02 – The Centre has Changed

Jack ached. He could tell that his back was a mess. The pain filtered through from a great distance, as though he was orbiting himself. Jack watched Iskala and the Head Smith argue passionately in a language he'd never heard before and had no hope of pronouncing; it sounded like a combination of consonants and rocks falling down cliff faces. It became obvious that Iskala was arguing in favour of Jack, and that the Head Smith was arguing against him, gesticulating wildly at the staff and the sword.

Jack's eyes slipped to see how Gwyn was reacting, when they escalated into a full-blown yelling match. He was watching them, face impassive. His hands were relaxed by his sides. Gwyn gave the impression that this was normal. Jack turned back and decided to wait it out.

Eventually the Head Smith turned back and eyed the sword, then frowned at Jack. His face was ruddy from shouting for so long, his eyes were black and bright.

'Tell us why should we destroy a sword so perfectly made as this, for a situation like yours? You think we haven't heard of the Nightmare King? How powerful he is? Why should I destroy a work of art, when you have so little of chance on your side? If you presented me with a lesser weapon – well...I don't know, you didn't present me with a lesser weapon did you? You presented me with this. This is not a lesser weapon. I am the only one out of all of the Glasera who can work a metal like this, and I'm not going to d-'

'The sword has already agreed,' Iskala interrupted, stubbornly. The Head Smith glared at her.

Jack resisted the urge to point out that the sword couldn't speak, and that it wasn't a person, and that Pitch had explicitly said, months ago, that it didn't have any charms or magic or spirits sealed into it. It couldn't agree. He kept his mouth shut, because apparently Iskala thought the sword was on his side, and if that was her argument, he could pretend the sword had an opinion on the matter.

'Turn around,' Iskala said to Jack. She gestured at him in brusque encouragement when he hesitated. Jack presented his back to the Head Smith, knowing that blood had soaked through the fabric. He'd already had to steal a new sweatshirt because of bloodstains once before. He wondered if Pitch had ever gotten around to cleaning the old one, back in Kostroma. Jack's lips thinned. Even if he had, Kostroma wasn't safe anymore.

'You see?' Iskala said. 'The sword started without us, has already demanded its sacrifice. So will I be collecting his blood now? Or later?'

'Wait, what?' Jack said. 'You're collecting my what?'

Jack flinched when Iskala's broad, strong hands started slowly pulling up the back of his sweatshirt, exposing his cold skin to the hot, dry air. He bit the inside of his lip hard when the material caught on frozen blood and wouldn't shift any higher without force. Iskala stopped pulling, it seemed that she had exposed enough damage. Gwyn hissed when he saw the state of Jack's back, but Iskala grunted with approval.

'You see? Blood. Taken by the sword. You know what that means.'

'It means a scrawny boy carried a sword too heavy for him, Iskala, and that's all it means,' the Head Smith growled, but he didn't sound certain.

'On our mountain? Even you cannot turn this down. And if you do, I'll have you brought up before the Elders.'

'Anyone ever tell you you're worse than a den of starving bears?' The Head Smith walked around the table and replaced Iskala's hands as he held up the sweatshirt. He poked briefly at the wound, but Jack was so far away from his pain that he didn't react. The Head Smith lowered the material quickly, as though disturbed, and Jack wondered what his back looked like. He didn't even want to guess. Bruises on top of bruises maybe. Blood on top of that.

'Fine. Let's talk terms,' the Head Smith said, and picked up Jack's staff, hefted it. 'I assume you want to still be able to channel your own power through this?'

'That's kind of the point,' Jack said, and then winced. Don't piss the mountain dwarves off, pretty sure that's not going go down well.

The Head Smith took Jack's attitude in his stride, turning the staff in his hand and then looking back at the sword speculatively.

'Then we won't need much of the metal. So.' He put down the staff and took out a piece of dark blue wax crayon out of a leather satchel at his waist, and drew a line across the sword's blade, bisecting it with a line of oily darkness. Jack felt a flare of anxiety move through him. He almost reached out and asked the Head Smith to stop, to not draw on something that had been polished and cared for and treated with respect. And then Jack realised that what he was asking for was far worse than a simple line of crayon. Way, way worse.

'What next?' the Head Smith said.

Jack stared down at the sword, at the metal remaining. He hadn't expected there to be so much. He had hoped that there would be something remaining, had hoped that his staff wouldn't need too much of the sword to be able to repel the shadows. The idea of what to do with the rest of the blade had played on his mind for days.

'Are you sure that's going to be enough for the staff? To make it effective?'

'Yes,' the Head Smith said simply. 'What next?'

Okay, Jack looked over at Gwyn, and then looked down at the sword.

'So I guess it's your lucky day,' Jack said to Gwyn, airily, forcing down his insecurities and flashing what he hoped was a winning smile. 'Because it's your turn, for you know, as a thank you for bringing me here.'

Gwyn's eyes widened in genuine shock. Jack swallowed, hoped he'd accept. He hadn't known any other way he could possibly repay Gwyn. And he had learned through eavesdropping on the fae that they cared very much about squaring off favours, about leaving no debt unpaid. He also didn't like the idea of Gwyn calling him on an unpaid debt, because he could just imagine a point – months in the future – when Gwyn asked for something stupid and war-related. Or, worse, came up to him and said, 'In exchange for that mountain trek, how about you train with me?'

'Six arrowheads,' Gwyn said quickly, though he didn't look away from Jack, as though he expected Jack to take back the offer.

Despite Gwyn's confusion, it was obvious he'd thought about what he'd do if he could ever access any of the metal. Jack smirked, and Gwyn looked down at the sword in something like wonder.

'Arrowheads. Scrupulous. That takes almost nothing,' the Head Smith said in approval, striking off another three inches of metal with his dark crayon. 'Next?'

Jack could hardly believe it. He had expected his staff to need most of the sword, but instead, they still had more than half of the blade to work with. Jack suddenly appreciated how large the weapon was. This was turning out better than he ever hoped it would.

He placed his hands tentatively on the table, bracing himself against what he wanted to ask for next.

'I want something for Pitch.' Jack looked up at the Head Smith and frowned. 'I just...don't know what...I don't know much about weapons.'

'You're asking for my input?' the Head Smith said, and Jack nodded. 'Well, it depends. If he favours swords, there's enough remaining for a smallsword or several daggers. Maybe even a rapier.'

Jack felt his heart pick up its beat in his chest. He had no idea what the right decision was. He didn't think he even knew what a smallsword looked like. He had no idea what Pitch would want in place of his two-handed longsword.

Gwyn cleared his throat.

'Respectfully, Head Smith, I've seen him train in the field and fight in battle. All his drills are designed for two-handed weapons. They'd be hard to adapt down to a smallsword and unsuited for a rapier. A fine suggestion you've made, but perhaps you both might consider a double-bladed axe. Though I can see there wouldn't be enough metal in the sword for the size Pitch would probably wield, but I could pay for another metal to be used to augment the design. Do you still have some of that strange, black meteor that fell? Albion never stops talking about how incredible that metal has been in his own axe.'

'But axes aren't...they're nothing like a sword,' Jack said in confusion.

'The importance here is the function of the weapon,' Gwyn said, and Jack felt relieved when he realised he wasn't being condescended to. 'A smallsword isn't wielded like a large, two-handed weapon. And a rapier is a thrusting weapon. Augus uses a rapier, it's a very different style of fighting. Very neat. Pitch preferred a weapon that cleaved and sliced, and – to be blunt – he liked something that did a lot of damage. A smallsword won't do that. A double-bladed axe on the other hand...'

'Like a flared Perrin's axe?' the Head Smith said, interest entering his voice.

'Maybe, as long as it was double-bladed and balanced well.'

'And balanced well? Where do you think you are? Are you saying that we could possibly make a weapon that didn't balance? You know we can take your sword back at any time.' The Head Smith sounded truly affronted, and Gwyn apologised quickly.

Iskala walked to a wall of parchment, ink and quills and came back over and lay it all down on the table next to the sword and its scabbard, next to Jack's staff. She then walked away down a long, dark corridor and called out in that same, abrupt language. Two other smiths joined her quickly. One was at least seven feet tall, his hands and forearms were completely covered in soot. They came over and the Head Smith talked to them quickly in their language.

The Head Smith and the two other dwarves – Jack decided they also must be smiths – started sketching out designs immediately. They were quick and efficient, constantly comparing their work and making adjustments.

Iskala wrapped her huge hand around Jack's forearm.

'We're collecting your blood now,' she said. 'Leave them to do their job. We have our own task. There is a bleeding room specifically for this purpose.'

Jack's eyes widened. A bleeding room, crap.

'May I come?' Gwyn said, and Iskala nodded. Jack made a face at him. Maybe check with the one being bled first, Gwyn, thanks.

Jack was led into a bright, circular room. There were basins of different sizes and shapes along stone shelving set back into the walls. Iskala pointed to a stool that she wanted Jack to sit on, and then took one of the smaller basins, and several wicked looking silvery instruments off the wall.

'Did you have to do this?' Jack said to Gwyn, who was examining the basins.

'Yes,' Gwyn said. He didn't even turn around, and he didn't explain further. Jack rolled his eyes at Gwyn's back, and then jerked when he felt hands pulling up the base of his sweatshirt again. Iskala said nothing, but he thought she gentled her motions after that.

Jack didn't know what to expect, so he was surprised when she started scraping the frozen blood directly off his skin, flaking it into the basin.

'We don't have to bleed you,' Iskala said, as Jack breathed through the sensation of pressure on his bruises. 'When the weapon takes the blood for itself, we never need that much.'

'Lucky,' Gwyn said, 'They almost bled me dry.'

'By the oaths, I remember that,' Iskala said, laughing under her breath. 'At one point he hopped off the stool and yelled at us, shouted, 'You're just being greedy now!' Considering how much you wanted that sword, you were quite short with us.'

Gwyn looked embarrassed, and picked up a basin, turning it in his hands and refusing to acknowledge what she'd said. Jack wanted to laugh with Iskala, but couldn't summon much good feeling. He bowed his back helpfully, and then his fingers dug into his knees when she started lifting the section of sweatshirt that was frozen to his wound. She muttered something under her breath.

'Gwyn, will you hold this up and away from the wound while I get some salve?'

Gwyn put the basin back down quickly and walked over. Jack thought he was behaving like an awkward child being told to help out with chores. As soon as he took hold of the sweatshirt, Iskala walked out of the room. Jack refused to make eye contact. It didn't matter, Gwyn was staring at the wound. It made him uncomfortable.

The silence stretched out between them, and Jack wondered what Iskala was doing taking so long.

'Thank you,' Gwyn said suddenly, 'for the arrowheads.'

Jack looked down where his fingers were still digging into his knees. Even though his skin was no longer being scraped at, he was tense. It wasn't just that he was destroying Pitch's sword, though that was enough to keep him stressed. It was also that he was altering his own staff, and he was attached to that staff, he didn't know if it would change, if it would be harder to channel his powers through it. He expected that something would change, he was starting to learn that nothing was predictable in this strange world that he occupied now.

'You know, you could've asked for more than that,' Jack said, 'I thought maybe you'd pick a knife or something.'

'My favoured weapon is the bow,' Gwyn said, and Jack tilted his head sideways, ignored the twinge of pain that rocked his upper body. Gwyn was looking down at Jack's wound, pensive.

'Really?'

Gwyn's eyes flicked over to Jack's.

'A knife may have been more practical, but sometimes I do not always wish to be so practical.' There was a sad quality to his voice, and it lost some of its harshness. A moment later Gwyn's face cleared and he started looking over at the basins instead.

Iskala returned and Gwyn stepped back, relinquishing his hold on the material. She took over and started rubbing a greasy, thick salve onto Jack's back where she'd already scraped at the blood. Jack made a face at the smell. It almost certainly had animal fat in it. Still, minutes later, the pain started to recede, and Jack exhaled shakily. He hadn't realised how much pain he'd been repressing, until it started to fade away.

Iskala continued her work for almost an hour. Scraping at blood, adding the salve, working her way up Jack's back until she reached his shoulders. At that point, Jack simply took the hoodie off. He studied the bloodstains while she rubbed salve into the rest of his bruises. The stuff reeked, but it worked quickly.

'It will scar,' Iskala said, and Jack frowned.

'I don't really scar from things,' Jack said, though his thoughts drifted immediately to the scar at his neck. The scar that marked the exit of some of his soul, the scar that was maybe even the mark of his slow wasting.

'This? Will scar. Trust me.' She patted him on one of his bruised shoulders and then indicated that Jack should put his sweatshirt back on. After that, she tucked the basin under her arm and he and Gwyn followed her back out to the blue table where the sword and the staff rested.

The table was nearly covered in parchments scrawled with double-bladed battleaxes, and even more parchment littered the floor. The three smiths were laughing rowdily amongst each other, pointing to some of the designs and laughing harder. There was something about their raucous merriment that made Jack feel prickly in response. He itched to wipe the smiles off their faces, because what could possibly be so funny? At a time like this?

When the Head Smith saw Jack, he stabbed his finger down onto a piece of parchment laid above the others.

'Here we are. What do you think?' He turned to Gwyn. 'We're going to be needing that payment for the black meteor. Will you pay now, or later?'

'Later,' Gwyn said, and the Head Smith nodded.

Jack walked over to the table; his back and shoulders already felt far more loose and relaxed thanks to Iskala's salve, and he was grateful for it.

Jack looked at the final design. It looked huge, and...brutal. It looked like a weapon the Nightmare King would use. It was something he would have called up out of the polluted sand, all that time ago. Jack furrowed his brow at it, and the smiths laughed again. One turned to Gwyn.

'This will do a lot of damage! Just imagine it, he's going to look like the Grim Reaper.'

'A Grim Reaper who had his scythe replaced with this beauty,' the Head Smith said, chuckling. Jack stared at them all, horrified, as they started laughing again. A deep, dark chill rose up from within him.

'Do you think this is a game?' Jack said quietly, angrily. He looked over at the sword and wanted to take it back, wanted to put it somewhere safe, where no one except Pitch would ever touch it again. Where giant dwarves with booming voices and soot-stained hands and faces wouldn't laugh over it.

The dwarf that was seven feet tall frowned at Jack.

'Aw, you're no fun, are you?'

Jack's eyes widened. He felt like the breath had been punched out of him. He placed a hand out on the table to brace himself, feeling suddenly dizzy.

Aw, you're no fun.

Words that Jack had never heard in his entire life.

Someone was asking him if he was okay, and he nodded, because he had to be okay. He was fine. It was just words, he was fine. He blinked his head clear and looked down at the parchment. He tried to imagine Pitch with such a weapon and he just couldn't. But when he really thought about it, he couldn't imagine Pitch using anything else but his sword. Jack felt like he was committing a treasonous act, doing something criminal, in asking the Glasera to destroy it.

But it has to be done.

He looked directly at the Head Smith and nodded once, firm. The message was clear.

Go ahead, make the stupid axe.

'Yes,' the Head Smith said, now looking eager to commence the project, where before he had been arguing against it. 'There will be a small amount of the metal left over. Very small. Not much to be made with it. But-'

'Could you make a chain? A necklace? For this?' Jack said on a burst of air, bringing out the locket from where it had been tucked safe and deep in his pants pocket. He placed it on top of the parchment and the Head Smith looked down at it.

'For that?' he said in disgust, taking in the condition of the locket itself.

'I'm pretty sure that's what I just said,' Jack decided that he'd had enough of the Glasera dwarves to last him a lifetime.

'Fine,' the Head Smith said, dismissively. 'Now both of you, go away. There's a holding cave outside. Most people wait there for the weapons to be made. Big enough for a fire at least.'

Jack's fingers crept over the table and he took the locket back. He wouldn't leave it there, even if it meant the chain wouldn't get made. He gave the sword and his staff one last look as he walked away.

He missed both already.

The fire had died down, and the cave was small and warm. It was stocked with furs, food, aged earthenware jugs of grain alcohol. Gwyn stared into the coals, and Jack lay on his side, half-asleep. He was warm, one side of his body more than the other. It reminded him of Pitch, it reminded him of body warmth, of being allowed to sleep next to someone, of a person who didn't complain about how cold he was.

Jack sat up in frustration as his thoughts began to run away from him.

'I thought that went well, all things considering,' Gwyn said.

'Did you see that axe though? Did I make...the right decision?'

'It's too late now,' Gwyn said and Jack glared at him.

'Not helpful.'

Gwyn didn't say anything. He poked his fingers through a small bag of barley sugar he'd found, and lifted one of the golden sweets to his lips. Then he offered the bag to Jack.

'No, I don't really eat,' Jack said, and Gwyn looked at him, perplexed. 'Well, I don't really need to, do I?' Jack said, defensively.

'Nor do I. It's more for the energy of the thing. Didn't you ever consider that eating might help with your energy levels?'

Gwyn pushed the bag over to Jack, who took one of the sweets cautiously and rolled the golden, hard sugar in his fingers.

'No, I didn't consider that,' Jack said. 'I don't understand. I don't need to eat.'

'Even at full energy, we don't need to sleep either, but it can still refresh us. I'm surprised none of the Guardians have spoken with you about this. Truly. Sometimes...'

Gwyn looked back into the coals and Jack put the boiled sweet in his mouth and then crunched down on it. He couldn't melt the sugar, as Gwyn did, his mouth was too cold. His teeth had bitten into icicles, weren't afraid of hard textures. The sugar shattered and splintered on his tongue, and the rounded flavour felt soothing, somehow. Jack reached for another barley sugar.

'Sometimes what?' Jack prompted.

'Sometimes you behave a lot like a very new fae. And sometimes...you show your experience. At the Wild Hunt, one could have believed that you had been on this earth for thousands of years, wild and capable. Now, you don't even know that food is not something we eat because we need it, but something we eat because we can? Because it enriches us. The delight of eating can be a nourishing act, far beyond digestion.'

Jack stretched his legs out and shook his head slowly. There was so much he didn't know. For the longest time, he only wanted to know why no one believed in him. That was the only thing that had mattered. But as time passed, as he came to know more of the spirits who inhabited the world, he realised there were huge gaps in his education. It made him uncomfortable, to know how naive he could be. He knew the other Guardians liked eating, especially North, but he'd never thought that meant that he might benefit from eating food.

'Is that why you don't have a home yet?' Gwyn said, and Jack looked at him, in confusion.

'I know you have a home based in the mundane world,' Gwyn continued. 'But you don't have a home in the otherworlds, like the Guardians, like the rest of the fae, do you? I'd always just assumed it was because you didn't need one, but do you know how to make one?'

Jack stared at him.

Gwyn shifted uncomfortably.

'Most fae learn how to do that organically. They can feel out the difference between the otherworld and the mundane one, and then slip into the otherworld to make their home. Whatever it may be. It is a space where humans can never bother them. Even hearth wights who spend so much of their time in human homes, still have an otherworldly home too. You never felt the urge to create a home in the otherworld, like North and Toothiana did?'

Jack swallowed.

'What do you mean there's a difference between the otherworld and the mundane one?' Jack said, 'I mean, I know...that things like this mountain aren't visible to human eyes and sort of exist...elsewhere. But it doesn't feel any different to the real world. I only know that it's not visible to human eyes because hey, it's a magic mountain and no one in the real world is talking about it on the news or anything.'

Gwyn shook his head in slow disbelief, staring down at the floor between them.

'I'm not the person to be teaching you these things,' he said, and Jack was surprised to hear how shaky he sounded. 'This goes beyond you not enjoying formal education. There are things you have to know.'

'I'm not fae, though,' Jack said and Gwyn looked at Jack incredulously.

'I know that. But you're closer than any of the others. You might as well be. The Wild Hunt proved that. You have a wild, natural magic. And with all due respect, it appears you do not even know a great deal about your fellow Guardians either. Did you think Toothiana's palace just appeared? Did you never wonder why you didn't have something for yourself? Something that...reflected yourself?'

Jack drew his legs back up to his body and wrapped an arm around them. He had thought about it. He'd thought about it back when he'd made that terrible shack and hadn't understood why the Guardians had their grandiose, amazing homes, and he couldn't copy them. He had just assumed the flaw was with him.

Gwyn dropped the subject, and Jack was in no hurry to pick it up again. It turned out that having the King of the Seelie Fae realise you were some ignorant, uneducated being did not feel great.

Jack thought back to the events with the Glasera and then closed his eyes. He remembered how uncomfortable their laughter had made him.

'I don't think my centre is fun, anymore,' Jack said, on a half-smile.

'I am certain it isn't,' Gwyn said firmly.

Jack lifted his head off his knees and stared at Gwyn.

'I was sort of joking,' Jack said, and Gwyn groaned in frustration.

'Tell me you know that centres can change.'

'I...' Jack's heart started pounding. Fear curled through him. His centre had changed? North had never said anything about centres being capable of changing. And wait, Gwyn believed in them? He'd always just assumed that the concept of centres belonged to the Guardians. North was the only one who ever went on about it.

'I thought the idea of centres was like...a Guardian thing,' Jack said, and Gwyn snorted. 'But even Pitch doesn't believe in them, he told me they're a Guardian thing.'

'With all due respect to Pitch, he's not from around here. And they are most certainly not just a Guardian thing.'

'So you have a centre?' Jack said, curious.

'All the fae do,' Gwyn said. 'Mine's changed twice, in my lifetime. They don't change often. Most never change. Mine started out as triumph,' Gwyn looked up at the cave ceiling, expression unfathomable. 'And what a core energy that was. People I favoured found their paths filled with luck and fortune. I entered into any game or battle and could never lose. My enemies fell before me, around me, sometimes without me even needing to lift a finger.

'But triumph...requires that there must always be winners and losers. And it requires a conquering nature. And those of us with conquering natures are sometimes capable of very dark acts. I did something, forced someone to do something, and I regretted it afterwards. Not immediately, no. At the time I was so caught up in my sense of triumph and the bloodlust that fuelled it. But later, I thought about it, I thought about what I had done, and the blood that was left on my hands because of it, and I retreated to the wild.

'And that was the first time my centre changed. It took a little while, but it happened. It was a difficult time. A necessary time.'

Jack stared at Gwyn. It was the most he'd ever heard Gwyn say at once. He hadn't even known that Gwyn could string so many sentences together and turn them into a conversation. He was always so abrupt.

'What'd it change into?' Jack said, and Gwyn lay on his back to better look at the cave ceiling. He was focused on the small vent where the grey-silver smoke coiled, winding its way out of the cave.

'Wildness. That was around the time I became the leader of the Wild Hunt. And the Wild Hunt isn't about winning or losing. It's not about conquering. You've met the King of the Forest. Can he be conquered? Not truly. And sometimes he escapes, or he doesn't allow himself to be caught. And so, that was a strange time. I lived with forest animals, I ran through the woods with mud on my face and dirt on my hands and...sometimes I miss it.'

Jack found it surprisingly easy to imagine. For all that Gwyn's appearance indicated some level of aristocracy, with his angular features; there was a feral quality about him.

'And then your centre changed again?' Jack prompted, and Gwyn nodded.

'At some point – I don't know why – it turned into justice. That was well before before they declared me King, but it's almost certainly whythey declared me King. That and perhaps some of the fae still hope that I have some of that energy of triumph in me somewhere. You can't embody something for so long and have the essence of it truly disappear. But a central energy can be ousted from its central place, it can evolve. It can make it hard to know where your life may take you, and it makes it harder to see into your future. Apparently having a changeable centre can make one's fate hard to read, which is why Ondine can't see too far into my future; inconvenient for the King of the Seelie Fae, who is meant to keep a diviner around at all times.'

Jack felt like a piece of the puzzle had just slotted into place. Had his centre started changing even before Pitch had been possessed by the shadows again? Was that why Ondine couldn't read his future properly?

'What...do you think my centre is now?' Jack said, and Gwyn gazed at him, contemplative.

'Focus, perhaps? Determination? You're certainly resolved to-'

They both stared at each other.

'Resolve,' they both said, at the same time. As soon as it was uttered aloud, Jack felt a responding echo in the core of him. Where, once, he had been able to draw upon humour and wild excitement, fun and laughter, something tempered and implacable rested instead. It was the resolve that he drew upon to stay focused, to make sure he didn't lose sight of his goals. The resolve that allowed him to scale a mountain and ask that Pitch's sword be destroy and risk his staff.

'You need to be careful with a centre like that, Jack,' Gwyn said, sombre. 'Resolve is like triumph. It has a 'take no prisoners' quality about it. If you privilege your resolve above all else, you may lose sight of the things that matter to you. I lost sight of my mercy when my centre was triumph. I became a very hard person.'

Jack looked away. He didn't reply, there was nothing to say. He wanted to become a hard person. He would have all the time in the world to thaw out again, once he'd saved Pitch, but until then he couldn't afford his softness. He had a sense of the pain inside of him, of how it would ruin him if he allowed himself to experience it. He was too familiar with loss and grief already. He couldn't afford despair either, so it roiled deep inside of him, a choppy, black ocean.

'What's Gulvi's centre?' Jack said, changing the subject.

Gwyn, for once, decided to play along.

'Chaos. And likely to remain that way.'

'What about Augus?'

'Domination,' Gwyn said easily. 'His brother, Ash – the Glashtyn – is self-indulgence. Though he describes it as a mix between carousing and tomfoolery. Which he would.'

'The Nain Rouge?' Jack said, facing Gwyn properly, eager to learn more.

'Voracity, and before that, horror,' Gwyn said. 'Who else have you met? Albion's centre is stability, for all that he is a patriarch of a temperamental ocean. Ondine's centre is friendship, which makes her one of the most adored fae in the Seelie Court. Hers has changed too, over the centuries. More times than my own. She cannot get her future divined at all; which is likely why she ended up a diviner. Unusually changeable centres are not uncommon for wights that control the waters, however. Peggy Greenteeth's centre is the idea of home. Dullahan's is privacy. It's not a coincidence you haven't met him yet. You may not meet him at all.'

'He was the one who killed all those fae, at the school, right? Who caused that high casualty count?'

'Don't let the gossip mislead you. He killed so many fae because they saw him. He only left the children alone, because they couldn't.'

'What about Pitch?' Jack said, and Gwyn shook his head.

'It was changing the entire time that we were training together. Every time I thought I had a sense of it, I'd realise I was wrong. I thought, maybe, I knew what it was at the end. But as I'm not sure, I'm not comfortable saying.'

Jack stood up and stretched gingerly, grateful for the salve, grateful for a chance to sleep now that they'd reached the mountain summit. He walked away from the warmth of the fire over to a cooler, sheltered section of cave. Jack lay down on the bare ground and shifted until he was comfortable, tucking a hand under his head.

Gwyn watched Jack thoughtfully. Jack thought he could see it now. The glimpses of wildness, of triumph, of justice.

'Train with us,' Gwyn said, suddenly.

'Not this again,' Jack groaned, throwing his other arm over his face. 'You are obsessed.'

'I want to learn how to make those snowstorms with you. And it's important. We'll need a coordinated strike against someone like the Nightmare King. We certainly need more ideas, and training is one of the places where those ideas can be tested for their merits. And your centre is... I think you might be capable now. You might never enjoy it, but please consider it.'

Jack reluctantly realised he would have to consider it. If he was going to leave no stones unturned, if he was going to consider ever option, he had to.

'I don't want to,' Jack said, more complaint than refusal, into his own skin.

He thought that Gwyn would reply, would try and convince him, but Jack only heard the sounds of Gwyn settling down for the evening. Usually he stayed awake and watchful, but he'd been remarkably more relaxed since they'd dropped the sword off with the Glasera. Jack thought he was actually going to sleep for the first time since they'd started walking up the mountain.

Jack missed the days when sleep was a choice; not a necessity.

He was back in the gymnasium.

Fear hammered and hammered at him, it threaded through him, sent a mass of terror into his heart like a thick, cold clot. He looked down, and the shadow was there, already pushing into him. He screamed so loudly that his throat tore. It felt revolting, and he couldn't make it stop. He couldn't compare it to anything he had ever experienced. All the losses he'd experienced, even the Nain Rouge sucking out part of his soul from him, through his throat – nothing was like that hungry mass pushing up through the arch of his foot, seeking and stealing at the same time. It entered with the promise of more.

And as Jack realised that there was more, he looked up.

That wall of shadows.

Jack screamed again and again, when the shadow suddenly pushed further than it ever had. The wall of shadows quivered with excitement, rose up and fell down upon him. There was no golden light, no Pitch.

Hysteria shattered his mind. He struggled. He created frost lightning with his bare hands, and none of it made any difference. He would have turned himself inside out, if he thought it might work. He split the core of himself, searched for his well of power. He would burn himself out before he'd let the darkness take him. He would empty out his own soul.

His power flashed into a circular, pale blue ball. He had never felt something so strong come from his own body, it eviscerated his energy, but he felt a moment of victory. Because nothing could survive that, surely. Nothing could...

When Jack realised the shadows were still there, still invading, Jack heard himself shriek in disbelief, in terror, he was never going to escape. A noise that had never been human tore its way out of his throat. There would be no escape. He wouldn't ever-

He woke up gasping and clawing at the body next to him, tears streaming down his face. He whimpered over and over again, took a terribly long time to take stock of his surroundings.

He was on a bed. He was in Kostroma. He was on Pitch's bed, warm sheets beneath him, a warming body alongside his.

Jack sobbed once.

Pre-dawn light pushed in gently through the windows. He felt the chill in the air, he knew that snow had recently fallen. Little details anchored him, brought him back to himself.

'Shhh,' a voice, too familiar. Jack shuddered so hard he thought he'd actually come apart. A warm, strong arm curved around him, pulled him close. Pitch's body moved from Jack's side, until he was over Jack, braced on one arm, the other curling protectively over his chest. Jack felt his eyes looking down at him, but he wouldn't look up. He couldn't. It hurt too much. 'Hush now, little one. Did you have a bad dream?'

'Pitch,' Jack said, his voice breaking. Something horrible was happening to his heart. He didn't have room for the love that swelled inside of him. Not while he could still feel the ghosts of shadows, how they'd felt beneath his skin, how desperate he'd been to be rid of them.

'All that fear,' Pitch said, reassurance sounding off-key. Jack hardly noticed, pressed his face into Pitch's arm, and squeezed his eyes shut when Pitch laughed at him. 'Dear me, whatever is the matter?'

'I did have a bad dream,' Jack said, his voice tiny, small.

'Did you?' Pitch said, and Jack just wanted to curl up into him, just wanted to be held until he stopped shivering, until the mess of his mind was contained again. It was taking all of his energy to not burst into sobs like some abandoned child. 'And how do you find it's going now?'

'Wh-what?' Jack said, confused.

'Tsk tsk, so slow on the uptake. Ah, well, you've always been a little like that, haven't you? Dense.'

Jack blinked into Pitch's arm, looked at the tears smeared over his darker skin. Something familiar crept through him. A horror that made him feel queasy. It wasn't the residual fear from the nightmare, but something new.

Pitch laughed again. There was nothing warm in the sound.

No, Jack realised.

NO.

Jack struck out hard against the warm arm holding him down on the bed, he kicked up violently. He managed to free himself enough to roll off the side of the bed, backing up hard. Something inside of himself cracked all the way down the middle. The Nightmare King was using Pitch's body, using his face, his robe; he'd made himself appear diminished and smaller, he'd smoothed away the worst of the dark shadows, he'd even made the embroidery return. Jack stared at him and wished he could just pull Pitch back into existence with his bare hands. But he could barely stand, he was shaking so hard from the nightmare.

The nightmare that was still going.

'You've been a tough one to track down,' the Nightmare King said, sliding off the bed and taking two smooth steps towards Jack, only to stop and look deeply amused when Jack paced backwards all the way into the wall. 'One would almost think you've been hiding from me. So don't be like that, lover. Maybe we could pretend, for old time's sake. I could pretend to be oh, so, alone, and so hard up on my luck, that I would be desperate enough to offer you a place by my side.'

He laughed coolly. The Nightmare King's hands illustrated everything he said with a dramatic eloquence. There was nothing but cruelty in his eyes. It wasn't even the same Nightmare King who had confronted him in Antarctica. Something of Pitch had come through on that day, Jack was sure of it.

He saw nothing of Pitch now. Just shadows. Shadows taking something that didn't belong to them.

'It's easy now,' Jack rasped. 'It's easy to see the difference between you and him. And sure, I was confused, I mistook you for all of like a minute. But now look at you. I'm not scared of you.'

'Oh, no, I know,' the Nightmare King purred. 'Shall I explore then? Do you want to know what you're truly scared of?'

Jack froze.

Kind of walked straight into that one.

The Nightmare King had tilted his head up. His eyes were half-closed and his mouth open as though tasting something. Jack couldn't even feel it, as the Nightmare King rifled through his fears.

'Oh, Jack, this is almost too easy. And you think of yourself as some kind of threat to me? You're terrified of something that's already happened, aren't you? Poor, poor, Jack. Couldn't imagine a world without his dear Pitch Black in it and so he doesn't. What a horror. So desperate to be loved he fell for the first creature that offered him shallow attention and a measure of absent care. Do you know what I see when I look at you, Jack Frost? I see someone who has not yet come to terms with what he's lost for good. A young, pathetic creature, trying to hold the pieces of himself together with masking tape.'

Jack trembled. He focused on hardening ice, on strong walls of it, on making sure that he – at the very least – did not show outward signs of how much the words got to him. Hearing the Nightmare King talk to him in that voice, Jack could almost imagine that it was Pitch pushing at him again, Pitch trying to get him to reveal the truth so that he could gently correct him, debunk his insecurities and reward him with reassurance.

This was not Pitch.

'What are you doing here? If I'm so small and pathetic, why amuse yourself with me?' Jack said, stepping back from the wall. 'You know what I see when I look at you? I see a temporary problem. One that I'm gonna fix. And that's all you are.'

The smile on the Nightmare King's face disappeared. Jack took another step forward.

'You know what else I see? Among other things? A mess of about a hundred different soldiers who weren't brave enough to last out one initiation where their soul was hurt. You poor, poor soldiers. All of you. Reduced to Nightmare Men because you couldn't pull your shit together. Not even able to withstand the pain of part of your soul missing. Even I could do that. Tell me how small and pathetic I look now.'

Jack's fingers flexed around his staff, he hadn't realised it was there. Maybe it hadn't been. It was a dream, after all.

'Are you so obsessed with Kozmotis,' Jack continued, 'that you just have to cling onto him in any possible form that you can? Is that it? So desperate? You know, a long time ago, Pitch used to talk to me about how I projected my shit onto him. And do you know, all I hear when you talk shit about me, is a bunch of scared soldiers who lost everything, and turned to the darkness instead. A mass of shadows who project their shit onto other people. And sure, I know there's more to it than that. But I know some of you in there are hearing me. Aren't you?'

The Nightmare King stood as still as stone, staring down at Jack, calculating.

'Do you think I'm a temporary problem?' the Nightmare King whispered, finally. 'But don't you know, Jack? I'm not going anywhere.'

Jack cried out. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut, his whole body jolted around the phrase. The words hit him so hard that he bent double and used his staff to hold him upright. He gasped around the hugeness of it, the awfulness of hearing those words again.

Suddenly the Nightmare King was beside him, having melted through shadows to be right there, lips against his ear, an unforgiving hand digging hard into the back of his neck.

'How many times do you want to hear it? Because I can say it over and over again. I'm. Not. Going. Anywhere.'

Jack whimpered, jerked hard, but the fingers wouldn't let him go. Clawed fingernails pierced his skin, dug deep into the muscles in the back of his neck. Pain flared, but he hardly noticed it, caught in the awfulness of hearing the Nightmare King use those words against him.

'You don't have the right!' Jack said, torn between outrage and a pain that turned his insides to flame.

The Nightmare King chuckled.

'You think you can defeat me?' he whispered, 'You haven't even met me. You don't know what I was, when I was at my strongest. You met a mere shade of me, when you were with those miscreants that call themselves Guardians. Do you know what I did to the Tsars and Tsarinas? Can you imagine how I laid waste to planets, oh, if you could have been there. It was glorious! The stars sung my name and it was a terrible noise that struck terror into the hearts of all!'

The Nightmare King slammed the heel of his palm into Jack's chest. He bounced back against the wall hard, pain exploded through his head and sternum.

'You think it's just a hundred soldiers in here? We are a legion. And Fearlings. And the living darkness. You have only one who can make the golden light, and he makes it poorly. You have no other weapons against us, and we know it. Your power is nothing more than frozen water, and you are so, so weak. I can smell it on you. The sickness. The wasting of you.'

The Nightmare King stepped back, satisfaction on his face, golden eyes feverish with power.

Jack gathered his breath back to himself, outraged.

'Okay,' Jack said, thinking, to hell with it, 'so you're not a hundred broken soldiers. Got it. You're a legion of cowards then. That's great. You know the one thing I've learned about cowards over the years? They're really good at talking a big game. But wow, come on, how many planets have you destroyed since you crash-landed here? Was it a whole...wait now...let me count on my fingers, because I don't want to get it wrong. I think it was like, a whole zero. I mean,' Jack let himself laugh, and he stood straighter. 'Come on already. I guess a legion of cowards talk a really big game.'

'You-'

'No, seriously, you want to have this show down with me? Come in person. Except you can't, because you're not allowed on the mountain in the flesh, are you? If you're so powerful, how come you haven't been able to break into the Seelie Court yet? How come you're not actually here? You didn't know what you were getting yourself into, when you landed on this planet. You-'

'That's it,' the Nightmare King said suddenly, though not in retaliation, but in realisation. He grinned, revealing jagged teeth. 'You really aren't afraid of me, are you? That's admirable. Really, that is some quality showmanship, right there. But be careful, Jack. You're playing with the grown-ups now. You wouldn't want me to turn you into the thing that you hate.'

Jack felt something shift underneath his foot and looked down quickly. A shadow swirled there, and then a tendril came up and wrapped almost lovingly around his ankle.

No. No, no, no.

The Nightmare King laughed, and Jack started shaking when he felt the shadow push against the base of his foot. Not in, not yet, but pushing like it wanted to. Like it could.

'How does it feel, Jack? This legion of cowards getting the better of you?'

'Stop it,' Jack said, nausea rocketing through him. He retched when the shadow pushed at him again. 'Stop this.'

'Would you like to know how quickly we'd take over your mind? How quickly you'd lose all sense of yourself? It's like dying. Except it's very, very painful. And I would take it slow, just for you.'

Jack shrieked when the shadow pushed past the barrier of his skin. He stared up wildly at the Nightmare King.

'You never truly get the peace of death, though,' the Nightmare King continued. 'Wouldn't that be nice? But I don't do nice. We would pollute you, wriggle like maggots and worms through your broken soul, turn it into food. And sometimes, for fun perhaps, we'd let you up through the darkness so you could glimpse the horrible, heinous acts you were committing, so you could know how completely and utterly taken over you'd been. How much you belonged to us.'

Jack opened his mouth on a scream as the shadow slipped further into him. Then suddenly he realised what the Nightmare King was saying.

Pitch. Pitch was going through all of that. Right now. Polluted and taken over and there was no one else who would find a way to get him out of that, and right now, oh god, he's going through that right now.

Jack's palms came together unconsciously, and he hardly needed to search within to find the well of power available. This was a dream, he had his staff, even though he knew very well it was in the summit with the Glasera dwarves. Maybe he had more power, too. Maybe the Nightmare King wasn't the only one who could master a dream-state.

Jack's eyes closed, he saw his Pitch in his mind's eye, and after that, it was almost easy.

The power flew out of him, shattered the house, turned the Nightmare King into fragments of shadow. Whatever had been pushing up into his foot dissolved. Frost lightning shot in all directions, obliterating everything. Jack felt himself disappear into the ether.

He woke up with a sudden shock of awareness, breath strangling in his throat. He pushed himself upright and stared wildly around the cave, peering at all the shadows closely. He couldn't sense any of the living shadows there at all. It was like the first time he'd walked back into Pitch's lair, when Mora had taken him there; he could just tell the difference. The shadows that occupied Pitch were living, and the ones in the cave were dead.

Jack started in fear when Gwyn suddenly gasped himself awake. Gwyn gave a short, sharp cry of horror and had pushed himself to his knees and drawn his sword before he had fully roused.

Gwyn realised where they were, and he – too – stared around at the shadows for a few seconds, before his eyes met Jack's.

'Nightmare?' Jack said, breathless.

'Yes. You?'

'Yep.'

'Do you...want to talk about it?' Gwyn said. They looked at each other with knowing. The Nightmare King had been in both of their dreams. Gwyn looked wan, like he was going to be ill. Jack wondered what he'd seen.

'Nope. You?'

'Not particularly.'

Jack became aware that he was shaking, he looked at his hands, fisted them, and even that didn't work. He pushed himself up so that he was kneeling and then wrapped arms around himself, staring down at the ground.

He felt blank, as though his organs had been removed. He could almost hear the sound of wind rattling through his body, if he listened hard enough.

Gwyn gasped loudly, and Jack was momentarily afraid that the Nightmare King was in the cave with them. But instead Gwyn had bent over himself, one hand clutching at his ribs, the other bracing himself on the floor. Jack was shocked to see him so vulnerable, if it wasn't for the fact that it was happening in front of him, he wouldn't have thought it was possible. Gwyn's body language was that of a shattered man, and Jack wondered what expression his tangle of pale, platinum hair hid.

Jack pushed himself upright, walked over hesitantly. Gwyn didn't move, didn't even acknowledge him.

He crouched beside him, uncertain.

'He did a number on you, huh?' Jack said, trying to make his voice quiet. He'd never had to comfort someone after a nightmare before.

'I'm sorry,' Gwyn said heavily, and Jack's brow furrowed.

'Why?'

'You shouldn't...see me like this.' Gwyn forced himself back until he was kneeling. His expression was haunted. He stared off into the distance. Jack wondered if that was how he looked himself. Scoured out and trying to remember how to focus again.

'Are you serious?' Jack said. 'Besides, it kind of makes you more likeable. I mean, not that I like seeing you like this...'

Jack looked at the glowing coals awkwardly. Now that he'd come over, he didn't know what to do with himself. They clearly weren't safe on the mountain any longer. Jack wondered if the enchantments that had kept them protected and bound to the mountain had disappeared now that the Glasera had agreed to work with them.

Jack swallowed hard when a swoop of nausea left him dazed. The Nightmare King, attacking people directly, not just sending the Nightmares out to do his bidding. Strong enough to attack multiple people at once, from a distance. Jack remembered the shadow moving through is skin and made a small sound.

'Gwyn?' Jack said, quietly.

'Yes?' Jack looked up. Gwyn was closer. At some point, while Jack had been remembering the shadows and holding back the worst of his nausea, Gwyn had come over and settled next to him. Jack was grateful for his sturdy, silent presence. He was warm. Jack could feel his body heat. It wasn't like Pitch's; that constant, implacable heat. But he was warm.

'Do you think I'm still in danger of...being possessed by the shadows?'

Gwyn didn't say anything for a long time. Jack wondered if he wasn't replying because he thought the answer was too obvious to say out loud. He wondered if it was just going to be one of those strange moments when Gwyn didn't answer a direction question; he'd done that a lot while they'd scaled the mountain. Jack would ask him something, and Gwyn just wouldn't reply.

'That bastard,' Gwyn said, venom making his voice hard. Jack looked at Gwyn in shock, but Gwyn was looking out of the cave, into the mess of a blizzard outside. It made Jack feel strangely comforted, to hear Gwyn say that.

'But am I? Still at risk? I hadn't...I guess I just hadn't factored it in. Which is stupid. I should-'

'Pitch has told me about the Nightmare King, Jack. I know a little of his life. The impression I get, is that the Nightmare King doesn't play by other's rules, and keeps the shadows to himself. I also think it's one of tactical reasons Pitch decided that it had to be him. Aside from targeting children, who are vulnerable, I don't believe that the Nightmare King targeted anyone else for possession. If it was so easy to possess anyone with a rip in their soul, the Nightmare King could have made armies, thousands of years ago.

'But he hasn't. And reports are that he isn't doing that now. So, maybe you're at risk. Of course, anything is possible. But I think, in this case, the Nightmare King is likely to want the shadows for himself. Personally, I think Augus is playing with fire. I think he was doing so when he invited the Nain Rouge to his Court, and he's doing it again now.'

Jack didn't feel reassured.

'You talk about Augus like...you care about him,' Jack said. Changing the subject.

Gwyn sighed. He didn't reply. He looked over at Jack, and offered something of a rueful smile, as though he didn't know how to even answer. And Jack – blaming it on fatigue, on weakness – felt Gwyn's eye contact at this close proximity as though it was a small star sparking inside his body. He felt the full impact of Gwyn's light, a shimmering warmth, not unlike teleporting with him. It sunk into his pores, made his vision blur. It made him feel good. Like he was basking in winter sunlight.

'I thought your centre was light,' Jack said, stupidly.

Gwyn smiled widely, flattered.

'Why would you think that?'

'Pitch says you're made of it.'

'Yes,' Gwyn said, 'and you are a winter spirit, but your centre isn't winter or frost or ice, is it?'

The warmth, the light of him, Jack felt hypnotised, swayed. He had a brief moment to wonder why Gwyn's glamour was affecting him so much, before his worry evaporated. He felt...amazing. It was addictive. Jack leaned closer, unthinking, woven into a spell.

He was warm like Pitch had been warm. He radiated light like Pitch could. He was stoic and reserved and preferred two-handed weapons and Jack leaned closer, wanting to forget, wanting to erase everything, wanting Gwyn's light to turn his world to rights. This close, he felt like it could.

Gwyn was saying something, his eyes widened. Jack thought he caught the word 'dra'ocht,' but he couldn't be sure, and he didn't care.

There was no logical thought left when he leaned up and pressed his closed lips to Gwyn's. They were lukewarm. They stayed closed.

And then his eyes opened, and Gwyn was staring at him, and Jack reeled. Not Pitch's eyes, not Pitch's light, not Pitch.

He reared backwards with a cry, staggering up into a standing position, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. With every step he took in retreat, the thread of glamour between them stretched until it broke, leaving Jack aware of what he'd just done.

'I'm sorry,' Jack said, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know what ha- I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry. I'm not even. Oh my god.' Jack hid his face with his hand and turned away from Gwyn, embarrassed, humiliated. What the hell is wrong with me? What have I done? You idiot, you spend a month away from Pitch and suddenly you turn into some-

'Wait, wait,' Gwyn was standing, holding his hands out placatingly, and Jack realised he was still taking steps backwards, heading closer and closer to the cave entrance. Gwyn looked panicked. 'It was the dra'ocht. I assure you. Proximity and stress, I had completely forgotten you were so affected by it.'

Jack desperately wanted to hang all of his fears on that statement, because it was an out, it was so tempting. But he knew it wasn't that simple. Beneath the guilt, the horror, he owed Gwyn an explanation.

'No, it's...I'm sorry. You remind me of him. It's so stupid. I'm meant to be, I'm meant to be staying focused and instead I pull this and I know you think I'm just this, this stupid...I mean, I wouldn't even blame you.'

Jack had to force himself to stop talking, tried to calm his ragged breathing and failed. He couldn't stay in the cave anymore.

He walked outside into the blizzard and immediately started to hyperventilate. Wind whistled around him. It plucked at him as it always did, asked him to join it, but Jack was too busy trying to stamp down the sudden explosion of pressure in his mind; the fears, the worries, one after the other. And beneath it all, he sensed a well of pain that was too deep and too wide. He clenched his eyes shut, tightened his fists, his jaw. He forced everything down, all the fears, one by one, until he was left with nothing but a pervasive sense of guilt, an anger at himself that Jack decided was appropriate, given the circumstances.

He stood there for a long time, imagining himself turning to permafrost and the kind of ice that didn't melt for thousands of years.

Jack wandered back towards the entrance of the cave after an hour or so had passed. He was shocked to see the fire blazing again. Gwyn was sitting by it, gazing into the flames. His mouth was caught in a frown, his eyelids low. He looked caught between tiredness and melancholy.

Jack sat down as close to Gwyn as he dared, which left a gap of about fifteen feet between them.

'I understand something of needing to find comfort or succour during dark times, Jack,' Gwyn said, without looking up. 'And believe me when I say that Pitch will understand.'

'You don't have to make me feel better about it.'

'No I don't,' Gwyn said. 'Two questions though. Do you feel like doing it now? Did you feel like kissing me at any other point on the mountain? Even if I do remind you of Pitch?'

Jack swallowed. He shook his head. He realised that he really hadn't felt like making any overtures towards Gwyn at all, and now that he was a safe distance away, he still didn't. Gwyn reminded him of Pitch, but that was all. Like this, Jack was surprised he'd even kissed him. Gwyn made a sound of frustration in his throat.

'I was a fool. I should have remembered.'

'Well, you've had a bad night too,' Jack said, shrugging.

Jack stared at the corner where he'd been sleeping, before he'd woken himself up from the Nightmare King's dream.

'I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I should train with you, maybe.'

Gwyn shifted, it was an eager sound, a sudden scrape against the stone floor. Jack didn't look at him, carefully avoiding too much eye contact. He was scared of it happening again. Scared of being hypnotised by that light. He felt betrayed by how good he'd felt, knowing that all of it was artificial.

Jack lay back when Gwyn didn't reply. He realised there was nothing Gwyn could say that would make him okay with the idea of training, and maybe Gwyn knew it too.

Why had the Nightmare King left them alone for so long? Why had he suddenly broken through now? Jack didn't think that whatever enchantments that were on the mountain would wear away so quickly, that just seemed neglectful. But there was nothing else that would keep him...

'The sword!' Jack said sharply, sitting up again. 'That's why! I can't believe I didn't think of it until now.'

Gwyn's eyes narrowed.

'He couldn't come near us while I had the sword on me. It's got nothing to do with the mountain. Do you think that's why? He couldn't even hold it, at the gymnasium. And now we don't have it anymore, so he's broken through. He thought I was hiding from him; but maybe it's just because I was wearing the sword all the time!'

'If that's truly the case, then your staff...'

'It might give me some protection against the nightmares right? And you? With the arrowheads? If you kept them on you?'

Gwyn nodded speculatively.

'Might give us an advantage,' he said, and Jack hoped so. He didn't know how many more nightmares like that he could handle. He felt like the Nightmare King wouldn't stay away for long.

Jack thought about everything the Nightmare King had said; about his weakness, about the sickness of him, about how painful it was to be possessed, how it felt like dying. About how powerless they all were, only having one person who could make the light, and only make it badly.

Jack frowned.

If only we could find a way to make it stronger.

People could start fires with lenses of clear ice, could focus the sun's glare into a point until the light was so focused that it would spark tinder. Maybe they could find a way to focus Gwyn's light. After all, the snowstorms diffused it; made it weaker but spread it over a greater distance. And though it did damage to the Nightmares, it only irritated the living the shadows, and it was almost nothing to the Nightmare Men. But if they could get a single beam of focused golden light...

Wouldn't that make it stronger? Much, much stronger? Even Pitch never tried it. If only I'd thought of this then, maybe...

Jack dug his nails into his own palms until the skin broke. He didn't have time for thinking like that.

'Hey, Gwyn?' Jack said, softly.

'Yes?'

'I have an idea. But...we're gonna need North.'

'North?' Gwyn said in some confusion.

'Yeah, North. He can make anything.'

Author's Note: In our next chapter, 'Allies and Enemies,' Jack and Gwyn start training together, which has mixed results. Jack approaches North with an idea. And he discovers that a certain King of the Unseelie Fae really has it out for him.

Thank you so much for all the faves/follows and reviews! You guys are the best. :D