Now he stared, watching the absolutely fascinating way the sunlight reflected off the deep purple scales of her tail. And her hair. . .
He actually started to reach out his hand, as if he could touch her from here. Startled and embarrassed at himself, he cleared his throat. "Who's next?"
"We've been waiting for you for the whole past minute," Peter said. He peered toward the Lagoon, then grinned. "Hey! There's one of the mermaids! Bet I can hit her tail!"
He drew back the band of the slingshot, and Smee grabbed his hand. Peter looked over at him, surprised, and then he laughed. "Okay, fine. How about that, then?" he asked, pointing. "I bet I can hit the moss right off that rock."
He took aim, but switched targets at the last second, striking the black-haired mermaid in the tail and then diving below the tree line.
The mermaid gave Smee a rather terrifying glare, and then disappeared beneath the water.
Peter popped up next to him again, laughing.
"Peter!"
"Oh, relax, I was joking. I can't believe you fell for that, by the way. Come on, let's skip stones!"
"Or we can dive off the waterfalls," Roger suggested. "Bet I can hold my breath longer than you!"
"Last one to call 'it' has to keep watch for the mermaids and crocodiles!"
Smee followed, but barely paid attention to any of the antics that followed. And as soon as the sun went down and the other Lost Boys finally slept, he crept out, making his way to the Lagoon. He didn't see her, didn't really expect to. He just sat there by himself for a long while, thinking.
The next night he did the same thing. And the next. Eventually, he began visiting the Lagoon during the day as well.
Peter was so busy with the usual games and tricks that it took him weeks to notice. Finally, one afternoon as Smee was sneaking off to the Lagoon, Peter dropped down in front of him.
"Where you off to, then?"
"The . . ." He sighed. "I'm going to the Lagoon."
"Oh! Well, if you want a swim you gotta have other people watching out for you. We'll all go."
"No, I-- Peter, I . . . I think I might have to leave."
Peter stared at him as if he'd never heard that word before. Maybe he hadn't. "What?"
"Neverland just doesn't feel like my home anymore. I'm sorry. It doesn't have anything to do with you or with Tink or any of the others. I just need to see her. That's all."
"This is over a girl?" Peter asked, wrinkling his nose. "Why?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe I love her. Or maybe I don't yet, but I'm pretty sure I could."
"But you've always been here!"
"I know."
Peter stared at him for a moment, looking so heartbroken that Smee was sorely tempted to take it all back, say that he was sorry and he'd made a mistake and maybe they should all go play forest tag. Then Peter scowled.
"Fine!" he said. "Go then! We'll have plenty of fun without you!"
Before he could apologize, could say that he didn't mean for them to leave it all like this, Peter darted into the air.
Smee went to the Lagoon again, staring out over the water. This time he wasn't looking for her; he was watching the ship. He couldn't exactly build a house right on the edge of the Lagoon. He'd seen crocodile nests here more than once. But on that ship. . .
His mind made up, he began pacing, working out exactly what he would say.
***
"Captain Hook, sir! Would you kindly grant me permission to board?"
"Huh?" a voice slurred. "The hell is this persimmon nonsense? Climb up."
Smee hesitated, and then did as he was told, knowing it was his best option but still wondering if he wasn't getting himself into a huge mess.
In more ways than one, he thought, seeing the bottles scattered around the deck and the crewmen nodding off everywhere there was possibly room to lie down.
All right, he thought. So they were all a little tipsy at the moment, but that didn't mean it was their constant state. He needed to be professional in order to fit in with what this crew would surely be come morning. "Sir!" he said, saluting the Captain smartly. "I would like to apply for a position on this esteemed vessel. I am no stranger to cleaning and other menial jobs, I'm a fast learner, and I believe I would make an excellent pirate."
"Can you drink?"
". . . pardon?"
"Can. You. Drink," Hook repeated, shoving a half-empty bottle towards him. Smee took a tentative sip, choked. "Need some training," Hook said. "We'll get right on that. No no, that one's yours," he said, when Smee tried to hand the bottle back. "Plenty more where that came from."
"Greetings," a feminine voice called from over the side of the ship. "You have a new toy for us?"
"Away with you, wench!" Hook yelled, gesticulating wildly with his new bottle, splashing some on the deck in the process. "Oops. Let the boy at least get a few swallows in before you start singing at him."
Curious, Smee peered over the side. The girl smiling up at him was blonde. "Hello," he said. "Is-- is there another one with you? Black hair? Olive skin?" Eyes a man would be happy staring into for hours? he thought.
Her smile widened and then she dove under. A moment later she resurfaced, his mermaid beside her. He knew it wasn't correct to think of her that way, but he couldn't help it.
"Sister, he seems quite taken with you," the blonde one said.
"He seems quite taken with playing childish games."
"Oh! No, no, that wasn't me!" Smee protested. "Peter was playing one of his pranks. I'd never throw a rock at you. I promise!"
She regarded him for a moment, and he thought he might've caught a glimpse of a smile on her beautiful face. He started to smile back, and then she dove, slapping her tail against the water and drenching him quite thoroughly.
He turned, wiping the water out of his eyes and coughing.
"Welcome aboard, boy!" Hook howled. Then he leaned against the mast, shaking with laughter.
Beauty had no idea how the crone who'd ruined her life managed to find her. She just strolled into the small clearing that surrounded the dismal shack she called a home, smiling beatifically. She thought about using the horribly nasty things her once-elegant fingernails had turned into to scratch up the witch's face.
"You look exactly the same, I see. Why am I not surprised?"
"Of course I look the same!" Beauty snapped. "I can't get your ridiculous comb out of my hair!"
The witch sat down on the edge of a tree stump. She was still smiling. It made her want to scream.
Or rather, howl. Even her voice was different now.
"Just take it out," she ordered.
"No."
Beauty stalked toward her. The woman seemed unconcerned. "Are you going to strike me now?” she asked casually. “That anxious to be turned into a toad?"
Beauty froze. "Why me?"
"Because you're a brat. I don't much like brats."
"I'll give that child gold. All right? I'll give her gold every single day! Just change me back!"
"You don't seem to understand. The curse is irreversible. I can't do a thing to lift it."
"What? No. You . . . you wouldn't do that. Not over something so trifling. No."
Trapped like this. Forever.
If she was telling the truth, Beauty thought, clinging to the idea. A witch who'd do something like this to an innocent girl was capable of anything. "You're lying."
"Would you like to hear the curse?"
"I already know it," she growled. "'I curse you to be beastly forever, because I'm an insufferable wretch'."
The woman laughed. "The curse is this. 'May your appearance reflect your soul'.” She got to her feet, and then gave her fur-covered cheek a pat. "Goodbye, Beauty. I'll see you again. I assume you'll look the same, if not worse."
Beauty couldn't even find the breath to insult her as she walked away.
She stood there like a cow waiting for the slaughter, mouth open in confusion, and then she fisted her hands in the thick clumps that
made up her hair.
Her. This was her? This thing that she'd only been able to fully look at once?
No.
"No," she hissed. She wouldn't believe that. Couldn't.
She stalked over to the stump where she kept her skinning knife, and yanked it free. The comb was just tangled in that accursed fur at the back of her head. If she cut enough of it away, it'd fall out and she would have a bald spot but that would be fine, just stay out here until it grew back and then she could go home, go back to how things should be, back to her friends and her admirers and her fiancé.
Not the fiancé, a cruel voice in the back of her mind whispered. Remember how he shouted in fear when he saw you? Remember how he told you to get away from him? How the revulsion was written so clearly on his face?
She didn't have to remember. Because it didn't matter. As soon as she was back, as soon as she looked the way she should look, then everything would be fine.
She shaved away chunks of fur, felt for the back of the comb, couldn't find it. She could feel patches of skin at the base of her head now, and let out a growl. This stupid thing couldn't be embedded, could it?
Of course not. She just hadn't cut in the right place, that was--
She yelped as the knife slipped and sliced across her skin. Enraged, she jabbed at the base of the comb; if she could just get to the base then she could pop it out and if she had a scar she didn't care, one scar she could live with, she just wanted out of this but by all that was holy it hurt--
"Enough."
Roughened hands closed around her own, taking the blood-slick knife away before she could even fully comprehend that someone else was out here.
Out here. There was moonlight. He could see her.
She'd startled him, the first time he got a clear glimpse of her through the close-knit trees surrounding the ramshackle cabin she’d claimed as her own. But then, he hadn’t expected to see anything but deer this deep in the forest, and, well . . . it was the sort of sight that would take the unsuspecting aback.
But she hadn't scared him. Yes, there were elements about her that could be very frightening or repulsive. But he’d seen far worse. There were dark places in the woods that even the birds avoided. And there was the palace, a beautiful and delicate confection on the surface, but beneath. . .
Looking at her, what he truly felt was pity. She was an astonishingly single-minded person, and rather than turning her thoughts to the necessities of winter or to her daily tasks-- a negligence that frequently resulted in a smoke-filled cabin, scorched meals, and sliced fingers-- she was constantly fretting about her appearance.
As if there was anyone out here to worry about. Except for him, of course, but she hardly had to worry about him.
He’d been watching her intermittently for over a month, and he’d formed several opinions. The first was that she was remarkably determined. While her stubbornness frequently led her into frustration-- one morning she’d screamed so loudly that every creature for three miles had scattered in fear, and then she had thrown a scorched pot through an open window that very narrowly missed his head-- there was something admirable about it. When she set her mind on something, she was willing to do almost anything to have it.
It was such a shame that the one thing she’d set her mind to now was so impossibly out of her reach.
He knew nothing about who she was, nor how she came to be here. He didn’t even know her name. But he knew a curse when he saw one. And the one on her was especially powerful. There was also something familiar about the magic clinging to her; he almost recognized the fingerprints pressed into the fabric of the spell.
It was quite obvious that she had little previous experience with living off the land. Or with cooking. Cleaning. Mending clothing. Managing any domestic chore. The second opinion he’d formed was that she was a woman of some wealth or social standing, someone raised in a relative amount of luxury with servants or a personal maid.
But fast on the heels of that opinion was the third: that despite her inexperience, she was remarkably good at picking things up through trial and error. She’d lived here for quite some time, judging by the size of the midden and the amount of brush that had been gathered, limbs that had been awkwardly hewn away from the closest trees. His sensitive nose picked up layer upon layer of smoke lingering in the tiny clearing, stretching back several months. Yes, she was constantly boiling pots dry and her dress had become a ragged affair of uneven patches. But she was managing to feed herself. She’d somehow patched a leaking hole in the roof. And she had learned how to properly swing an axe.
Of course, she had a bad temper. He wasn’t sure if it was because she thought herself utterly alone, or if she behaved in a similar fashion before coming to the little glen in the woods, but she was constantly screaming. At her fire, at the frequently blocked chimney, at her dulled knives, at her uncooperative sewing needle, at her matted hair and fur and claws. Her yells echoed through the heart of the woods daily, and when she wasn’t screaming she was muttering to herself in a near constant litany of grievances.
Being alone for so long did strange things to people, he well knew. When he'd first fled into these woods, terrified of being recognized by any of the Queen’s people, he had hidden himself in a similar manner.
There were days when he thought about showing himself to her. Simply stepping out of the trees and walking into the clearing one morning as she stood chopping wood. Perhaps offer her a bit of advice about the best way to grip things like axes and knives when hands were more paw than hand; casually discuss the benefits of having sharper-than-average teeth, and how hair like that was something of a godsend in disguise when the autumn chill began nipping at the eaves.
But he always hesitated. Because it was clear that there was one thing she detested more than her humble living conditions: herself. She cursed herself for clumsiness, for her mistakes, for looking the way that she did. When she came across a still puddle of water, she immediately dashed it into fractured ripples. It was as if it physically pained her to behold even a glimpse of herself.
He could only guess how she would react to another person, but he rather supposed it would involve running away and hiding.
And then she came to visit.
He hadn’t seen her in years, but she never really changed. A bit more white in her hair, an extra wrinkle at the corner of her sometimes kind, often sharp, eyes. She was dressed in her peasant grandmother dress, a shawl draped across her shoulders. It wasn’t a costume. Not really. She came by those clothes honestly enough, and could sincerely call herself a grandmother of humble origins. But she had also worn furs and silks; she had a silver chest full of gold necklaces and ruby rings; even now she lived in a home with every comfort.
Peasant. Soothsayer. Tarot reader. Confidante to royalty. She had so many masks to wear, and the joke was that there was always a grain of truth in every part she played. That was the secret to her power and her magic, and the reason she had outlived any rival. Mother Miriam was honest, and so was her magic. She did not weave falsehoods or cast deceptions-- she wielded fact like a sword with an edge sharp enough to slice midnight. Like a diamond, she was infinitely multifaceted, and everything she reflected was a different aspect of reality.
He had no delusions; he knew that his mother felt his presence. She now knew that he had lingered frequently in this remote, inaccessible hollow in the forest. Nothing remained hidden from her for long; not if she wanted to find it.
But she had not come for him, as he had initially feared. No, she had come to visit the strange woman. To visit, and to taunt. Because now he knew who had cursed this woman in the woods.
Mother Miriam left as quickly as she had appeared, and the woman’s reaction to her visit was nothing short of manic. She dashed to the stump she used as a rough table, where she skinned the rabbits caught in her ramshackle traps. As he watched, only barely hidden amongst the underbrush, she began to hack away at her hair, knife slipping in her clawed hands and slicing
into her skin. Blood pattered against the leaves at her feet, dripping in large splashes down the ragged fabric of her dress.
And that was it.
He had wanted to step out on days when she cried beneath maple trees, when she sweated with heavy armloads of firewood, when she shouted angrily at herself over her own foolishness. But it took her blood staining the forest floor to make him finally move.
“Enough,” he said firmly, pulling the knife from her hands.
One hand pressed to the back of her neck, she scrambled away from the stranger and hurried into her lean-to, putting her back to the wall.
The man moved into the doorway, still holding the knife loosely. She glared at him, secure in the knowledge that he could no longer fully see the ruin of her face. When he didn't say anything, didn't go away, she gritted her snaggled teeth. "Leave."
"How's your neck?"
"It'd be a lot better if you'd let me finish what I was doing. I told you to go." Then a thought struck her, and she felt her face grow warm. "How long were you there?"
"Long enough to know that's a pretty mean curse."
She bit her lip hard, infuriated and embarrassed to find herself near tears. "This isn't me," she said. "She was lying. I'm not like this."
"All right," he said mildly. And what else could she have expected? 'I know'? 'Of course you're not'? What did she care, anyway? It wasn't as if this man mattered at all. Wandering around the woods startling people and poking his nose in where it didn't belong.
He sat down just to the side of the door, so she couldn't see him anymore, and remained bafflingly silent. Beauty crossed her arms, wishing she had at least a little of the witch's power. Not much, just enough to send a tiny zap his way and make him go. And of course, enough to get her real life back.
Eventually, she started to talk. Not for very long-- she managed to restrain herself that much-- but after a year of seeing no one except the woman who'd cursed her to this life, of not speaking to a soul besides herself . . . it was too much to resist. But at least afterwards, when she told him to go, she heard his footsteps moving away from her home.
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