A/N: Violence/gore/character death
Chapter Sixteen
They arrived on the outskirts of the south coastline precisely fifteen minutes before midday. Their caravan, fifty Indians strong including the chief, plus the Lost Boys, Peter and Kaytee, had begun the trek early in the morning. After a break just long enough to drink water and gather their wits, they had finished the last final mile.
Here, they took their stand, hidden still in the shadow of the thick palms. The Indians, at the chief's signal nod, spread out along the treeline, the ten archers awaiting the further nod to ascend into the trees. Tinker Bell, who had shown up ten minutes prior at Peter's whistle, began layering Kaytee and the Lost Boys in pixie dust, just enough brought from the reserves, their stock depleted greatly from the fire.
The sun crept further towards the center of the sky. And as it did, they watched pirates descended from the decrepit Jolly Roger, slouching their way through the choppy waves, swords glinting in the noon light. To the defenders' benefit, the pirates seemed rather scrawny and ill, but what they lacked in strength they made up for in the threatening grimaces sneering on all their gaunt faces. Just out of reach of the water, they stopped, peering up into the jungle, waiting.
Five minutes before the sun was its highest, Peter grabbed Kaytee's hand and in a whisper, begged, "Stay alive."
Her hand gave a gentle squeeze and with a nervous smile, she replied, "You first."
He released her hand and the island grew silent.
The wind, always prominent as a gentle breeze along the coast, suddenly picked up viciously, though it made no sound. Even the waves, now crashing harder than ever, gave barely more than a low rumble. Creeping along the horizon, a gray storm cloud slunk across the sun, throwing the sky into a dreary overcast and a chill into the air. Every hair stood on end as the jungle behind them grew impeccably still.
A murmur of unease washed over both parties alike, glancing into the sky, and behind their shoulders into the jungle. Someone gasped, and eyes swiveled towards Peter. Kaytee frowned and looked at him too, and then stepped back, a sharp breath pulling through her teeth in shock.
Peter's force field of magic had returned a thousand fold. Like so many moons ago, when he had first flown Kaytee here from the mainland, his magic had cocooned them in air and warmth as they traveled through the stars, protecting them from the unforgivable atmosphere of Space. And now, sensing even more the need to protect, his magic radiated off him in great waves. His very skin seemed to glow. The air around him was warm, as if the sun had removed itself from the sky and settled in the center of Peter's chest.
He stepped onto the beach, one foot, then the other, deliberately, like the weight of the entire island balanced precariously on his shoulders.
Peter squinted and found Hook's eyes from the deck of the ship, red as blood. And even though Peter knew the pirate wouldn't hear, he tilted his chin up anyway and said "You've threatened my home for the last time, old man."
Peter raised his arms, palms to the sky, his aura of power widening a few final feet, and said, "Have at thee."
At this declaration, Neverland released her fury.
Birds of prey by the dozens descended onto the beach, screeching, cawing, bursting forth in swift flight. Cries of anguish erupted as great talons made for snatching up fish and tearing flesh found purchase on the pirates' exposed skin, while long beaks prodded at eyes and fingers.
Peter then looked to the Indian chief, who watched on with the passive air of someone no longer surprised by the doings of magic. When they made eye contact, both nodded. The archers ascended into the trees. Peter unsheathed his sword.
They charged.
Some say time slows down in battle, while others say it speeds up. In this case, time only made certain things specific. The gruesome was agonizingly vivid: the slicing of a neck, the feel of a blade piercing through a bone, the sound of a cry getting choked off by blood. The between actions were gone in a flash: running from treeline to coast, leading them back into range of the hidden archers, the flight from beach to deck of the ship. And there, they were in their own world, the four of them: Peter facing Hook, Kaytee facing Jude.
"Clever trick with the birds," Hook commented gruffly as they landed, "I thought we agreed on no tricks."
Peter shrugged, nonchalantly despite the tension radiating from his body, "I have no control over what Neverland does or doesn't do."
Which none of them believed for a second. Jude rolled his eyes and drew his sword. Hook, however, turned to Kaytee, his unnerving red eyes taking in her presence.
"So you're the new Wendy?" He commented dryly, before sweeping into a bow, placing his hook over his heart.
"And you're the half eaten rat the cat dragged in." Replied Kaytee in the same tone, tilting her head to the side, "It must feel odd being the world's only living, breathing, talking vomit."
Hook smiled with a sour twist to his face and looked to Peter, "She's charming."
"Am I to assume we have a date, Kaytee, dear?" Jude sighed, a pleasant smile on his thin face, "I did so cherish our last one. I never got a chance to thank you for reuniting me with the true king of Neverland. Without your help, I don't know how we would've ever gotten to that dreadful excuse of an island."
"Yes," Hook agreed, tilting his head and turning towards the stairs of the captains deck above, "Quite impossible to get around without those pesky winged demons, fairies. How are they anyway? Medium rare? Or I should say well done."
Without waiting for a reply, Hook ascended the staircase and Peter followed, unable to risk a glance back at Kaytee, whose eyes were equally locked on Jude.
When they reached the top, Hook removed his grandly plumed hat and tossed it to the side, along with his coat. It was only then that Peter finally got a good look at the damage that had been inflicted by the great crocodile's stomach.
Most of Hook's long, full black hair was gone. In its place were tuffs of thin sprigs of wiry locks, stuck to the scarred flesh of his scalp. Even his eyebrows were gone. Somehow, his thin goatee remained. Wherever his skin shone was pink and raw, like he'd been burned and the blisters had peeled off, over and over again.
"Ghastly, isn't it?" Hook commented on his own appearance, knowing Peter's eyes were taking it in for the first time, "As skin care routines go, I can't quite recommend stomach acid."
Peter's nose scrunched in disgust, "How did you do it? How could you possibly survive?"
Hook removed a handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish the hook that replaced his hand methodically, absently, a pinched look upon his face, "Of all the discoveries we've made on this godforsaken hunk of land and sea, it was only until I was half eaten that we've found one of the most important ones: The Great Croc's blood was magic after all. Yes, as I hacked away at its stomach with my hook, eventually I tore through, obviously not enough to break through, but enough that its blood flowed upon my searing flesh. And as it touched me, I was... reborn. Healed."
He paused, his red eyes far away, "It could only do so much, though. Every inch of skin the acid ate away, the blood would only heal the surface of. Like burning alive, and never dying. A wax, unable to melt, but simply remain as it burned away."
His eyes refocused on Peter, who tried to remain impassive, "Even you can admit so much suffering was unnecessary."
"You talk of unnecessary suffering and yet you slaughter animals by the scores and burn fairies alive?" Peter replied, his hand aching from how tight he gripped his sword, and he flexed his fingers.
"As my flesh burned away, so did any morsel of compassion left in me. You'll forgive me if I seek a bit of retribution." Hook, bowed at the waist, "It is what we're here for, is it not?"
"I never thought you to have any compassion," Was Peter's only reply.
Hook observed him for a moment more and drew his sword, slowly, with ease, watching the blade as it retreated from its sheath, "Tell me about her, Pan. This new Wendy."
Peter's jaw flexed, and though he didn't have to, he found himself replying, "Her name is Kaytee... and she is everything."
"Ah, so this one fulfills you in ways the other didn't." Hook chuckled lowly, swinging his sword low and stepping to the left, "I do wonder, though, whatever happened to the dear Red Handed Jill."
"She's dead." Said Peter finally, with no hesitation, "I checked."
And he had. Every year, and then every month and every week when it got close. He had to. He had to know the precise moment she ceased from existence before he could move on with his own.
"Oh?" Hook paused, a bald brow cocking.
"Surrounded by her children, and her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren." Peter confirmed with a detached voice, matching the step Hook had taken, his heart thrumming loud in his ears, the wind whipping around them. "Now, are you quite done enjoying the sound of your own voice? It's too bad the croc hadn't digested that part of you."
Hook took another calculated step and wrinkled his malformed upper lip, "You may be a few inches taller, Pan, and your voice may be a little lower, but you're still just a child inside." He hissed, taking two more steps, "And soon, this new one, this Kaytee, will realize that and she'll leave you, just like the last one, and like the next one to follow after her and the one after that."
"Maybe if you lived after today," Peter sighed, swinging around his sword nonchalantly, "you'd get tired of being wrong."
"And maybe you'd get tired of being doubtful." Hook said softly, almost a whisper, his red eyes grave and full of malice.
And this brought Peter up short. Because hadn't he truly been full of doubt? Hadn't he been waiting for Kaytee to realize, just as Wendy had, that he was unworthy?
She's leaving you, Pan, Hook's words from before rang in his mind, you're precious Wendy is leaving you... But then just as clear was Kaytee's voice whispered, my role is beside you, now and forever.
Peter squared his shoulders and smiled, "That won't work this time, Old Man."
Hook merely smiled and lifted his weapon, "Then let's see what will."
This fight was different than any they'd had in the past. For then, it had been Hook, an average pirate with only slightly above average skill, fighting a magical boy with certainly above average skill. So this time, with evenly matched foes, it was different.
Peter, though stronger and bigger, was slower and out of practice to fight against a skilled opponent. And Hook, though decrepit and out of shape, had Crocodile Blood roaring through his veins, giving him an almost inhuman strength that let him hold his own against Peter. They fought. They taunted. Peter received a deep gash on his left forearm, while Hook hobbled on a leg slashed across the hamstring.
But Hook grew weak. And Peter, still with the essence of youth thrumming in his veins, could feel the approach of the end.
It was almost melancholy. The knowledge that it was nearly over, the reign of Hook versus Pan was coming to a close, like finishing a good book. The pages had thinned; the plot holes closed. Finally, they would rest.
And so, when Hook's sword clattered to the side and he fell to his knees, his back facing the lower deck of the ship, Peter paused, the tip of his sword to the neck of his foe. For a moment, they regarded each other, both panting, both realizing the finality of the moment, both remembering the whispers of their friendship, destroyed so many centuries ago. How many years of this world had they seen together? How many suns, how many moons? And yet their story ended always the same.
"Don't you see, Peter?" Hook whispered, blood splattering his lower lip from a backhanded clip Peter had landed, "Don't you see? It was always supposed to end this way."
"What do you mean?" Peter replied softly. The silence around them was deafening. Hook smiled a tired, resigned stretch of skin.
"Her. It was always about her," Hook breathed, closing his eyes, shoulders relaxing, hands still at his sides, "Kaytee... the one who is everything."
Without further explanation, Peter drew back his arm, and landed the fatal blow. He felt the skin part, felt the tissue and sinew peel away from each other, and finally, the crunch of vertebrae separating from its brother, the neck severing from the body. Hook's head rolled once, twice, and then settled in the shadows, eyes still closed, the face frozen in a picture of serenity.
Peter gasped and stumbled back as Hook's body fell forward and spilled onto the deck. The magnitude of what he had done resonated deep within his soul, the taking of a life so intensely against his instinct to protect it. He stumbled forward, past the body, his hands grasping onto the railing of the deck overlooking the main floor below. It took him a second to gather his wits. And as he gathered them, Hook's voice, as it seemed to always do, echoed in Peter's head, don't you see, Pan? It was always about her...
It was always about her.
The trap. The plan. The true death of Peter Pan.
And then he heard it: a small gasp.
He knew this gasp. He'd heard it many times from sneaking up behind her or surprising her with a jump scare or with finding that certain spot inside her body during the late hours of the night. The gasp was committed to his memory, like the smell of her hair or the feel of her skin. But this time it was different. It was the prologue to the end of a life. The third act, the final score.
Don't you see, Peter? It was always about her.
Their eyes met as she collapsed onto her knees, her shirt pooling with blood. The corners of her pink, trembling mouth oozed red.
"Kaytee," he whispered her name at the same time she mouthed his, the blood leaving her cheeks and draining down her chin, the honeyed tone of her skin turning to ash.
And as she fell, he knew her heart had stopped, just as sure as he always knew when the sun had risen in the morning. She was dead.
Don't you see, Peter? Whispered Hook's voice, It was always about her.