A sudden, frosty gust of air was all the warning given before a small portion of the roof exploded, Jack having carved his own way into Pitch's subterranean palace. He landed on the roof of one of the spires, giving way to a blaze of ice that warped the surfaces of the cave and turned his palace of darkness into a frozen dungeon one might see in the depths of an ancient snow globe.

All these emotions—anger, pain, sorrow, frustration—boiled in his blood, bubbling, seething with black hatred and power, giving way to adrenaline that burned with the need to act, the need to roar and rant and rage and explode. There was no numbness now to smother it, no quiet keys of the piano to soothe away the fire writhing in his head, in his screaming soul, in his veins, in the muscle and sinew that bound the flames to bones that yearned to be broken, to be fractured and crushed into shards. The only sound in his ears was that of a broken bow scraped against the strings of a shattered violin, matching the pounding and the condition of his heart.

Broken.

Images of her were seared into the backs of his eyelids, of her laugh and her smile and her death. Ironically, they fed the inferno of his emotions that prevented him from blocking her out, she, a bizarre confoundment he had only known for barely a day, his one steadfast believer that had somehow become his first and only friend with her insane sense of humor. She was intertwined with all the griefs, the failures, the disappointments, the bitterness, the hollowed and superficial emptiness of his three hundred years of existence. She was the knife that had ripped open a festering scar, and Pitch was the hand who had wielded it.

There was no target at which he could vent his retribution to, no one but himself. Only stone answered his already blood-splattered, band-aid-smothered fist as he leapt down to the ground, reverberations shaking the air and spreading cracks outwards from him. Above, the surviving fairies' fluttering of wings were silent as they sat in their cages, unable to fly where Baby-tooth had possibly due to her proximity to him. They regarded him with their sad eyes, their bodies even more frail with sickness and hardship as they took his own despair. There was no way for him to get them out, no time. He had an appointment with Pitch, after all.

Where his feet stalked, frost filled the cracks scattered across the floor. He lacked the will, the sanity to reign in his power, and it roped out of control. Approaching Pitch's twisted parody of a globe, ice similarly crawled over the rusted metal, the dark voids empty of faith, of hope. As cold consumed the broken sphere, so too did it settle into his soul. There was no light in either the world or said soul; save, perhaps, that of a single persistence that refused to go out.

Jamie.

His eyes widened ever so slightly as he realized who the light belonged to, enough to reel in the explosive amounts of energy he was letting off. The cavern was no longer threatening to drop to subzero temperatures, and he staggered away slightly. Jamie. He exhaled as he withdrew that power into himself, forcing it to wrap around his form and take him to the only source of belief in the world as he reminded himself of his priorities. Jamie wasn't his responsibility; if the guardians wanted to keep their status as the almighty, they would be doing their damnedest to make sure that one kid continued believing in them. He was there for Pitch, and only Pitch, who would no doubt be closing in on him just as the Guardians were. And yet, despite this, he found himself floating towards Jamie's window, his feet alighting on the same windowsill Baby-tooth had mimed Sera's struggle on. He peered inside, his blood-splattered body framed by black skies that were swirling as though whatever gods existed had stirred them into hell.

Jamie was locked in a deep, harrowing conversation with his stuffed rabbit. He was tempted to laugh in sick amusement, but he recognized that look of despair, of hopelessness on his so much younger, more innocent face. Jamie was losing the faith that had lasted him so long, the faith that sustained the Guardians for thousands years. It wasn't his problem whether or not Jamie believed; he had never had, never needed the belief that they held so preciously, so greedily to their bosoms. Regardless of what he felt, his body ignored him and sent a wintry gust that blew open the window. Jamie started, his eyes taking in the stormy skies with a sudden fear as Jack stepped into the room. He knew that he was invisible, knew that that that terrified gaze went right through him, and yet, once again, he was unable to stop those same trails of frost from spiraling outwards on the ground. By this point, his mind was a broken bystander while instinct ruled him, giving him that edge he needed to destroy Pitch with. Jamie alternated his gaze from his iced room and the snow drifting softly about before locking gazes with Jack. He saw, and he believed.

And yet he felt nothing.

"Was it really that easy, all this time?" A ragged chuckle escaped him as he rested his staff on his shoulder, turning around to gaze out the window. How odd it was that he had lost his first believer, and yet gained another one amidst the darkness that swirled outside. Wasn't he getting what he had always wanted? Belief? "Come on, Pitch," he muttered, his expression tightening dangerously. He didn't want pity, didn't want faith or dependency on him anymore. All he wanted was to choke the life out of the infamous King of Nightmares. Nothing answered him except the whipping of the wind and the gaze he felt boring into his back.

"Oh, they're real, alright," he said without turning in answer to the desperate confusion in Jamie's mind. "Real stuck-up and real assholes." His teeth were clenched against the built up rage that made itself known once again, and when he finally looked over at Jamie, the fear in his brown eyes were directed at him, not at Pitch. It was just another stab to the heart, another twist of the knife that he was quickly growing familiar of, but harsh enough to loosen the dark bands of hate that held him captive just enough. He sighed, coming over to crouch at the foot of Jamie's bed. He was becoming all that he loathed, and yet a part of him was too numb to care.

"I'm sorry. I've just been having a really, really bad day. You can probably tell." Was that humor creeping its way into his raw voice? He felt like laughing again, like madness was writhing through his brain. Like this fire in him was burning his sanity into ash along with his very being. Sera would have had something to say about it, something witty poking at the state he was in. Too bad she was dead.

He missed her, missed her cheer and optimism and quirkiness, but he realized life was all a joke. Life, with its horror and hate and all-around shittiness, just wasn't for him. Maybe he would have realized it even if his heart hadn't been broken. Maybe suicidal hate and self-loathing would have inevitably taken residence in his soul, even if she hadn't died. Maybe he had always been destined to fall, to become a monster. He would learn to make suffering his sanctuary, learn to laugh at an eternity of despair. He would make agony his paradise, would stay frozen in isolation and rot with forevermore virgin lips. He would embrace the warming flames of hell with a smile on his face.

He would realize that insanity always was, and forever would be his only love.

And finally, that cold clarity of hatred thrummed through his blood again, granting him his desire. Tonight, it would end, for Pitch anyways. For the world, and all its suffering inhabitants. For him? He was doomed to go on, to carry this burden for all time. He accepted it. Welcomed it, even.

He would enjoy it.

The window broke as he passed it with a sudden lack of care for Jamie, the glass vibrating as it shattered. Below, the Guardians finally arrived as their sleigh completely broke down in the front yard, their shriveled mockeries of themselves gazing upwards as he lifted into the air once more. He felt no compassion, no sympathy for them. What was happening now was punishment for all the sins of the world, and he would take his own without complaint.

"Looks like the party is here," Jack called out into the thundering sky, the boiling clouds. His hair stirred in the roar of the wind, lightning illuminating his bloodied, scraped form and giving him the look of a young god, beautiful in madness. He bared his teeth in challenge of whatever deity cared to answer it, his eyes shot through with electric power staring at the moon's obscured form. "Come out, come out," he snarled, though whether he was speaking to Pitch or the Man in the Moon was unclear.

"My, my," a voice silky in confidence called out from behind him. Pitch was mounted on a gigantic monstrosity of a horse, his form radiating smugness. "Look at you! Magnificent; it's a shame I didn't kill her sooner. Who knew a human would play such a significant role in tipping the balance?"

"I'm not here to talk," he said with a cold fury. "Just do me a favor."

"Oh? I'd be glad to assist. It's the least I can do, after all, for killing your little pet." Pitch cocked his head quizzically at him, his lips parting to reveal sharp, grinning teeth. His own returned the smile, the slight tilt at the corners the only hint he gave before he let loose the beast raging in his skull, in his chest.

Shut up and die.

Where there was only shadow before now rose a massive tide of crystallized ice, of silver wraiths and razor-sharp tendrils. He gave himself up to it, letting it engulf him as it shot towards Pitch, chasing after trails of fleeing sand. Pitch stood his ground, only to have his return attack enveloped by frost. Darkness and cold embraced like long-parted lovers, spreading their taloned fingers throughout Jack's consciousness and feeding the fires of his hatred. Where light and hope had died out in his soul, vengeance had taken root, giving him purpose where he had none. Under his onslaught, yellow eyes narrowed in reassessment before vanishing in a cloud of biting sand. The ice behind Jack's back parted to the sweep of a scythe, and he spun around with his own wave of blade-like shards heralding the crook of his staff.

Both of them stared at each other through slitted eyes, and both of them lunged for each others' throats.

From the start, it was brutal, vicious, and intense. This was the battle that would decide the fate of the world, the unavoidable conflict between those who paraded in arrogant righteousness and those who openly succumbed to the blackness inside of them. He was championing the former where their Guardians could not, representing the cliched forces of all that was good and holy and sacred, and yet he couldn't pretend he was one of them anymore. He was no saint, no martyr. He wasn't fighting for them. He was fighting for himself, for the whirlwind of emotions seething through his mind. He was fighting for the memory of green eyes, of an ever present smile and baffling humor.

He was fighting for her.

He saw the waning of confidence on Pitch's face, saw the absorption of his sand giving him pause. "This... is... unexpected," he called over the roar, the screech of scraping ice. No respite, no mercy given. This was justice, in its most unforgiving and cruel form. This was compassion, in its most warped and twisted parody.

This was revenge.

His mouth full of fangs was moving, speaking words meant to unsettle where sheer force could not. They were but buzzing in the screams drowning out all sense of sound, of sanity in Jack's ears. They whispered, they manipulated, but they couldn't penetrate the emptiness inside his skull, the hollowness in his heart. He didn't pause as the ice raged uncontrollably around him, hungering for every piece of life that cowered in this dark, dark world, didn't give him the chance to speak his poison. There was only the burn of protesting muscles, the slide of sinew and bone as he attacked Pitch relentlessly with both staff and blizzard. There was only the howl of the wind, only the shrieks of the damned.

Only madness.

Where once curled strands of venom-laced blood, of ultramarine cinders, now coiled sprays of onyx shards, of jet smoke as Pitch resorted to invading his mind. He was stronger, so much stronger after having gorged himself on the fear of the entire human race, and found Jack's defenses already cracked and bleeding. His limbs were quick to succumb, his fingers twitching and losing their grip on the staff as it tumbled with a clatter to the ground hundreds of feet below. His head snapped up, his eyes eerily wide, and the ice dissipated after slicing a million cuts welling blood into his bare skin. Pitch warily met his, as if to examine his handiwork, and Jack realized that he wasn't alone anymore. He had what he craved—an end to the pain, to having to think and care and feel anymore. An easy trip to hell.

And now he had someone, perhaps even companion to share it with.

Some part of him cried out, resisting Pitch's control even as it died out. A voice, one he recognized—why did he feel like he knew it so well?—screaming, railing against it. What lone candle in the distant window, what spark of happiness he had left flickered out, and the knife twisted again. Crushing his heart, sinking itself hilt-deep into its already fractured remains.

Some part of him felt remorse, felt the pain that made him human. Some part of him felt sorry, felt wistful for what might have been.

All of him shattered.

"Go fish."

Sera sipped her caramel frappuccino as Sandy drew a card from the deck in the middle, absently stretching her arms in the warm sunlight. She eyed his poker face in speculation before picking a random number off the top of her head.

"Got any nines?"

Sandy shook his head, the shape of a fish poofing into existence above his head. She slid the top card into her hand, staring at it as it wriggled out of her hand and huffed in indignation before waltzing off into the crowd of pedestrians walking around them. After a moment, she shook her head.

"Limbo, it's a weird place."

Sandy nodded in agreement, a two taking place of the fish above his head with a ringing sizzle. She relinquished her card with a sigh as he eventually won again after several more turns. The cards were once again stacked neatly in the center of the table as the both of them leaned back in their chairs, gazing around at the busy street and sipping their individual drinks. Sandy had ordered some sort of exotic tea from the ghostly waitress, while Sera herself luxuriated in being reunited with her coffee. They stayed this way for awhile, watching those walking past them.

"That one looks a bit like North," she noted, pointing at a bulky man in a business suit. "Must be the beard." Again, Sandy nodded, and again, there was silence. The puff of sand in her face distracted her from her drink, and when she looked up, a golden clock had appeared above his head. She regarded it thoughtfully, frowning slightly as she tried to remember how long they had been here. "Um... I don't know. What do you think?"

A complicated strand of numbers poofed up, causing her to stare at it for awhile. Eventually, she gave up, causing Sandy to sigh. Time here was a bit of a complication; neither of them knew how long they had sat at this table, playing card games and drinking endless amounts of coffee and tea.

"I'm bored." Another nod. Another bout of silence.

She snapped her fingers, and a TV randomly popped into existence in the middle of the sidewalk. The ghostly dudes kept on walking right through it, and she let out another sigh. When asked what he wanted to watch, Sandy clapped excitedly and summoned a rectangle shape above his head with legs and arms.

"Spongebob? Again?" Yet another enthusiastic nod. Said show began playing on the TV, enrapturing Sandy entirely as he watched the sponge cook some Krabby patties up. She watched his reactions more than the actual cartoon, finding it amusing how his attention was so easily caught by the modern show. Really, these people had to get out into the world more.

She had dozed off when a hand clamped on her shoulder, causing her to start violently. Another gripped her jaw, which she promptly bit before hurling her frappuccino at her attacker. The cards soon followed as he spun her chair around, gripping her shoulders tightly.

"Help! I'm being raped! Sandy, stop watching Spongebob and help me! Fuck it, let me go or so help me, I'll shove a pineapple up your ass!" Whatever other words she might have shouted were interrupted by the intense gaze of silvery-white eyes, as bright as the moon. She was unable to tear her eyes from them, and they blocked out her entire vision as they became the moon, only to fade into pitch black. She stared wildly, seeing nothing but darkness, and then screamed.

It took her a moment before she realized that no sound came forth. She reached for her throat in panic before her hand smacked painfully into something above her. Trying to sit up, her head slammed into the same thing, eliciting another silent ouch from her. She carefully felt around her, realizing that she was trapped in some sort of box, and the knowledge that she was stuck was enough to send her into a renewed panic. Her hands slammed into the roof inches above her as she gasped for air, struggling to speak words that wouldn't come out.

Help.

Finally, the door of the coffin swung open, allowing her to scramble out with shaking limbs. This is why I wanted to be cremated, she thought, her internal voice wry where her external one was silent. She couldn't stop trembling, couldn't stop her eyes from wildly gazing around at her surroundings. The moon shone brightly on the platform, illuminating an arctic landscape that her prison of ebony wood had been overlooking.

What the hell?

Behind her, North's workshop was despondent and seemingly empty. She reached over to pinch herself, only to be stopped by the sight of her skin. She was completely white, with silver shadows playing against her form. Even her hair was white, she noticed unhappily, and she would bet her eyes were too. The only color on her was the rippling blue of Jack's sweatshirt, contrasting against the snowy background she might have otherwise faded into. She stared, and stared, and stared. Nothing happened. She continued staring.

North's snow globe eventually and mysteriously rolled over as she continued staring, its collision with her foot causing a portal to pop up. She stared at that, too, and moonlight coalesced over it, bathing it in silvery radiance.

Finally, she forced herself to blink, to breathe. Moon-dude, if you can read my mind, you are an inconsiderate, manipulative prick who works only for his own purposes. Also, lollipops. Also, get out of my mind. Anyone can tell you it's not a safe place. Don't believe it? She conjured up a scene of dancing European beach male models. There, see?

Her attempts to scare off whatever possible mind-readers were near had no effect on the portal, or the beam of light. She would have sighed if she could have, except someone had brought her back to life with no fucking voice. Throwing her hands up in the air in exasperation would suffice, she supposed. She looked into the swirling mass of stormy darkness before her, wincing at it and steeling herself. Her eyes narrowed, and she put on imaginary sunglasses for bad-ass-effect.

Cover me. I'm going in. She tried to come up with some sort of war-cry she could shout like a madwoman as she tentatively took a tiny step forward. That is, if she could shout anyways. Sigh. Her bad-ass-ness was seriously being limited.

This. Is. Sparta! Nope. Wasn't going to work. For Narnia! Nope. She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling the wind behind her pushing against her insistently. Calm down, sheesh. This is very important. It picked up its speed, blowing her hair in front of her face, and she acquiesced with a sigh.

Fuck shit up!

She stepped through the portal.