Disclaimer: I do not own Peter Pan, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to J.M. Barrie. Also, parts mentioned from the 2003 P.J. Hogan film belong to Universal Studios and their respected owners. As for original characters and the plot itself, that does belong to me. Please do not use such without permission.

Summary: It is said that, if a bride falls the day before she is married, then she will die within a year. But Wendy is already haunted, when a ghost from her childhood refuses to let the past lie buried. A very dark Hook/Wendy.

A Haunting Reflection

Chapter Five

Part One

If Wendy had a halfpenny for every second she'd spent simply breathing, she'd be a very rich young woman indeed. For it was this simple action in and of itself, perhaps, that condemned her ultimately. As living, it seemed, was what she knew best, even if such had been only a tenth of what everyone one else in London—if not in every known corner of the world—did. It was the natural thing to do, of course. Living. Breathing. Laughing. Flying. Growing up. Dreaming. Dying.

She gave pause in that long precession of thought, particularly the last in line, and silently shook her head.

The lattermost had been almost as foreign to her as the Neverland itself, with its exotic dark fruits and lavish white sands, had once been.

But no more.

To her regret, she had become quite acquainted with the concept—intimately so—as the past week seemed like an eternity, each nightmarish day bleeding into the next until time itself had come to a standstill with only moments of a fitful night's rest to count it. Even the taste of tea and cake had become nothing but a bitter aftertaste in her mouth; bland and stale and insipid in her remembrance of what had simply been a tasteful pleasure only a week before. Everything now tasted of dust and ash, a funeral pyre's assortment of confectionary delights, for those who traversed along the edge of death and dreams. She instinctively worried the bottom half of her lip between her teeth as she contemplated both, no longer able to differentiate between the two.

A tired sigh escaped from her, and she leaned her solemn brow against her bedroom window in silent resignation. She had committed herself to the same routine in as many days, almost beginning to fear that such was becoming a customary habit. And yet, in spite of her lingering self-imposed censure, she still looked beyond the casement, not really seeing anything, save for her own disillusionment, since the sun would not remain in the sky forever. Night would soon descend, along with the nightmare as it returned in full.

He'd tormented her for a week, with his constant persistence in reminding her of his presence. The reality of it had become a harrowing truth indeed, and she almost cursed her ill-begotten luck in telling him stories, knowing well enough that her aptitude was the cause for rousing a spirit, long believed dead and buried in a watery grave. It was a most sobering thought. For now he had returned, demanding of her more and more as she appeased him with long, annotated recollections of her life—tedious moments, which she thought precious little of—as she, surprisingly, regaled him with more than tales of pirates and flying boys who never had head for time.

She'd grown tired of her nightly ritual; although she had to admit, if only half-heartedly, that those filmy forget-me-not eyes had been as entrancing to her all the same. For with every word she spoke, he firmly insisted that another follow until the morning came and he found himself obliged to part company with her—at least until the following evening, when the process repeated itself.

Wendy had not slept in days as a result, the phantom caresses on her cheek that she felt at times, as well as the latent kisses he'd stolen from her when she was sometimes in the middle of one of her accounts, had drawn heavily upon her conscience, conflicting it, as she felt the simple, yet shocking, gestures too convoluted to be mere appreciation for her endeavours by an insightful Captain Hook. His very manner confused her, her resolve in tatters when he left her, always with a parting kiss on her cheek or forehead and a promise to return when the sun eclipsed the starry, rosy lavender sky at dawn; and, as always, she found herself unwillingly returning the gesture, if only to appease him.

Or so she would have herself to believe.

In dreams, she could do almost anything, and not be held accountable for her actions. The church would accept that, just as those who attended and had a committed view of the same faith, would also feel the same. Wendy had little doubt that some of those in question had far more provocative dreams, compared to her simply appeasing an overly possessive, dead pirate captain.

Having a clear conscience amidst an acquaintance as one as corrupt and moribund as the Captain was almost impossible to retain, as she felt her youth and innocence slowly slipping away. She looked begrudgingly at the street below. Things had indeed been so much simpler when she was younger. Shamefully so. And she found herself longing to return to relive those carefree moments of childhood innocence, if only for a short while.

Growing up had been difficult, though it hadn't been as terrible as she'd once expected it to be. She had to leave the Neverland behind, yes, as flying had become quite difficult for her, and Peter—dear, loving, ever-forgetful Peter—had stopped coming for spring-cleaning time long ago. She shook her head, thinking of his freckled, smiling face and those tumbled golden locks of hair which framed a forever youthful face that defined everything that had been her childhood, and her heart ached for it—even more so than it did for the boy himself, since her heart had reluctantly moved on from such childish hopes.

She had to, after all, for what she felt in his kiss…

Wendy closed her eyes, unable to countenance the enormity of what it was she actually felt. She couldn't even begin to define the sensation when she had felt his mouth—not Peter's, although a part of her, the part that desired the safety her childhood hero provided her, and not the man who offered her nothing but uncertainty—as it would close in around hers, claiming it in full, no matter her many futile attempts in reasoning with her other, more conflicted half. She often found herself setting the whole affair of kissing the Captain aside, closing it in the darkest corner of her mind, to be momentarily forgotten until being jolted again by its everlasting presence.

After all, it had been a moment of weakness, and was one she vowed never to repeat. Her eyes opened in secret determination, though were no less weary from exhaustion. She looked forlornly at her reflection in the window, twin dark half-moons enhancing her natural pallor underneath her midnight eyes. She grimaced at the sight. Her Aunt Millicent would be horrified, if not appalled. For Wendy, who never really cared so terribly much for her appearance, looked as one in a moving picture: of that of a static caricature whose sorrows could never be heard or expressed, forever caught on sepia-toned celluloid without an audience to know her true, inner turmoil. She was but another tragic, pretty face on a photograph, a facsimile of her real self and nothing more.

She looked away from the window and the cold world beyond it. Her maudlin state was getting the better of her, as she found herself once again waxing poetic about her plight.

It was not to be borne.

She refused to let her distress get the better of her—utterly refused to let him control her every waking thought. She would not forfeit her life and end up as he, not since she now understood exactly what hell must be for those severed from the precious cord that had once tethered their tenure on this mortal plane. She understood the implications of such perfectly, having lived in it for over a week now with no respite. A living hell was putting her present condition mildly. For what she felt—was forced to feel—had been nothing short of a torment from which even those of the Inquisition could scarce fathom in their torturous designs. She half-wondered if hell itself was as forthcoming with the torment she'd endured living, and was almost inclined to believe that it was paradise compared to what she'd put up with.

Her placid expression darkened severely at the thought.

Yes, living was what she did, what was expected of her. And yet, the knowledge of being the only thing that kept a barrier between her and a realm she had no wish to visit, let alone one day inhabit, pressed heavily upon her conscience with the tolling of each new hour. She had little doubt that he would come tonight, with his poisonous presence. When the sun ended its reign over London's grey skies, she would be forced to oblige the shadow that pervaded her every waking dream and nightmare with phantom touches and haunting looks from those hollow, dead eyes.

Wendy suppressed a shudder, refusing to recoil in revulsion. No, she would not think of that again. Or the other times he'd tried to…

She muttered an unladylike oath—something, she was sure, he'd imparted on her good nature—as she thought dark things she had no business thinking. She only became penitent after one particular thought, which consisted of a timely pocket watch and an iron maiden, shaped into that of a grinning crocodile.

Yes, dark thoughts had inundated her mind tonight, tempting her greatly to say something she would surely later come to regret, her personal sanctity notwithstanding; for either way she looked at it, she was condemned. She almost laughed at her dilemma and recalled an old adage she'd learned in one of her classes.

Damned if you do, damned it you don't.

Damned beyond all measure in her case, certainly.

She'd no hope of redemption, either. Not that she minded, of course—not now, when her last venue of it lay in the hope of what she did tonight. She tried not to think of it, lest he sense her secret intent that she'd luckily kept hidden from him. For in her days apart from him, she'd sought out every text and account that even hinted at a resemblance of her problem. And she'd found more than her share of stories, of ways to prevent unwanted spirits from tormenting the living. Though more importantly, as was in her case, ways in getting rid of the aforementioned interloper. As all her answers, consequently, had lain in the one place he'd barred her from visiting.

It almost embarrassed her to admit that she should have known his reasons in keeping her from attending church—something, she was sure, he rarely frequented even when alive—as his ultimate destruction lay within. She almost smiled at the salvation that awaited her. Almost. For it was a smile tinged with remorse.

But it had to be done, she reminded herself. If she were to regain even a semblance of her life, sending a impulsive shade like Captain James Hook—no matter how charming and oddly pleasant he was to her at times—back from whence he came was her only option in finally being free of him, since it seemed that only God Himself could grant her that kind of freedom, and she would do everything in her power to attain it, even forgoing her mother's dinner party—for today was Thursday, after all—and instead choosing in seeking out the company of the divine.

It was a noble course of action, certainly; and was one, although considered strikingly odd, from even Mrs. Darling's perspective, that emphasised just how much of a lady Wendy Darling had actually become. She had yet to seek her parents' permission, of course, but doubted they would deny her; she was the whole of seventeen now, after all, and who would ever deny her seeking out the company of the world's most benevolent Lord and Saviour? No God-fearing person, that much, as Wendy was assured, was a certainty.

And so she waited, watching as the sun set, as its brilliant autumn oranges and pinks faded into a plethora of darker blues and tantalising violets. Beautiful shades that would've inspired even the most resolute of artists to paint, save only for Wendy, whose words could never frame such in a literary masterpiece, the very sight of it leaving her with breathless unease. The coming night's cold chilled her to the bone. She breathed out in unsteady, quick, short breaths before holding one inside. And then another. One. Two. Three. And then a sigh followed with the closing of her tired eyes. It was time. He was coming. She could feel the very darkness of his presence as it permeated the room before consuming the mirror.

Wendy Darling...

She plastered on a fake smile—one, she knew, he would doubtlessly believe—as she opened her eyes and turned to the waiting occupant who greeted her instead of her reflection. "Captain," she said, almost breathlessly, "what a pleasant surprise! I almost believed you wouldn't come."

Hook regarded her greeting with a hint of scepticism, but grinned all the same, a horrid sight, which Wendy forced herself not to flinch away from. Indeed, Miss Darling, he drawled out, the very epitome of polite conversation. I'm almost injured that you should expect any less from me; for after all, have I not been of good company to thee, dear girl, in these last few evenings? I daresay I've missed thy company greatly today. He then propped himself up against the mirror's frame, his decomposing expression exuding a touch of genuine concern. You're shivering, my beauty. The air is become increasingly cold, has it not? He shook his head; a most curious gesture deriving from a pirate, although Wendy felt herself drawn to him all the same.

The Captain, however, appeared oblivious to her wonder of him, as he continued on in a thoughtful manner. London has always had such a disreputable reputation for that sort of inconvenience, not taking into account of how frail those of thy sex are. I do hope you're dressing smartly—none of those flimsy nightgowns, I trust? I couldn't stand for it, if you were to fall ill over such a womanly frivolous thing as fashion. I'd be of little help in treating thee, confined as I am in thy looking glass.

Wendy bristled at the subtlety in his suggestion. I will not free you, she thought distractedly, since his words, which had at first pricked at her more feminine sensibilities—questioning her good judgment dressing herself, of all things! How dare he?—had been rekindled by his admission of being unable to help her, should she need his aid physically. His confession had almost touched her in a way. Though not enough to free him, she decided ultimately. As such, she decided upon another course of action, and changed the subject entirely.

"You know, Captain, I once heard my mother speak of a girl who had a fondness for looking glasses. Indeed, she apparently found an entire world beyond one once," Wendy broke in, thinking of a vague, childhood remembrance on the spot.

The Captain gave her a questioning glance. Did she indeed? he returned dubiously, arching a taunting black eyebrow. Then pray tell, Miss Darling, what kind of world was it this curious girl of circumstance found?

The Storyteller flushed. "Now you are teasing me, Captain."

On the contrary, he countered. I'm practically on tenterhooks here. Dost not see that I am barely suppressing my interest?

Wendy hesitated, a look of reluctance overcoming her present disquiet. "It's more a fairy story than anything, since there really isn't any proof that such a world exists under beyond that which is reflected in a mirror, or in a hole in the ground. Unless, you believe in Jules Verne's account of such," she drolly remarked with a faint smile.

Hook, however, remained unimpressed. I wouldn't know of this Verne fellow, he returned indifferently. But then, I begin to wonder about your incredulous view of this other world—beyond a looking glass or underground as you claim it is—since I recall that you were once so open to other worlds beyond that of dismal old London. What of the Neverland? Dost no longer believe in it or in the inhabitants therein? He did not dare mention the other inhabitants by name—or rather, one particular inhabitant—as Wendy noticed his firm reluctance in speaking of Peter, something of which she would not bring up if she could help it.

"You must forgive me for my scepticism," she instead answered. "Perhaps my growing up has done something to do with my particular way of thinking. But be rest assured, Captain: I still believe in the Neverland, even if my own faculties prevent me from returning there."

The Captain arched a curious eyebrow at this particular revelation. And what prevents you from returning? he enquired, no longer indifferent. I can't understand what would hold thee back now.

"I cannot fly," she answered simply, while the statement itself struck her as painfully real for the first time. "I'm afraid I've forgotten how."

Hazy forget-me-nots met hers, although no sympathy dwelled within their vacant depths. He expressed nothing regarding her plight: no kind reassurance, no remorse, nothing, save for that blank, penetrating stare. It unsettled Wendy to her very core. For here he was, wholly without feeling, vacuous, dark, and enticing. It took everything within her not to turn away from that penetrating sight, lest she found herself drowning in that unsettling gaze. A man of feeling. She had once deemed him as being such, but no more.

There was nothing about Hook that defined him as one who had feelings or any emotions, save for the cold, impotent need for revenge that he so obviously possessed for everything and everyone whom he believed had ever wrong him, particularly toward Wendy herself. There was no genuine concern or interest in her; what he expressed was merely an illusion, a façade, like the dangerous creature she'd encountered in her dreams—a distorted reflection of herself. Wendy inwardly broke underneath the comparison, yet the faux smile remained on her lovely face.

He must be taken care of—now—before she took her leave for a week to stay with Aunt Millicent. He could not accompany her to her aunt's home in Essex, since she greatly doubted that her aunt would be open to a man—albeit one no longer considered part of this world—taking up residence in one of her spare rooms. Even if it is in a mirror, and he is ever the gentleman in turning away when I undress, she considered quietly, completely lost in thought as the Captain regarded her warily.

Ah, what is going on in that lovely mind of thine, my beauty? he enquired, breaking her out of her thoughts. It appears that thy mind is spirited away by some wild fancy. You haven't had a fairy to steal it away from thee? I daresay I would have a more difficult task in retrieving it than I had in saving thee from that monstrous crocodile. He gave her a conspiring wink, those sea-bound eyes glittering brightly in spite of their dullness.

Wendy had the grace to blush. "My mind is still my own, Captain, I assure you. I'd never allow a fairy to meddle with it, especially not one as mischievous and vindictive as Tinker Bell." She made a face. "That fairy had it out for the entire time," she said openly, remembering her first visit to the Neverland. "She certainly made for certain that I was given a proper welcome by the Lost Boys."

Hook frowned at her suggestion of proper. What did she do to thee? he pressed, the bones around his decaying jaw visibly tensing. Tell me, child, for it was far from proper, if I know anything about the pernicious fairy involved.

She bit the lower half of her lip, and looked down at her lap. She'd said too much. Like always in the Captain's presence, she'd spoke too freely with her words when she should very well be sending him back to oblivion. "It's really nothing of consequence," she confessed. "Believing me some kind of bird, A Wendy bird, the boys shot me with an arrow, thinking it would impress Peter."

They shot you? Hook roared, practically rising from his place in the mirror. Those damned followers of Pan. How could they mistake thee for some sort of bird? He muttered a few positively nasty things about her adopted brothers and Peter, promising sweet revenge in their worst nightmares the moment they fell asleep, and far worse if he were to find that wretched fairy.

The Storyteller's dark eyes widened at the display, as he paced about like a caged tiger in the mirror, those torn, crimson folds which enveloped him making him forever bathed in the colour of scarlet. It was a most horrifying sight to countenance; and, for a moment, Wendy could not believe the change in his once-confident demeanour, for the Captain now looked positively terrifying at the sight of her, sitting both placidly and alive before him. Wendy almost feared that he would come through the mirror, summoned or not, if she failed to reassure him of her continued welfare—a possibility she had no wish to even consider.

"I am fine, Captain," she found herself say, though her voice was hollow, strangely no longer her own. "It was simply an honest mistake on the boys' parts, since Tinker Bell deceived them, and I was, really, still so far away in their sights before they recognised what it was they'd shot, and they felt terribly after realising their mistake."

The Captain did not look in the least comforted, though he, if for a small fraction, gave way to her gentle placation. Still, he ground out, they harmed thee. Ignorance or not, they could have killed thee with one fatal stroke, and thou wouldst be on this side…with me. But then, I now begin to wonder if such would be a terrible thing. He placed a pensive hand against his side of the mirror, as if trying to touch the side where her face rested.

Wendy inwardly shuddered at the attempt, as well as his suggestion, but held her ground. "I am fine," she reiterated firmly, though perhaps more for her own sense of security. "In fact, I've never felt better, Captain."

Though, that was only partly true.

If she were to be perfectly honest with the Captain, she felt as if the weight of the world was on her narrow shoulders, crushing her beyond the fragmented myth of Atlas. She almost laughed at the irony, half-wondering what Rodin himself would think if he were to carve her in such a position, those hands insightful hands carving out a beaten, broken-down subject whose sins far outweighed his pensive masterpiece of a man forever trapped in thought. He would probably fail upon the initial stroke of his hammer, and what a pity that would be, too, for Wendy would love to be immortalized in sightless stone. At least then she would be given no cause to court a looking glass. But, alas…The only stone she would have for a memorial would be that of her own tomb.

And so, she gave her mouldering companion another fabricated smile and told him the story of Alice and her Wonderland until she was sure she had convinced him of her sincerity and interest in him entirely.

She kept up the façade for another hour, drawing him into an alluring spell as she lured him into a tangled web of adventures that befell a girl who ventured down a rabbit hole and beyond a stately looking glass. She vaguely heard the distant toll of Big Ben, as it struck the hour of six. She paused in her story, if only for a moment, and glanced at the darkening sky. She was running out of time.

Hook seemed to notice this, his genuine interest suddenly shifting into suspicion. What is the matter, my beauty? he questioned. Why didst thou stop so abruptly?

Wendy hesitated. "It's nothing, Captain, truly," she quickly reassured him. "It's simply the fact that I just realised how late the hour is, and that I, in being so caught up in helping Mother with the house today, since she now entertains on the third Thursday of every month, that I have yet to…ah…use the necessary, in preparing myself for tomorrow. I am awfully dirty after cleaning out the ash pit." She raised her hands in emphasis, where indeed her hands, though mainly extenuating a delicate pallor, nevertheless revealed a thin layer of soot upon their delicate lengths.

The Captain instantly regained his interest, albeit appearing visibly taken aback by her admission. I understand thee and thy personal need implicitly, he said, drawing himself from his seated position in the mirror. He gave her a mocking bow, grinning as he did so. Go then, dear girl. Far be it that I prevent a young lady from her daily ablutions. After all, we cannot have thee going about in a state less than what is considered by thy company as pure and clean.

She inclined her head in agreement, although she secretly shuddered at the way he spoke of her purity and cleanliness. "I must thank you for your understanding," she returned coolly, neutrally, and made to stand, her full height still unable to eclipse his domineering frame. "Until I return?" she posed, a dark eyebrow rising in faux expectation.

She received a grin that promised anything but his gentlemanly concern for her well-being in returning to him. I shall look forward to thy return.

"Indeed, Captain," she said, mirroring that deceptively alluring smile, a silent promise that Alice and her misadventures through a slanted looking glass would be the last story he would ever hear from her.

…

Leaving promptly from her home, lest her audience upstairs should sense something amiss, Wendy had only the care to quietly inform her mother in a hushed whisper that she would be out, even though Mrs. Darling did everything in her power to dissuade her from leaving home at so late an hour, and even went so far as to keep her in the company of her lady friends. "A good friend of mine from my old school will be here soon," she had said, gazing worriedly at the darkening sky outside the parlour window. "I should like for you to meet her, Wendy, since she is a well-travelled lady and is also quite an accomplished…writer."

But Wendy would not be persuaded against putting off "her little errand," as she called it, until another day when one of her brothers could escort her to her destination safely, no matter her private interest in meeting another of her own sex who had accomplished what her Aunt Millicent deemed impossible. "I shall meet her when I return. I shan't be long, Mother," she'd promised, taking care not to be caught in the foyer's mirror as she put on her wool coat and left. She barely noticed her mother's worried expression as she avoided every surface that might cast her reflection.

Though, had she taken true care, she would've had the foresight to have at least covered the bathroom mirror as the presence within her room patiently awaited—or was as patiently as an otherwise impatient ghostly apparition of a pirate captain could be—her return from a most intimate place where one of good form dared not venture.

Wendy's present concern, however, rested not with her beloved home, but before her, as St. George's massive stone edifice came into sight. She dodged a throng of passers-by, wiry street urchins, carriages, her gait shifting into that of a quickened pace as she dodged every wet and muddy obstacle until reaching her destination, almost bereft of breath. Paying little heed to those in passing as she opened the massive doors in an almost solemn show of reverence before entering, she barely noticed the doors close behind her with a deafening slam, her gaze fixed upon the heart of the church, where row after row of vacant seats paralleled the massive emptiness that complimented the void within her own, conflicted self. She almost quaked at the depth of something too profound to describe growing inside of her, but remained guarded amidst her own uncertainties, determined to bring a close to the perverse relationship she had with the demonic entity that dwelled within her mirror. Her countenance darkened in spite of its ivory radiance. One way or another, she was going to exercise that bastard from her endless nightmares, and reclaim her life. One way or another…

Taking a seat, she sat amidst the soft candlelight that a score of candelabras emitted amongst the quietude of the church. Wendy closed her eyes as the silence overtook her, both in spirit and in body, her mind torn between the grave reverence of a power, even greater than she—and the indelicate whispers and caresses that surely awaited her when she returned home. For having the Captain—no, she dare not consider his name, for fear that a simple recollection of it might summon him into this hallow abode; or, at the very least, alert him of her presence here—as he, dear God, had undone everything she'd ever known, her very grasp on the world around her crumbling away into something too macabre and sinister to even consider, much less comprehend. For she knew, deep within herself, that it was wrong to feel what she felt for him, to lust after the dead. And lust, she had, to the point where she imagined things, deep within her own subconscious, which must never be shown the light of day, lest she lose herself and her innocence completely. For it was a thing of golden legend, a fruit that must never be plucked, let alone savoured.

And so, in the hallowed sanctity of the One who could absolve every taint that the monster had visited upon her, Wendy made out a silent plea, unable to do little else as she prayed and begged and silently cried out for the bleeding in her heart to stop. She sat there, her head inclined at an off angle, those sorrowful eyes closed, her wild dark hair eclipsing half of her face in a shadowy veil of repentance. Weeping Jeremiah, clad perpetually in his sackcloth robes, would have almost pitied the sight as Wendy was very near the breaking point.

For how could she go through with this? Was this not what she wanted, what she needed to do, in order to rid herself of him forever, whilst saving her very soul in the process? But then, perhaps he had tainted her. As poisoning as his presence was, she could not deny that she, against her own, better judgment, enjoyed it. He was both maddening and sensational by turns, almost like laudanum, the very taste of what he promised her from those decayed, devious lips saccharine-sweet and addictive to the last, fatal drop. It was a most delectable poison. And was one, she belatedly realised, that would make the angels burn with shame. The fires of hell could not burn so bright, compared to the fire he inspired within her. For burn she did, and a part of her—that darkly foreign and most unknown part of herself—revelled in it.

God help her, but she'd given part of herself to one who, she was sure, was the devil incarnate.

She muttered a prayer she'd known since childhood, a mindless litany with a meaning she now barely comprehended in her adult years, her closed eyes brimming with unshed tears. Would God Himself take mercy upon her, and save the tattered strands of what remained of her sanity? She could only hope for such an impossible expression of leniency from One so perfect.

And yet, as she cast herself before such indomitable mercy, someone—albeit not a heavily apparition, by any means—came, touching her shoulder in a tender show of concern. Upon feeling the sensation and the presence of another, Wendy shifted upward, her dark eyes meeting a pair of kind green. A shadow of a smile softened her drawn features as she took in the sight of a young man, maybe a few years older than she.

It took her a moment to realize where she was and why she was there in the first place as she made to compose herself. "My apologies, sir, I—I didn't mean to cause a scene," she murmured, stumbling over her words.

But the young man, who was undoubtedly part of the church, judging by his curate's attire, contested, "And you haven't," he assured her. "Quite the contrary, considering that I would think otherwise if you had come here with anything but a need to seek solace from whatever it is that you troubles you."

Wendy smiled gratefully, half-admiring his infectious smile and dancing green eyes. His wavy, reddish-gold hair seemed to almost illuminate that of an imaginary halo from the surrounding candlelight. She gave him a smile of her own, as the storyteller in her half-wanted to believe him some sort of guardian angel which had taken the form of a mortal man, but quickly dismissed the thought as soon as it had manifested. Such beauty surely did not have to be reserved for God's heavenly creatures alone. She flushed at the thought, although the slight, subtle attraction remained as she, if only secretly, admired her unexpected companion for his kindness and the spark of life—not death—that he so richly emanated.

For he seemed to have taken an interest in her as well, as he suddenly corrected his laxity and made to introduce himself. "I humbly ask your pardon, but allow me to introduce myself," he said by way of apology, before breathing out in a very long, heavy breath: "I am John Quincey Arthur Van Helsing Harker, but, please, call me Arthur."

Wendy's eyes widened at the heavy onslaught he'd uttered; he outmatched her in her namesake, certainly, and she found herself truly impressed that he hadn't at all been weighted down by it. "A curate-in-training, you say?" she echoed questionably, but then nodded her head, as she extended her hand in a bold, very unladylike fashion, to which he just as daringly accepted. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Harker, and since we're dispensing with all of our names, I'm Wendy Moira Angela Darling, but do, please, call me Wendy." Her heart nearly fluttered when he gave her another of his endearing smiles.

"A pleasure," he returned, truly meaning it. "But, please, I ask again that you call me Arthur."

"Arthur," she duly repeated, having the grace to blush as she shyly ducked her head under his appreciative gaze. There was little doubt in Wendy's mind that this Mr. Arthur Harker was indeed a very handsome and charming man. Although he isn't nearly as charming as that devil in my mirror, she thought distractedly, the sudden thought of the Captain ruining the tender moment with her newfound companion as her present dilemma returned like a nightmare out of a storm.

The young curate must've sensed Wendy's abrupt change in mood as his concern for her returned. "I understand that there is a reason for why you're here, Wendy. And although I've no wish to pry, I want you to know that I'm more than willing to help you in any way that I can."

"That is very kind of you," Wendy returned, a small smile breaking through the sadness in her dark eyes. "You must be very accustomed to this kind of thing from parishioners."

Arthur gave her an unconventional shrug. "My Great-Great-Grandfather Ferrars was once a curate in Devonshire, as have been most of those who followed him, except my father, who is still a very devout man. Whatever blessing of patience and understanding I have, I have mercifully inherited from him, Miss Darling." He inclined his head, a comforting hand moving to rest over hers. "I enjoy this line of work, since I feel that the world is on the verge of being plunged into something even darker than war."

Wendy felt a jolt of something—she could scarcely begin to define what it was, exactly—surge through her at his very touch, whilst sensations—comprised in heavy tones of both black and white—of another doing the same blotted across her mind's eye. Gasping at the comparison, she removed her hand from his, vaguely hearing a stuttered apology as she made to stand. "You've no need to apologise," she said, pulling into her black wool coat. "I've overstayed my welcome here, anyhow." She took a few steps before turning toward the young curate, a strange look in her eyes. "You said I came here to seek solace, and the church—our Lord and Saviour—provides that, correct?" When she saw him incline his head in assent, she continued. "Well, then, if that is the case, and if I were to at least consult the matter that is troubling me, would the church have a sufficient answer?"

Recovering himself by her earlier dismissal, Arthur gingerly came to stand by her side, keeping a suitable distance between them. "I pray that it would, Miss Darling," he returned formally, no longer feeling welcome to address her by her given name. "If not, then I am sure that prayer to our Lord and Saviour will absolve that which by mortal means alone cannot answer."

A moment of silence passed between them as Wendy seemed to accept his answer. "Very well," she conceded softly. "Then what if I were to ask you a question regarding something, not necessarily of a spiritual nature, but one pertaining to the supernatural?" When she noticed his perplexed expression she rephrased her question. "I'm sorry for being so vague about this. I suppose I should just come out and say it: How does a person dispel one recently returned from the dead, whose sole purpose is to haunt that most unfortunate sinner, who somehow wronged him in life?"

"I…I'm afraid I don't understand," he replied, stumbling over his own, obvious confusion. "Are you saying that one from beyond the grave is haunting you? God in heaven, this is serious; you should honestly speak with the rector about this." He made to escort her out of the main foyer, to his superior's quarters, but then withdrew the offer when he saw her tersely shake her head.

"You misunderstand. I merely asked if the church has a remedy for such things," Wendy said firmly, her dark eyes countering his. "I've no wish to discuss anything more than that, especially with someone who would only care to inform my parents of just how mad their daughter really is. I…wish to keep this matter in the strictest of confidence, you understand."

"And it will be a matter that shall remain simply between us, of course," answered Arthur, inclining his head in understanding. "I shall adhere to your wishes, Miss Darling, although I do wish you would consider speaking to someone who is more knowledgeable about this. However, the only thing I can advise, other than prayer, to purge the horrendous thing as that which is troubling you, is one other option,"—Here he made to excuse himself from her company for a few minutes before returning with a solemn expression on his handsome face, a slender glass vial held securely in his right hand—"as I believe this may be all that you need to dispel that which is haunting you," he said, handing her the vial.

Wendy accepted it without hesitation, although she looked at it questionably. "What is it?"

"It's holy water, blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. A good friend of the family gave it to me, should I ever have any need of it," he said simply, offering her a shy, half-smile. "It should be all you need."

"Thank you." Wendy didn't so much as say the words as much as her gratitude was expressed in her actions alone. Disregarding a slight sense hesitation on her part, she took one of his hands and placed both of hers over it, a tender gesture of gratitude, for the gift he'd given a complete and utter stranger. She squeezed his hand and offered him a parting smile before making her way out of the church and back into the cold London streets, although with newfound determination. He said nothing in return, only mirrored her previous gesture, when his hand shifted and clasped hers, the sensation his touch inspired leaving Wendy almost breathless. She had no words to describe what it was that she felt, but that it was pleasant and comforting and somehow…warm. She was almost reluctant to lose it in the cold London night air yet knowing she must.

Carefully placing the vial into the satin linings of her coat, she flashed Arthur another smile before turning away. She failed to notice her new acquaintance's genuine look of concern, suffused with an emotion akin to admiration, when she departed from his side at the threshold of St. George's as the night's darkness enveloped her like a cloak, obscuring her from his sight as another observed her from the reflective shadows from a nearby window of a bakery, a dark, insidious look overshadowing the glare in those ghostly, hollow eyes.

…

Author's Note: I really want to first apologize for taking so godawful long in getting another chapter posted. There really is no excuse for it, other than my not having any inspiration for this story. And for that, I am truly sorry. I really want to get this story finished one day. It really isn't all that long, so maybe I can. I've also gotten back into horror, and I'm currently listening to the score from The Woman in Black, which really helps. For anyone who hasn't seen that movie, I cannot recommend enough in seeing it. It actually bothered me, to the point where I had trouble sleeping the night I saw it. I've not had sleeping issues like that since, probably, Darkness Falls, and that was because of the darkness issue in that movie. No, the ghost of the Woman in Black makes our dearly departed Hook look like Prince Charming in the Vengeance-is-Mine-You-Lowly-Scug! Department. Seriously. He has nothing on that woman. Nothing, I tell you. Nothing.

Also, I want to say that I've decided to break this chapter into two parts. I'd actually intended for this chapter to have another scene; but, after looking at it, I felt that it would be better if I didn't, because it would be too long, and that I would probably never get it done if I did. Really, this chapter has stumped me for the better part of a year because of that, so I've opted for a shorter chapter, in hopes of getting the next scene finished. Really, what I had planned would've been too much for a single chapter.

And if anyone made the connection between Arthur and a certain hero from an Austenian novel, then you would be quite correct in that assumption! While it's not explicitly stated, Alexander could very well be the grandson of Edward Ferrars from Sense and Sensibility. I just thought I'd throw that in there, just for kicks, because I'm like that. And I also love that novel to pieces, too. There's also something else that's significant about Arthur, but I won't go into it. I'll leave everyone to guess. (Grins.)

Kate, I know you're probably going to come after me with a butter knife for this chapter, but You-Know-Who was mentioned, at least! And I also gave you a bit of a teaser for You-Know-Who's appearance in the next chapter, too! I also trust you caught my not-so-masterful attempt at subtlety in this last bit, as well. :)

Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking-Glass is something I just had to mention, because I love both novels, and, yes, the whole two-way mirror thing into another realm just smacks of an otherworldly irony here. Of course…Looking-Glass Land is not on the other side of Wendy's mirror, unfortunately, as I imagine the other side to be anything but pleasant. Really, though, has anyone set a mirror up against another mirror and looked at the many reflections both cast? There's this really eerie green hue in the reflection and it just looks otherworldly…And downright creepy. O.0; I don't like doing it, personally. But, yes, I imagine that Hook is dwelling in some kind of limbo where the wandering, restless souls of the dead roam on that other side.

Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed this first part. I rather love Hook and Wendy's exchanges. They're usually very…lively and engaging, unlike Hook himself. XD But, yes, while I cannot say when I'll have the second part out, I will try to work on it, since I really don't plan for the second half to be very long. I've actually come to the point in despising writing long chapters, mainly because I rarely get anything finished. I also hate to edit that much, but it comes with the job, and I'm one of those overly meticulous, perfectionist writers, who would prefer to correct my own mistakes, than trouble someone else in doing it for me. It also provides a bit of a learning experience, even at the expense in my commenting to myself that I could've handled something a hell of a lot better than what I initially did. But now I'm rambling…

More than anything, though, I really want to thank everyone who's read this story and also for your continued support. I cannot say how much it means to me, and that it's really everyone here who's compelled me to continue. Thanks so much again!

Until part two!

— Kittie