look at her. “You know what I mean. And earlier you said that you knew I arrived. How?”
He glanced up at her again, and found himself staring at her mouth. There, he could still see her kiss. No longer hidden, but elusive, teasing him with possibilities. He found himself wondering if the Boy had given it back, or if her kiss still belonged to the obnoxious runt. He realized that the thought irked him more than he liked. He forced himself to relax, and inquired in a bored tone, “Tell me, Red, did you ever get your thimble back? You know, the one you gave to,” he nearly choked, “Pan?”
He finally met her gaze once more, to find her eyes bright with sudden tears. “That was cruel,” she said quietly.
And indeed, he felt her sorrow at the loss of a childhood, at being forgotten by the thoughtless boy yet again. He found himself struggling with the desire to grasp her hand once more and beg forgiveness, and if she refused, to distract her until she forgot her grief. Forcing himself to banish those thoughts, he shrugged once more. “I am the villain in your world, am I not? Or do you not recall the last time we met?”
She stood angrily, forgetting her injured leg for the moment, her eyes flashing with anger. “Of course I remember. But what you cannot seem to realize is that I have grown! I am not the same child I was back then. How could you have expected me to behave, given the way you acted towards me?”
He stood as well, his temper flaring in spite of his intentions of baiting her. “I had to portray what you required of me! After all, you were the Storyteller, orchestrating the entire scenario to your own little happy ending.” Resentment against Pan surged within him as a memory of the boy and girl dancing with the fairies flashed before him. That same hollow ache began in his chest, and he nearly gasped for air against the pain.
Both realized abruptly that they stood only inches apart, flushed with anger and old wounds. She blushed anew, but refused to back down. He felt a surge of masculine satisfaction and approval at her stubborn nature, and said softly, “But you are right.” Her eyes widened slightly at his admittance. “You have grown, Red.” His voice was low, nearly a growl. Their faces were barely inches apart, “You are no longer a child.”
The doors flew open with a bang, and she jumped guiltily. “Here we go, my lady,” came the cheerful voice of Smee, carrying a large tray. “A nice hot supper for you. I don’t know if the Captain will be joining you, seeing as I can’t find him about–” his voice died down as he looked up and saw them. “Oh.” She watched as he took in the situation, then visibly shrugged. “Captain, will you be dining with Red-Handed Jill tonight?”
He looked back down at the fiery storyteller, to see that she was refusing to meet his gaze again. The ache within him throbbed, and his mouth thinned. “No, I find that I am needed elsewhere tonight.” He bent his head slightly to Wendy, saying, “My lady,” then turned and left the room.
-+-
.
[ohhh burn!] :p
…and the Pirate, ch.8
A/N: I fixed it! This is the bright-shiny-and-new chapter.
This chapter gives a little explanation, and perhaps a bit more insight into the Captain, but hopefully not too much. 
Chapter 8:
(flashback to a few days ago) (I warned you guys that the timing is a little shifty) :p
-+-
The Captain left the camp in a foul mood. The natives were clearly keeping something from him, and he’d felt so certain that he was missing something right before his eyes. There had been a moment when he felt a tingle of awareness, an electric frisson of recognition running through his body, as if his very blood knew something he did not. He’d looked about for a clue, but had been unable to see anything out of the ordinary, and his mood darkened even further.
He stormed about the jungle for a while, then had a revelation. The mermaids! It had been explained to him they were half within this world, half… elsewhere. He’d avoided them for as long as he’d been on the island, and their people operated under a shaky truce. In truth, he was uncertain and cautious around what he did not understand.
He found his way to their lagoon, wary of their seductive intensity as soon as he saw the wildly feminine forms frolicking in the pool below. He’d heard the stories his men liked to relay, and while he outwardly scoffed, he knew that they were a force to be reckoned with.
The mermaids spotted him immediately, and surfaced, watching him quietly. The leader reached up and beckoned him closer, granting him an audience. She said nothing, but he instinctively knew that he should shed his outward apparel, and bit back internal sneering at the heavy symbolism implied by his actions. He left his hat, sword, and coat behind, approaching them as a man instead of a Captain.
He bent down on one knee in a posture of respect but not submission. The girls swam closer, visibly pleased with his more approachable appearance. The leader reached out to him with a slow smile, but he drew back, keeping out of range. “You know why I’m here,” he said firmly. “What is happening to me? Why her?”
She shrugged, the casual move looking seductive and alien at once. “We will only say that you are connected at the deepest level. However, your confusion is due to her stubborn nature. She is largely unaware of the bond, and can only feel it when she’s particularly susceptible to this place.”
He sighed. He had wondered; now he knew the truth. “But… why? Why are the two of us linked in such a fashion?” He refused to admit that for the first time in a very long while, he was afraid. He did not know what this meant, and to be so deeply joined to another living person did not bode well for his black-hearted reputation. He had barely been able to resist her when she’d been a young girl, but now that she was full grown, and he could feel her, he knew that he was helpless to withstand her. What if his enemies discovered this supernatural union? He pushed the icy trickle of fear away, and focused once more on the swimming sirens before him.
They had been watching him calmly, and he wondered if they were able to hear his thoughts as if he’d voiced them aloud. The leader blinked slowly, then finally responded to his question. “As to why, only those responsible for bringing her here can shed light. We do not bother with motivation. We only know what was, is, and will be.”
He shifted alertly, his mind quickly calculating multiple possibilities and scenarios. “There are others involved? Who brought her here?”
She shrugged again. “That is for you to discover.”
He clenched his jaw, but maintained his temper. They were dangerous enough when mildly irritated; he had no desire to rouse their anger.
He began to stand, sensing that they had told him all they were willing to share, when the leader suddenly grabbed his wrist. He looked down at her, startled. Was she actually going to try to pull him down with her? She gave a flirtatious smile, and purred, “If you weren’t so clearly marked by her, I would try. But we only have one further directive: tomorrow, before sunset, you will stand watch beside the Black Castle.”
He gazed at her evenly. “And you will not tell me why?”
She laughed, the sound both lilting and terrible to his ears, and dove below the water with her sisters.
-+-
The Captain paced impatiently beside his post. The Black Castle at sunset, she’d said. Here he was, and nothing. He’d dragged three of his men along with him, with no explanation, and was not willing to return empty-handed. They knew better than to question his orders outright, but he did not want them to begin whispering about his odd habits.
There. He felt her before he heard the crashing of her sprint through the forest. Pure, icy terror had gripped her, and she was reaching out blindly for him, without realizing it. He reached out for her, in turn, with the calm assurance that she was not going to die now, if only for the reason that he forbade it.
He readied himself for the inevitable confrontation, even as he ran towards them. He hadn’t seen the creature since… he refused to touch on the events of that day, and pushed the memories far once more.
Bursting into the clearing, he saw her standing with a stout branch, ready to defend herself, looking so fierce and yet helpless that he nearly laughed. Even as he arrived, it rushed her, and she fell to the ground, and he nearly stopped breathing. Flying into action, the Captain drew his sword and slashed at the creature to get its attention. It growled, finally scenting him for the first time, and eagerly turned towards him. He noted distantly that she scrambled back, out of harm’s way, and re-focused on the croc.
The creature growled again, and rushed him. He slashed, darting around its razor-sharp teeth, and sliced it deep with his sword. It let out a bellow of rage, and he took advantage of its distraction to cut at it again. He could not kill it with his sword, but he could certainly make it think twice about devouring her. Not surprisingly, it chose to retreat to the water, grumbling all the way.
Breathing heavily, he finally turned to look at the girl. She had collapsed against the wall, staring at him, most likely still struggling with the fear and adrenaline coursing through her, so he took a moment to evaluate her as well.
He was surprised at how much she’d grown. How long had it been since she had last been here? She was much taller, and had filled out into a woman’s form. Of course, he couldn’t really tell, given that she was clothed in… a tunic and breeches? She’d clearly been staying with the natives; he realized at once that she had been in the crowd that day, and he’d felt her proximity and his body had reacted.
She was still staring at him, pale and worn, looking as though she’d seen a ghost. Well, he supposed, perhaps she was. How could she have known that he had survived? She closed her eyes suddenly, and he wondered if she was about to faint. She managed to remain upright, however, and opened them to focus on him once again.
He shook himself and sheathed his sword. She appeared to be in the early stages of shock; he needed to keep her alert and awake. He chose to needle her subtly; now was not the time for forcing her to reveal how she’d appeared in his life once more.
An image of her, looking fierce and yet fragile, surfaced unbidden, and he forced himself to keep from laughing. “Well, Red-Handed Jill, I wondered how long you would managed to avoid me.” He saw her fallen bag, and bent to pick it up and carry it to her. “I see the natives were helping you after all.”
Looking a little worried at his tone, she slowly sank to the ground. She said something about the chief helping her for her brother’s sake, and proceeded to look vaguely distracted. When she raised a hand to her head and wiped at the blood, seeming confused at its appearance, he walked towards her swiftly. Had she been injured more severely than he had assumed?
He crouched beside her, eyes quickly taking in her bruises and scrapes. She needed to be distracted from her leg; it was bleeding profusely and he knew that she would be in considerable pain once the adrenaline wore off.
He wondered if she realized that in the stress, her “shields” were completely down, and he could sense what she was feeling. When a surge of contentment came over her, followed by embarrassment, he abruptly noticed that he’d been stroking her face absentmindedly with his thumb. He’d been trying to comfort her, but he was surprised to realize that the gesture had been calming to him as well.
More than a little startled at his own demeanor, he rose, masking his confusion with the same curt-yet-gentlemanly persona he’d donned so many years ago, and demanded that she accompany him to the ship. He wasnot worried about her, he simply would feel more comfortable once Smee had taken a look at her leg. And if he was taking advantage of their connection to subtly distract and soothe her, it was only because he did not see the point of being around a hysterical woman any longer than necessary. He was only taking precautionary steps to maintain his own sanity.
When she tucked her hand into his arm, he tried to ignore the feeling of rightness that having her by his side produced, and proceeded towards the dock where his men awaited. If she leaned on him a little heavily, and he slowed his steps to match her limp, neither spoke of it.
-+-
A/N: So. What do you think? :)
(I know, I took the easy way out with the “omniscient third party explains all,” but they didn’t really explain anything, they just verbalized the undertones which you have all, I’m sure, picked up on. 
…and the Pirate, p.7
Chapter 7
Breathing heavily, he looked at her for several moments. She found that she was unable to push away from the wall, and simply stared back, wondering if he’d recognize her. Her pulse racing, she realized that she was still exhilarated, uncertain if the danger was over yet.
The very sight of him triggered old memories, and she was transported back through time. She stood on deck, chanting his doom the loudest, willing him to fall. Head held high, she now stood before the others, recounting the story of Peter’s beginning, and she could almost feel his hand in her hair and the raspy stubble of his jaw at her temple, hear the growl of his voice in her ear. She had been so captivated by the nearness of him that she had barely registered the cool steel of his hook at her neck. She closed her eyes again to savor the rush of feeling brought on by the phantom, but opened them quickly to refocus on the living, breathing man before her. She had no idea how long he’d stood, staring at her.
Giving himself a shake, he sheathed his sword. “Well, Red-Handed Jill, I wondered how long you would manage to avoid me.” His voice sounded at once dear and familiar to her, and yet the cultured tones were strangely new. She was surprised that he remembered her, let alone that he’d chosen to refer to her by her chosen pirate name. Was he offering her a subtle olive branch? Or had he simply forgotten her true name over the years? She gave no response, simply watching him as he walked over to where she’d dropped her bag, and picked it up. “So the Natives were helping you after all.” He looked up at her, his expression unreadable.
She sighed, and allowed her legs to finally give out, sliding down the wall until she sat on the ground. “The Chief said she’d assist me for my brother’s sake.” Did her voice really sound that raspy? She could feel her heart skip a beat when she looked at him, realizing anew that he truly was standing before her. And he’d saved her life.
Somehow she didn’t think he’d appreciate prostrations and effusive gratitude, so she instead began mentally cataloging her bruises and scrapes, checking for further injuries. She tried to ignore the fiery pain that was her mangled leg, and concentrated on the rest of her body. Gradually becoming aware of a dull throbbing by her temple, she lifted a hand to her head, and blinked curiously when it came away wet with blood.
He strode towards her, frowning, and crouched down to her level. “How on earth did you manage that?” His tone made it seem like she’d injured herself deliberately. He reached out and grasped her chin firmly, tilting her head so he could get a better look.
She kept her eyes averted, unwilling to meet his forget-me-not blues when they were so close. Did he realize that his thumb was brushing her jaw ever so gently? She tried to keep from breathing in; why did he have to smell so good? She was seized with the incredibly unladylike desire to bury her face in his neck and inhale deeply. She tried to repress laughter at the mental image it provoked, but only managed to sputter. “It got my leg, too,” she quickly covered.
He looked down, and blinked. “My my.” Her leggings were in tatters, and there was a long, deep gouge running down her leg in an arc. His blues caught hers again. “I suppose you aren’t the type to faint at the sight of blood?” He didn’t seem all that concerned; if anything, his manner was almost casual. She shook her head, unable to decide if she was predominately injured from her ordeal, angry at his manners, or exhausted in general.
He abruptly released her and rose, turning away and lifting her bag once more. “Come. There are medical supplies with my men. And I believe Smee might be able to find a better wardrobe for you.” He began walking determinedly towards the entrance to the Castle.
She blinked. “Do you expect me to follow you like… like a lost puppy?” She stayed seated on the ground, and resisted the urge to cross her arms petulantly.
He stopped and pivoted smoothly. “If you don’t want my help, you can, of course, refuse.” That damned eyebrow arched, and her resistance was lost. She found herself wondering if people were often in the habit of refusing him.
Scowling, she attempted to stand gracefully. “It would give me great pleasure if you would do me the honor of treating me as a lady, Captain,” she said in her most regal tone. She had never wished more desperately for skirts and a fan. The effect was generally lost when such a statement was delivered in a tunic and leather breeches, when one was bleeding profusely and looked like one had been dragged through the forest backwards.
He picked up his abandoned hat and made a grandiose gesture, bowing deeply. “If my lady would be so kind as to accompany me?” He crooked his arm and waited for her to limp towards him. She considered refusing his help altogether, but at her first step, discovered it would be best to take advantage of his good will, for however long it would last.
As she hobbled closer, he placed the hat on his head, fixing his cuffs and collar, and she finally noticed his outfit. He was dressed in browns today, which she thought was odd, given his usual flair for the dramatic. Her gaze fell to his hands–his hand, and hook.
She suddenly realized with a start that she had entirely forgotten about his hook. She stopped and blinked in confusion, staring at the item with renewed absorption. When she first began telling stories about him, it had been his defining feature, the entire reason for his name. How on earth had she managed to forget about the one thing that had held her interest with such fascination and terror so many years ago?
As she gazed at him, she realized that the answer was, indeed, standing before her. She’d stopped focusing on the machinations, and instead had dedicated thought and attention to the man himself.
“Do forgive me for refraining from the usual formalities,” he said silkily, bringing her abruptly to the present, his eyes flicking to her hands. She resisted the urge to hide them in her sleeves or behind her back. She had a mental image of him bowing over her hand, possibly kissing it, and heat flamed in her cheeks as her pulse skittered. Unwilling to admit that he’d unsettled her further, she resolutely slid her hand into the crook of his arm, and begin limping alongside him as he led her away.
A/N: What do you think?
The Storyteller… p.6
Edit: This is now part 6, and I changed a few areas, so feel free to re-read! :)
A/N: I’ll be jumping around in the time sequences; I think giving a ton of backstory all at once is boring. I won’t be pulling a Lost sequence, though. :)
Chapter 6
Tearing through the forest, she never looked behind her, certain that over the sound of her beating heart, the creature was crashing inexorably behind her. She burst through the bushes into a clearing, and her heart sank; she had blundered her way to the Black Castle, trapped, with the castle’s wall behind her, the lagoon on one side, and more forestry on the other. Looking about desperately, she dropped her bag containing her meager belongings, and grabbed a fallen branch, ready to fight for her life.
She glanced at the water. Certain death lay in that direction; even she knew that the water was its territory. No help lay in the direction of the forest; the shadows seemed dark and oppressive from where she stood. She edged closer towards the trees, steeling herself for battle. The crashings grew louder, until the animal burst out upon her with a roar. Proud of herself for refraining from screaming, she wielded her branch and whacked it soundly on the side of the snout as it rushed her. That brought it up short; she could almost see the perplexed thought process as it re-evaluated her position as lunch. Evidently it was hungry, for it paused, and instead of retreating, crouched and narrowed its eyes.
Wendy nearly stopped breathing. This was it. It was going to attack her, and she’d be dragged into the water and drowned, and–
Strangely, in the midst of her terror, she felt time stop, and her fear seemed to melt away. An inner calm and sense of clarity came over her. She somehow knew that this would not be the way she was to die, and she almost heard a low voice saying, No. Not now.
Suddenly it snapped at her leg, tearing at her skin; she jumped backwards and fell before it could break her leg, hitting her head rather hard on the ground. She tried to stand again, scooting away as quickly as possible, but her leg wouldn’t cooperate. It began crawling towards her quickly-so fast-but suddenly something brought it up short.
She heard a metallic reverberation and suddenly the croc let out a bellow of pain and anger. It turned away from her, striking her head with its tail in the process and causing a hot flash of pain to pass through her, then it growled. …at her? No, there was something else in the clearing. Something threatening the croc. She forced herself to stand again, grabbing her branch, and focused on the scene unfolding before her.
There was a whirl of teeth and a flash of light glinting off of a sword. Then the croc bellowed again, the cry sounding pained, and suddenly crawled into the lagoon, disappearing almost at once. She allowed herself to fall against the wall as she tried to regain her breath and ability to think, as she looked into the forget-me-not blue eyes of her rescuer.
Captain Hook.
The Storyteller… p.5
Wendy crouched along the edge of the clearing. She could see the village through the trees, but still hesitated.
Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her for the reason she was walking into the unknown. Yesterday morning, she had woken from a glorious dream, one where red eyes changed to blue and a pirate lord smiled when he saw her, to find that she’d somehow managed to find her way back to Neverland. Her first reaction had been confusion and fear, and she’d instantly realized that while her dream Captain was courtly and polite, even romantic, the real thing was most likely not going to react with pleasure upon seeing her.
She’d evaluated her options, and mentally catalogued her likely allies versus enemies. The fairies seemed the most ambiguous choice, while the pirates were most likely her enemies, and the natives appeared to be the closest thing to allies that she would have. She certainly did not want to find the Lost Boys; she had no interest in being everyone’s Mother again, at least not first. There was a proper order to things, and Mother came second to Wife. And Wife comes second to Husband, she reminded herself yet again, the daily mantra still ringing hollow in her mind. She pulled her sleeves down out of habit, and forcibly pulled herself out of the past and into her present situation.
The only question remained as to how to find the tribe. She had a hazy memory of the way to their camp, so she stood, brushed off her nightgown, shook off her sheet, and wrapped it around her like a sari. If she was to be stranded on this island with only a nightgown and sheet, she was certainly going to make the most out of them. She examined her handiwork, then raised her head high. If she looked a little ridiculous, who was to notice or care? She then set off into the forest, determined once more.
Sunset yesterday evening had seen her defeated, sitting on a tree stump, ready to cry out of frustration. How big was this island, anyway? She hadn’t even been able to find fruit to eat. She was tired, cold, and hungry. She had just come across a hollow tree, and had deemed it large enough to shelter her for the night. Shivering, she hoped that the croc wouldn’t come across her. She dozed fitfully, coming awake at intervals, and seeing the indifferent face of the Captain when she was able to pass to the realm of dreaming. For some reason, that pained her far worse than the hollow grumblings of her stomach.
When she woke, she had a renewed sense of purpose, as well as direction. Sure enough, she’d found the village before half the morning was gone. It was now or never. She took a deep breath, and stepped out into the clearing.
-+-
Wendy worked hard alongside the other women. Apparently a new lodge was being built, and they needed all the extra hands they could use. When she had first appeared on the outskirts of the village, they’d seemed mildly surprised but not shocked to see her. They’d communicated that she should follow them, and spoken quickly amongst themselves as they took her to their chief. When they’d sent her into the chief’s circle, she’d been more than a little frightened, but remained outwardly calm. She looked up to see the chief, only to smile in delight and relief at a familiar face. Tiger-Lily had grinned widely, and pulled her into a hug.
Later that night, she crawled onto the fur they provided, exhausted and cold. As she shifted restlessly, unable to find a restful position, she realized that she was growing colder, no matter how she huddled beneath the blanket they’d given her. She was able to finally drift off into a fitful sleep, where she dreamed she was finally safe and warm. She could smell whiskey and an unfamiliar type of tobacco, and someone’s hair was tickling her temple. She didn’t want to wake up, so she burrowed closer to the source of heat and shelter, turning her face into his neck and rubbing her cheek against the stubble. She felt someone’s hand come up to sleepily cradle her head and toy with her curls, and fell deep asleep once more, feeling protected and happy.
The next morning, she awoke, feeling strangely bereft and confused. Had she been alone all night? The furs showed that she had been curled in the same protective position all night, yet her nightgown smelled of whiskey and tobacco.
-+-
This day seemed to be more of the same; she helped the others with construction. One of the girls had given her a pair of leggings so that she could move more freely. Another gave her a tunic, clearly viewing her nightgown as strange, awkward clothing. She’d been more than grateful, happy to be able to wear something different for a change.
In the afternoon, the children had run through the village, shouting loudly about visitors. She gathered with the rest of the curious onlookers to see that Captain Hook and part of his pirate crew were leaving the premises of the healer. Her heart leapt to her throat, and she froze, confused at her reaction to the sight of him. At once, her mouth had become dry with either fear or excitement, and her pulse had begun hammering as if her very blood recognized him at her most elemental level.
He paused, as if he could feel her presence near. She held her breath, wondering what she’d do if he saw her. Would he recognize her? He glanced about, but his eyes passed over her as if she were not there, and he turned and continued on his way.
Wendy found herself fighting back tears, and wondered at the cause.
Storyteller and the Pirate, p.4
The Captain scowled at the quivering man before him. Incompetent imbecile! He’d have to gut someone now to regain order. He found himself mentally cataloguing the list of men he’d hired purely for the sake of killing or tossing overboard in a display of power.
Ah well, perhaps it would return balance to his life; he’d been having disturbing dreams for the last week. To be honest, they had been rather more snatches of moments in time than a cohesive thought sequence.
The first night had simply paraded images of an impish mouth with a hidden kiss and crystalline blue eyes, gleeful and innocent, before his eyes. He’d come awake instantly, certain that she had broken through to his world. He’d paced his room for a half hour, debating whether he should act on his waking dream or not. He’d been surprised at the strength of his reaction to the knowledge that she was here. If confronted with the girl, what would he do? What did he want from her? He took a healthy swallow of whiskey and continued pacing. He only knew that his soul was drawn to her.
He resolved to ignore the situation, and wait for it to play out. After all, while anything was possible in this world-between-worlds, there was no plausible notion behind his certainty, no concrete testimony that she had indeed arrived. And while James Hook had always been one to believe his instincts, when women were involved, he had learned to tread carefully. He was especially wary of those who had the power of Story behind them.
The second night, he’d been unable to sleep due to the hunger-pains that wracked his body. No matter what he ate, he still felt ravenous. After consuming an entire cooked chicken, he gave up and resorted to a technique he’d employed upon first finding himself in this place-between-places: he drank until he passed out. He dreamed again, but this time the eyes were not laughing, but worried, and the mouth-with-a-kiss was drawn tight with fear.
Finally, on the previous night he had woken repeatedly, freezing cold. No matter how many heated bricks he demanded, it made no difference. Finally, he admitted defeat… and proceeded to get absolutely sloshed once more. He’d dreamed that he held someone as he slept, someone whose toes were frozen, but her hair smelled of violets and sunshine, and she turned into his body for warmth and comfort, and did not shrink away from his stump of an arm. He woke with a curious ache in his chest, but refused to explore it any further.
Smee, the obnoxious busybody, forced him to go see Chief Tiger-Lily for help. He stood while his men made growling faces at the natives and they, in turn, threatened with their weapons, but in the end, the chief directed him to their tribe’s healer with her blessing. He suspected the cheerful chief knew more than she let on, but did not pry further. He grudgingly left his hat and sword with a widely-grinning Smee as he entered the healer’s tent.
After sitting through several hours of questioning and chanting rituals, he was given an answer. The healer declared that he was mysteriously linked to a Totem, and that it was external to their medicine; they couldn’t help him. It was suggested, with a poorly hidden smile, that he take a vacation. He growled as he rose to leave, but did not tear a new window in her tent with his hook.
He paused, just before he left the tent, and asked silkily, “By the way, you haven’t noticed any… new… additions to the island, have you?”
The healer feigned ignorance. “There have been no more children. The Boy has lost interest in new converts.” The unspoken since She left lingered in the air between the speakers.
His jaw tightened, but he replied calmly, “I was enquiring after any new additions, not children.”
Her chin drew up, and she simply said, “No.”
The Captain left their camp in a worse mood than he’d been in when he’d arrived, unaware that from the sea of dark eyes watching his departure, a pair of blue eyes lit with recognition.
