Hello! This is Archangel of Dragons and I don't write fanfiction for two days and seven hours now! This is my lame attempt at writing something for Rotg, and thanks to TheChronicLiar and my soul mate Jeremy I made some sort of progress and found inspiration.
As I said before, it is lame so if you want to burn me, please, don't do it, I like life. Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, they belong to Dreamworks, and if they don't want some unhappy souls haunting them, they should do a sequel of the movie soon enough.
Chapter One – Defeat
Defeated, those words felt wicked and absurd when leaving his mouth. He had pride, he had his powers, powers beyond imagination, stronger than the Guardians, yet, defeated. The Man on the Moon said it, he was stronger, but he would falter. He hated falter, hated the Moon for saying such thing, and even more for making it true.
Everything the MIM said seemed to become true anyway.
He yelled, not sure of what, mischievous, poisonous words, words that fell in ignorant deaf ears. It was like that at least, until that boy ran right through him. The feeling he didn't miss, but when someone walked through him it felt like water, he wasn't real, and a piece of him along of his air was pulled together with the human. It was all happening again, the dark ages' ending all over again.
If he was some normal spirit, like Jack Frost maybe, he would've cried, broke into tears, for not being seen was something, it didn't take neither wasted, it simply wasn't. But stop being believed, this was another thing completely different. His nightmares could smell the fear on him, but they would never attack and he knew it. He trusted the unnatural beasts that had taken just so much time and power to create.
He ran, for what? Shame. Anger. He never dreamed, unless in some sort of trap of Sanderson himself, but he constantly had nightmares. Nightmares were supposed to frighten, to scare and worry one, indulge the fear. But to the Nightmare King nothing of the sort happened, his nightmares instead were fairly useful, there was no way of taking fear from him, but they inflicted anger, kept his rancid nature working, his love for the dark arts of fear and hatred burning so it wouldn't end.
The nightmares saw fear and they were hungry, so, in a natural instinct they dragged their master as if it was prey, only to arrive at his Lair to be sent back to their places. Wounded but still fighting the Nightmare King sat on his throne, contemplating his failure like a prisoner. He wasn't locked; he knew that now he had contained the Nightmares he could easily surface again. But a defeat was a defeat; there was no point on surfacing.
Anger was long gone, he mused. The anger could be a great fuel to achieve anything, but now there was no target. He could fire his anger alone, but anger was like a scene, and existed no theater if there weren't watchers. His Nightmares weren't a crowd itself; they were a part of him, so never really counted as a crowd.
Alone, rejected once more.
It was like if it was made to never get past from this, he was indeed chosen to suffer and bleed, to be hated and disbelieved. Like the demons from the humans beliefs, their master, Satan, was the one everyone hated, everyone cursed. Was he too chosen to be cursed? Both seemed to have the same thing, a desire of independence and leadership, and because of that, cursed.
Cursed with the failure because of their strength and will to be best, to be independent. Because they didn't wanted to be defeated or slave of anyone. Was it a sin? Why it was a sin? The one to be blamed, he was made to be blamed, feared. And cursed by being what he was, not that he wanted it like this in the first place.
A dark angel, a demon, monster, it was what he was. He had fell, there was no pride now, no one to see. He should suffer on an unending hell of light, pay for his crimes, as all the darkness and evil should. In other times he would laugh, spit at the one who hated and were ashamed of themselves. Broken now, he could see, he wasn't different of them. In truth, he was the worst of them, the pettiest and filthiest of them, whimpering to mercy like a maggot on the dirt.
Dammed immortality. He could have been killed if he wasn't immortal. On the stories, it never mattered if the enemy was killed or defeated, the holy ones would shine anyway, goodness would fed the land once more, what became of the defeated no one cared, for it wasn't important. Real life though, was different. Enemies when defeated and not killed could machine more harm and evil, the Guardians were silly on sparing him and sealing him down, instead of following to slain the demon once and for all.
He was tired, he didn't want to machine anything again. He realized it was for nothing, he could never win. It was his curse, he was the stronger, the smartest, the most powerful, his plans had no flaws, but he was cursed to fail. Not that he wasn't capable of winning, no, by the logic and wisdom he was the eternal winner, the best of them all, but he could not win, higher strengths permitted him not.
He should have died. It would be easier, simpler; he would end his life with his pride, defeated in true, mighty battle. But he did not, he too couldn't die. He was supposed to suffer eternally, for there was need of someone to hate. Friendship could make people get along together, but hatred was even better. He should have died if the Man on the Moon had any sort of mercy, but he was merciless. He stopped thinking on the first person then, and went to the third instead.
This was a great theater, and when he should have died and ended the show, he did not. The show somehow was still happening, and the known action everyone wanted him to do was inhale, exhale, and work everything from the dirt to the mighty again. Stopping to think, he could be a good constructor one day, a man who made miracles from the dust and sand. But, yet, no such thing was to happen.
His feet dragged him to the black corridors, no use of sitting on a throne since he wasn't a king anymore. Nightmares looked expectantly to their master, but the lack of response and the dying aura seemed to be absorbed by the beasts as well, as their mourned their King before he even was slain. The door opened alone before him, revealing the bedroom, but the demon did not contemplate it.
He wanted to rest, but he wasn't worthy of the luxurious, large, dark, royal double bed in front of him, it was for the mighty, for the ones that, at least, still fought. He struggled no more though. Kneeling and crawling down he lay under the bed, the large silks and sheet of the bed keeping the light from reaching it, though the place had no light really. But to him, a creature of darkness, no darkness was enough.
His thin knees touched his chest and he lowered his head, permitting his chin to touch it and arms to warp around said legs. He was the Boogeyman; here was where he belonged, under the bed, inside of the closet, hidden. If he never got out, no one would come him pester him, would them? No, no light lower itself to call for darkness, even if it's just to hurt it further. If he stopped haunting, would be like if he was dead. And he wanted to be dead.
He was in safety then, and his silent order was passed through Nightmare to Nightmare, the haunting had to stop, they were defeated, they should annoy or scare no more. If hunger settled in, well, he had still his powers, he could feed his creations with them, his beloved creations would not starve. After all, he was a cruel deadly king, but inside his own halls, to his people he was fair, cared for them more than for his own.
Now he was dead, nothing else mattered. He understood it finally, and accepted. He was the monster, he was to be alone, hated and bleeding until the end of times. He got this and fought no more. Golden eyes flushed down, no more wanting to see the darkness, only rest and behave on his exile of no hope or brightness.
Exiled, the end of the night laid to suffer his demise, where and when no one could blame him for now on.
The Boogeyman was dead.
Yeah, before you burn me alive because some sort of sympathy with Satan, I shall remind you that it is a reference and I assume Pitch would at some time within this plot, think something of the sort, since their targets were basically the same, ascent to power. I meant no offense for you if you're religious or something, and poetic licenses permit me to write such things. I won't mention it again, and if you think it is unrespectful or something of the sort, you know how to leave.
If you liked it though and don't care about the religious reference, review! Bring cookies to Jeremy and cake for me, and more importantly, say to TheChronicLiar that I love her.
