Chapter Text
The night is dying. The night is dying, and it will not sprout like the vibrant flame that jumps in the wick in an unsuspected way, and there will be no light, no shadow, no sound beyond the lament of the wood of a ship that no longer sails. The night is dying, and the child screams restlessly. It is until he hears the song of the sea, and it tells him that he is born in a tragic fate, that he will not have laughter or breath of fresh air, or a breeze on his face or green tree, that he calms down. The child cries. And the wood creaks.
Captain Hook looks at him, and it pains him to see him.
His wife, exhausted, stretches out her arms for him to give her the boy, with her body sweaty and her hair stuck to her face, locks of darkened red shadows that reflect the color of the fury in his eyes, and of what Harry doesn't have a bit. Harry looks just like him, and it hurts Hook to see him.
She takes the child with a strangled cry, and her chest seems to open to him, and her disjointed face reveals her soul as if she had opened her clothes to expose herself. Harry cries. Harry feels the warmth of her mother close to his face, the life, the beat of her tired heart, her prison heart, his grieving mother's heart. Because she's the only one who loves. She the only one that knows how. And she loves Harry from the first moment she sees him, but Hook can't bear to look at him.
Then, the night spills like cane juice, like old ink, languid and drunk, because the moon in the sky is broken and the sea tries to reach them with its growing foam, and with its eternal demand, eager to get him, because Harry belongs to the sea. Hook knows. Hook knows many things. He knows, for example, that the child was born between darkness and light, and that his cry implores them to deliver him to the sea, and that his mother looks at him with fire and broken glass and with the dim and dying hope of the light. Because she waits. Because she still believes. But Hook knows. And he knows that light will not come.
The sea rocks the ship with force, demanding him, calling him. The mother clings to the baby, James clings to the metal of his hook. And he doesn't look at her. How could he? Harriet is in the other cabin. She is scared by the screams of her mother, and because the crew is hiding, and because Hook drinks rum on a full moon night.
The rain blows, and thunders, and Harry falls asleep in the middle of the storm, in his mother's arms, to the inviting murmurs of the tide. The child will never be able to escape, neither from the Isle, nor from his fate. The shadows of the secrets are tall and glide on every part of the string, in every corner of the damp old wood, and they also glide in Hook's wet, spicy voice when he tells her that, now that the baby is born, he need to leave the ship for a moment. Maybe a few hours, maybe a few days. She knows the flames in his eyes, so she doesn't ask questions. She clings Harry to her chest, close to her wounded bird voice. And she sings to him.
Hook leaves but does not leave the ship. Not physically, at least. Because no matter how far he goes in this cage of invisible hatred, he cannot get away. Her voice follows him, and Harry's desperate crying, and Harriet's captivating, scrutinizing gaze. Because, no matter where he goes, secrets haunt him. The lies laugh in his ears. The past seems to creep behind him.
So, Hook stops trying. He approaches the sea, and it is lazy to reach him, almost disinterested, but in the end, the milky fingers of the foam touch his face, embrace him in consolation, absolve him for having engendered life in the infertility of this dry island. Hook is lying in the garbage sand, in the cold sand, but the sea comforts him.
So, he whispers promises to it, grants its wish. And he swears to the sea that if it takes the child, he will give whatever.
Maybe it's a promise he can't keep.