So this is an RP collaboration with APurpleAvacado, with her playing the Pitch to my Jack. The goal is to sketch out the time Jack was held captive up to the events of my fic "One Hand on the Devil." We may go past that too and into sequel territory, time will tell.
The silence that shrouded the night was broken not by the uniformed marching of an army, by the whispering and hissing of almost tangible darkness. It was a subtle sound, more apt at inducing nightmares than alarming people, but just as effective at inflicting fear upon the waking masses. The shapeless creatures glided through the air, the numbers so great that those stood beneath the encroaching darkness would lose sight of the moon quite rapidly.
Fearlings, they were called. Moaning and whirling and curling around their victims, whispering hateful and hurtful things. Inciting such fear into their hearts as to petrify them completely. The Shadowmen were capable of almost literally scaring their foes to death...of course. The axes helped, too. Then, of course, there were the Nightmares themselves – elegant, graceful horses - composed of the corrupted dream sand that the Nightmare King had liberated from the nomadic Dreamweavers. They often proved to be harbingers of doom. It was a weapon the War King was fond of using. He sent dreams to his foes, bad ones. Each worse than the last. By the time his armies arrives, his foes were often too frightened of the images he had put in their heads to put up a real fight. They tried of course, but all failed.
Tonight, his Dark army marched through the snow-laden lands to the South of his own Kingdom, having been content until now to leave the Winter Spirits to their own devises...upon realising that fewer and fewer of his border patrols were returning home at full strength. The War King had had quite enough of those pale miscreants creating trouble for him. He had bigger, more important fish to fry and once he disposed of the guppies he could get back to the real war.
He had sent his Nightmares.
He was coming.
They'd had no warning.
It had been just like any other night. Jack had tucked his sister in, sung her their favorite old lullaby, and then blown out the lantern, crawling into his own bed mere feet away. Their home was small, one room with a bare earthen floor and only a single window with which to let in the daylight, but it was theirs, and in the years after their parent's death it had been the home where Jack raised his little sister as best he could. He hated to say it, but war had been good for them. Work had been scarce for a young man with no skill in trade, but when the first Fearlings had come, and it was discovered how very powerful Jack was, well, the village had wasted no time in pressing him the small cadre of men that made up the town guard, and despite his youth, he flourished. Together the Fearlings were kept at bay, their evil barely licking the edges of the Winterland borders before being turned back to whence they came.
But it wasn't enough, this time.
They had come in the night, as the town lay slumbering, and within moments the first few families were dead in their beds or worse, kidnapped to be turned into Fearlings themselves. A handful had awoken and managed to raise an alarm, but there were just too many to fight. Jack had flown from his bed, staff in hand, leaping into action once he was sure his sister was locked safe and sound in their tiny root cellar. He'd thrown himself into the fray, shooting plumes of his deadliest frost at any and all incoming enemies, ignoring the telltale signs of magical exhaustion that set in quickly under the extreme duress of his frantic actions. It was too little too late though, within minutes the town was aflame, the smoke choking and blinding Jack. He spun dizzily, disoriented and bleeding from a handful of wounds, realizing that his town, his people, were all as good as dead, and only escape could save them now. He'd never made the trip back home so fast before, crossing town in a matter of seconds, but he was too late. The root cellar door was torn clean off the hinges, and the only sign of his sister left behind was the rag doll she was rarely without.
Sobbing, chest heaving with both grief and the struggle to breathe through the ash and smog in his lungs, Jack stumbles into the woods in a random direction, not even properly seeing the forest before him. Instead, he finds himself merely staggering from tree to tree, until, finally, utterly spent, he collapsed at the foot of a great fir tree, slipping into unconsciousness without fanfare.
When he awoke what could have only been a short amount of time later as it was still night, he found himself staring straight up into the ghastly face of a rather large Fearling. Jack froze, breath caught in his still-sore lungs, as the thing leaned down to sniff at him. The Fearling reared back suddenly something like maniacal glee on its features, tipping its head back and roaring; a great, terrible sound. The answering cries from the distance made Jack realize that he'd probably been recognized by his scent, the collective hive-mind the Fearlings shared obviously allowing them the pin him as the main threat the village had boasted.
Far too weak to summon the wind to fly, and staring at the looming darkness above him, watching the shadows lengthen and gather in the branches of the tress around him, Jack knew there was only one thing he could do if he wanted to survive.
Jack scrambled to his feet, dodging the lunge of the surprised Fearling, and ran.
Another roar broke the tranquil silence of the snow-covered landscape. Well, it was more of a screech really, with low rumbling cries from the Shadowmen that still scoured the lost village for survivors. The Fearlings were faster, but no one was faster then the Nightmare King himself, if the legends were true. In pursuit of the pale-haired boy, the Fearlings began to gather in greater and greater numbers, weaving through the trees, shrouded by the natural darkness that encroached upon the winter spirit more and more with every passing moment, whispering painful words.
As they neared, some began to weave around the boy, lacing their shapeless forms through his legs in the hopes of unnerving him. By now it was clear that they were upon him – toying with him, playing upon his fears. His sister was gone. He was alone. No one left to love and be loved by. He would never know why. Why his sister. Why his family. The Fearlings began to grasp at the sprite's pale flesh, shrouding him slowly in darkness even as he tried to run, their rasping voices cold and chill, spending spike of fear through their target. He would never know...if they had converted his sister into one of them.
Their merciless whispering and their cackling did not stop even as they decided they were done playing, and quickly pounced upon the boy, submerging him in suffocating darkness and sending him into a fitful slumber. There would be no peaceful dreams for the sprite that night.
When he awoke, he would find himself seemingly alone...although it became obvious that upon hearing the constant whispering and eerie snickering that he was not. There was little to no light in the room, almost as if the moonlight was afraid to shine through the tall, otherwise welcoming windows. Large and grand as they were, the light would not come. At the back of the room, in front of the Sprite, sat a dark throne, made of the darkest metal known to man. Lead mined from the volcano that was situated not far from the dark sorcerer's castle, which was situated upon a tall hill...so if the volcano were to erupt, the structure would be completely safe. Of course, that particular volcano was unique, in the way that the lava it held was not normal. It was blue, and a strange glow emitted from the mountainous death-trap. That was the light that filtered through the windows, casting the room in a strange blue light. That of course, was the only real colour that the castle seemed to possess.
It seemed as if the building was designed to trap the darkness within its walls, after all, how does one protect an army that can only survive in the shadows. Of course, the Warlord Kozmotis would be a fool to leave his castle unprotected during the day, when he too, suffered from limited movement. There were spells cast all over the castle and an Ally that inhabited the forest as the base of the Castle's high perch, near the volcano, a man known as the Monkey King. A daylight Ally, known for his quick temper and violent tendencies...with a love for hunting. He was a fool of a man...cursed by Queen Toothiana's protectors themselves when the then-future Queen was still too young to rule. He was a foolish man, but he was smart enough to pick the winning side of the war, with a grudge deep enough to allow Pitchiner total control over his monkey-men of an army.
It would become obvious that the dark room was the throne room, and further more...other than the Fearlings, it was devoid of inhabits, at least, any inhabitants that held any real authority. Wherever the Sorcerer King Kozmotis was...it was not this room.
Jack rose to his feet slowly, immediately noticing the absence of his staff. He felt naked without it, keenly aware of the disadvantage he was at. With his staff, he may have had a fighting chance. But, as is, injured and grief-stricken and still suffering from magical exhaustion, he was as good as a sitting duck, and the only place to hide in a cavernous room was the throne. The tall, black, macabre throne, which looked about as inviting as barbed wire.
Without conscious consent, Jack found himself wandering over to it, in curiosity. He hesitantly reached out, running two fingers over the right arm. The metal was blacker then tar, and smooth as marble, coming to wicked sharp points at odd places all over the structure. His hand came to the end of the arm, but as he went to follow the curve of it into the back, he gasped and yanked backwards, having pricked his fingertip on a previously unnoticed sharp point. Hissing in pain, he hastily sucked his injured finger into his mouth, feeling something hot and strange throb beneath his skin, like the maliciousness of the very seat had somehow crawled inside. It took him but a moment to realize that the room was hissing back, shadowy things creeping in the very corners, skittering along the edges of his vision, but when he turned his head, they were gone. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and he swore he could feel eyes upon his back, and hot, fetid breath against his cheek, but there was nothing he could see, nothing he could hit when he shrieked and flailed his arms. The noises suddenly increased, turning into a strident wail from all corners of the room, yet absolutely nowhere at the same time. It buzzed reverberating in Jack's brain as he cried out and fell to his knees, hands over his ears and blood leaking from beneath his palms.
Abruptly, the sound cut off, and Jack gasped at the relief of pressure against his sensitive eardrums. The silence seemed to ring loudly in his ears, but maybe that was just damage to his hearing, Jack didn't know. Somehow though, despite the kitten-softness of the footstep, Jack heard it, or felt it somehow, and his head jerked up to face the man. The man responsible for the war, for the death of his village, for Jack's own imprisonment.
The Nightmare King himself.
The man was tall and grey-skinned, clad entirely in a black robe with lavish gold detailing across the breast and shoulders; the curling lines seemed to slither like snakes across the fabric, changing with every blink. The man had a thin, severe face, was nearly as narrow at the shoulders as at his hips, and carried himself with the kind of poise that Jack would expect from royalty, usurper to the throne or not.
For a moment, the King stood there, allowing himself to be seen, to be stared at. No doubt the boy was petrified – to have been swallowed by darkness only to wake up in an unfamiliar place – it was understandable...and it was endlessly amusing. "Good evening," he started, as he proceeded to step back into the shadows once more "Jack." He said, his tone cordial, yet chillingly empty, his form disappearing into the darkness. Then, cold chuckling seemed to echo through the room, coming from the left, then suddenly, the right.
Then.
"Didn't think I knew your name." Behind him.
The Nightmare King was now sat, comfortably upon his throne, watching Jack through half-hooded eyes. Despite the Throne's unwelcoming appearance, it wasn't hard to believe that the dark sorcerer would look so at home upon the imposing monstrosity.
Jack stares, feeling his heart pound like a drum, blood rushing in his ears in his fright. He's sure, no, positive, that people in the next room over could hear it. He swallows hard, trying to force the feeling down, but is utterly unsuccessful. The silence stretches on, long uncomfortable minutes, before Jack can muster the will to speak. He could be brave enough for this even if it was mostly bravado.
"You don't seem like the hostage-taking type. What do you want with me?"
"I wanted a look at you." Kozmotis admitted, before slowly sinking into the shadows set against his throne, and reappearing a moment later right beside Jack, making sure to linger in the boy's peripheral vision "Is that such a crime?" He said with a chuckle, reaching forwards, surprisingly soft finger tips almost caressing Jack's pale chin as he turned the boy to face him "you are young, aren't you." More of an observation than a question. The Nightmare King's tone was that of a curious observer, his smile pleasant enough, although something about the kindness within the expression rang false. How could it be that such a waif of a boy had presented such a threat to his army? Well. Not so much a threat, Kozmotis decided...but a mild inconvenience. He was strong enough to be a significant distraction when it came to the ultimate destruction of the boy's village. Such a fascinating young man.
Jack couldn't quite stop the shudder that seized him at the touch of the Nightmare King's long, thin fingers to his face. He desperately wanted to step back, to lash out, to run away, but fear and those wicked golden eyes kept him pinned in place. He presses his lips together, until they are a thin, white line, steeling himself to remain calm and still in the hopes that, somehow, like most predators the King would lose interest in any prey that didn't run. It took all of his willpower and fortitude to stand firm in front of the man often proclaimed to be 'fear itself.'
Deep down however, Jack knew that he could never be that lucky, and that at any moment, the hand on his face could become a blade at his throat. Or worse even, but Jack refused to allow himself to contemplate anything that didn't end in the mercy of death.
Chuckling, Kozmotis enjoyed the almost palpable fear that permeated from the youth's body. His Fearlings seemed to enjoy the scent too, given that they had begun to pipe up, their hissing increasing in volume, harsh whispers of all of Jack's fears filling the room, eager for more of the frightful feast that was Jack Frost. His touch leaving the boy's chin, Kozmotis took a step back "Of course, you're frightened," He commented, stepping back into the shadows for a moment, his voice filling the room, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "I understand."
Then, materialising quite suddenly behind Jack, Pitchiner's smile was indulgent "but I have something of yours, Jack." His staff, clasped firmly in both of those deadly hands, fingers curling gracefully around the aged wood "Would you like it back, Jack?" He asked, in a tone too sweet to be genuine. "Might it make you more comfortable to have it?"
Jack held his breath, staring hard at the staff clenched in Pitch's hands, the familiar pale wood a made a mockery in the grey-skinned grip. He couldn't stop the helpless little twitch of the fingers of his right hand toward the beloved object, before he made it into a fist to prevent another involuntary outburst. Not that he wasn't positive that Pitch had already seen it and recognized his longing, but it was the principle of the thing. It took everything Jack had to straighten his spine and square his shoulders in a display of false bravery, ignoring the wrathful hissing from all the dark corners of the room. Forcing himself to swallow with a suddenly dry throat, Jack dared lift his eyes to meet the King's.
"It's can't be that simple. What's the catch?"
At that, the Nightmare King smirked "Fight me..." He said, his tone like one used to sooth a crying child, his fingers travelled slowly over every groove of the aged wood in his hands. Sturdy, but old. "If you win...you can keep it, and your freedom." He moved then, tapping the staff against the black marble floor a few times, the sound echoing throughout the grandiose room eerily, and the hissing from the shadows picked up again, almost as if Pitchiner had given a command of sorts...they were certainly up for a fight. That much was obvious. "And if you lose...this staff is mine." He paused, before he fixed Jack with a stare, an almost evil glint in those silver eyes that glittered with the occasional fleck of gold, and a malicious smile "And so are you."
Jack sucked in a breath, dropping his eyes to the floor and feeling almost light-headed with fear. He'd never fought without his staff. He could barely do more then make simple frost patterns without it acting as a channel for his magic, the truth be told. Even without his magic, Jack utilized his staff as a weapon outright, and he had little to no skill in unarmed combat. And while Jack knew himself to be clever and wily, that was nothing compared to the strategic mind and sheer raw power the Nightmare King brought to the battlefield.
It was a fools bet, a game he was designed, no, destined to lose.
But really, what choice did he have? He was doomed either way.
Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't going to do absolutely everything he could to catch some kind of a lucky break. He was impulsive and reckless by nature, but he was definitely not stupid. Snapping his eyes back to the man before him, Jack spoke.
"What are the terms of engagement?"
Rules of Engagement? The King raised a brow. He hadn't expected the boy to ask such a question, but, then again...he was technically a soldier, wasn't he? So of course he would know of the procedure. "You will have your staff for the battle." Kozmotis said slowly, almost as if reading Jack's thoughts. "Don't worry," he said with a chuckle. "But I will also have mine." He said gesturing upwards almost languidly, the Fearlings letting out almost ghostly cackles.
Then, Pitchiner took the staff into both hands again "I was never going to kill you," He explained to Jack almost as if he were disappointed "Feel free to try and kill me, though." He continued with a chuckle "You won't get anywhere without excessive use of force." That said, weren't the rules supposed to be fair? Certainly, Jack using dangerous force was fair, wasn't it? Besides, it made things much more interesting... it also made sense, if Pitchiner were to kill the boy, there would have been no point in his making the bargain for the staff.
Slowly, Pitchiner began to move around the room, disappearing behind a pillar before reappearing moments later behind Jack, smirking slightly "Are you ready? Jack."
Jack whipped around to face his adversary, eyes hard, trying to ignore the prickling of a thousand unseen eyes on his exposed back. If Pitch wasn't intending to kill him, then that meant he had worse things in mind for Jack to experience. Jack's only hope was to somehow either escape, or to goad the Nightmare King into killing him outright. Jack was young, terrified, and he did not want to die. But, even more so, he didn't want to discover the depths of the sadistic man's depravity firsthand.
"I'm ready." Jack managed to say somehow keeping his voice even. Extending one hand, he mustered all his courage to look the monster in the eye. "My weapon, please, you're highness"
And okay, maybe taunting the bad guy wasn't the smartest thing on Earth, but never let it be said that Jack's sarcastic side did what it was supposed to.
It could almost be said that the Nightmare King was impressed with Jack's gall. He let out a chuckle then, the humour in his voice dark when he next spoke "very well, Jack." He said, off-handedly tossing the staff in Jack's direction "let it not be said that you do not have manners at the very least." It was then he paused long enough to summon something from out of the darkness, watching as it curled around his body following every curve for a moment before gathering in his hand, allowing itself to be shaped into the form of a spear. It was tall, dark and thin, sparkling in what little light was filtering into the room, like navy blue glitter, the colour only emphasised by the unnatural hue of the lava from which the light originated.
Pitchiner's famed black sand. The stuff of Nightmares...quite literally.
"Let's begin, shall we." 'Manners' aside, Kozmotis would make Jack regret his petulant tone and sarcastic demeanour.
Jack caught the staff with a firm hand, tightened his grip as soon as he had it, his frost flowing along its length, curling into intricate patterns and glowing faintly with the hint of his power. He knew it would likely not make a difference in the end, but he felt much better now that he had his primary weapon back. The staff had been his most of his life, and without it he felt more than naked; it was a feeling akin to having one's soul stripped bare. Taking a calming breath to steel himself, Jack gave the staff a couple of fancy twirls, re-familiarizing himself in his grip, a deep-seated paranoia driving him to ensure that it had not somehow been tampered with. Finding nothing obvious, Jack jerked his chin in a sharp nod, doing his best to ignore the creeping sensation of doom caused by the King's summoning of his own weapon. Jack found himself carefully squashing the thought that he was staring at the weapon that had felled hundreds, if not thousands of innocent people, instead looking up to address the taller man directly.
"Appears to be in order. In that case, hope you don't mind if I start us off."
And in grand Jack Frost fashion, the boy threw himself at his adversary, bringing his staff to bear, frost at the ready.
Kozmotis Pitchiner had always been eloquent, but more than that, he had always been a man of action – a warrior, and a great strategist. After all, without these three qualities, how could he have ever thought to throw the world into fear and chaos. It had only taken a few victories to get himself noticed, and a few more to be taken seriously. Now of course, he practically ruled the world. No-one dared to stand up to him, and it was so refreshing to have someone face him, with true fighting spirit. It was the perfect way to relieve himself of his perpetual boredom.
Smirking, King's swarms of darkness swallowed him, and he disappeared from Jack's line of sight, and he moved, travelling through the darkness faster than one could blink only to reappear mere feet before Jack, the handle of his staff meeting Jack's middle and throwing him back into a nearby wall, knocking the air from the sprite-like youth's lungs.
The crack of his head against the wall sending star burst of pain across his skull, and Jack slumps to his knees, dizzy with pain and a lack of air, his shoulder shaking as he forces himself to draw great, shuddering breaths against the agony in his gut and temples. There's too much on the line though to stay down, to just give up, even though it seems like the easier option. Trembling, he forces himself to his feet, fighting against the pain to brace himself for his next attack.
"That all you got?" Jack asks, putting as many haughty overtones into his words as he can manage. He doesn't wait for his adversary to respond however. Instead, gritting his teeth, he charges forward again, only to pull to the left at the last second in an attempt to launch a surprise attack at the King's unguarded flank. He swings his staff in a tight arc toward his foe, sending a plume of his coldest frost right toward the other mans' ribs.
Even if the boy had been expecting a response, he would not have gotten one. The King of Nightmares was not the warrior he was because he taunted his foe. Silence was just as aggravating, and it honestly allowed the King to focus more, which is why, when the other's attack didn't meet him head on as he had expected, grey eyed flecked with gold widened for a moment, before he swung his arm out, waves of sand coming to block the path of the ice. Unfortunately, the force of the blow was enough to make Kozmotis stumble back a few steps, and rather than allow Jack the opportunity to attack again, he fell into the nearby shadows
For a time, all was silent, eerily so, not even the whispering that had been Jack's constant companion in the Throne Room resonated off the walls as it usually would have. Then, from a shadow, to the right, came an arrow, which embedded itself into the pillar right beside Jack's head. It was a warning shot. The silent question being 'is that all you got'?
Jack couldn't stop the startled gasp that escaped him as the sand-arrow thudded point-deep into the pillar beside him. Whirling away he raised his staff to the ready, turning in slow circles to carefully survey the shadows on all sides, preparing for an attack from any direction.
The idea struck him suddenly, and he could have almost groaned at his own stupidity. Fight smarter, not harder, right? With a bit of a grin, Jack dropped his staff curve down, until it lightly touched the ground beneath his feet. Immediately, the entire expanse of floor in all directions iced over in a fine, thin layer as smooth as glass and incredibly slick. Thanks to his powers, Jack was ever sure-footed on even the slipperiest of ice, but could the Nightmare King say the same?
"You forget however..." Pitchiner started "I can see you." But you can't see me. And with that, that, the black sand at Jack's feet began to shape itself into the form of perhaps no more than fifty tiny little gremlins, that swiftly began to claw their way up Jack's legs, scratching and biting as they went, their tittering quiet but low, befitting their size. It was clear at this point that the Nightmare King was simply playing with Jack, seeing how the boy would react...testing him.
Besides, The King had more ways to move than Jack knew, so he did not feel trapped in the slightest. It was a good effort, and one, perhaps that would have yielded results in the past...but not now.
Jack shrieked, frantically batting at the little black terrors currently scaling him like a tree. It proved ineffective however, and Jack could feel real panic creeping up upon him, heightened by innate abilities of the hissing, slithering things lurking in the dark corners of the room. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jack forced himself to freeze, tense as a piano wire, struggling to calm himself and ignore the tiny pricking pains as the gremlins scrabbled ever higher. Lips white and bloodless, he focused all his energy into summoning his ice to his skin. It forced him to stop his influence on the ice beneath his feet, leaving it susceptible to melting, but he was able to draw enough cold to the surface of his skin that the little gremlins began to freeze solid like tiny, ugly little figurines, which clattered to the ground at his feet. He found himself panting in exhaustion after that effort, the exacting control required, combined with the dozens of tiny but very present little cuts and pinpricks caused by the gremlin's assault having taken its toll. He attempted to straighten up, but found himself swaying ever so slightly, the pounding in his head from his earlier painful meeting with the wall escalating into a throbbing hum along with his heartbeat. Jack groaned before he could stop himself, a hint of blackness creeping into the edges of his vision.
Even if he fell here, it would not matter, he'd still put up the fight of a lifetime. Give the Nightmare King something to curse about later, at the very least. The thought put a bit of a grin back on Jack's face, just a tilt of the lips really.
"Bring it on, shadowman! I'm ready!"
An instant later found arms wrapping around Jack from behind, and his small body pulled against a taller, stronger one. "You know Jack," The King began, his voice soothing "I fought you myself because I didn't want my Fearlings playing with their food." a sinister pause, as Kozmotis leant down, whispering in Jack's ear "I didn't want them...playing with mine." And with that, The King took advantage of Jackson's weakened form, yanking the staff from his grasp and tossing it to one side, before he placed his hand on a cold cheek, one arm still wrapped around Jack's waist
"Sweet dreams, Jackson." The Nightmare King bid, the darkness seeming to swallow the pair as the King leant forwards to press a kiss to Jack's forehead, his lips tingling with the magic of sleep. He watched the boy go limp in his grasp, and watched the boy's face for a moment longer, before dropping him carelessly on the floor, and raising a hand.
As soon as the command was given, the Fearlings and Nightmare men swarmed, their hissing frantic and delighted as they swallowed Jack in their Darkness, feeding off of his dreams, leaving him nothing but nightmares in their wake. When next Jack awoke, he would find himself in a bedroom – dark of course – laying on top of a four-poster bed, with curtains wrapped around each post being made from what seemed like an almost gossamer deep purple fabric.
The room lacked personal touches. The vanity table was empty, but the large wardrobe was not. It was filled almost to the brim with a variety of clothes, all of which seemed to be male. The floor was cold stone, broken only by the royal purple rug in the middle of the room, and a window seat upon which sat an array of cushions. The perfect place for reading in the sun or weather-watching, no doubt. Most importantly however, was the significant and sheer drop that the window presented, of course. The message here was, of course. Escape was futile.