And thus perished James Hook.

But truly, did he perish? It seemed, at least to Wendy, Michael, John, Peter, Slightly, and the rest of the Lost Boys and the few remaining pirates, that indeed, he had fallen and had been swallowed whole by the crocodile. That was the end of him.

In a land made of snippets of dreams and snatches of stories, can the villain around which the story revolves truly die? For what is light without the dark, and what is bliss without anguish? Can you define one without its opposite?

So then, what is Peter without his Hook?

He is nothing. And so, when Captain James Hook was swallowed and subsequently killed by the crocodile, and the children had returned to their mothers – well, most of them…Peter, of course, would never return – what was Peter to do? For a time, he flew amidst the trees of the forests of Neverland, and played with the children of the Indian village, and explored caves and crevasses as his yearnings led him to do. Sometimes, he would fly from Neverland, looking again for little boys who fell from their perambulators when their nannies weren’t looking, and in time, he once again had his tribe of Lost Boys…but what of his adversary, his defining opposing force?

Such was the nature of Neverland, that not only did it provide endlessly for every want of Peter’s, it also provided for his physical needs and his emotional needs; and so, Hook again came to be as he was before, and Peter made raids to the Pirate ship as before. Sword clashed with sword, and dagger with hook, and Peter strove against Hook, for without Hook to remind him of all he did not want to be, Peter might forget that he did not want to grow up. One did not kill the other; it was a battle which took place that could never truly end.

Hook had vague recollections, sometimes, when deep in thought over his harpsichord after a few glasses of Muscat, that something terrible had happened to him. He remembered the children, that girl, Wendy, and a great fight, though it became blurry in his mind when he tried to focus upon it.
The events following that seemed hazy as well. It was as if he had come out of a dream. Snippets and hints, snatches of daily events, and then of battles amidst the murky cloud of memory, and now he was here. He tried very hard to place the events which had happened since he had come to Neverland in proper order, to somehow discern how long he had been there. At times, it seemed it had been merely months, and others, as if he had lived several lifetimes worth of years in the ceaseless battle against Pan.

The air had grown cold, and the sea stormy of late, and he looked out over Neverland one morning after a sleepless night, cursing his fate, his misery to be stuck in this place that seemed to be made more of dreams than reality, this place he could never seem to leave, no matter how far he sailed. He was a lonely man, above all. His men followed his orders, and Smee, though the closest he had resembling a friend, was still nothing more than his servant. He could not simply befriend his crew members, a captain had to maintain a certain distance from his crew, lest they find some weakness in him. That was the path to mutiny.

He thought for a time that he wanted to sail forth upon the high seas again, raiding and pirating his fortune, but he was growing tired of the endless fighting, the endless struggle with a boy who plagued him, but that he could never seem to defeat. Perhaps, he wondered, he might want to go someplace quieter…he could never truly settle down, but the life of an outlaw pirate didn’t seem so appealing to him any longer. After all, would it be that difficult to make a living trading goods or ferrying passengers across the open sea? He and his men could still find amusements in a more conventional way. If he were to put them in uniform, order them to clean themselves up and to scrub the ship top to bottom, they really wouldn’t be a too much of disreputable-appearing crew.

But first, he had to find a way to leave Neverland.

Suddenly, a great groaning, creaking noise brought his attention to the present, and he saw that the ice which surrounded the ship was breaking apart, the dark waters showing through the developing chasms between the sheets of pink-tinged ice that the rising sun reflected upon. Quickly pulling his telescope from its holster, he brought it to his eye and searched the skies for the flying figure he knew would be there…perhaps with company if he’d found yet another blasted Lost Boy.

Finally, he caught two figures in his lens, and looked upon them as they flew. It was a girl…no, not a girl, a woman, who flew with his nemesis. From this distance he couldn’t judge her age very well, but she certainly was no child, as the length of her body was nearly twice that of Peter’s.

He wondered if Peter had once again decided to bring a substitute ‘mother’ to his Lost Boys; would she be another story-teller like Wendy?

“Smee, ready the longboat!” he barked out. “We’re going on a search party.” As his men rushed to obey his order, Hook nodded to himself. An adult being brought to Neverland by Peter Pan was an unprecedented event. Not since he himself had been lured to the blasted land had another adult arrived (the Indian village seemed a permanent facet of the island, somehow). He was eager to find out about the new arrival, and perhaps, gain her assistance in luring from Peter the secret to escape Neverland. He knew well enough by now that trying to force it from the boy was a pointless exercise…no, it would have to be coaxed, and if this woman was an adult, she would surely see some reason in his arguments to escape.

And so, the story continues…
@~~~~~@


“Have you ever thought of going back…to Neverland, that is?” Eleanor's teacup clinked quietly in its saucer as she placed it on the small table.

“Sometimes, yes, I have,” Wendy replied, taking a sip of her tea. “I’m not sure I could anymore…it seems that it was a place only accessible in my childhood, that if I were to attempt it again, I shouldn’t be able to find my way there without Peter, and Peter isn’t interested in grown-ups.”

“When you tell me of it, I wish I could go there and see it all for myself before it’s too late…” said Eleanor. “I just wish to have at least one adventure before…” she trailed off, biting her lip as her impending doom seemed to overpower all other thoughts.

“But Eleanor,” Wendy began, “I should think you would be happy…Neilson Harold is a very esteemed man who my father said –”

“Esteemed?” Eleanor cut in bitterly. “Esteemed? As if all I should want is to marry a wealthy trade broker and iron his trousers and warm his bed, and for myself do nothing but embroider and host parties!” she said angrily.

“Well…” Wendy trailed off. “When I was younger, I thought that I should hate it too. But being married is not at all bad. I even find it agreeable. And now, when I think of Neverland, it seems but a distant dream that happened to someone else long ago, and which I only read about. You are a woman now, Eleanor; you’ve grown up, and must put aside those things you dreamed about as a child. Your dreams are not bad, they are simply not realistic. Actually,” she continued after refilling Eleanor’s teacup from the fine bone china teapot and taking up her needlepoint loom again, “this reminds me of something my mother told me about my father once. You see, when I was young, my brothers and I didn’t truly believe my father to be a brave man…he was, you see, just not in a conventionally brave way.

“She told us, that one thing that made him brave, was that when he’d gained a family, he’d put aside his dreams, put them away, you see, in a drawer. And every so often, he would pull them out and look at them, but that over time, it grew harder and harder to put them back into the drawer. His bravery was in continuing to put away his dreams and instead to focus on his responsibilities. I didn’t really understand it at the time, but I’ve learned from that in years since. In a way, I do the same. I write my stories, or tell them to people, and when I am done writing or speaking, I put it away. It’s hard to do sometimes, but still, I do… but that doesn’t mean I can’t still treasure my dreams when I do pull them out.”

Eleanor folded her hands tightly in her lap, pinching slightly at the deep green material of her gown (which Neilson had told her matched her eyes beautifully) as she studied the floor for a moment. It had been her second season after reaching adulthood, and she had been to many parties and social functions. Her parents were friends of the Darlings, and she had known Wendy when she was a child, but Wendy was nearly ten years older than she, and so Eleanor had never really spent much time with her. Her parents, encouraged by the Darlings, had asked Wendy (now Wendy Trunchard) to spend time with their daughter, who seemed not too keen on the thought of doing as a proper woman of her time did: namely, marrying well and making her life conform to that of her husband. Somehow, she couldn’t quite see herself running off to join the suffragettes either.

Now, looking upon her elder friend, she sometimes had trouble imagining the proper and polite woman as a girl with loose hair, a sword in hand as she fought pirates or ran barefoot through a forest and played with a wolf. Had it not been for Wendy’s stories, Eleanor would have never suspected that this woman had ever had troubles with growing up. So, Wendy put her dreams away and only took them out at special times to look at them, did she? Eleanor didn’t feel ready to put her dreams away, only to be looked at occasionally.

Eleanor had finally accepted a proposal after turning down dozens of suitors. Her parents had become increasingly frustrated with her refusal of even the finest young bachelors of London society, and demanded that she accept one of her suitors. Eleanor had chosen a man who didn’t seem too bad, all things considered. He wasn’t particularly handsome: she thought his eyes were too squinty-looking from staring at ledger books too much and his nose was too narrow, but he seemed kind enough, and was doing well in business, and he liked her piano playing and singing. He wanted to move immediately after they married to a home in the countryside, and he had even shown it to her one day the previous month. Eleanor would have servants, and her own carriage, and he had told her she should have all the parties she wished when they were married. In fact, all things considered, he was very generous and thoughtful.

“I just… don’t want to get married,” she finally told Wendy. “I want to go away to the New World, maybe to Brazil or America, and join a surveyor’s expedition and draw maps. I want to shoot guns, and explore, and I want to be on my own…” She sighed deeply, thinking about all the things she wanted to do, but would never be able to. She wondered, too, if perhaps she had been born of simple country folk if it had been any better…but no, they had the same problems, the same customs, and worked all the harder and had shorter lives for their trouble. A woman’s place was a woman’s place no matter if one was rich or poor.

“Eleanor, Mr Harold is a thoughtful man as well as esteemed. I didn’t say anything, but he came to see me last week.”

“He did? What on earth for?” she asked, bewildered.

“He said that he thought you might get lonely in your new home with him, with fewer women around who weren’t servants to talk to. He extended an invitation for us to come and stay with you at any time.” Wendy poked a needle through her needlepoint loom, glancing up at Eleanor with an encouraging smile.

Eleanor sighed, feeling conflicted. “I know he is a sweet and thoughtful man, truly, I do. It is not because I think he is not those things that I don’t want to marry…I simply want another kind of life. I know I will have nearly anything I could ask him for, but he wouldn’t be able to give me what I truly want.”

“It won’t be so bad as you think it would be. I know you will be happy.”

The two women continued their conversation, which soon turned to other, more trivial matters, not knowing that outside the window, which was open to allow the cool September breeze inside, a boy was listening. It was, of course, Peter Pan, who in a moment of uncanny recollection, had remembered Wendy when he wanted someone to tell him a story and no one was there to tell it to him. But Wendy was all grown up now.

However, he thought her friend, Eleanor, sounded like just his kind of person. She didn’t want to grow up either, even though she looked like an adult, she wasn’t really, she wanted to have adventures and be free, just like him.

And so, when the young woman left the home of Wendy, he followed her carriage through the streets of London as the sun set.
@~~~~@


Eleanor sighed as she sat in her bed, readying herself to sleep for the night, slowly brushing her hair, counting out the hundred nightly strokes before pulling it back in a loose plait. There were three months left before her wedding and she felt it approaching as if it were a death sentence. As she lay down, she wondered if she was being unfair to her fiancé. He really wasn’t an unreasonable man. He was considerate, kind, wealthy, and what he had told her of his expectations were also not unreasonable. He wanted for her to sing for him at least weekly, and for her to organise parties for his business partners, and hoped, in time, for her to bear him four children. In return, he would give her a house which many women dreamed of living in, no restrictions on visitors, and frequent gifts and jewels.

But she didn’t want jewellery. She didn’t want to think about having children yet. She felt like she had seen so little of the world – only a small part of England, and she wanted to see so much more of it. When Wendy told her of Neverland, Eleanor had dreamed that she might go there one day and have nothing to do but to enjoy herself and have adventures. Even the tales of the pirate, Hook, had fascinated her.

She closed her eyes to sleep, wishing that she could have been a man; men had so much more freedom and choices in their lives. Or perhaps, she could simply go away to the Neverland of Wendy’s stories, and spend her days in childish pursuits. With that thought, she fell asleep.
@~~~~~@


Silently as he could, Peter opened the window of the bedroom of the young woman he had followed. He hovered over her sleeping form, observing her. She had long, brown hair and fine features. Her nose was prominent, the profile of which was slightly convex, separating her deeply set, closed eyes.

With one dirty hand, he reached forward and traced the profile of her face, startling when her eyes opened suddenly and she screamed. He backed quickly to the ceiling, and they watched each other with wide eyes.

“You’re Peter Pan, aren’t you?” she asked.

Peter smiled. “Yes, I am he.”

“Yes, it seems that my dreams have finally given me what I never could have awake.”

This confused Peter, but he didn’t bother with that. Instead, he floated down to the floor beside her bed. “You aren’t like the other grown-ups,” he said. “I like that. Do you tell stories?”

“Stories? Yes, I suppose I could; mostly though, I like to sing.”

“Singing? That sounds wonderful. Sing me a song!” he demanded brightly, hopping onto the foot of her bed and crossing his legs, smiling at her and resting his chin on fisted hands as he waited for her to accede to his demand.

Eleanor laughed, thinking this boy was a product of her dream, and that she was still asleep. Why shouldn’t she sing for him? She sang a simple song, one which all children seemed to know because it reminded her of the days she was leaving behind, and as she sang, Peter watched her with rapt attention, his pearly teeth gleaming brightly in the moonlight which came in through the window. He seemed enough like a dream-creature. His blond hair was tousled, and his clothing was made of leaves sewn together, just like Wendy had told her.

“That was lovely. Do you know any more?”

“Yes, I know lots more.”

“Oh wonderful!” he exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “The Lost Boys would want to hear you sing too. You don’t want to stay here, so come away with me to Neverland. I wouldn’t usually bring a grown up, but you aren’t really, are you?” Something in the playful sparkle of his eye filled her with a giggly sort of mood, and infectious sort of jubilation.

“No, I suppose not. Everyone I know is too concerned with marrying, and working, and parties and social engagements. I want to go somewhere where I don’t have to worry about any of that. Tell me though; Wendy said there was a wolf in Neverland, and a Pirate, and an Indian village…are they all still there?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Peter mused. “When I get back, I’m going to kill Hook. I thought I had before…” he trailed off, seemingly lost in thought, “but no matter, I will smite him and make a gift to you of his sword!”

“Yes, let’s go to Neverland,” Eleanor said. This was nothing but a dream, a delightful dream: a dream she wanted to indulge in before her real life became nothing but the monotony of marital duty and social functions.

“Wonderful! Follow me over the hill and straight on ‘til morning!” Peter leapt into the air and flew out the window. Eleanor, wide eyed, went to the window, then looked down upon the street below. Even though she felt it was a dream, she couldn’t imagine simply flying away without falling to her death.

“Peter! I can’t fly!” she shouted into the star-strewn night sky.

“Oh…oh, of course, you’ll need this.” He flew back down to her and reached into a pouch, then grinned at her before throwing a handful of sparkling dust upon her. “Fairy Dust!” he exclaimed. “That will make you fly. Now, come on!”

It seemed impossible, but Eleanor began to float, and as it was a dream, the dust he’d thrown upon her was explanation enough that she could now defy the laws of gravity which everything else must heed.

She took his hand, and out the window she flew. It was beautiful, the sky, the moon, and there, in the distance, a shooting star. Over the city they flew, then over the countryside, then further and out over the ocean, the ripples reflecting the moonlight in a dance of dazzling, twinkling spots. Eleanor felt free and happy, and for a moment, forgot all about her impending fate, enjoying the feel of the wind in her hair, the wind which rippled her nightgown, as she flew with Peter. After all, this was only a dream, wasn’t it?




Author’s Note: This Peter Pan fanfiction is based on the book, but most of the imagery, and especially the character James Hook, is heavily inspired by the movie in which Jason Isaacs portrayed him in such astounding fashion in the movie ‘Peter Pan’ (as evidenced by the breaking up of the ice as Peter returns to Neverland and the tale of what Wendy’s mother told her about Mr Darling’s dreams in the drawer, which did not happen in the book). I can honestly say that ‘Peter Pan’ is one of the few cases in which I found the movie to be more appealing than the book (here again, only counting the movie with Jason Isaacs…the one with Robin Williams was dreadful).

Reviews are appreciated; I know this archive focuses mainly on Harry Potter and Rowling’s creation, but perhaps a Peter Pan fanfic would not be out of place here.
You must login (register) to review.