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"It seems people don't want to be awake these days. Apocalypses are easier slept through than experienced."
― Charles Stross
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Jack Frost was many, many things, but as he dangled in the Boogeyman's grasp, he realized afraid wasn't one of them. A curious emptiness came to him instead, a strange lack of panic that surprised more than disturbed him. He looked at Pitch as if miles away, impartial enough to see the other wasn't messing around. There was an unreadability to the dark face. There was no enjoyment in them, but neither was there regret.
Jack saw the Boogeyman cock his other fist back, black sand coalescing around it to form a blade. Just like Sandy, Jack thought, still curiously detached. He was used to this, wasn't he. He'd been slowly losing control of his body for weeks now. This would just be another throttle of his existence. Sandy had died once, just as the Moon was dying now. Pitch could do it. The others wouldn't've understood.
He just needed to let go.
It would be best for everyone.
Let go.
Jack was fully prepared to let Pitch do it. That was why he blinked, shocked, when his own hand suddenly caught Pitch's fist in mid-swing, arresting the blade inches from his chest. With a strength he didn't know he had he wrenched it back almost ninety degrees. The effect was instantaneous. Pitch released Jack with a shout and the young Guardian dropped to the ground. He rubbed his throat, coughing at the prickly-burr sensation. Pitch become a whirlwind of sand, but Jack dodged the new attacks with a swiftness he had barely imitated before. What the hell?
He felt the malignant, familiar presence like a pressure. Within seconds he felt shoved outside his body, as if he was nothing but an unwelcome guest. Jack panicked, clawing for traction. He tried to fight, digging his heels in the snow, fighting not to move. Cords stood in his neck as he fought for control.
"Stop!" Jack shouted, or at least, tried to. It was hard to speak with his mouth refusing to cooperate.
And let the Boogeyman kill us? It was that voice again, that hideously gleeful one. It was chiding now, disappointed. Jack inwardly groaned as it continued, I don't think so. I saw what you were trying to do there, and I have to say we're of differing opinions.
Jack bore down on the wry voice, gritting his teeth as he struggled to regain mastery of his body. He grunted as a blast of black sand bowled him over, within seconds losing all sense in his extremities. He skidded several feet away, rolling over and over until he at last tumbled to a stop, feeling like his head was caving in. There were several points of pain littered across his body, flaring as he made a move to stand up. He groaned.
Sand came again, and again he crashed to the ground. Sky and earth melded together. His staff was some distance away, sticking out of the snow like a stripped flag. Jack found himself leaping towards it, hands that were his but inexplicably not. He managed in time to avoid another attack, leaping into the sky? ground? as the whistle of the scythe hummed in the air, missing his head by hairsbreadths. He began to laugh. It wasn't his laughter. Jack champed down on it, forcing his jaws close, unaware that his face took on a rictus grin.
Stop fighting, Jack. The words were smooth, oily, slipping between his ears with a snake's glide. It sang with liquid melody. Relax. Let me do the work.
Jack's grip on his body slipped, unable to withstand the promise everything's going to be okay his heart yearned for. He was no match. He began to drift again, once more taking on the role of detached onlooker as his magic took over. Speed returned to his limbs.
He avoided Pitch's next attack with more ease, twisting in mid-leap with easy grace. He had enough time to counterattack, lashing a wave of freezing, high-pressured air. Pitch dodged, but there was less margin now, less time for him to regroup. Jack pressed, hurling ice spear after ice spear, zooming like a bullet, skidding, switching directions, feinting. If Pitch was surprised at the sudden swiftness, Jack couldn't tell. The usual taunts were absent, dark face wrapped in a stony silence.
The Nightmare King wasn't pulling his punches, either. Several times Jack thought for sure, this time, this time, the corrupted blades would find his heart. But his body was clever. It darted out of harm's way, still grinning its madcap grin. It's not me, Pitch, Jack wanted to say, but his mouth and vocal cords weren't his own anymore. He was mute, detached.
The snow was starting fall horizontally, the once nonexistent wind now whipping through the place humans called Titan's Maw. Pitch's eyes were slits as he tried again and again to land a blow. The Boogeyman had been holding back during their confrontation in Antarctica. He was faster than Jack thought possible, a whizzing black shape of murderous intent, charcoal form there one moment and gone the next. The fight had escalated to the point of blurs, each almost too fast to see, reminding Jack of those video games Jamie was so fond of. He wondered how many wounds would be necessary to kill his body. A nick? A full stab? A slice? Would it hurt?
Suicide is not an option, dear, the thing controlling his body said. Its tone had morphed from soothing to casual, almost bored, rolling the endearment like a bone between teeth. Jack could almost imagine his mirror-self rolling its irisless eyes. I'm a little surprised you even thought of it. Didn't expect I'd drop by, did you? Surprise!
Go away, Jack said. I can't let you do this.
You can, and you will. You don't want to die, not really.
Was Pitch slowing? No. Jack was growing faster.
Jack watched as his body slipped past the other's defenses and deep within Pitch's personal space. The Boogeyman tried scrambling for distance. Jack grabbed a dark, thin wrist and within seconds Pitch was hissing in pain, the charcoal skin turning brittle with ice. The Boogeyman tried to wrench his arm back and break free, but he wasn't fighting Jack Frost. The creature holding him captive was winter, and it was vastly enjoying itself too much to let go. Jack's cheeks strained as a ferocious smile almost split his face in two. He tightened his grip to the point his knuckles whitened.
On any other creature the wrist bones would've crumbled to dust. The Nightmare King was forced to his knees. The wind was howling now, snow whipping about like a snarling animal.
Pitch swung his other fist up for a stab. Jack caught it and arrested it in place, punishing. Aside from the Boogeyman's grimace, he gave no other sign of pain. Jack could feel the first stirrings of annoyance from his mirror-self as the haughtiness never left the dark creature. Even on his knees Pitch had the look of cool disdain.
Jack relished the spike of irritation coursing through his reflection. His magic increased the cold. Ice now covered the dark forearms, crawling forward millimeter by millimeter. Pitch began actively struggling, throwing his body right and left, legs kicking. Aside from a few low grunts, he was silent. He tried sweeping Jack's legs from underneath, but Jack was too clever. He leapt up and planted both feet on the narrow chest, throwing the other on his back. The young Guardian rolled with the fall but remained upright. He remained perched on Pitch's torso, resting on his haunches, still holding Pitch's wrists captive. The Boogeyman was breathing hard now. Jack could feel the other's tremors beneath his soles.
Jack leaned down, gaze searching the other's face as if trying to discern a secret code. It was like staring at nothing. Jack snapped his teeth inches from Pitch's nose as if he were a wolf. The other never flinched.
His reflection scoffed. No fun. Is he always this boring?
You're going to kill him, Jack suddenly said.
A snort-turned-giggle. That's the plan, yeah.
No. No, you're not.
What? Oh, don't be difficult—
But Jack was going to be difficult. Throughout the fight he'd been content to ride passenger to his body, unable to dredge up the will to fight his mirrored self. He had hoped Pitch would land a lucky shot and kill him, but the dark spirit failed.
Oh, you were playing so nicely before! Doing so well. What's the sudden change of heart?
You're not going to kill him, Jack said again.
The coy humor vanished. Is that so?
Jack was already making his move. He began to thrash, trying to force his way back into his body.
Why? The voice was alien now, as cold as the heart of winter, where nothing lived, or could live. The Boogeyman knows nothing. He cannot not help you in this.
Jack said nothing. When he sensed his magic preparing itself to send an ice spear through Pitch's throat, he fought with everything he had to stop the tide of cold, struggling as the Nightmare King had not moments ago, twisting and kicking.
He will continue trying to kill us.
Let go! Give me my body back!
I was trying to be polite, but if you're so eager on being rude, I'll be more than happy to keep you asleep next time. Would you like that? That would keep you meek and docile. How bout that, eh? Keep you adrift in limbo. I'll do it. Don't think I won't.
Jack's struggles intensified to the point of frantic. No. He couldn't go back there again, not that lake. Fighting his magic was like trying to shove a boulder covered in grease, and soon there was a terrifying moment where he thought he would fail. He couldn't fade like that. He couldn't. Perhaps his magic wasn't yet strong enough to fully possess his body. Perhaps the fight with Pitch had weakened it. Maybe it was just biding its time, because for whatever reason, the resistance suddenly gave.
Jack found himself in full possession of his body, the god-like power gone. After a moment of disorientation, he realized he was still crouched atop the Boogeyman's chest, still holding the gray wrists. It was Jack now who was breathing hard, eyes wide. His eyes grew bigger.
"Oh!" Jack released Pitch as if scorched, scrambling back so fast he tripped over his own feet. He snapped his staff up where it had fallen and retreated a few more steps. The whirlwind of snow ceased. Big fat snowflakes fell at a sedate pace, covering everything in a thick, muffling blanket. Pitch took his time getting up, rising as if sore, gathering himself up in a somewhat stiff collection of limbs.
"I'm too late," Pitch said quietly, almost too soft to hear.
"What?"
Metallic eyes, washed-out in the flat light, flicked to him. In a sharper voice, the Boogeyman said, "It's clear your magic is stronger than I'd anticipated." His mouth twisted in a sneer. "It'll be only a matter of time before it consumes you."
Jack tried to bite down a surge of anger. His cheeks warmed with it as he said, "Uh, who kept it from shoving a spear down your throat?"
"Spare me your misguided pity." Pitch made a show of brushing the snow from his arms and shoulders, but something was wrong with his hands. They were stiff and awkward, not possessing their casual grace. Jack realized then he could see angry bruises circling the Boogeyman's wrists. They were fingerprints burned into the skin, black as necrotic tissue. Jack's jaw tightened at the sight.
"Hey! I stopped it from killing you, okay? A little gratitude would be nice."
Pitch snorted. "You're only prolonging the inevitable, Jack," he said, curling his lip at the Guardian's name as if it swallowing something unpleasant. "You think you're doing me a favor? You're not. Next time, just let it kill me."
Jack shook his head. "Wait, wait, hold on. I thought you didn't want to die."
Pitch bared his uneven teeth in a snarl, nose wrinkling. "Think, you fool. It's a choice between dying quickly or slowly. I shouldn't even have to spell it out for you." He took a step forward. Jack backed one up, half-heartedly raising his staff's crook. The dark spirit hesitated.
"I won't attack again. I'm no match for you at this point." Pitch peered at him, forehead wrinkling. "You should let me kill you. It would be better for everyone."
Jack felt his stomach drop and the anger, simmering before, spiked. This time he raised his staff in a more deliberate threat. "Think I don't know that? You really think I don't know that?"
"Put that away," Pitch said, angling his body in deflection, grimacing. He rubbed his forearms together. "I said I won't hurt you."
Jack's mouth twisted, ears burning, but he lowered his staff down anyway. He turned on his heel, fully prepared to leave. He didn't know where else he could go, but storming off felt good. Maybe he would go to Antarctica next. Maybe fly to the Moon and hope his magic's influence didn't extend that far. Somehow he doubted it. He was trapped, hemmed in, his own power that the Moon gave him acting as his jailor. There was nowhere safe he could turn to, and his last hope had only blunt claws.
"Do you even know what's going to happen?" Pitch said. He was following Jack.
The young Guardian whirled around. "I suffer outer-body crises as I watch the destruction of everything I love in the world? The death of all my friends? How about that. Does that just about cover it?"
"You're forgetting one very important point," Pitch said. He glided forward with an unhurried, measured pace, stopping when there was still a healthy distance between them. He leaned forward, looking down his long nose at the Guardian. "You."
I should just leave, Jack thought. He didn't need salt in his wounds. Pitch was just trying to hurt him. But he couldn't move. Some morbid fascination kept him rooted to the ground, perhaps hoping beyond hopes some kernel of truth would appear and save the day.
"Me? What about me."
"Those three hundred years of solitude will pale in comparison to what's in store. Do you think you'll just disappear once your magic is through with you? You won't."
Jack said nothing, furious with himself for hearing this, hating Pitch, hating the dread in his core. He didn't want to hear this, but found himself transfixed in place.
"Maybe after a century or two you'll sleep to forget. Maybe in another thousand you'll go insane." Pitch sniffed, straightening. "I myself will linger for awhile," he said, withdrawing in himself. He suddenly seemed smaller, softer around the edges, and when he met Jack's gaze again, it was resentful. "Unlike your Guardian friends, I follow a somewhat different rule set. But eventually I, too, will fade to nothing."
"If I survive this, I'm gonna kill the Moon," Jack said. He found he was shaking, not with cold, but fury. What Pitch described so callously sounded like hell. "I'm so done with the crap he's put me through."
"It's not personal, Jack. You're a tool, nothing more," Pitch began, but Jack was already stamping a foot.
"It is personal, don't you get it? Why did he—why would he give me—" Jack clamped his jaw shut. Too many words wanted to spill out, emotions that had no place in his chest spilling over like a torrent. He tried again, so furious he could hardly see straight. "He never should've saved me. He should've left me dead in the water! I wish he never gave me this! I hate—" Suddenly everything left him. Jack felt an unnatural calm, his body relaxing from the enormity of his realization. "I hate him so much."
"Yes. I suppose you would," Pitch said, not gently. There was no pity in his gaze. They did not belong to any of his friends'. Yet something else slipped from Jack, something that had clamped down on his lungs. Without the crippling weight of sympathy his breathing slowed, evened. His shaking eased. He couldn't face his friends. This he could stand.
Jack could see it so clearly. This was Antarctica but inexplicably different. The others wouldn't understand the strange kinship that existed between him and the Nightmare King. They never would. The end would come and they would still wonder why the Moon hadn't spoken to them. But Jack understood. He knew why the Moon would hold dialogue with Pitch instead of the Guardians: Pitch was a creature of the darkness, cut from the same ancient cloth as the Moon. Both uncountably old, both cruel in their own way, both existing in the beginning, two sides of the same coin.
Jack, too, was no stranger to cruelty. As it turned out, he himself was a monster. Who knew he'd be the vessel responsible for the destruction of everything? But who will I have? Jack thought bitterly. Would winter be his only hateful companion at the end? Forgive me, Jack, the Moon had said. Jack wasn't in a forgiving mood now.
As if reading his thoughts, Pitch said, "Haven't told your friends, then?"
Jack said nothing. It was answer enough.
"No, I imagine you wouldn't. Quite a nasty shock it'd be for them. Did they suspect?" At Jack's continued silence, the dark creature chuckled. "I'm sure they've figured it out. Then they'll be like animals, each finding their own quiet place to die. Maybe I'll go pay them a visit," he said, smiling without humor.
Jamie, Jack thought in inexpressible misery. His jaw tightened and he swung a low glare Pitch's way. He lifted his chin. "And if I did? Die, I mean. What would happen?"
The Boogeyman spent a moment flexing and testing the dexterity of his fingers before replying. "My old friend would regain his power and wait to choose a new vessel. The cycle would restart."
Jack frowned, desperate for that kernel of hope. "Wait—a cycle? What do you mean, 'cycle'?"
At Pitch's flat stare and equally unimpressed silence, Jack licked dry lips. "Are you saying the world could restart itself once it ends?"
But the tall shadow remained silent, the frown lines on his forehead deepening with each passing second like a gathering storm. Jack wasn't in the mood for this. He clapped his hands.
"Pitch! I need your help! Stop looking at me like that and answer me."
"Your optimism is sickening. No, the world won't 'restart' once it ends. Once it ends, that's it. The only way you can buy the world more time is to kill yourself," Pitch snapped. "I can't do it. Only you can."
"How much time would I buy?"
The other scoffed. "Do I look like I know?"
Jack shook his head. "Even if I wanted to, my magic wouldn't let me."
Pitch stared at him. Then looked away. "Thought as much."
"Hey, it's not for lack of trying, I promise you." This conversation was insane. They were talking about his suicide as if deciding the location of a new house. A hysterical laugh threatened to spill from his lips. He shoved it down.
Pitch suddenly straightened, face smoothing into its familiar bored mask. Whatever he was thinking became well-hidden away. "Then we're done. I'm done. I've failed." He dismissed Jack with a flick of his head before turning around and gliding away, lifting a casual hand to wave goodbye, as if they hadn't tried to kill each other five minutes ago. For a moment Jack could only stare, too surprised to react. Then it hit him.
"Where are you going? Pitch!" Don't leave me, he couldn't add. The Boogeyman seemed to hear it anyway. He looked over his shoulder and said,
"Like animals, Jack." Then he faded to nothing, leaving no trace he'd been there.
…
TBC
