Faerietale

by Stephanie Rabig

  They parried and feinted across the deck, jumping over prone bodies and ignoring those stirring and re-arming around them. Wendy followed them silently, ducking under loose rigging and slipping around the scattered crates and bags.

  Scheherazade, all I ask is for a chance. Just give me one chance to stop this, to save the man I’ve already lost once, Wendy prayed desperately. I can’t have this on my conscience, too. I can’t watch him die because of me.

  Peter lunged forward; Hook caught his dagger in the basket of his sword and twisted upwards. But even as the blade was ripped from the boy’s grasp, he adjusted his footing and kicked out sharply, catching the pirate captain square in the chest. Hook was flung backwards against the mast, his head striking the wood with a sickening crack. He slid to the deck silently, unconscious and slack. Wendy bit her lip through and tasted blood.

  And Peter laughed. A harsh, ugly laugh. He caught the falling dagger with effortless ease and grace, spun like a top to the applause and cheering hoots of his Boys, and sketched a flamboyant bow.

  “What say you, me hearties?” Peter crowed. “Shall I stick him in the gullet? Slice off his head and stick it on a pole? Chop off his other hand for the jolly ol’ croc? Or maybe I’ll cut out his heart and send it to his Queen? I hear she collects hearts.”

  The Boys roared their approval, stamping their feet and shaking their swords.

  Peter grinned, snatched up Hook’s fallen hat, and clamped it on his head.

  “Long live Captain Pan!” the Boys shouted. “Three cheers for Captain Pan!”

  “And death to old tyrants!” Peter cried, holding his dagger aloft. “Death! Death!”

  The Boys picked up the chant as Peter bent and grabbed the pirate’s vest. He lifted his dagger, aimed for the heart—

  And froze as another dagger pressed against his throat, sharp edge pricking a red line across his skin. The hat was knocked off and a hand gripped his hair, fingers pulling mercilessly until his neck was an exposed curve.

  “Drop your knife, Peter Pan,” Wendy whispered in his ear. “Drop it now or I slit your throat.”

  The blade clattered against the wooden boards. Silence wrapped around the tableau as every pair of eyes fixed on them.

  “All you ever do is take,” Wendy said, blade still pressed painfully close. “You’re the greediest boy who ever lived. And a part of me still pities you. But mostly I hate you.”

  At the word he flinched, the venom in the emotion audible.

  “You took everything from me. My home, my parents, my brother. The only man I’ve ever loved, my reason for growing up. My memories. My self. And now you try to destroy my last chance at being happy. Because you truly believe that you’re the most important person in the world. You never think of others, Peter. And I know you’re never going to change. I should kill you right now. Rid the world of your selfishness and cruelty.”

  “Wendy Bird,” he croaked, and she screamed. Screamed with anger and frustration and sorrow, screamed because she would never truly hate this imp of a boy, screamed because she wanted revenge so badly but could not bring herself to cut that soft white throat.

  “Leave, Peter,” she said heavily, when her scream had spent itself and she was left hollowed and aching. “Take the Boys and go home. If you ever come near this ship again, I will kill you.”

  She pulled away her dagger slowly, leaving the shallowest of cuts in its wake. Peter turned to look at her for a single heartbeat, eyes wide and wet. And then he had sprung into the air with a gust of wind, his Boys following his lead, and all that was left was the dead and wounded to care for.

  Wendy sank to her knees, pressed a hand to James’ chest and felt a rush of relief when it rose and fell with breath. He was unconscious but alive, injured but still as whole as he had been. She edged closer, pulled his head into her lap, and brushed back his hair.

  Minutes passed before she noticed the man kneeling beside her. Smee held out a wet handkerchief, a bright purple bruise blooming at his temple. “We can get him to his bunk,” Smee said softly as she arranged the compress. “Is there anything you need?”

  “Yes,” she said faintly. “I left my clothes and a bag on shore by the Lagoon. Could you fetch them for me? I don’t want to leave him.”

  “Of course, miss.” He clambered to his feet. “Right away.”

  “And Smee?”

  He paused and turned back. “Yes?”

  “If the urge to swim seizes you, fight it.”

  ***

  He woke in steps, sluggishly pulling himself from the cloying grasp of sleep.

  First came the soft creaking of the boat, the faint but unmistakable sound of water lapping at the hull, the settling of the waterlogged timbers. Then he felt the faintest of breezes caress his face, smelled the salt in the air, tasted it on his tongue. He shifted slightly, limbs still heavy, and felt the sheets shift beneath him.

  And then another hand slid over his, fingers lacing with his. A soft thumb moved in slow, steady circles. A sigh escaped him.

  “Smee, I hope you’re not getting that lonely,” he mumbled drowsily.

  There was a chuckle, soft and distinctly feminine. He opened his eyes.

  It took a moment for her to come into focus. When she did, he half suspected that he was still asleep.

  “Wendy?” he said.

  The note of disbelief in his voice made her heart twist beneath her ribs. She smiled, and there was a hint of the old Red-Handed Jill to it—but it was more wistful than anything.

  “Hullo, James,” she said, hand tightening around his.

  “Did one of Pan’s Boys spike the rum again?”

  “Quite possibly. But I’m no hallucination.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He swallowed loudly; tried to wet his suddenly dry lips.

  “Do you remember anything from last night?” She was chafing his hand now, as if to rub some warmth into it, and he realized that he was cold, stretched across his bed but uncovered, dressed in simple breeches and a half-opened shirt.

  He blinked and felt a dull ache building at his temples. “Not as much. I’m hoping it was a helluva soirée, but I’ve the suspicion you’re about to tell me otherwise.” He pulled his hand from hers, and it seemed to take much more effort than he’d expected. Every muscle was sore, and he grimaced slightly. But then he was cupping her cheek, fingertips against her ear, and the pain didn’t seem at all important. “But maybe that can wait a moment longer, m’girl.”

  “Aye, sir,” she murmured, smile widening.

  “By all that’s holy and profane, it’s been far too long,” he said, and there was real emotion behind his words. It made her want to cry, though she doubted she could any more.

  “You’ve carried on in my absence, though,” she tried to say in a bracing manner, knowing he’d see straight through her.

  “As half the man I was before,” he replied. “Doubt my heart’s properly beat since you left.”

  “And most would argue a pirate doesn’t have a heart.”

  “You’re hardly most, Jill.”

  She bowed her head and bit back a sob, overcome by everything, ruined by a simple name in his mouth. The name she’d taken, the name he’d given her, the name they’d shared that Peter had had no claim to. Galvanized by her reaction, he pushed himself up, arm pulling her roughly into a crushing hug.

  Her hands dug into the fabric of his shirt, pulling at the seams at the shoulders until they threatened to burst. She pressed her face against his chest and breathed in the scent of him, a mixture of polish and seawater and cloves and sweat. It was a purely masculine scent, and how she’d dreamed of it during the longest and coldest nights-- so many nights, when she had had no idea what it even meant to her.

  “I’ve cost you so much,” she said, pulling away just enough to look into his eyes. “Your hand, your freedom . . . I know how the Queen controls you now.”

  “Small prices I’d gladly pay twice over, to keep you whole and breathing,” he said firmly. “Don’
t you dare think yourself indebted to me, lass. We’re partners, after all. Bosom mates on the high seas. We’ve equal shares of any plunder. That was the agreement, was it not?”

  “I can still be sorry, James.”

  “What if I ordered you to the contrary?”

  “You know I was never much good at following orders.”

  “That’s just because you’ve a strong will and a smart head on your lovely shoulders. You’re not the sort of girl who bows easily. Born to be a captain, not a crewman.”

  “Nor a den mother.”

  “No, not that, either.”

  “I don’t know how much time we have,” she said regretfully. “The reward on my head and . . . and things are in motion now. There’s so much weight behind everything at this point, it would be like trying to stop an avalanche. There are things I have to do.”

  “This’ll be a solitary mission? Requiring more subtlety and subterfuge than I can manage?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Then we best take advantage of the minutes we have left, m’girl.”

  He kissed her, and there was nothing hesitant or sweet about it. It was forceful and hungry; a true pirate’s kiss. His beard rasped her cheeks, but she didn’t care because his tongue was on hers again, and it was as intoxicating and overwhelming as she remembered.

  But she had forgotten. That part of her had been stolen away, buried beneath potions and confusion and fear. Her life in this world, before the Doors, had been locked away in her mind, and to think that she had been on this ship with the White Rabbit, had spoken with Hook-- and she had never remembered what he meant to her. How it must have tortured him, to see her walking and talking like a little wind-up doll, looking through him with blank eyes and hardly a flicker of awareness. It crashed over her like a wave, the sense of how much had been taken from them. How much time they’d been robbed, how they’d been allowed within arm’s reach of each other and yet had not been allowed to touch like this. . .

  She clung to him, hands painfully clenched in his hair. She felt the pressure of his hips against hers and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, overcome by the rush. His hand was at the edge of her skirt, then beneath it, drawing a white-hot line up her leg and across her thigh.

  Wendy gasped, dizzy and euphoric. If only she had known it could be like this, perhaps she wouldn’t have been so hesitant to grow up. But then she never would have followed Peter Pan, never would have found Captain James Hook, and perhaps it would never have felt like this with any other man.

  There was a sudden bang as the door flew open, and she startled violently, nearly throwing them from the bed. She felt the cold metal of his hook against her arm and managed to straighten her skirt before a breathless and flushed Smee stumbled into the room, drew up short abruptly, and threw a hasty salute.

  “Cap’n, sorry for any interruptions, but there’s a messenger from the Queen on deck requirin’ your presence. Sir.”

  “But of course there is. Make sure the lads are in their Sunday best, Mister Smee. Wouldn’t want the Queen’s messenger to think us a disreputable lot of bilge rats, would we?”

  “No, Cap’n. Or is that a yes?”

  Hook sighed and rubbed at one temple. “Get out, Mister Smee, and let the Queen’s man know I’ll be out as soon as I’m decent. Well, decent-ish. And no mention of Red-Handed Jill, either.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You weren’t exaggerating when you said we didn’t have long,” Hook said to Wendy as soon as the door had snapped shut. “I’ll keep the royal lackey busy at the wheel. You’d best sneak out aft. I hope that whatever happened last night, what I’m drawing a tidy blank of, is a story that can hold in the telling.”

  “I’ll send word to you explaining everything,” Wendy said quickly, grabbing up her bag as he pulled on his red coat.

  “Jill?”

  She hesitated at the window, turning back to look at him. In his double-buttoned coat, in that black hat with the massive white feather, he was the most dashing man she’d ever seen.

  “Take care of yourself, girl. And you find a way back to me soon. Lest I come ashore lookin’ for you.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Once Upon a Time...

  Mother Miriam walked silently through the woods, wishing that this could just be a pleasant journey to see her son.

  Not that seeing him would be pleasant, after what she'd done. . .

  What she'd had to do, she reminded herself. She'd Seen what would've happened had he been allowed to stay, had he followed his conscience and spoken of what had been done to Gold-Tree. Seen the riots. Seen Wolfram himself murdered in the midst of battle. Seen her own death, and Cinderella's, and the war that would've broken out while Faerietale tried in vain to recover from such a blow.

  Hearing a low growl, she glanced to the side. The selka that was crouched low, preparing to charge, had matted fur and severely bloodshot eyes. Feral. The animals weren't meat-eaters, were normally placid, but the ones who'd escaped or been turned loose for whatever poor reasons could lose their domesticity, and would see anything in their territory as a threat. Threats were trampled.

  "You stop that right now," she said firmly, motioning downwards with her hand.

  The selka let out a rumbling whine and lay down, watching her pass by.

  She wandered, letting old instinct lead her to a darker part of the forest, a part where the birds no longer sang and even wild selkas feared to roam. And soon enough, she heard laughter.

  It was high-pitched now, almost unfamiliar to her ears. And though she'd long since gotten used to what had happened, her heart still ached at the mistake she'd made.

  He sprang out from behind a tree at her, and if she hadn't realized his position a moment before it might have startled her. As was, she simply arched an eyebrow. "Good day, Hatter."

  "Is it?" he asked. "Might be a good day, might be a better day if you brought me something. You bring me anything?"

  "I did indeed. Don't I always?" she asked, handing over the basket she carried. His entire face lit up at the sight of the sweets in the basket and he sat down then and there, digging in.

  Arranging her skirts comfortably around her, Mother Miriam sat down across from him. "Are you well?"

  "Always well. Other people you should be asking. They aren't always well."

  "Not when you're around, anyway, hm?"

  He glanced up at her, grinning around a mouthful of cookie, and though it should have looked ridiculous the look in his eyes made it frightening.

  "I'm sorry I haven't been out to visit you more often," Mother Miriam said. "I've been quite busy these last decades."

  "Know it. Dress pretty now. Still not that pretty inside, are you?" he asked, still grinning.

  "No, I'm not," she said flatly. "You've wanted for company, haven't you?"

  "Me? No. Never want for company. Want for company that likes me. They start cursing me after the first cut or two."

  She nodded. She should've realized where this was going after the first couple of rabbits she'd found, dissected far past what would be needed to take out meat for a meal. But she'd told herself it was just the years getting to him, the years and the aftereffects of the spell, and he would get past it in time.

  Instead it had gotten worse. And, busy with Cinderella and with her children and grandchild, she hadn't noticed. The rumors had started, and she'd heard them, but had foolishly chalked many of them up to forest stories.

  "Is Rapunzel ever your company?"

  He shook his head. "No. I want her to be, though. Pretty. Very, very pretty. Like Sleeping Beauty. Like you were."

  Mother Miriam glanced away for a brief instant, but didn't allow herself the luxury of closing her eyes. Around the Hatter, that could be fatal. "So you remember."

  He nodded, taking another bite of a small cake. "Remember you were pretty, Marian."

  And she had been. Her beauty had put even Snow White's to shame, back so long
ago when she had been young. She could have had anyone's hand. But her heart had been taken by a laughing, devil-may-care ruffian out in the woods who'd made it his mission in life to be a thorn in the King's side.

  She had joined him in the forest, had loved it there. Had met others there, who had taught her their magic. She'd combined it with the magic her own mother had taught her, grew powerful enough that even the King had grown to fear her. And she had learned of a way to remain always alive.

  Her love had wanted the potions, too. Had acted in his impulsive unthinking way and drank most of both of them before she could tell him to wait and leave half for her, getting a good part of the immortality and almost all of the part that would keep them young. She'd taken the rest, and then had kissed him, forgiving him quickly for his mistake because even if they aged at slightly different rates they would always be together, be around to see the world change.

  But she had been ready for that. Been strong enough for it. He hadn't been.

  Though he looked to be only in his fourth decade, his dark eyes were ancient. Decades after Scheherazade had enabled them to leave their first realm and come to this one, after his new friends had died, after the first King had been replaced by another King who had been replaced by a Queen and then another King, something in him had snapped. She'd found him in their home, clutching the dark green hat he'd once worn when they'd been young and crying so hard he hadn't been able to catch his breath.

  The next morning he'd been gone.

  She had searched for him and finally found him again, living out in the forest once more, wearing a different hat now, laughing constantly in a way that broke her heart even worse than his crying had done.

  She had tried to speak to him, tried to call him by name, but he had denied the words. Didn't even seem to recognize her. And finally she had moved on, leaving him to his odd sanctuary.

  But now things had gotten unimaginably worse. And if there had been anything of her old love in the man who'd so grievously hurt Sleeping Beauty, the Faeries' curse had surely dismantled it.