Solitude and Darkness
Ch. 10.
EDITED by the lovely The Fallen Angel of Pain.
~s~s~S~s~s~
He wasn't sure just how long it had been – he only knew he had spent the majority of his time in the mural room just crying. And yet, he found some cynical irony. They say when you cry, pour out all your hurt and pain, you feel better both emotionally and physically. Jack could laugh if he wasn't so exhausted and drained. Whoever said crying was the ultimate method of healing, should have their eyes gouged out.
He did not feel any better; if anything, he felt worse. He was exhausted and pained, his body protesting each and every movement he made. His eyes hurt and his head was throbbing, like a violent game of dodge ball was going on in it. He was so tired, his eyes puffy and refusing to open further than their half closed state.
He wanted to sleep.
But no, this was not an option. He had to get up, move, and do something. Though what, he was unsure. Perhaps now would be a good time to talk to the Guardians. That is, if they would even give him a straight answer. It seemed now that such a problem had arose, they keep brushing his questions and confusion off, trying to play off the whole ordeal as something easily fixed. They were Guardians, North said; they would fix this in no time, was what he implied.
'But will it truly be alright in the end?' the voice asked, 'Even if you fix this overnight, what then? How will the rest of the spirit world see you and the Guardians then? How will you ever be seen as anything but a monster after this?'
Jack didn't give the voice an answer – he didn't have one. Instead, he sighed shakily and rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes, pushing some of his ice into his palms to bring down the heated puffiness. The redness was mostly reduced, but if he were anywhere near a mirror, he would not have left the room the way he was looking.
The dark, lonely hallway he trudged through to reach the main building seemed longer than it used to be. Like an extra mile was added on, and he simply wasn't getting anywhere. He felt like a prodigal traveler trekking through a desert. His legs felt tight and sluggish as they shuffled through thick sand, a destination unseen and a distance in its way at all times. The further he moved forward, the further back he seemed to go. His body ached, and he just wanted to stop and collapse.
'You are not allowed to feel so pained, sprite,' the voice said, 'What do you know of pain?'
Enough, he wanted to snap back. But even he knew he had never felt as much pain as some others may have. He was only three hundred and fifty years old. He was just a child compared to the other spirits. The most childish looking spirit could be wiser than him, and look down their nose at him for how tiny he was compared to them.
Jack stopped in his mindless trek, shoulders shaking as a familiar burn rose into his eyes again. He cringed and shook his head. No, no more crying. He couldn't be selfish anymore. He had to know what was going on – what was really going on, and face the Guardians. And if he wasn't going to get answers from them, worse come to worst, he'll talk to Nature. Or maybe Hal or Patrick…
Jack's thoughts were broken from their wandering state when a soft orange glow caught his attention. He hadn't even realized he had reached the central room that split off into another hall, and held two doors. One of which had the faint glow of a dim fire spilling out from under it. He could hear voices behind it – one low yet strained, the other husky and with an accented timbre. The door was slightly cracked open, and Jack couldn't stop himself from huddling against the crack to see who was inside.
It was Patrick and Hal. The Homunculus was perched on a large armchair that seemed far too big for his thin frame, with Patrick kneeling down to him on one knee and a large hand on Hal's knee. Hal was lurched forward, face buried in his large hands. He was crying.
"Lad, ye can't do this to yerself…" Patrick said softly.
Hal sobbed, his voice choked. "This shouldn't have happened…! This should not have happened!"
Patrick shook his head, gripping Hal's knee a bit harder. "Hal, lad…there wouldn't have been anythin' ye could have done fer 'im."
"I could have gotten to him sooner!" Hal shouted, raising his head from his hands. His cheeks were tinged an amber color, his tears equally a bright color of the sunset, "If I...! If I hadn't stayed away...! If I hadn't have listened to him...!"
He broke off, shuddering. Hal suddenly lurched and put his face back into his hands, gasping brokenly, fighting for a breath of relief that would not come. "It's all our fault…!"
"Ah, doll…" Patrick got down on both knees and embraced the Homunculus, squeezing him tight to his broad chest. He let the other sob quietly into his neck, his soft red hair tickling against his chin as he rubbed his back.
"Ye and the others are not at fault for this," he said firmly, but softly, "Ye were told to stay away for a reason. If ye had gone to see 'im, ye could have gotten mixed up in this mess too."
"But I-"
"Obeyed yer King…" Patrick said with a tone of finality. He released Hal and held his shoulders with bent elbows. Taking out a handkerchief, he wiped the amber tears* from Hal's face, mumbling how it was going to stain. He put the soaked cloth away and held Hal's face between his large hands, making the smaller spirit look at him.
"Ye obeyed yer King, doll. There ain't nothin' wrong with tha'," he said – his tone was firm and left no room for arguments, and yet he still managed to sound comforting, "And magic or no, ye couldn't 'ave broken that seal. Yer no witch."
His last words seemed to strike a chord in Hal, as his eyes suddenly widened, the orange disk of his irises nearly swallowing white pupils. Jack almost gasped when a large clawed hand swiped out and cut across Patrick's cheek, leaving three long and bleeding gashes in its wake. Patrick, his head veered to one side from the impact, made no move to retaliate. He held perfectly still as Hal slowly, almost hesitantly, withdrew his hand and clenched it in a fist that he held against his belly*.
It was silent for a long moment. No sound or motion was made. Not even so much as a turn of the head was seen. The only movement came from the still going fire, its flames dim and shrinking with its lack of kindle. The two spirits were statuesque.
But finally, when Jack felt like he was going to burst from the silence, Hal's head lowered and dropped to his chest, his hat obscuring his face. He slumped into the chair, seemingly exhausted.
Patrick suddenly smiled wryly, using his sleeve to wipe the blood from his face. He barely winced when his hand brushed over the fresh scratches.
"Feel better?" he asked.
"I hate you…" Hal rasped. Patrick only chuckled lowly.
"No ye don't…" he said, trying to locate a spare handkerchief for himself. He looked up when Hal held out his own to him, and he took it gratefully.
"Ye really aren't at fault here, Hal," he said, pressing the cloth to his wounds, "None except you, her, and now the Guardians knew where he was at. Ye found 'im by accident in that ancient city, long when ye all thought it gone and lost."
Jack frowned. Ancient city? Did they mean Pitch's lair?
"We could have done something…" Hal muttered.
"No, ye couldn't 'ave. Ye all stop doing what yer doin', ye all suffer," Patrick said, "Us ordinary spirits, the humans, the Guardians, even 'im…"
A small, tired smile broke Hal's black lips. "You're anything but ordinary, Pat."
A humored chuckle. "Aye, that I am, doll."
"I hate it when you call me that…"
"Then stop calling me 'Patty' an' we'll call it even."
"Not a chance, Patty."
The room filled with exhausted chuckles then, but they no sooner calmed and lunged back into silence. The crackling of the fire was nearly deafening, despite its low glow and weak burn. Jack felt his lips thin as he peered further around the door, eyes wide in fascination.
Patrick pressed the cloth into his wound one more time before setting the bloodied handkerchief aside. The scratches were still prominent, red and angry against his stubble-ridden skin. He reached up and hooked a finger under Hal's chin, raising it up to look at him.
"I mean it lad, ye cannot do this right now," he said firmly, "Pitch needs ye now, and dwellin' on the what ifs won't do that for 'im. Ye need to be strong."
"I know that…"
"I don't think ye do, doll," Patrick said. He suddenly got up, standing to his full, intimidating height, and crossed his arms. He looked down at Hal with his intense green eyes and squared his shoulders, "What did ye master teach ye?"
Hal shut his eyes, as if remembering. "Nothing ever stays the same…"
"Aye. And why?"
"Because no matter how much we may fight it, transcendence and change are inevitable – like the changing of the seasons."
"Aye. And yer the Spirit of Transcendence, the one we go to when change is afoot and when things must move on and be put to rest." Patrick took a cigar from his jacket pocket, popping it into his mouth before lighting it. A puff of smoke wafted through the air as the glowing tip was burned, and he removed it briefly to speak.
"Samhain taught ye well. He taught ye to never regret yer actions. So don't ye start now, or I'll take that gourd head of yours and shove it in a meat grinder," he said.
Hal smiled, despite the rather empty threat. He nodded and stood up, though on shaky feet. Patrick grabbed a narrow shoulder before he could topple back into the chair. Muttering an apology, he soon regained his bearings and wiped the remaining tears from his eyes and face. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm and will away the heated flush on his cheeks.
"Thank you, Patrick," he said softly. The Leprechaun grunted and gave the Homunculus' shoulder a hard pat.
"Aye, don't mention it, or mah reputation will be in the shit-hole," he grumbled. Hal chuckled.
"You mean your reputation as nothing but a big, green teddy bear?"
"Oi, don'tcha start ye pest," Patrick threatened, pointing his cigar at Hal
The Homunculus only laughed and smiled at his friend, shaking his head. The Leprechaun nodded and turned to take his leave, prompting Jack into nearly fleeing. But he stopped when Hal's voice spoke out again.
"Pat…?"
Jack and Patrick stopped in their tracks, the Leprechaun mere inches from the door, and Jack a mere breath away from the large man.
Patrick looked back at Hal. "Aye?"
Hal shuffled his feet slightly, claws clenching and unclenching. He refused to meet Patrick's gaze, his focus completely on the dying embers of the fire.
"Do you…master taught me that anything could be changed," he started, "Do…do you think that includes the past? Can the past be changed?"
Jack heard Patrick sigh, more sadly than anything. Though he couldn't see it, the Leprechaun lumbered back for the Homunculus and engulfed him in a bear hug.
"Ye ain't Time, doll," he said softly, "I can't answer that. That's something to ask him – and I really hope ye don't. But if it's anythin' I know about the man, it's that no matter the tragedy, he would never change anythin'…"
Hal nodded reluctantly, letting the other hold him up from a near emotional collapse. He vaguely noted the Leprechaun smelled like dewy grass and spicy cigar tobacco. He could faintly pick up the lingering scent of Brandy as well. By the end of the week, the new jacket he wore would absolutely reek of the drink. But for now, he could savor the comforting scent the other man carried underneath the alcoholic cloud that seemed to forever follow him.
Releasing the smaller spirit, Patrick looked down at the Homunculus and squeezed his shoulders.
"I'll be right here for ye, lad. Don't ever forget tha', got it?" he said.
Hal nodded, smiling tiredly. "Got it…"
"Good." Patting his shoulder one last time, Patrick departed for the door. Opening it and stepping through the threshold, he frowned and looked around the dimly lit hallway.
No one was there.
~s~S~s~
Jack's shuffling strides were barely audible through the hall in which he trekked. The silence of the wooden cavern was deafening. Yet even the silence was not nearly as loud as his own thoughts. His mind buzzed and howled with uncontrollable thoughts he could not pin down and think about. It was like his brain had turned into a beehive; nothing was still, he could not focus on one thing at a time. He wanted to scream from the sheer frustration of it all.
He had never seen or heard Hal cry before. It tore his already cracked heart in two. He could hear his friend's sobs clearly in his mind, echoing like he were somewhere far off down a cavern. It just was not right for the Homunculus to cry; tears had no more a right in his eyes than a frown did on Harley's face.
Where was Harley anyways, a part of him asked. Was he alright? Was he just as ill as some of the other spirits? Or perhaps just as angry?
He had no answers to any of the questions buzzing in his head. He wanted to dash his head over a rock and crack it open, just so at least some of these thoughts could leak out and give him just a speck of peace.
'You simply cannot come up with a solution that won't benefit you…' the voice sighed, 'You are so selfish.'
Jack cringed, wanting to scream at the voice in his head. But that would not only be ridiculous, but only prove how mad he had become. And he was certain he had gone mad. What if one of the Elves heard him? Or a Yeti? Or worse, one of the Guardians…
'The Guardians…' It was like a moment of déjà vu. He had only ever spat that word during his three hundred years of friendless traveling, chasing the cold seasons from one corner of the earth to the next.
What had happened to us, he wondered. Everything was nearly perfect not even a day ago. And yet somehow, with the single passing of a few hours, their – his – whole world had been turned right on its head. Nothing was the same – just like Hal said. Everything had changed. And it wasn't even for the better.
"Can the past be changed?" He had asked Patrick. Jack wondered the same thing now.
'What exactly would you change if you could change the past?' the voice asked.
'I…I don't know…' Jack thought, 'Maybe I wouldn't accept that Guardianship. Maybe I'd just stay away from them. Or maybe I'd go to others not associated with the Moon…'
A pause, and Jack wondered if the voice had left him. But no, it was never that simple.
'You are so selfish…' Disappointment.
Jack made to reply, but at the moment he had stepped out into the meeting area facing the globe. The Guardians were all sat upon overstuffed chairs and nursing lukewarm drinks, oblivious to his arrival. He looked up, and for a moment felt saddened, yet slightly glad he was not alone in this melancholy fog.
But then, anger. He felt angry. He felt betrayed, he felt like a god damned fool and it was all their fault!
"What have you all been keeping from me?" he suddenly asked, ice coating each syllable.
Startled, the Guardians' heads shot up and looked at Jack, their eyes wide with surprise. North got up, setting his tankard aside – eggnog, and Jack suspected it held quite a bit of alcohol in it.
"Jack, glad you could join us to-"
"What are you not telling me?" Jack cut in, hand tightening around his staff, "Better yet, why have you been keeping it from me?"
Bunny sighed, frowning at Jack from his own seat. "Mate, this ain't the time to-"
"Then when is?!" Jack shouted, startling everyone further. Ice crept under his feet in a wide circle around him, his hands shaking and jaw tightening.
"When is the right time, huh? When is it the right time to tell poor, naïve Jack anything?!" he snapped, causing the others to flinch, "Why have you never told me how deep this all ran?! Why did you never tell me more about Pitch?! Time said you knew about his past. What happened in the past that was so terrible that you just could not tell me?!"
Either it was the mention of the temporal man's name, or the reminder of Pitch's past, Jack did not know, but it made the others wince and look away. Jack felt his breathing becoming heavier and shallow. He wanted so badly to…do something! Destroy something, break something, he just wanted relief from this thing in his chest that was eating away at his heart and sanity. And somehow, he knew the others had the key to this, but he just could not get it out of them.
"Tell me…!" he rasped, shaking, "What don't I know? What do I need to know? What did we really do to the world?"
No one answered. No one could answer. What could they possibly say? And more than that, no one even wanted to answer. The Guardians each just looked to one another almost pleadingly, mentally asking the other to say something. But their pleas to one another were empty and useless, and Jack could feel his icy blood boiling.
"Why are you guys not saying anything?" he rasped, his frame shaking with repressed anger. But again, no answer was forthcoming. He would only gain mournful looks and wordless silence.
It only made the frost sprite angrier.
Clenching his staff to nearly the point of breaking, he pointed the hook at them threateningly, causing a couple of them to flinch.
"No, you all don't get to do this to me – not again," he growled, his staff shaking, "You all don't get to ignore me and pretend everything's okay when it's clearly not! So talk! What exactly are we doing to the world?!"
"Jack…" North started, voice oddly low, and his expression pleading, "We cannot speak of this now, it is not right time."
Jack's hearing was struck by a loud ringing then at the man's words. Numbness overcame his body, as if his ice powers had rebound and froze him stiff to the spot. Not the right time, he said. Could not speak of it now, he said.
That one comment seemed to drain Jack of everything he had – his will, his drive, his god damned sanity; he just wanted everything to stop.
But before he could open his mouth…
"If you are quite done screaming…" Jack startled and turned to the source of the voice, tensing as Mother Nature entered the room. She looked at each of the Guardians in turn, her expression cold and accusing. It was like she was trying to physically harm them with just a gaze alone, and it seemed to work to a degree.
Jack felt his bound wrist throb as her gaze settled on him, and he nearly buckled under the stare and the shock of pain. But like the others, he held his ground and lowered his eyes, hoping the show of submission would deter her.
Whether it did or not was a mystery, but she eventually cancelled out the bracelets' connection and spoke.
"Hal is now ready to look into Pitch's mind," she said, "You will all be there, with no exception or excuse. Am I clear?"
Muttered affirmatives were given, each of the Guardians displaying their own anxieties and fears for the situation. Without another word, Nature turned on her heels and made her way to what they could only guess was Pitch's room. They highly doubted he was going to be moved right now for any reason barring Nature's command.
It was quiet in the lounge room for what felt like the longest moment, but was soon broken when North sighed and rubbed his forehead.
"You heard her, let us be moving…" he grunted.
Nodding, the others got up and made their way for the door. Tooth and Sandy threw Jack sympathizing looks – which he returned with a scowl that would make Patrick all too proud. The two cringed and quickly floated off, while Bunny only gave him a brief glance and lumbered after them.
Jack felt himself drain of his energy, exhausted once again. But it was when a large hand landed on his shoulder did he feel it all come crashing back all at once. His brain screamed Disliber at him, and he swiftly turned with his staff pointed at the Devil's face.
Only, it wasn't the Jersey Devil, but North. He seemed briefly surprised by the invasion of Jack's weapon in his face, but quickly calmed and sighed through his nose.
"You are upset," he said. A statement; he didn't need to ask if or why Jack was upset.
Though caught off guard, Jack only growled in frustration and pulled his staff back, not even bothering to look at North. He looked like he was about to say something, but then scoffed and turned away, shuffling for the door.
"Jack, wait…" North called softly.
Jack made no reply. His brain was in a rush, going a million miles a minute as it screamed ignore ignore ignore no more stop no more hurting. He was not going to listen to another excuse. He had to get out of there now and-
'Coward…'
He stopped. And then he turned and faced North, his eyes focused on some point just below the Russian man's eyes. He wanted to outright scream.
Shoulders sagging, North approached Jack, but made no move to touch him again – a wise choice in Jack's opinion.
"Jack…" he started in that still soft, almost pleading tone.
'Get on with it…' Jack thought.
"Jack, we are not meaning to hurt you," he started.
"Yeah, well you should try a bit harder," Jack snapped. North sighed, his cookie-laden breath ghosting Jack's hair.
"Yes, I suppose we should…" he said, "We are not used to this; being like family. We are more accustomed to being by ourselves, working, fulfilling purpose."
"So anyone without a purpose – or someone with one you don't like – should be ignored and kept in the dark."
"Jack, no!" North suddenly bellowed, startling the frost sprite. He looked up with wide eyes at North, who was frowning down at him sadly. He calmed slightly, expression hurt. Jack almost felt guilty.
"Is this truly what you think of us?" North asked.
Jack did not answer, so North moved on.
"We never told you some of these things about ourselves because…it seems like we ourselves have forgotten about it," he said, "We have moved on, and there just seemed to be no reason to talk about it."
"But there is now, isn't there?" Jack muttered. North shook his head.
"No, we…" he sighed, "Jack, this is not easy. Things in past happen, and they cannot be changed. We cannot afford to dwell on them, we have children and more important things to worry about! It is…unfortunate that our actions have caused such a mess, but we will fix it. We are-"
"North…" Jack cut in, scowling at the floor, "If you say 'we are Guardians', I swear to god, I will freeze your mouth shut." He brushed North off and turned to walk away.
North did not call the sprite back, but nor did he feel like he shouldn't do something. In the end, he could only watch Jack's retreating back vanish through the door and down the hall. And all he could think, all alone in the vacant room, the looming globe staring him down almost accusingly, was, what have we done?
~s~S~s~
It felt like he was attending a funeral – a funeral for someone he didn't even know. He felt like he was intruding, like that one person no one wanted to be around, and yet had simply invited himself because he had nothing better to do. The room was so dimly lit, only a small cluster of candles lit upon the nightstand by the bed.
The casting of light, the grim atmosphere with the Guardians and Nature around the bed, Patrick by the door like a bouncer to a club, and Pitch… he looked dead. It really did feel like a funeral.
He was supposedly asleep, or perhaps in a coma, but Jack could not help but wonder if Pitch was even still alive anymore. He looked so fragile and thin from what he once remembered, the bed virtually dwarfing his thin frame. It actually looked like he could easily snap his neck with any wrong turn of the head – it scared Jack, just how far the Boogeyman had visibly fallen.
Hal was in the back of the room, poring over a desk with an open book on it. Jack had taken a peek to see what was in it, but all he could tell was that it was written in a different language and boasted many symbols he could not identify. Hal's cat-like eyes penetrated the dark of the room and swerved over the pages, his only real light source being the ever-burning Jack-o-lantern hanging from his broom. The orange-sized pumpkin seemed to spit out bursts of various colors – from red, to yellow, to green, to blue, and even purple. Its flame was a plethora of color, and something Jack never fully understood*.
"Do ye know what he's doin'?" Jack startled at the gruff whisper, turning to see Patrick focused fully on the motionless Boogeyman in the bed. He shook his head.
"I…only got that he's somehow able to look into people's minds?" he whispered. The room was so deathly still and thick with tension, he felt like he had to whisper.
Patrick shook his head. "No. Hal can't look into somethin' as fickle as the mind, but the very soul. When still in the body, he needs a bit of preparation time, otherwise dealin' with souls is easy for 'im."
Jack frowned, not understanding. Patrick continued.
"The soul is like a shadow, a reflection of one's emotions and mental state," Patrick explained, "Dependin' on how bad the damage is mentally and emotionally, it will reflect itself to Hal and show him just how hurt it is. He will feel everything Pitch is feeling now for but a split second*."
Jack's head veered to Hal. The Homunculus seemed to have not heard Jack or Patrick, and only focused intently on his book. His foot was jangling erratically by the desk chair leg, his breathing even. Yet somehow, Jack knew he was nervous – maybe even scared. Who knew what he was going to see inside a man like Pitch? What would he even see in the state he was now? Everything – the torture, the pain, the loneliness…he was going to feel it all for the tiniest moment.
Would that be too long, even for him…?
Hal suddenly snapped the book shut and turned to the others, broom in hand. Nature regarded him coolly.
"Are we ready?" she asked softly, yet with an air of stoic urgency.
Hal only nodded, and stepped up to Pitch's bedside. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a stick of charcoal. They faintly heard him mutter a silent pardon as he gently moved the blanket down from Pitch's chin to his waist. He was completely bare under the blankets aside from some soft trousers Nature procured from North. No scars were prominent on the Boogeyman's torso, the bandages having been removed. It was as if he had never been hurt – spirits healed so fast, it was amazing how a whole fifty years' worth of damage could just be erased from the physical body.
The only thing left behind was a small, almost insignificant scar running from his sternum up to his left breast. It was barely two inches long. And yet, any scar on a spirit was worrisome. Very few things could cause a spirit to scar – one being self-harm.
Hal seemed to examine Pitch, gently running a thumb over the Boogeyman's brow. His lips thinned, and a shudder climbed up his spine; he looked pained. Breathing through his nose, the Homunculus took out the charcoal and reached over to Pitch's chest. Carefully, he drew a circle on his breast – over his heart – that was about the size of a child's fist. Runes were then scribbled meticulously inside and around it. He finished it by drawing what looked to be a keyhole in the circle's center.
Then he reached up for Pitch's forehead. He drew yet another circle, this one dollar-coin sized. And inside it, he drew a vertically drawn eye, and a single rune above the circle.
He put the charcoal stick away and stood up straight, looking to the others.
"Please step back," he said, "I do not know how he will take to having his soul invaded."
Heeding the warning, everyone stepped back a few paces until their backs nearly touched a wall. Once sure everyone was a safe distance away, Hal picked up his broom and held the Jack-o-lantern over Pitch's head, and started gently swaying it like a pendulum.
"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust," he started an incantation, "When the Light passes before your eyes, may your Mind speak no lies, your Heart be my door, into the Transcendence*."
The gourd passed two more times over Pitch's head, before the marks Hal drew on him began to glitter and speckle with orange and red embers. Smoke rose from the areas, and before anyone could voice their concern, everything in Hal's mind was swallowed in a flash of tainted blackness…
…
Screams echoed and reverberated in a skull no more his own, rattling the boney structures of his (not his) body. Pain flared and clawed at his (not his*) body like a trapped animal would a trap. And there, just in his center (not mine!) there was fear.
Agony then, as needles pushed and wove through the body of the one his mind invaded. A fiery soul the color of gold and silver, it was being torn asunder. Ages pass in the blink of eyes not his own, and yet no time passes at all. A flash of tainted yellow, cackles and jeers and – the Guardians are here no please leave me alone don't hurt me – so much pain.
He felt like he was falling, yet he was being launched into some unknown abyss of monsters the likes of which not even hell would welcome. A voice deeper than his own was ripped from his throat by clawed hands – no wait I'm screaming why am I screaming why – and bones were ground to dust.
Too much. There was too much going on in this shell – not a body, this is not a body anymore…!
Eyes were gouged out and regrown in their sockets, only to be plucked right out again. Guts were spilled as blades cut and danced across the soft flesh of his belly, only to regenerate and repeat the process all over again. Limbs were torn from his torso, then forcibly stitched back in and torn out again. Bones were broken, then knit back together, broken again. His head was dashed on rocks, its contents smeared on walls, but then healed and brought back all for a repeated process again. Again, again, again, again, again again again again AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN-
Pitch (no, my name is Hal!) tried to scream, tried to plead, to beg and escape, but there was no mercy. Horses spat up from hell itself danced along his body (not my body…!), while shapeless figures rattled the bars containing his very sanity and mind (I can't…!). His very soul, his center, that part of him that made him him…it was being violated. (STOP…!)
Fear, fear, fear so much fear (oh god no make it stop) no no no no more stop please, someone, anyone, save me (I can't) it hurts please (make it stop) anyone please just stop stop stop (help me) pain so much pain stop (STOP-)
Stop.
…
…
…
Silence.
…
…
…
Drip…
…
…
…
Drip…
…
…
…
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH-!"
"-AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
"Hal! Halistair!"
Jack pinned himself to the wall, eyes impossibly wide as he watched the horror unfold before him. It all went by so fast – one minute Hal was saying an incantation, Pitch's marks were burning with embers, and now – now Hal was screaming.
Collapsed upon the floor, Hal held his head in a vice-grip, mouth open wide in what had to be the loudest scream of terror and agony Jack has ever heard. He howled and shrieked like a banshee being dismembered alive. Patrick and Nature were by his side, while North had peeked out the door and was barking orders to a Yeti – something about the infirmary and a calming potion.
"Hal! Halistair Owens calm down!" Patrick yelled, trying to keep the hysterical Homunculus pinned to the floor.
The orange irises were engulfed by blown white pupils, giving the already mad-looking spirit an even madder expression. He only continued to scream uncontrollably, amber tears streaking his face*. He clawed violently at his body, as if he was trying to get something off of him. But in his claws' wake he left deep gouges and cuts along his body, cutting into his clothing and flesh and leaving streaks of orange-red blood in his wake.
"Hal! Halistair!" Nature called as well, her hands hovering over his body and glowing green – she was checking to see if anything was wrong with his body.
Patrick cursed suddenly as Hal's back lurched and his scream rung in his ears. "The spell is reboundin'…!"
"No…" Nature said, shaking her head, "He saw and felt something that led to this. He was thrown out violently in a backlash. He's having a panic attack."
A panic attack, Jack thought dumbly. No, he's seen people have panic attacks, he's had a few himself in the past too; this was no panic attack. This was pure madness and fear.
A Yeti suddenly burst into the room with a yellowish draught in a bottle in hand. North swore in Russian before taking the bottle and rushing over to Hal, kneeling by him.
"Here! He must drink this!" he said.
Without waiting for a reply, North uncorked the bottle and poured the liquid down Hal's throat, his free hand massaging his throat to make him swallow. And like a switch had been flipped, Hal froze and went still. His body was stiff, his eyes locked on the ceiling above him as his mouth opened in the beginnings of another scream.
And suddenly, he went limp, his legs and arms flopping to his sides like boneless limbs. His mouth partly closed, but his eyes refused to stray from the ceiling or recede their wide gape.
Everyone stared.
Silence descended upon the room once more, but no lights were apparent aside from that spilling in from the hallway through the partly open door. A sudden force during Hal's incantation had blown out every candle.
No one said anything, but they waited. Hal was not moving, but his belly was slowly moving up and down with each steady breath he took. Patrick swallowed, his face pale from the whole ordeal.
"Hal…? Lad…?" he called softly, reaching out for the Homunculus. His hand brushed Hal's shoulder.
And a split second later, he and the others jumped as Hal opened his mouth again, but no scream came out. His back arched clear off the floor, his body stiff as a board and eyes nearly bugging out of his head. A choking sound emerged from his throat, his cheeks turning orange, and his Adams apple bobbing unnaturally in the urge to get something out.
"He's chokin'!" Patrick barked, grabbing his friend and turning him onto his side.
Hal again lurched, a choked gasp escaping him as his back undulated, his hands flying for his throat and mouth. Patrick swore and picked his friend up, looping his arms around his waist and turning Hal so he was handing from his arms on his hands and knees.
Black suddenly spurted from Hal's mouth, staining the floor as it bubbled and steamed with an unnatural heat. A pungent odor filled the air; it stank of fear and pain itself. Jack was visibly shaking, somehow appearing paler than normal.
'What's happening to him…?!' he thought hysterically.
"Hal! Come on lad, get it out!" Patrick barked desperately.
Hal's back lurched once more, purging not just another puddle of the black essence, but something else that remained lodged in his throat and dangled from his mouth. It looked like…
'A chain…?' the Guardians wondered all at once.
Nature cringed as the smell only got worse, and Hal's choked retching only became more strained. Gasping futilely, Hal seemed to regain a bit of himself, and reached up for the chain. He grabbed it, and started to pull. Patrick gasped and grabbed his hand.
"Stop! Yer goin' to hurt yerself!" he snapped.
Gagging, Hal shoved Patrick away and turned away from him, grabbing the chain once more. He tugged and yanked weakly with shaking hands. Tears ran down his face in rivets, the amber streams streaked with black. He retched again, and pulled, bringing the chain out further. With each weak push of his throat, he pulled and tugged, the others too stunned to do anything but watch.
By the time Hal was only giving out soundless, high pitched gasps, he had pulled out a foot and a half of the thin chain. With a sob and one last tug, its end was yanked out, and out poured a diseased cascade of the black essence.
The inky sludge seemed to burn through the floor, steaming and bubbling like a witch's brew. Once it stopped, Hal was left gasping for air that would not come fast enough to his lungs, his whole body wracked with tremors as he weakly supported himself on hands and knees.
He coughed and dry heaved momentarily, before he teetered and collapsed onto his side, motionless.
"H-Hal!" Patrick scrambled over to his fallen friend, gathering the limp Homunculus into his arms. "Hal? Hal! Come on lad, say somethin'! Wake up!"
Hal only hung like a ragdoll as he was shaken by Patrick. Oddly though, his hand refused to slacken its hold on the chain, and whatever else was on its end. The Leprechaun's shoulders shook, panic rising in him, until Nature laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Wait…" she said softly, pressing a hand to Hal's chest.
A long, tense moment passed, everyone seemingly holding their breath. Nature scanned her hand over his chest, then up his neck and over his face. Carefully, she pried open one of his eyelids. His eye was rolled up partly into his head, the pupil blown, but faintly responsive. She sighed.
"It's alright, he's only unconscious," she said, releasing his eyelid.
The whole room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Patrick shakily nodded and crushed the limp Homunculus to his chest, lifting him from the soiled floor. He gave North a burning look.
"Take me to yer infirmary," he said shakily yet firmly. A demand.
Though pale and still quite shocked, North nodded numbly and gestured to the door. Lumbering out with unsteady feet, Patrick picked up Hal – the Homunculus still refused to relinquish his hold on the chain – and his dropped broom, and vanished out the door.
Jack swallowed dryly, staring at the dried and burnt area on the floor that was caked with what looked like a solid version of the essence. It was like hot lava – once cool, it solidified into a dark mass. And the chain…
Slowly, he approached the remains of the black puddle Hal had purged from his body, ignoring Bunny's hissing to stay back. He was a mere few paces away from it, but was stopped when Nature stood up and blocked his path.
"Do not touch it," she hissed.
Jack tightened his grip on his staff, anxious, before Bunny spoke up.
"What…was that?" he rasped, "What the hell happened to Hal?"
Nature gave Bunny a scathing look, and shook her head. "That is none of your business. You will have to ask him when he recovers."
"None of our business?! Look at what happened!" Bunny gestured to the burnt floor and coalesced essence. "Now tell us what happened! One minute he's doing some voo-doo mumbo-jumbo, next thing he's purging his guts up!"
Nature scowled at the Guardian. "This thing is not of Halistair's body."
"Then what is it?!" Bunny snapped.
Nature didn't answer at first. Rather, she seemed to regard the still Boogeyman upon the bed. The marks Hal had drawn on him were partly gone now, as if smeared by some unknown force. He still remained asleep, not the least bit disturbed by all the screaming or thrashing from the Homunculus. He was completely immersed in his own little world – his prison.
Sighing, Nature clenched her fists and thinned her lips.
"That essence was a souvenir," she said, "It is a small piece of what Hal brought back from Pitch's soul*."
"What…does that mean…?" Tooth asked meekly.
Nature shook her head, eyes still locked onto Pitch.
"It means the damage you lot did was worse than we thought," she said coldly, "It means his soul is dying – his very center is dying."
Jack didn't hear anymore. He had left by the time Nature had mentioned his center.
~s~S~s~
"Augh…!"
"That's it, come on lad, let it out…" Patrick soothed, rubbing the Homunculus' back.
Hal gasped and heaved again over the bed and into a provided bucket. The infirmary was mostly empty, with only a single nurse Yeti off in the back room, and Patrick and Hal occupying one of the many beds.
The Leprechaun was, in a sad way, thankful that Hal was only bringing up what he ate in the last twenty-four hours – mostly candy – and not more of that painful essence. He sometimes cursed Samhain for making it so Hal could only really 'run' on sugar to keep his fire alive*. It wasn't healthy – though then again, his drinking probably wasn't either, but it wasn't like he lived off the stuff…
"Ugh…" Hal shuddered, now finished, and flopped back onto the bed, completely burned out. Patrick picked up a rag from the nightstand and wiped a bit of the excess from Hal's mouth, before picking up a second, damp rag, and placing it on his forehead.
"There…" he sat back on the bedside chair, looking down at Hal worriedly. "How ye feeling now, doll?"
Hal coughed, his throat raw and sore. He had to wonder if he was going to lose his voice from this, or if it was going to be changed permanently. He looked tiredly up at Patrick, his eyes bloodshot.
"Tired…" he rasped. His voice was shot and scratchy, and it made Patrick wince in sympathy for the small spirit.
"Not surprised, ye gave us quite a scare back there," he said with a hopefully humorous smile.
It soon fell though, as it became apparent that Hal was in no mood to joke or lighten up. He was tired and his head was throbbing. And what he had seen inside Pitch…
Hal screwed his eyes shut, shuddering violently. He felt like he was going to be sick again…
Patrick sighed, adjusting the damp rag on his friend's forehead. He considered asking to see the chain still clenched in Hal's hands, but thought better of it. Hal's actions were never done for no reason; he always had a purpose for things he did, even involuntarily. And if he did not want Patrick to see just what he brought back, then he was going to have to respect that.
He suddenly tensed when he heard the window across from them open, and a lanky figure crept in. And when he saw who it was trying to sneak in, he crossed his arms and scowled.
"The hell are ye doin' in here, brat?" he growled.
Jack stumbled, not expecting anyone except Hal to be in the room. Although a part of him wasn't that surprised that Patrick was there with Hal. Cautiously, and with no small amount of trepidation from the Leprechaun's scowling face, Jack slipped fully into the room and stood by the open window meekly, staff held loosely in one hand.
Patrick's scowl only deepened. "Close the damn window ye brat, he'll catch his death," he hissed.
Jumping, Jack quickly turned and closed the window, cutting off the circulation of cold air into the infirmary. He looked back at the other two, licking his dry lips in anxiety. Patrick paid him little mind, instead turning back to the now sleeping Homunculus. He fussed with the sheets briefly, making sure they were tucked tightly around him until he resembled more a mummy than a witch.
"I won't ask again," he started softly so as not to wake Hal, but there was an obvious sense of agitation in his voice, "What are ye doin' here?"
Jack opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He visibly deflated, now uncertain. Why was he here, he wondered. There was nothing he could do for Hal. The action to get up and follow Patrick and Hal had simply been the first thing to pop into his head when Nature spoke those awful things…
'You used Halistair as an excuse to escape…' that voice said, causing Jack to grimace.
"No…" he growled. Patrick looked back up at him, eyes narrowed.
"No, what?" he grunted.
Jack flinched. "N-nothing…just…talking to myself…"
Patrick snorted, but said nothing. He instead reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver flask, uncapping it and draining half its contents. Judging by the potent smell that reached Jack, it was likely some kind of spiced alcohol. The Leprechaun set the flask aside on the bedside table, shoulders slumping as he stared down at Hal.
"Hal can't talk now…" he muttered. Jack nodded.
"Is…is he okay…?" he asked meekly. Patrick seemed to consider the question, as if he himself wasn't sure if Hal was alright or not. He scowled.
"No. No, he ain't alright," he grunted, "His King is lyin' in a state cause you Guardians couldn't mind yer own damned business, and he's heart-sick cause of it."
"Pitch attacked us…" Jack growled, hand tightening on his staff.
"That's where yer wrong, lad," Patrick said, rubbing his forehead, "Pitch attacked them, and they wanted you in the cross-fire. Ye could have said no and been done with it, but ye got caught in the whole mess, and made it yer business."
"Even if I didn't want to, the Moon chose me to-!"
"To what?!" Patrick snapped, standing so suddenly he toppled his chair. He marched over to the stunned Jack and grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, lifting him clear off the floor until their noses were nearly touching, "To protect kids?! Or to add you to his collection of soldiers?! Ye ain't nothing special, yer just as simple-minded, thoughtless, selfish, and naïve as any other brat in this world!"
Jack gasped as he was shaken by the collar of his hoodie, Patrick's teeth flashing – the single gold canine in his mouth nearly blinded him.
"I ain't sayin' it's all yer fault, but yer a contributin' factor here," Patrick said forcefully, as if he was physically trying to shove his words into Jack's mind, "Ye had no business in getting into a fight not yer own. Ye at first defied the Moon, and we applauded ye for that!"
Jack's brows shot up, shocked. How did he know that he had rejected Guardianship at first?
"But ye caved, and not fer the reasons ye think…" Patrick brought him closer until their noses were actually touching, his cigar and alcohol laden breath nearly choking Jack. "Yer a selfish brat…"
"Pat…"
Freezing, Patrick turned and looked down at the clawed hand weakly clutching at the tail of his jacket. Bloodshot amber and orange eyes looked up at him tiredly, glassy yet dull. Hal's hand released his jacket and flopped back onto the bed. His other hand was clutched to his chest under the blanket, concealing the hidden item he procured from Pitch's inner turmoil.
"That's enough…" he rasped, "You've said enough. This isn't your fight."
"It tis when someone hurts ye, however indirectly it may be," Patrick argued, though it was halfhearted. He could never bulk up a true argument with Hal; he was wrapped around the smaller spirit's clawed fingers.
"Let him go, Pat," Hal said softly.
Grinding his teeth, Patrick gave Jack one last scowl, before dropping him to his feet unsteadily. Jack scrambled back with his staff held up in defense, hands shaking in anxious uncertainty and agitation.
Hal looked over at Jack weakly, eyes hooded and desperately wanting to close again. But he couldn't, and more importantly, he wouldn't.
"I woke ye…" Patrick muttered. Hal shook his head.
"No, it wasn't you…" it was the nightmares, was what he left out intentionally. He could not tell Patrick what he was seeing, what he was feeling. No one could know, except…
"Jack. Come here," he said.
Swallowing, but unable to disobey the frail soul on the bed, Jack shuffled over to the bedridden spirit. He dodged Patrick and put as much distance between them as he could, as if he was afraid the man would lash out and take his head off. Once at his side, Hal looked up at Patrick again.
"Pat, please give us a moment. Alone," he said.
"What? No, not happenin' Hal, not when this little brat could hurt ye. He seems to have a talent for that, unintentionally or not," Patrick snapped.
"Pat, please, he's not going to hurt me."
"Ye don't know tha'! He had no idea that hurtin' Pitch meant hurtin' ye and the others, what's to say he won't make a mess of things again?!"
Jack cringed, visibly withdrawing in on himself. You make a mess of everything, Pitch's words rang true and clear in his mind from that day. Even Bunny's voice echoed in his head, calling him a nuisance and an unwanted brat. It was such a sore spot to him still, when it simply should not be anymore. It had been fifty years, why was he still so hurt by such insignificant words?
"Patrick…" Hal said, more firmly than he should be capable of in his state, "Please…leave us."
Patrick, nostrils flaring in contained anger, silently conceded to the Homunculus' request – or rather, demand. He could not, would not, disobey the Monarch. He mentally cursed himself, that soft spot in him for the frail-looking spirit in the bed nearly destroying him. You're going to be the death of me, he thought fondly. Sighing, he scrubbed at his face with his palm before turning for the door.
"If he does anythin' to ye, just call out, and I'll come back…" he said.
Hal smiled tiredly, bidding his friend a quiet farewell as the door clicked shut behind him. Once alone though, his smile fell, and his expression became flat and almost annoyed. Sighing through his nose, Hal forced himself to sit up.
"H-Hal, wait, you shouldn't be-"
"If you want to make yourself useful, get me something to prop me up," Hal cut in sharply.
Jack swallowed, stunned by his friend's blunt demeanor. But none the less, he rushed over to another bed and took its pillow, coming back to put it between Hal and his own pillow. Now propped up in a reclined sitting position, Hal regarded Jack with a flat look, hands folded in his lap. The chain was still held in a fist, only a few links exposed from between his fingers.
"What…what did you want to talk about?" Jack asked.
Hal blinked slowly, cat-like. "I think the question is what do you want to talk about?"
Jack flinched, suddenly put on the spot. "I…I don't have anything to talk about, Hal."
"Then why did you come here?" Hal asked softly.
Jack sucked on his teeth briefly, trying to come up with something to say. But what could he say? I fled here to you because you seemed like the perfect excuse to not hear any more of what Nature had to say? I came here because I want answers, but don't want to hear them? He didn't know which sounded worse, and he did not plan on exploiting any of these reasons.
'Which makes me a coward…' he thought to himself. Or perhaps the voice said it? He wasn't too sure anymore.
Hal shook his head, again blinking that candy-corn gaze of his. "Jack, I know you came here for selfish reasons, even on instinct you used me to get away."
Jack's eyes widened and he stared at Hal, disbelieving. 'How did he…?'
"Jack…I can see, hear, and interact with people's souls, both departed and still contained," Hal explained wearily, "The soul, the heart, never lies. And right now, yours is telling me many things* I had hoped would never come to pass."
Jack could only stare, suddenly uncomfortable and frightened. Hal could, in a sense, read his thoughts, his emotions. He had never known his friend was capable of such a thing. And yet, all these years of knowing him, he never once brought it up. But then again, why would he? Mindreading was not a trait people found to be overly sought out. One's heart and mind was just that; theirs, and no one else's to see or hear*.
Hal regarded Jack coolly. "I have frightened you."
The frost sprite only nodded, unable to really speak. Hal sighed.
"And not just now, but back at the Eden, at the Court, and here when I looked inside of Pitch…" – a rueful smile came to his face – "It seems even I am acting like a child as well."
Though it was subtle, Hal had just openly implied and confirmed that he thought just as highly of Jack as Patrick did. He thought he was a child; naïve, thoughtless, and selfish. Hal was simply not a liar, and oddly, that made him all the more fierce, and made Jack feel only smaller.
"But that is not what you want to talk about, is it?" Hal probed.
Jack felt a lump in his throat he could not swallow down, and could only nod numbly – almost against his will. But what could he say – how could he say it?
He decided to go with an alternative route. "I'm sorry…" he said weakly.
"Do you even know what you are apologizing for, Jack?" Hal asked gently.
That was a good question; what was Jack apologizing for? Hurting Pitch? Hurting him and the other dark spirits? For being thoughtless and cowardly? The list went on, and yet somehow, he could not apologize for any of these things – he felt remorse, but it wasn't deep set enough. It didn't hurt enough. The agony of his guilt and humiliation of knowing next to nothing about anything was at the forefront of his mind. He wasn't clear-headed enough to feel fully guilty.
'Even in guilt you are selfish…' that voice said.
Hal's eyes narrowed slightly, lips thinning. His pupils seemed to expand, becoming glassy and distant. His focus on Jack seemed to wane, like he was literally looking through him – or inside of him. It was a rather disconcerting expression, despite his weariness. It made Jack tense, shuffling from foot to foot.
"Hmm…" Hal hummed, thoughtful, before his eyes sharpened and focused on Jack again, "I thought so…"
"What?" Jack asked dumbly, confused by the sudden statement. Hal shook his head.
"Nothing, nothing at all…" he said, "But Jack, in all honesty, do you know exactly what is going on right now? With ours and the human world? Just tell me; how far do you think this runs?"
Jack swallowed, eyes downcast as he tried to grasp the full meaning of Hal's words. What did he know…virtually nothing. He knew the situation was bad, but something was telling him he was nowhere near grasping just how dire the situation was. He was grabbing at straws now, each one giving no answer and adding even more questions to the growing list.
"I…I know it's bad, for lack of better terms…" he muttered. Hal sighed, disappointed. It drove a knife into Jack's heart knowing he had once again disappointed someone.
"What has happened to you, Jack? What did the Moon do to you?" he asked. Jack frowned; the Moon?
"What do you mean?" he asked.
Hal regarded Jack coolly, yet seemed to be studying him; dissecting him. Jack felt like a goldfish in a bowl being stared at by an overly curious child. It made him uncomfortable, left a feeling of lacking in his body. There was something inside him being probed, examined. A part of him wanted to flee, to block out this thing trying to reach inside of him and peek into his very soul. And yet, no matter how much he mentally fought with it, he could not grapple with it, and was left paralyzed as he was cut open and judged.
'Is this his power…?' he wondered*.
Hal suddenly blinked, and that violating searching was gone. Eyes adjusting into cat-like slits*, Hal narrowed his eyes in a half glare that seemed to look through Jack. Candy-corn eyes swerved to look out the window and into the night sky, his gaze cutting into the Moon.
"Perhaps he took more than just your memories…" he said softly, yet dangerously.
Jack shook his head, confused. "I don't under-"
"Jack." Hal stopped him then and there with his voice alone. Shifting, he waved a hand, causing the curtains to all close. Jack gasped as they were submerged in nearly complete darkness.
It was soon broken however, by the glow of a tiny flame at the tip of a finger on Hal's free hand. The eerie lighting, only showing Hal's face, the rest of him covered in a veil of darkness, was haunting.
"Hold out your hand," Hal said quietly.
Though a bit frightened, Jack did so, though hesitantly. He heard the blankets shift as Hal removed his fisted hand, loosening it. He held it over Jack's unseen open palm, and opened his hand. Something heavy and metallic dropped into Jack's palm, parts of it dangling off the sides. And something else – something a bit heavy, long, and oddly shaped was attached to it…
"You need to know these things, Jack," Hal said in that same quiet, secretive voice. Jack had to lean in slightly to hear; why was he whispering so cautiously? "Take this, he wanted you to have it. And show it to no one."
"What? Hal, I don't understand, what are you-"
"You will understand soon, but for now, you must go," Hal said. The bed shifted as he moved to recline back into the medical bed, the flame starting to flicker and dim, "Remember, no one can know about what I gave you. Keep it safe and out of sight."
Jack looked like he was about to object, but instead looked down at his unseen hand. It was too dark to see what he had, and he could not fully identify what it was he held. His eyes strained to see, but this darkness Hal submerged them in…it was similar to Pitch's. Depthless, endless, an impenetrable abyss.
He really was like Pitch…
"I am tired, Jack," Hal sighed, the flame diming further and casting his tired, glassy eyes in an orange glow, "Please leave."
Jack clenched the chain in his hand, frustrated. "Hal, I still don't-"
Hal blew out the flame. And just at that same moment, the door to the infirmary opened, spilling light into the dark room. And whether it was out of instinct or a wish to follow Hal's words, Jack clenched his fist around the chain and shoved it into his hoodie pocket.
North stood with Patrick glowering at the Russian at his side in the doorway, looking around as if to find some hidden intruder. Jack could faintly see the other Guardians behind him, all radiating anxiety and worry.
"Jack, are you alright?" North asked suddenly.
Jack startled, before veering his head over to Hal. But whatever he wanted to say died in his throat as he gazed down at the deeply sleeping Homunculus. His narrow chest rose and fell under the sheets steadily, yet with a slight tremor. His brows were knitted and drawn, as if he was dreaming. Black lips were drawn into a thin line, and he could see his eyes swerving from left to right rapidly behind his eyelids.
Jack looked back at the Guardians and Patrick, fist still stuffed into his pocket. He nodded slowly.
"Yeah, I'm…I'm fine…" he said, though very much unconvincingly.
The others either did not take notice of his discomfort, or chose to ignore it. But in the end, North lumbered into the room and lit some candles and the fireplace in the corner, casting the room into a comforting orange glow; not bright enough to disturb sleep, but enough to give comfort to those wary of the dark, and dim enough to let shadows dance along the walls.
Patrick took his place back at Hal's side, falling heavily into the bedside chair as he watched over the exhausted spirit. The other Guardians stayed in the threshold of the door, not wanting to disturb the room's occupants. Sandy looked like he wanted to offer Hal a dream, but looking back on how Nature took the offer, he was hesitant. In the end he simply left it alone, and gave Jack an inquisitive look.
"I'm fine Sandy, really…" he said. It was odd; he marveled at how much he was lying to people in the past twenty-four hours.
He wanted to be sick at such a claim, but knew he could not speak to the others of this matter; they obviously were not going to be of any help to him in his search for answers. It was like he had never become a Guardian, and he was a simple nomadic spirit traversing the earth once more; he was on his own.
Jack slipped past the others with a quiet 'goodnight'. Only once he was far away and back in his own room, back against the door, did he pull out his hand and look at what he had been given.
It was a simple black chain. And at its end…was a key.
To be continued…
~s~s~S~s~s~
1.) Hal's blood and tears are an orange-yellow amber color. As his body was built from scratch with the wood of the Sleepy Hallow tree, his blood is essentially the sap of the tree, and the fire of his soul. This gives him a unique amber blush (his skin being pure white, it's easy to see him blush), amber tears, and orange-yellow blood. (Go ahead, make your orange pee jokes. I'll just sit here and Judge you.)
2.) Hal was killed as a human boy after being accused of witchcraft. Though he dressed like a witch, being CALLED a witch is often a good way to get him angry. In most cases, he won't retaliate physically, or will just walk away from his instigator. But in this case, his emotions are on high, he's confused, scared, and hurting, so to him, his logical reaction was to strike out at Patrick. Logic gets pretty skewed when you're upset; or rather, it just flies out the window.
3.) The lantern on Hal's broom holds the little flame of the spirit of Halloween. It is the last remaining force of Samhain's soul, and it used to guide spirits and lost souls to Sleep Hallow. It is also a very powerful source of magic, but is thankfully fine-tuned to only be used by Hal and those he actively allows to use it. The lantern's primary use is for communicating with and interacting with souls - both departed, and still contained within living bodies.
4.) In my mind, the soul is the very raw essence of who and what we are. Therefore, a soul cannot lie, and it will ALWAYS show one what the living flesh mouth won't, and will show the wounds a physical body cannot display. Hal is able to listen to the unbiased voices of souls - contained and not contained in the flesh - and can sometimes even see the scars on a soul that are not visible on the physical bodies. Sometimes though, a soul cannot actively express things in words or displays, so they will sometimes have to actively force upon him what the soul and body experienced that has caused the most injury to it. This is never a good experience, nor a good sign of 'health' of the soul or the body.
5.) There's a very old saying that, when you are on the verge of death, you see a lantern pass over your eyes - in modern times, people see their life flashes before their eyes. In this case though, this 'lantern' is Hal opening the door to your mind and heart, entering the soul and peering in to see but a split second of a whole life-time's worth of memories and emotions. It is extremely swift to outsiders, but in Hal's perspective, it can feel as if it has gone on for hours, days, maybe months or years. It depends on how intense the memories and emotions are, and how long he is willing to look into the soul. Sometimes however the doors will lock behind him and he will have no choice but to continue looking until the doors open again. The runes supposedly help keep the door open though. (Black Butler readers, this lantern bit should be familiar to you if you have read the Jack the Ripper arc.)
6.) To clarify a bit more, Hal's ability is essentially like someone hacking into a computer. He is, in a sense, violating Pitch's soul to see what is going on with him, so he is 'hacking' and putting his own computer (his mind, heart, and soul) at risk of viral infection, or a decimation fragmentation. He is essentially merging with Pitch's soul/heart/mind, and is risking A LOT just by forcing open the doors of these things and plunging headlong into it. There is never a guarantee of coming out unscathed, and Hal never does this without some serious assurance. In this case though, there is no assurance, but he is willing to risk his sanity for Pitch. So in conclusion, Hal is acting as a hacker with a two-way connection with endless risks, and the risks entail he witness and hold his ground against a viral attack in Real-D/4D definition.
7.) This is a serious side-effect to being thrown out of a soul after a traumatic reading/experience, and is often called 'Psyche Backlash' or 'Psychic Hysteria'. It is a state of emotional backlash and partial decimation that can last for minutes to hours, and poses risks to the sufferer and those around them. In a more polite term though, it can be akin to a very serious, very clinical and chronical panic attack.
8.) For someone with Hal's specific abilities, and psyche empathy, he has the unfortunate gift of being able to 'catch' certain things polluting one's soul. In this case, a bit of the Fearling essence tainting Pitch's entire being, as well as the chain that was forced into him as a way to bring back and manifest into his physical body.
9.) Hal's body is artificial, and a product of magic and alchemy. As such, his body is in no way 'normal' in any traditional sense. In my cannon, when one is making a whole new body - for themselves or another - they have to plan out EVERYTHING. It is a huge project, and an extremely risky one, because almost 100% of the time, there is one major flaw that could have been prevented, but was ultimately not taken into consideration simply because the builder simply never thought of it. In this case, Samhain wanted to base Hal off of the newer holiday of Halloween, and made it so Hal got the most energy and the most 'fuel' from sugar. He can still eat other food, but he didn't take into account just how much Hal's dependence on sugar would affect him, until it was too late. Thankfully this one flaw is considered minor, and does not affect anything else in Hal except his diet and energy level. Thankfully his teeth are fake, so he does not suffer from cavities.
10.) Some souls are louder than others, depending on how distressed and closed up the physical body is. Jack's soul is VERY loud to Hal, and will completely contradict Jack's words because it is, in essence, screaming for the help Jack himself does not know he needs.
11.) It's a bit of an unstated fact that, spirits with mind-reading or powerful empathy powers don't tell anyone they have these abilities. Simply for the fact that people will close up around them and even avoid them under the assumption that they will have their thoughts read all the time. This makes mind-readers and empaths very lonely individuals, as once one person finds out they can read thoughts or emotions, that person will tell everyone, and the reader will be isolated. Hal is a small exception in that he has active control of what he reads, and his powers do not extend to actual mind-reading. To actually hear and see more than what he does now, he would need to prepare a whole ceremony like he did with Pitch.
12.) Hal's ability is much like a skeleton key in many aspects. While he can pry into people and examine their hearts and souls, some people are more difficult to break into than others. Sometimes his key works, other times it doesn't. Pitch, for example, needed an entire ceremony - basically a whole lock-picking and hacking session. Jack is a young, unseasoned spirit with virtually no filter, and no adequate lock on his heart and mind. He doesn't know how to hide himself in this way, so all Hal had to do was open the door - because Jack does not know how to lock up his heart, soul, and mind. He only knows how to lock up his outer expressions and pretend everything is okay. He lacks the maturity and mental strength needed to lock himself up and bar Hal from peeking inside. For now anyways.
13.) Just a little fun note. Hal's eyes are EXTREMELY expressive. His eyes have a strange ability to completely free form, like in a cartoon. His pupils can adjust, but so can his entire iris. This kind of makes people uncomfortable, especially if he is focusing on them and his pupils may narrow into slits, and his irises might shrink slightly - which means he is entirely focused on you. Other times his pupils may expand and almost take up his entire iris - if you have seen a cat with their black pupils blown wide open, this is kind of the image you get. But much bigger, and the pupils are white. It's kind of eerie to most people. It's a strange sight as his entire eye is colored - yellow sclera, orange irises, and white pupils. Although if he widens his eyes and maybe swerves them to one side, you can see a thick black line in the corner of his eyes - this is where the actual eyeball converges into black, not white like in cats.
~S~