Everybody Wants To Rule The World
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Rated T - M for dark themes, implied abuse, violence, swearing and other adult themes, though they are often vague.
Pitch-centred
A song-fic of sorts.
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The curtain slid to the side as the hand commanded, revealing a curse in the form of a treasure. Framed with gold and encrypted with decorative writing, it spoke of the past in a more humiliating way than Pitch ever dared admit. The pure audacity within those colours and lines - and what the subject matter was - took the air right out of the Nightmare King's lungs. He took a step back.
His grey hands trembled at his sides and an imaginary sting coursed through the one which had pulled the curtain aside. This wasn't something he had expected to see. And now that he had, he could not unsee it. This had been a part of his past. It was now a part of himself.
Who said it had ever been pleasant, being him? The Golden Ages, hah. Perhaps if the first thing that came to a person's mind was how frigid the metal which had named the era was, then he could settle with the words. Not even then was his world filled with beauty and riches. Not even then was life fair; good. Yet, at least back then he was held dear, held in respect.
Now, that too was gone.
Welcome to your life.
Honestly, he wondered why he had come here. The palace itself gave him indigestion. Putrid memories filled is mind looking around. This place symbolised and held power. Immense power. Power that had once both built up and destroyed his life, multiple times, having been kept in the wrong hands. Through the lack of inhabitants, not even dust dared coop up in here. No longer was this place a home for anyone, the building's previous owners long dead and buried. He'd made sure of that himself, of course.
And though he could no longer change this, he wouldn't have, even if he could.
In those first moments of arriving here, his gaze briefly swept past the throne room. Nervous prickles of energy buried in his skin irritated him as he looked up to the seats which belonged to the Tsar and the Tsarina respectively. Nothing special: golds, reds, silvers. Rather imposing nonetheless. Your typical throne for a typical royal couple. One of which was an absolute bastard, if Pitch had anything to say about it. After all, he was no longer Kozmotis Pitchner.
There's no turning back.
And after all those sleepless nights, with nightmares eating away his rest and his sanity, he could finally walk through here with his head held high. He could say and think what he wanted to. No longer was the soldier a simple servant. He would not obey every single word bestowed upon his ears. No longer wag his tail at his master's entrance like a pathetic mongrel. He could breathe now, no longer collared, not on a leash anymore, kept close to his owner's feet. Those fears he no longer lost any thought nor time to. He didn't have to worry about them ever coming back.
Soon enough he turned his back to where the Lunanoffs once sat - the faithful, puppet of a wife and her greedy, selfish, childish husband with his dreams of complete control - walking off into one of the corridors. There was no way Demyan Kir Lunanoff would have kept anything personal or secretive there. Especially not something his wife could use against him. Pitch had known better than that and yet, after all those millennia, he'd forgotten how this place seemingly stretched forever, what routes to take and what corridors were most likely to hold what he was looking for. He would burn any memory of the Tsar's acts towards him. He would erase any passage that liked himself with the suka.
He finally found it too, one of the worst offenders.
A mere painting. Or it would have been. If it hadn't been painted on that accursed evening when Tsar-dearest thought of messing about with a few potions from the witch's cupboard. Even now, minutes later, he stayed on the same spot, shaken. Pale.
He saw nothing but shades of red.
He'd felt nothing but the desire to burn everything here down to the ground ever since the nightmares had first begun again, having awakened as a spirit, not knowing of anything around him. Blindly trusting. Falling. Hurting. Waking up wide-eyed and sweating at the sounds of his own screams.
Even while we sleep
Back then, of course, he hadn't known that in fact, he'd longed to do this for a far longer time. Yet what could a soldier do but bite his tongue and bow down before his betters? The uniform had placed him down on his knees every time he stepped into the throne room, with every damn congratulation. Every time they'd offer a promotion, he knew that no matter how often it happened, he would never become powerful enough to be able to speak out against the Tsar. Demyan could do as he wished. Cheat wherever and whenever. Lure whoever and however. Misuse and abuse his powers. Persuade people that he was good for them, that he was on their side. All by favouring the hero. Keeping him close by allowing him power. Only to take it away completely when the young general was close enough to reach out to with his own hands. Trap and subdue. Shut him up when things didn't go as planned.
As much as Kozmotis served his country to win respect from those around him and to find peace in a galaxy ravaged by chaos, Demyan served himself, seeking the pleasures of a life outside the throne room, spreading mischief and handling power for his own amusement. As for the woman by the Tsar's side, she was bearable... and at times willing to right the mistakes her husband made. But she was the cleanup crew and nothing more, coming only after the damage had been dealt. The 'golden age' wasn't synonymous with 'an age of equality'. Even so, she could have at least berated her husband as he dragged women and men both into their bedroom.
Not always letting them choose freely on that matter either.
In any other circumstance, some of his acts would have been considered worthy of imprisonment. Tsars did not belong in prison. Tsars had power. Too much of it, it seemed to those who really knew the royal family. It wasn't something Demyan deserved. Politics and local matters, as well as sentencing, was often handled by the Tsarina herself, who despite having no more power than her husband, had been fortunate enough for her word to count in the court. Not more so than his. Talking people into drinks and distributing ranks amongst soldiers was the Tsar's job. It would explain why, despite all logic, the barely experienced Kozmotis found himself being given the title of general, within less than a decade. It just didn't happen.
He ought to have been suspicious back when he had the chance to run.
But, oh, had the Tsar been persuasive.
"The people view you as a hero... your quick thinking and fresh perspective saved dozens of soldiers."
"What sort of Tsar would I be if I didn't listen to the wishes of my people?"
"What you lack in experience, you more than make up for in intelligence, skill, compassion and commitment. Why should you ever doubt you aren't perfect for the position?"
Perfect. Right. He'd fallen for the compliments, blushing like a youth courting a fair maiden, proud to serve. He'd finally figured his place, the place that Demyan wanted him to feel proud of. A false sense of security came with it. Not without the cost of remorse for every life, he didn't manage to save, but on that first night, it had felt warm and welcoming. Comforting enough for him to lower the walls around his mind that had kept him safe from the blows for so long. Not even the ordinarily exhausting and traumatising experience of having to mingle with the other well-off folks in the kingdom could put him off. He'd swam right into the fisherman's net.
Bowing his head and modestly keeping his head down. Shaking hands with men of power. Kissing the hand's of their wives, as was normal back then. Smiling politely. Even small talk didn't come with difficulty as he walked alongside the Tsar in the garden that night.
Acting on your best behaviour
When the Tsar first showed signs of darkness ebbing from him, from his gaze, he'd brushed it off as nothing more than the works of a few drinks. Not that he himself drank. It would be irresponsible to do so. Having gone as far as leading Kozmotis out of the crowd - something Pitch Black would never allow for someone to do; he was not so gullible - and closing in on him near the rose bushes, Demyan had made it seem like the perfect accident. A loss of control over intoxication. A wonderful lie of the Tsar's own creation. A kiss here, a kiss there... but, oh, my mistake.
"My apologies. I shouldn't have- pardon me for such behaviour. I... I won't make the same mistake again, you have my word."
Yes, it was a mistake. Mistake, not because a married man had just kissed a male all too young, of an entirely different race, who was not of the same status... mistake because it wasn't perfect. Kozmotis had pulled away first, almost immediately. He felt nothing but shock, surprise... perhaps a little fear. Such intimacies were not for him. Not amongst men, anyway. He'd lost trust in them, before this night. Delusions of romantic feeling or sparks flying never crossed his mind.
He stiffly nodded his head and accepted the apology with ever-so naive forgiveness.
Turn your back on Mother Nature
Little had he known that it would take a mere couple of years before Demyan would find a way to control the mind and thus the body. That Kozmotis' world, for a single night would become the Tsar's and that whatever trust he held would shatter.
He should have trusted his instincts. Instead... he'd given into the Tsar's commands.
Everybody wants to rule the world.
In the end... at the very end of Kozmotis' life, it had been Demyan's annoyance with Kozmotis, who did his best not to let his vulnerability take over, that lead him into a prison of fearlings. He'd made sure that Kozmotis felt like he owned him, even after all the pain he'd gone through to prove himself worthy and those times he kept his mouth shut so as not to suffer the wrath of the Tsar. Demyan had offered other options too, of course... but to act as the Tsar's personal plaything?
As if.
Even Kozmotis had more dignity, more pride and self-respect than those who let themselves be kissed and touched against their feelings, just to earn a spot in the master's palace. By then, he'd seen exactly what kind of man Demyan could be, the creature he hid behind those white robes, the golden hair and tan skin. He'd figured out nearly everything that he felt the urge to know by then, save for one small piece of information.
Why him?
Gawky, uncertain him, with freaky, golden eyes, deathly pale skin that no one else seemed to have, and girlishly long lashes that would, should the perfect occasion arise, make him the butt of all jokes. (Of course, in the company of his own men, the soldiers he served alongside it was accepted as nothing more than a tease.) Raven hair, which few people had - and far more people would be interested in the pallid gold that seemed to make up the strands of hair belonging only to the most regal families and innermost circles - and though it was much less noticeable, a pair of almost elfin ears. Perhaps it was more the case that he was just seen as an exotic pet who just happened to receive more ''affection'' than would have been deemed acceptable. Nothing else could have explained Demyan's choices, not to Kozmotis, who'd by the time lost a few too many women who were dear to him. A few too many people who truly viewed him as special without twisting it and using him. Friends who had died in battle, too.
With no one to help him, nothing to lean back on, he had to accept the best option. The one that would ensure that his daughter would stay safe, at least.
Perhaps the Tsar even expected failure. Expected him to either give in and be that pet or die trying to force escape fearlings back into their cage. Perhaps he never expected to survive this himself, or at least not come out unscathed. Whatever the case, it was just another mistake in Demyan's book of failures.
A small part of Pitch, even now wondered, shuddering in disgust, if perhaps Demyan had heard about the demise of his past self and had, in fact, felt a victorious grin creeping onto his face as he thought of the screams his precious little puppet would give out as the fearlings tore him apart. Swallowed him whole. Ravaged his soul, heart and mind. Spat him out, mangled and limp. Played with him and taunted him every step of the way. What wouldn't he bet, believing the sick bastard took pleasure in that news.
It would be the same smirk that was plastered on Demyan's face when a disorientated Kozmotis woke up in a bed that definitely didn't belong to him. The same smirk he held on to as he pulled the struggling general back to him.
"Don't you want to feel that again? Feel how good you felt last night? Come on... don't be stubborn... you know you want it. You'll remember it soon enough, how good it felt to kiss me."
Slimy, sneaky bastard, whispering into his ears even now, making him hate himself. Demyan knew that. Surely he saw that he took no pleasure suffering the bites, licks, kisses, scratches... surely he'd seen the look of pain on his face. All the same, with a satisfied smirk he had left the general alone once it was all over again. To his lick his own wounds and close his eyes as he tried to let go of the pain and the humiliation. To stand up, soon enough feeling hollow and emotionless, only to collapse later. In fact, if he'd remembered correctly, he'd took his bloody time to lick the tears away from Kozmotis' cheeks, cooing. Telling him that there'd be no need for tears.
No need.
Pitch closed his eyes and finally walked away from the painting.
How much had Demyan paid to silence the artist? Had the artist seen the clues pointing to his drug-induced state? Did it never bother him that the general and the Tsar so suddenly forgot responsibility and were tangled up in each other's arms? Or the possessive way in which Demyan held him, slowly inching his hands were they had no right to be - and wouldn't have had, were he in the right state of mind - leaning in possibly to whisper sweet nothings to a drug-addled Kozmotis, because he knew that under the influence of the potion, all the man would want to hear is his voice and what he'd desire to feel would be his touch. It had made him weak, available, easy. It made him feel things he shouldn't have and wouldn't have. It made him act like a slave to a desire that would never have affected him around this man, hadn't it have been for that accursed potion.
Stepping into the nearest shadow, he vanished. Pitch wanted nothing more to do with Kozmotis, any more than he did with Demyan. And Kozmotis had died in this universe. Died. He hadn't simply been 'possessed' as they all would have it. Kozmotis Avery Blake Pitchner was never, not ever, coming back.
He would return to planning. Scheming. It seemed so evil when it came out of someone who never had to partake in battles, nor wars.
At the same time, it had to be done. He may have overcome one hurdle, but his self-worth seemed to still be in decline. Everytime that a predator mistook him for prey, a potential victim, it destroyed yet another piece of him. Not simply broke. Broken things can be fixed. But then, he wasn't a thing. He wasn't a toy. He wasn't anyone's source of power, pleasure, control... nothing of the sorts. That didn't mean they hadn't tried turning him into exactly that.
All it took is for him to grow weaker.
Or more gullible.
In those earlier days, it would be so simple to manipulate him. As a spirit, having existed as such for only a few days, he would believe almost anything. Even when they claimed to 'love him'... or like him. When they promised him so much and gave him so little, he still had faith.
He was wiser now.
It took power not to be weak. Strength, which no matter how much he fought for even at his weakest, even when terrified and frozen in fear, which could protect him from the lies, the trickery. From the pain and torment that fellow spirits would give him. It took power not to be invisible. Disrespected. Forgotten. Unable to figure out his own identity. It took power to belong. Never did it matter that they would hate him for it. Humans wouldn't love anyone but themselves no matter what power, or how much of it he coveted.
If nothing else, it kept the vultures away. Most often, those vultures were the Guardians. Constantly forcing him beneath the earth, lower than earthworms. Believing him filthier than dirt.
Was it because of the way he appeared?
A monster?
Was it because of the way he had acted?
Self-defence and in complete obedience of his master's words for the first decade or so. Then anger and spite, for all the hatred he'd received, the welcome the Lunanoffs had given him. It was ironic really. Suddenly he wasn't quite so... desirable. Instead of doing his best to pull him closer, Demyan did his worst to keep him away. After that, his nightmares had brought him closer to the Lunanoff heir, the little, spoiled brat (who remained spoiled to this very day), where he decided he himself needed an heir of his own when the leash Sar (master) had on him had loosened. But those plans had failed.
The mother he'd killed more out of neglect - leaving her in a crumbling cave away from the ship.
The father he'd stabbed more times than necessary, rage spurring him on as he recalled his nightmares. The man who'd already destroyed his first life. The man who had managed to alienate him from the lives within the galaxy of Andromeda, once his home and now his hell. This man he desired to kill more than anything or anyone else.
The child... the child had escaped.
Which in the end had brought him here, to face a bunch of naive spirits who called themselves the 'Guardians' under the orders of the aforementioned child. It brought him to earth, where being seen was a rarity. Where belief seemed to be everything.
On Earth, he was free.
But then the dark ages ended.
And he was free no more.
It was time to go back to the drawing board, design a plan which would once again help him crawl out of a hellhole, sever his connections to those who had wronged him. It was time to get the world back, this world. A new home that he'd once vowed to himself he'd protect for so long as it could lend him its protection.
It's my own design
He'd done admirably well before - one against five - but failed. The costs, greater than he could have ever thought possible.
To his enemy, he'd told his greatest weakness, one of his desires, those that made him so regrettably alive. Back then, of course, he'd lost family. He'd seen other families, so happy, so joyous. Even if there were those others, miserable and desperate. Dark as he was, Pitch could feel, could understand the warmth and comfort between mothers, fathers, sons, daughters. Dark as he was, he longed to have someone to teach, to protect and cherish. Someone to fall back on when he could no longer handle the world alone. Someone who could ease the nightmares.
Not even his most beloved creations could manage that. And how could they?
He hated remembering that day, when he'd met with Frost in Antarctica. The ice-cold (no pun intended) rejection that left him frozen. Even if for just a while. To lay your greatest weaknesses and wish before someone, just so they could laugh you in the face when they were done taunting you. He could have treated the younger spirit as a son, a brother. The bastard went as far as deceiving him. Neutral party. Not a chance.
He should have never said anything...
It's my own remorse
The spirit looked up to the globe, the twinkling, taunting lights. How he despised them. Attacking now of course, so soon, could give him the advantage as he'd have caught them by surprise. Unfortunately, he couldn't figure out a powerful enough source of energy that he could reach without the Guardians noticing. One miscalculation and he would find himself back here. This time, perhaps the nightmares wouldn't keep him in more or less one piece.
Yet, he needed to try something.
Help me to decide
He would fight. Fight for the past, the present and the future.
Pitch would not be so gullible as to hope for love.
He no longer believed in so much as allies. His only pleasure would be to destroy his enemies. No clumsy, bashful girls. No graceful, independent women. Females shouldn't even be in the equation. Lot of trouble they caused. Pain and nothing more. As if men were the only ones capable of it.
With no one to hold him back, with no one to fight for, he was free to act selfishly. He would not be restrained by anyone. Not by the shackles of love, hatred, or otherwise. Not by weakness. He was a king after all.
Help me make the most of freedom
And yet standing there, having returned - why, he no longer even bothered to ponder about - to Andromeda, standing by two graves, side by side. Flowers lay there, fresh. He'd taken them from elsewhere. Something was pulling him back, though he no longer considered himself as having a heart. But if they weren't pulling him by the heartstrings, by what could they have grabbed him and taken him there? What brand of insanity would have persuaded him to return to such a place?
He glanced over to the headstone of the left. Simplistic, almost blank.
The name on it?
Seraphina. No last names, no middle names. Just Seraphina.
Nothing else, but the date of death. He could think of so many things he could have engraved into it, had he been alive. Even though he got to enjoy the company of her true self for only one evening, he'd known her for much longer than that. Anyone who risked their lives to save someone like himself, was deserving of far more words, more respect. If it were now, if she'd chosen this time to be a soldier, and not to be one back then, things would have been different. Alas, she would have likely been dead by now. For all he knew, she would have been executed publicly for an act of treason back then, if she had managed to survive by some miracle.
Pitch tried to ignore the sting in his chest.
The memories that flooded his mind.
Of that night. Oh... that night! The sneaky female managed to finally shed all that armour, pretending so casually to have worked and lived in the town the group had stopped at all her life. How she'd gotten her hands on the simple but fitting dress was too a mystery. He'd never thought to ask around. Outwith her armour, she looked so entirely different though. There seemed to be no plausible explanation for the transformation that had occurred.
As soon as he'd met her, he felt swept away.
There were other women, but he sought only after her company. Kozmotis had suddenly been reduced to a boy who'd just reached adolescence. Despite all his manners and the times he'd talked to women before, this young woman was something else entirely. She couldn't have been more than twenty and perhaps - no definitely - younger. With a small, modest, but absolutely beautiful smile. Eyes, a midnight sky blue. Oddly familiar, perhaps, but they seemed to be more noticeable without the armour.
An absolute fool he was, carried away by her words, the way she moved, so carefree - and lacking the smugness of the other ladies, though grace she had plenty - and her compliments. Not wanting the night to end, having finally found someone who he didn't think would dare hurt him and use him, he'd tried to woo her, promising himself to return for her when his mission was over.
Kiss after kiss.
Touch after touch.
And no longer did he feel pain. Humiliation. Disgust. Discomfort. Or fear. This was natural.
All he felt was pleasure like he'd never before experienced.
And of pleasure
The dizziness would occasionally come back even now, thinking back to that night.
But it was not to be.
Waking up to a cold sensation, Kozmotis had realised he'd once more been a fool. Yet, he couldn't find it in his heart to hate her when she wrote so earnestly, explaining herself that next day. Telling him the truth, asking for forgiveness. Apologising. No one had done so before her.
She'd ran. But not far. Not for long. She stuck close to the other soldiers, hiding. And for what?
Next, he saw her, would be the last time. Dressed in armour, wielding a sword. Saving his life in seconds, prying away the enemy that stalked him from behind. Elegant, loyal, sharp, fast. For a few milliseconds, he could only stare, before his focus snapped back to the rest of the attackers who had tried to take them out by surprise. And then the hearts the awful sound of a blade slashing through flesh... scraping against metal. Lovestruck, heartbroken, shocked Kozmotis immediately lashed out, attacking every enemy soldier that surrounded him and Seraphina's injured body. But the blood of his enemies would not heal the wounds of his most beloved soldier.
Nothing ever lasts forever
He shuddered. Images of her dying in his arms whilst he could only helplessly watch the blood dripping down the corners of her mouth, seeping through the wounds in her body. He blinked, forcing away those tears that betrayed him so, as he recalled her words.
"I love you. I really do... I'd die again for you, if I could, if it meant saving you..."
The worst affliction is that of the heart.
It was that pain, that hurt, knowing she would die... that made him act so recklessly. Mercilessly. He would die for her too... if it could bring her back. He still would, he wasn't going to pretend otherwise. But she was no longer here.
Then he briefly flicked his gaze over to the other grave.
That of his wife, the graceful, intelligent woman who'd become Lady Pitchner when he was at his worst and accept the position knowing he would perhaps never love her romantically. Oh, but life was a damn fickle thing. And so were his enemies.
With the birth of a daughter, he couldn't help but come to not simply admire his wife, but love her. She'd given him the greatest reason to live for...
Emily Jane Pitchner.
Perhaps, he ought to have known that there would come a day where he would yet again be holding a dead corpse in his arms, wishing that his sorrow could somehow bring it back to life. For it to be filled with the soul of someone dear to him. To come alive. It was this that really did trigger the fall, more so than anything. His enemies had found a way get to him. A way more effective than hurting him personally. He was told to temporarily resign from battle... and then the offer came.
The dream pirates that had caused his wife to fall to her death knew what they were doing. Working secretly alongside the fearlings. Figuring out a way to take down him. And eventually, take down the Golden Ages.
Everybody wants to rule the world
The wind howled, rustling the branches of trees. Soon enough, the stream of memories was cut off. Pitch stepped back into the present, looking up to the grey-clad sky. This was reality now, not that. He would have very little time to waste. He couldn't waste it on emotion.
With so little light, he hardly required to find a darker spot. He teleported immediately.
Pitch shuddered, waking up.
Drenched in sweat and panting, he found himself at a loss. The nightmare wasn't over. The chill everpresent. No, it was still continuing. There was no comfort in the labyrinth of his lair. There was no warmth in a bed were he barely slept. Here, no one could find him. Except for his fears. Not even his nightmares could get this far.
Definitely not mercy.
There's a room where the light can't find you
He was left to his fears as they gnawed at his mind. Even he could barely see. And each memory felt so alive, as though it were really happening.
Hands... everywhere. Grabbing him, caressing him, fingers crawling over him.
He gulped, forcing the memories out.
How could it even be? They were supposed to be on the other side. Buried deep down. Where not even he could recall them from. He flinched as he swore another hand had grabbed him. Had he perhaps snapped, his mind crumbling like a stone wall?
While the walls come tumbling down
He swallowed thickly. Forcing himself up onto weak legs, he rushed out of his bedroom, all too willing to believe that there had in fact been someone far too close for his comfort. He dashed for the exit to this place. To a prison, he'd called home for so long now. Running away from the insanity that was tailing him persistently. It followed right behind him, like a shadow.
There was no escaping.
When they do, I'll be right behind you
As afraid as he was of it, he raced for the light.
Even to him, his fears were palpable. To his nightmares more so. All his plans ruined yet again. Sleep, like it had done many times before, became his worst enemy yet again. The whinnies could be heard. A clattering of hooves. He felt sick with fear only hearing those hooves against the rock, a promise of pain. He could already foresee the images they would feed him, the voices they would mimic. The colours their black coats would turn, as the bit at him, tore at him.
He wouldn't let them.
Pitch wouldn't surrender. He continued running.
So glad we've almost made it
The spirit grabbed eagerly, quickly and repeatedly at one of the platforms, pulling his body up. He was so close. The grey skies and dew-covered grass, the earthy smell of soil awaited him. So close-
One of the beasts, a particularly disloyal one grabbed him with her jaw. Sharp, shark-like teeth so unlike a mare's, bit into the flesh of his leg, confirming to him that he would never be quite as beastly as they would. She tugged.
He flailed, panicked, tried to kick her off.
The other's joined in, in a mad frenzy, biting him. They pulled at him. They grabbed at him. Their hooves tried to knock him out. He felt one rib after another crack with the repeated attacks. A leg bone snapped in half with a sharp crack as one of them pulled too hard, as though he were, in fact, a Christmas cracker. It seemed to drive them. Rile them up more. He winced, clenching his jaws. He would no show weakness.
So sad we've had to fade it
No use, they kept at it.
Pain stretched through his system and soon he wondered, as they began poisoning his mind with fear if perhaps he should simply give in. If only Death would grant him that one small mercy. He knew that hot, crimson liquid was blood. He knew that the reason why he could barely even move was his broken bones. There would be no painless sleep for him tonight. Or sleep at all. With their resounding whinnies, they're cheers and their hisses, he knew there would be no rest for the wicked.
For being like him, detested from the moment they open their eyes, there wasn't a chance.
Even as a child, as he took his first breath, he ought to have known that joy and happiness were never meant to be a part of his future.
The choices he'd make would seem like commands because there would be no other visible way. And no matter what path he would have taken, there would have been pain. He just needed to accept that.
He cried out as they drilled into his mind.
He closed his eyes.
His grip on the outside world loosened, fingers limp.
He fell back into the darkness.
And it had taken so little...
'Please...'
If in this world, he could have anything - in the world so obsessed with power, as much if not more than him - then he would ask, for just one small mercy. Something that would end this madness. He wouldn't need the world. He just needed to be set free. A little mercy. A little care. A little respect.
'Let me die.'
He knew Death wouldn't. No one would. To make him suffer, all they needed to do was to keep him alive. As they have done for longer than the moon was in existence. Longer than life had existed here on Earth. Why should they let him off, let it be any different?
They could have come to comfort him.
They could have tried to understand.
They could have tried to show this 'love' that humans kept babbling on about, even though it no longer existed.
If no one had done anything to try and make life brighter for a doomed spirit like himself, why should they let him die? And why should he think he was deserving of it, anyway?
He'd sat on his most trusted nightmare that night as he tried to wipe out five Guardians now, in hopes of freedom for himself. They'd made it more than clear that he was not welcomed in this world. The world in which they ruled.
Over and over.
They had used wide varieties of weapons before, but to weaponise belief like that...? He wasn't sure whether he deemed it insane, admirable, or absolutely despicable. To put children in harm's way. But alas, all is fair in love and war. Well... war. There was no love in a world like this. There hadn't been, even before he walked through these infested streets, amongst the humans. There was likely never meant to be. Not the selfless, compassionate, reasonable love he'd once known, a long time ago.
He'd seen war.
He'd been in war.
This was a war.
Pitch could only cackle. Sanity was a friend that was of no use to him in the midst of battle. Experience had proven him right on those grounds. If this was how the wanted to play, so be it. If they thought, after their show of ignorance and disrespect, that he was unwilling to give a few children a few nightmares, they were wrong. At most, it would turn the mortals into something akin to a nightmare. He had no qualms about that. After all, murder seemed to be the most serious offence in this world. Nothing seemed to compare. No other type of violation more severe. Where he saw mercy, they saw the crime worst of all. So, it wasn't as though he was that evil.
He'd made sure to warn them. Pointed out that rather impressive - if he had any say in it - wave of nightmares striking the little town of Burgess. Yet, they were stubborn and they would pay for it. He would not back down.
Even if they talked back. Fought back.
Even when they knocked him off of his horse, stole his lead nightmare and transformed her into a useless sand-pony. He would have fought until the end if it weren't for that sack of sand. He might have even one if it weren't for him showing up at the least ideal time.
But in the end, not so much as their instincts to protect as the desire to have power over the world, to push him out of it, to have it all to themselves no matter the consequence for the imbalance they were causing... their desperation to take over the world once more had spurred them on. They mocked him and forced him into surrender and when they couldn't even have that, they made sure to use his own centre against him. Greedy little shits. He doubted they did this for the children. Sure, they may have adored some of them.
But...
Everybody wants to rule the world.
No matter how nice they claimed to be.
They were not good. They were cocky, greedy, spiteful, cruel. They could have passed off as his worst nightmares. They too wanted the world to themselves, perhaps for the very same reasons. Perhaps they finally understood that in order to truly be safe, you have to take charge. Have power. Perhaps even shed a little of that mercy.
But, he would get back at them.
Because after all those years, he too had become exactly that. Willing to fight dirty, willing to manipulate, trick, lie to and destroy. All because of a selfish desire to have control over something. All because he couldn't imagine ever feeling safe enough to close his eyes if he couldn't control at least his own mind. If he couldn't feel comfortable enough walking across the earth at dawn or dusk, without feeling the sun burn through him, he believed it to be out of a lack of control. He'd tried all other ways.
Now, of course... all that was for nought.
The world which once - though perhaps not his home - was a place to stay, where he could at least feel safe and sound, if perhaps not loved, was now under the reign of yet another Lunanoff. He could only anticipate what would happen to him now.
Everybody wants to rule the world.
Now as he lay broken... wondering if perhaps the son of one of his tormentors may just be able to do the improbable, if perhaps he would take on the role of his father, as his newest tormentor... anticipating his presence numbly, he could only wait. What other choice did he have, but see where blood played a part? Would Manny - the little annoyance that he for so long had tried to best to no avail - be just as bad his father? Would the way in which he was raised mean Pitch would see a more honourable man standing before him? Or would he simply ignore him?
Of course, he'd already come to accept that it would likely be the latter.
He didn't even bother opening his eyes.
.
.
.
.
.
[A/N - Demyan and Kir are supposedly Russian male names. At least according to. Kir, I believe means "Lord". Demyan means either "to tame/to subdue" or "to kill" and is derived from the Greek name Damian. This is not the canon name, nor does this fic go by the canon from the books.
K.A.B.P - Though almost no one called him that, this is my version of a full name for him, curtsey of an ancestry that was more precious than he thinks it had been.
Sar is an O.C, and is the spirit of Suffering who was once a mortal in the Golden Ages, working alongside Kozmotis... ironically a lieutenant to the former general.
In my head, Kozmotis lived in the galaxy, Andromeda.
Females, in the history of earth were never given much opportunity and I doubt Seraphina's enrolment into the army would have been taken well if it was found out that she was a female. ]