I don't like to admit it, but Pitch is right about one thing, at the very least: There's more to what he does than I thought. The magic he's teaching me...it's unlike anything I've ever seen. It's more than just control over the elements, it's shaping them to my will, making them my own. Like what I did with the fire at the Sandman's funeral, but on a massive scale. Learning magic, as opposed to stumbling upon it by accident is something that I'm unused to.
But throughout his little lessons, all I can think about is what I saw when I touched the boy's face, back in his bedroom. It was a future that I saw. The boy's future. That much I know without a doubt. But I also know that it was only one future. There are others floating around, but I pulled away before I could see them. How I know all of this, though, is the question to be answered. I've never, in all of my exceedingly-long life, ever come across a future-seer who isn't a fake or a charlatan. It's humans, mostly, who claim to see what's coming, but they're always wrong. Some mythos have sixth-senses, an inbred understanding of danger, or time, but never something as specific, or as clear as what I just saw. I don't know what to make of it – but I can't say anything to Pitch. God, if he knew what I just did...I can't even imagine how quickly his plan would come to fruition. I don't think I should add 'psychic' to my list of qualifications.
"Where were you?" I ask him later, shaking myself out of my frantic thoughts. I'm exhausted and the constant thrill of new magic, like a finger going down my spine, is making me twitchy. "I mean, I've been around a long time, and I never saw you before you found me."
"I was hiding." Pitch says without reservation. "On the dark side of the moon."
So it's true. I think, wincing when Pitch quirks an eyebrow and I realize that I've voiced my thoughts aloud.
"What's true?" I don't want to explain. My past is no interest of his. "Tell me. I'm curious. Please," he adds as an afterthought. I glower at him. I shouldn't have said anything – I should've just kept quiet. But, as always, I know that Pitch won't let it go until I explain.
"When I was little, my mother used to tell me stories when I was afraid and couldn't sleep."
"You, afraid?" Pitch laughs. "I doubt it."
"Do you want me to tell you?" I say curtly. Pitch nods, looking properly rebuffed. "Then no more interruptions." I pause before going on. "When I was scared, Mother used to make up stories for me. Once, I told her that I thought the moon went missing. The sky was dark and I could only see a little of the moon." I'd never noticed before and it freaked me out. "She told me that the Boogeyman was hiding up there, and that he was stretching out, trying to win the moon."
"Just wait", she said to me, smiling as she held my hand. "Tomorrow, you'll see the moon fighting back. They're always at each-other's throats, the moon and the Boogeyman. But the moon's got an edge." And she was right: the next night the moon grew larger and the darkness smaller. But I don't say that to Pitch.
"People knew who you were then. They were scared." I don't like thinking back, because people were scared. All the time, they looked over their shoulders, made talisman's that warded off evil and, more than anything, stayed out of the dark. When I was young, Pitch ruled. He smiles now, at my story, remembering what was, and what is to come, I'd guess.
"When were you born?" Pitch asks curiously.
"Three hundred years ago," I reply, the standard answer. Pitch shakes his head immediately.
"Impossible," he says.
"Oh?"
"I wasn't in power then." Pitch says. "The Guardians ousted me more than seven-hundred years ago. And yet, in your youth, people were still afraid of me?" He sighs. "It was a better time. Fear was everywhere, in everyone." I don't know if I agree with that.
"Not everyone."
"Clearly," Pitch says, smiling. "Your mother sounds like an extraordinary woman. Not afraid of me...and she raised her daughter to be fearless as well."
"Not fearless." I correct, but I don't mind admitting fear, not when it will get him off the subject of my childhood. I shouldn't have brought it up in the first place. Not with someone as old as Pitch – that had been foolish.
"You're changing the subject." Pitch says after a moment, smirking at me. I want to smack him. But more than that, I want to kick myself.
"And you are annoyingly perceptive." I shoot back.
"When were you born?" Pitch asks again, insisting this time.
"Long time ago," I say evasively. "Where are your nightmares, by the way? I haven't seen them around, making trouble." Pitch gives me a look and I know that the swift change of subject hasn't gone unnoticed, but he doesn't press it. He's too eager to show off.
"Oh, I'll show you." Pitch says, extending a hand. I ignore it and fly into the air. "You might need Fyra," he suggests. I stick my forefingers in my mouth and whistle loudly, the sound flying in the wind, magnifying. Fyra appears instantly, nickering happily when she sees me. Together, the three of us fly, following Pitch through the shadows. Finally, he descends, sinking through the decaying ground into tunnels that seem familiar to me.
"Where are we?" I ask, but as soon as I look around I know the answer. Broken eggs litter the ground, their painted shells shattered. Flowers and other plant-life, some that my own music helped to grow, lay wilted on the dead ground. Bunny's tunnels. I think it just as Pitch says the words aloud. "What happened here?" There's no way that any of the eggs could've escaped this massacre. But where are the Guardians? These tunnels travel throughout the world, literally, but still, I would have thought that they'd be around somewhere. Bunnymund especially. He's got to be going out of his mind.
The thought makes guilt ping in my gut, but I steadfastly ignore it. That's worked out for me pretty well so far.
"I think we're about to have company." Pitch says gleefully and I vanish without a thought. Habit, really. Footsteps rumble through the tunnel and Pitch melts into the shadow. Fyra has disappeared as well. Both of us watch, unseen, as Bunnymund bounds towards us, his gray fur looking patchy and unkempt, his whiskers drooping. He looks like death, to be quite honest. Then it hits me: Kids are already waking up on Easter morning, and discovering that no eggs have been delivered. They're beginning to stop believing in him.
"Look at the Easter Bunny," Pitch says, his voice echoing from the shadows. He can't help himself, can he? I think to myself. "Your future looks dismal, I must say."
"Pitch!" Bunny shouts, straightening and whipping out his boomerangs. He swears violently, looking around. Pitch cackles, slipping out of the shadows and solidifying for a moment.
"I'm afraid that there's nothing left for you. Any of you." Pitch says, laughing at Bunny's decrepit state. Bunny hurls one of his weapons at Pitch's head, but it simply goes through the Nightmare King before ricocheting back into Bunny's paw. "Was that really necessary?" Pitch asks patronizingly.
"That was for Sparks!" Bunny snarls. I startle forward a little, almost losing my invisibility. For me? "What the bloody hell did your damned nightmare do with her?"
"Sparks?" Pitch repeats, looking towards me for only the briefest of seconds. "Why, she's perfectly safe. Exactly where she wants to be." Bunny snarls wordlessly and lunges at Pitch, who just laughs and melts away. But Bunny, even in his weakened state, doesn't give up the attack. Pitch keeps dodging, but he's enjoying himself too much. He's sloppy, and eventually, Bunny gains an edge. His boomerang flies through the air and Pitch isn't paying enough attention to evade it. I don't hesitate, moving between the two of them and setting myself fully on fire. The projectile passes through my chest painfully – more painfully than I expect – and bursts into flames as it does so. I solidify, falling to the ground as I try to catch my breath. I should be used to things passing through me. I used to be used to it, but after my brief stint with the Guardians, my defenses have lowered, and so has my pain tolerance, apparently.
"Sparks!" Pitch and Bunny both say together, their voices a chorus of concern. Bunny seems to be frozen in place, his eyes wide with incomprehension and disbelief. Pitch swoops to my side, kneeling next to me. Fyra appears, barring the way between Bunny and I, her coal eyes glowing with protective anger.
"Are you alright?" he asks urgently. "Sparks, answer me."
"I'm fine," I grind through my teeth, pressing a hand against my chest, as if stifling the flow of blood from a wound, though mine isn't something so physical. "Ow. Dammit."
"Sparks?" Bunny repeats himself. "What – what are you doing, sheila? He's going to kill you, like he's trying to kill all of us!"
"And yet it was your weapon that hurt her," Pitch hurls at him, murder in his eyes. "You and yours already tried that, though, didn't they? Her Jack had to keep her from dying by your hand."
"Sparks..." Bunny says, wounded. That pisses me off. I stand of my own volition, meeting the Easter Bunny's eyes. He has no right to look at me like that.
"Yes, Bunny, it's true." I say calmly, my eyes blazing, though my voice is calm. Fyra snorts in appreciation of my strength, vanishing to cause trouble somewhere else now that I've proven that I'm all set here. "I've turned traitor. Working with the big bad guy. Here's the rub: he's the only one that's been honest with me. Funny thing, that."
"But – " Bunny tries again and I stop him.
"But nothing." I say, my voice deadly. "Goodbye Bunny." Pitch smiles warmly at me and ghosts through the tunnel wall and I move to follow. Bunny hops in front of my, blocking my path.
"Sparks," he says. "No. You can't do this."
"I do what I want." I reply. "I do what suits me, when it suits me. I told you that I was done and I kept my word." I float above him now, but stick my face near his. Up close, Bunnymund looks even more haggard, if that's possible. "And now, I will do whatever it takes to make sure that you are forgotten forever." I vanish then, and follow Pitch up into the open air.
That last bit was cruel, but true. It's what Pitch wants. I have to do it. Now Bunny will tell the others. My heart sinks at that thought. Jack will be crushed. He'll be devastated.
But maybe it will convince him not to fight for the Guardians. Maybe it will be enough to take him out of this insane, dangerous equation.
"Sparks?" Pitch asks, back in his underground lair. I have been silent for hours, wrapped up in my own thoughts and absently practicing magic. Diamonds litter the overlarge space that Pitch has deemed "my rooms." They're extravagant and stupid, actually decorated in fiery colors, with fires constantly blazing from the ceiling, as opposed to decaying like the rest of Pitch's home. I don't want them, but I know better than to argue with him at his point. "Are you quite alright?"
"Fine," I say immediately.
"Liar." Pitch calls me out just as fast. I glare at him.
"Says who?" I snap.
"I do." Pitch moves in front of me, looking like he wants to say something but doesn't know how to word it. "Sparks...what do you want?"
"I just want Jack to be – "
"Not for him." Pitch interrupts, waving his hands, trying to articulate himself. "What do you want for you? You can't want nothing but Jack's safety. I've already promised that."
"I want..." I say, faltering. I've never thought about it. Never. Not once. Not even when I was human. Mother always told me to look after Jack, so I did. And when I died, when we died, that desire transferred. I never cared that I was always sick, miserable, and powerless, because I knew that I was working to keep Jack safe.
But now, as I play absently with a diamond, I think about it for myself. What do I want?
"I want to forget." I say finally. Pitch looks at me oddly.
"What?"
"I want to forget." I repeat myself. I have been alive for so, so long. Longer than three-hundred years. Longer than Jack, longer than most of the Guardians, in fact. I don't want to have to live with the memories anymore. I don't want to remember any of it anymore. I want what Jack was blessed with. I want what the Man on the Moon gave him.
Nearly twelve centuries. That's the answer that Pitch was looking for earlier today when he asked how old I am. One-thousand-two-hundred-and-fifty-six. Twelve centuries of mistakes, guilt, and only three-hundred of those where I knew who I was and what I had to do.
I'm too old. I've been alive for too long. And now, all I want is to forget.
So what do my brilliant readers think of this new development? I would like to hear all of your opinions. And, to those who do leave reviews: Thank you. Thank you so very much. Your kind, inspiring, constructive words are what get me through the bad days.
~Fae