James Hook is not an old man. So boasts his reflection, and most convincingly.
The mirror shows someone who did not simply chance upon the prime of life, stumbling into his heyday after a leisurely stroll through his middling years. No, this image belongs to someone who schemed, clawed, ravished and slaughtered his way into a state of physical supremacy that most men can never hope to attain.
And he shows not the slightest sign of descending from that pinnacle. There is no stoop to the breadth of his shoulders, no slouch in the steel of his spine. His black curls remain untainted by a single thread of grey, and his face--somewhat shadowed and rather too pale, perhaps, but surely that can be attributed to his schedule--bears no unsightly lines or wrinkles. None but the most determined of simpletons could deem him elderly, much less infirm.
Yet he knows that in Neverland, it does not matter that he still possesses the fullness of his strength, that he is
almost as spry now as he was at Eton. Here vigor and vitality have but one face, and that face grins cockily through all its first teeth. Anything else is adult, unequivocally beyond salvation; eighteen or eighty, you are grown up, and therefore knocking on death's door. He feels this truth in his bones, though his reflection protests mightily.
When Hook looks into the mirror, he does not think he is old. But he thinks he will never again be young.