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Chapter Forty-Four

Rapture


It had been an eternity since he'd lost her, but when he closed his eyes, Pan could still hear her voice, and he could still feel her touch. On quiet nights, he'd go to the grove where he'd buried her, and the scent of campanula blossoms would be so strong that he'd sometimes want to cry. Tink had loved her little bellflowers, and she'd used their nectar as other women used scented oils.

Clearer than all else, he could still hear her soft laugh. She'd miniaturized and rode on his shoulder more often than not, and she'd laughed into the shell of his ear. Soft and sweet, like the tinkling of a bell. Tink's laugh had stayed forever young, even as the lines had creased across her skin and her spun-gold hair had turned brittle and grey.

He walked across the shores of Neverland, lost in his memories as the star-strewn waves lapped at his boots. The pale-white sands were like a fine powder, and the trees swayed in the gentle breeze. He'd told Nibs to mind the fort for an hour or two, but he'd been gone for much longer. His lieutenant would understand, he knew, but a large part of him was just tired. It had been worth it, the brief flicker of happiness that Tink had brought into his life, but he'd underestimated the eternity of misery that was to follow.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and Peter sighed at the familiar breath of cold which accompanied his best friend's coming.

"I want to be alone, Jack," he said, not turning back.

"I know," replied Jack, falling into step beside him. "It's not like you, though."

"Today's the day she died," he replied. "I want to—"

Yet, Jack would never know exactly what it was that Peter wanted, for, at that very moment, a ripple of shock passed through them both. He whirled, his head jerking to the side as he focused on the disturbance, but it was not near. Nibs burst from the treeline. Scrawny and lean, the Lost Boy remained on the very cusp of manhood, as he had for centuries. His floppy ears twitched around him as he ran, his eyes wide in alarm.

"Peter," he yelled. "It's—"

"Tsar Nicholas," said Jack, his face draining of color. Grasping Peter by the elbow, he yanked him around and pointed towards the stars. Above them, the full moon glowed, and images flickered across its face.

The North Pole burned. Nightmares surged towards the high walls of Santa Claus' fortress, and Fearlings swarmed across the frigid sky. Above it all flew the Black Castle, the floating fortress of Pitch Black. The Nightmare Men poured from the drawbridge, armed with flail and mace and hammer. From the battlements of the North Pole, the elves fired their tiny bows and the yetis lobbed their stones. Contraptions whirred upon the towers as the grand arsenal of the North Pole was deployed in defense of the fortress, and Tsar Nicholas stood with his swords in his hands, bellowing orders from above the gatehouse.

"Go," said Peter.

Quick as a wink, Jack had taken to the sky with Twinetender in hand. Whorls of frost wrapped around him as he became a blur of frozen light, shooting across the night sky as he flew for the North Pole. Peter watched him go, and then he turned to face Nibs.

"See that this remains safe," he said, digging into his pocket and pulling out the Heart of Mother Nature. "If all goes well, give it back to me. If anything goes wrong… The Godmother will know what to do with it."

"Peter, Tsar Luna commanded that you and the others not meet Pitch in battle," argued Nibs, looking more than a little unhappy with the turn of events. "And… what if Alice…"

Peter pursed his lips. If I should fall, and Alice as well, what then? He honestly hadn't given the matter much though. One of them being defeated by Pitch was possible, but both? No… Yet, Tink had always taught him to be prepared for anything. Swallowing, he nodded. Could he trust Tsar Luna to do what needed to be done when it needed to be done? His father was many things, chessmaster chief amongst them, but him waiting for what he viewed was the perfect moment had already cost them several worlds. Wonderland would still be standing today had Tsar Luna acted when Peter had wanted to.

No, it could not be Tsar Luna. But, if not him, then who? It had to be someone who was powerful enough to keep it safe, someone with the mettle to do what was necessary despite the personal cost.

"Jack's boy," he said finally, praying that he was right. "If the worst should happen, Nibs, make sure that Nick Frost gets this and that he knows how important it is. More than anyone, you know why Tsar Luna cannot be trusted."

Without waiting for Nibs to reply, Peter raised his hands. The stars shed their celestial fires like gossamer threads, Neverland was enveloped in starlight. They wove upon each other, over and over until his realm was completely sealed. Nodding once in farewell, he took to the skies. It was not outside the realm of possibility for Pitch to launch a dual attack and strike at Neverland whilst he was away, and Peter would not allow his boys to be put in danger because he was elsewhere. In the past, he'd rarely had cause to seal Neverland, but after Tink's grave had been desecrated, his hackles were up.

If all else failed, his realm must still endure. Hangman's Tree was the Tree of Eternity, from whose acorns the World Trees were planted. If Neverland fell, there would be no recreation of the world should everything end.

Soaring through the clouds, Peter drew his dagger as he picked up speed. It would not take him long to reach the North Pole, and Jack would have already reached by now. This entire attack… it made no sense. Pitch must have known that to strike at one of them was to strike at them all and that the full might of the Guardians would descend upon him. Peter narrowed his eyes. Pitch knew the consequences of attacking them outright, and he attacked them anyway. It was clear that he did not intend to suffer those consequences, and that could only mean that he was certain of his victory.

We shall see, thought Peter, descending through the stratosphere. We shall see.


Margaret Charming did not know the first thing about being a Guardian, nor did she really know why she'd been chosen. As a child, she'd heard the stories of the Guardians from her governesses, and they'd all been raised because of their valiant deeds. Santa had once brought joy to the children of his kingdom, particularly his daughter, and the Easter Bunny had once brought hope back to a kingdom on the verge of inquisition. The Tooth Fairy had fought a tiger in some stories, and a lion in others. There were dozens of conflicting tales, but all of them held the same tune.

To be a guardian, you had to be worthy. And, Margaret didn't believe she'd done anything that made her worthy by any admission. She'd been a weak, vapid girl who'd gotten herself captured as soon as the war had begun, and she'd spent years in prison before dying on the very day she'd been freed. There was nothing about what she'd done that was worthy of a song or tale.

Sighing, she leaned back in the armchair she now considered her own. As soon as she'd woken from death, she'd wanted nothing more than to return to her brother's side, but Tsar Luna refused to allow her to leave his manse. Instead, she was confined to her quarters for most of the day. Settle, he'd said. Even if she could escape and return to the world below, there was little she could do to be with Christopher. He couldn't see her. Nobody could, not really. She was newly raised, and there was no belief in her as of yet.

For now, Margaret was less than the meanest ghost, fainter than an echo of what she once was.

The door creaked open, and she turned her head at the noise. The Godmother walked in. As always, the fairy wore her greying hair in a tight bun, her spectacles gleamed, and her dress dripped glitter with every step she took. Pursing her lips, Margaret turned away. She was not in the mood for whatever the woman wanted.

"Sulking does you no good," said the Godmother. "Have you been practicing?"

Margaret raised an eyebrow. Drawing the storybook from where it hung at her waist, she ran her fingers over the soft leather binding. By her will, it fell open to the page she was looking for.

"I read a book once," she said, her eyes flickering, "About a girl who was cold, so cold, and starving. She lit a match, struggling to keep warm, and then she lit another. The cold came creeping, though, sinking into her—"

The Godmother shuddered as the room grew so chill that their breaths fogged around their faces. Her skin tinged blue with frost, she flicked her wand. A warm breeze swirled around them both, and Margaret winced in response. The Godmother's spell was suffocating upon her own, forcing her tongue to tie itself into a knot. Narrowing her eyes, she continued her story in her mind.

Sinking into her flesh, she continued in her mind, and it was cold, so cold. The girl saw visions of food and warmth and family, all things that she'd been denied, and the phantom warmth was the first kiss of d—

"Enough," said the Godmother. Her eyes blazed, and Margaret gasped as her book slammed shut. Quickly, the room returned to normal, and she forced a tight smile to her lips.

"It wouldn't have killed you," she said, raising an eyebrow at the Godmother. "Just temporarily shut you down."

"I know," replied the Godmother, rolling her eyes. "I will admit that I had my doubts when Tsar Luna decided to gift you the Omnicron, but I'm pleasantly surprised. I will speak to him about letting you accompany me to earth as I go about my tasks."

Her irritation as being cooped up flickered away almost immediately. Did she mean it? It would be nice to see something other than her quarters again. And, if she was on earth, she could begin working to make people believe in her. If she could grasp enough belief, she'd be visible, and then she could see Christopher again. You cannot, Tsar Luna had told her once, but he could stuff it. Prince Nicholas was the son of Jack Frost, and though that was a closely guarded secret known only to the council, Margaret knew that they were able to see each other sparingly.

If Jack Frost could see his son despite being a Guardian, then she would damn well see her brother and help him as best she could.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

She was roused from her reverie by the clanging of bells. Whipping around, she stared out the window in alarm. The sound was coming from the belltower, but she'd never heard it rung before. When Peter Pan had given her a tour of the place, the entire tower had been caked in dust and cobwebs.

Almost immediately, a ripple of energy ripped through her. She yelped, clutching her chest at the sensation, and she closed her eyes. It was like she'd been dipped in ice water. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she opened her eyes to find herself in the living room. A fire crackled in the hearth, and Tsar Luna stood before it, prodding it with the end of his cane. How did I get here? Did he?

"Godmother," said Tsar Luna, not turning. "Pitch has attacked the North Pole. You are to gather your fairies and go at once. The others are already on their way."

"Open battle?" asked the Godmother. "Tsar Luna…"

"Our hand is forced," said Tsar Luna. "Now go. As for you, Mother Goo—"

"Margaret," corrected Margaret, wagging her finger at Tsar Luna despite the circumstances. The situation was dire and her mind was whirling, but the reminder of her new identity filled her with irritation. I am not a goose, and I am definitely not a mother.

"Not now." Tsar Luna's tone was sharp. "You will remain here." He turned to the Godmother. "Alice! Go!"

The Godmother nodded before flickering away in a shower of sparks, and Margaret opened her mouth to argue. Pitch was attacking, and the Guardians were rushing to meet him. It made no sense for her to stay here. Armed with the Omnicron, she was strong enough to help the others, new as she was. More to the point, she had an axe to grind in Pitch's skull, and she couldn't do that sitting here.

"No," said Tsar Luna, shaking his head. His monocle reflected the firelight, hiding his eye. "I must focus my energies on empowering my Guardians. You will remain here and ensure that Pitch does not use the battle below as a distraction to strike at the manor, and at me, whilst my defenses are lowered."

Margaret swallowed. She wanted to argue. She was new, freshly raised, and she wanted nothing more than to join the fight as best she could. It was because of Pitch that her entire life and world had been upended, that she'd bled to death in her brother's arms… It was because of him and nobody else.

Yet, it was important that she remain all the same.

Pursing her lips, she nodded once and settled down in the armchair.


Jack was the first to reach the battlefield, and his throat grew tight as the sight. The grand towers of the North Pole burned with black flame, and the withered husks of the elves fell from the terraces. The fearlings swirled through the air, and the walls had been breached in half-a-hundred places. The yetis, those who still remained standing, fought with axe and mace, their bellows furious as they defended their home. Tsar Nicholas, his son's namesake and the Guardian of Wonder, was still fighting back the tide within the courtyard, but it was clear that Jack had arrived not a moment too soon.

The flying fortress of Pitch Black hovered in the sky near the North pole, and thick chains tethered it in place. The army emerged from the castle in a neverending swarm, and he could see Pitch himself standing upon the balcony, overseeing the battle with his scythe in hand. Brazen, he thought, and foolish. The Black Castle had not been seen in over a thousand years, even during the siege of Punjam Hy Loo, but for Pitch to fly it here himself. He thinks he can win. A chill ran down Jack's back. It was the only thing that made sense in all this chaos. Pitch would have never committed himself to this attack unless he was certain of victory. He would never risk his entire army, his castle, and himself on anything less.

Well, we'll see about that.

Sweeping his staff out in front of him, he unleashed a dozen bolts of frost into the air. They slammed into the gaping wounds ripped into the castle walls, bursting into thick sheets of ice to plug the gaps. The fearlings swirling around the towers took notice, their cackling drowned by the ringing of the bells, and they rose in his direction. Jack snorted. With a flick of his wrist, the sky opened up behind him, and shards of ice rained down from the clouds. They pierced the fearlings, freezing them as they flew and forcing them to slam into the ground and shatter.

It was not in his nature to attack with such ferocity, but the winter was harsh and cruel, and Jack had a very sharp axe to grind.

From the corner of his eye, he spied North being forced into a corner. Without hesitation, he descended from on high, slashing his staff through the air to clear a path through the roiling fearlings. They scattered, and his eyes blazed blue as he reached the ground. Lashing out, he thrust his staff through the torso of the nearest Nightmare, forcing a jolt of frost into its heart. It burst into tiny shards of ice, and with a snap of his fingers, the shards buried themselves into the Nightmares surrounding him.

"You took your time," said Santa, spitting out a mouthful of blood into the snow. The burly man's red coat was shredded, and his eyes were furious. "Where are the others?"

"Coming," said Jack. "Pan's sealing off Neverland in case things go badly. Alice and Toothiana are marshalling their armies. Bunnymund and Sandy left before me, but they can't travel as fast. And Manny's keeping the new girl with him for some reason. Beats me. We could use her right now."

"And Manny himself?" asked Santa, the fury only growing in his eyes. "Has he not seen fit to bestir himself?"

"Did you expect him too?" asked Jack, raising an eyebrow.

He never received an answer. A black arrow tore through the air and he leapt out of the way, whirling around just as Pitch swung his scythe at the space where his head had once been. The Nightmare King had descended on them in the few moments it had taken to have their brief exchange, and Jack could have kicked himself for letting his guard down upon the battlefield.

He had duelled many opponents in his long life, and there was usually a brief exchange before they clashed. Yet, he had no words left for this vile being, only hatred. He charged, his staff crackling with rage as he swung it at Pitch, who sidestepped with ease and swung his scythe in response. Jack ducked, his eyes flaring as a storm of icicles burst around them, and Pitch cut through them without so much as blinking. A bolt of black burst from his fingers, and Jack took to the air, unleashing a bolt of frost in response.

Their attacks met in midair and, with a screech, burst into a flurry of blackened snowflakes. Like shadows, they swirled around his eyes, blotting his vision, and he barely dodged the next swing of the scythe. Rubbing at his eyes to clear the darkness, Jack heard a furious bellow. He opened his eyes just in time to see Pitch turning to face Santa, and he knew that the time to strike was now.

Santa's swords descended and Pitch raised his scythe to block the blow, and Jack thrust out a hand. The bolt of ice took Pitch in the small of his back, driving him to his knees, and North's swords descended upon his throat. Then, almost as quickly, a figure had stepped between them, catching Santa's blade with her own. She was made from shadows, her features swirling and shifting, but Santa's expression was horrified as he backed away. Not understanding, Jack's eyes widened as the man began to speak in his native tongue, a hoarse language that was foreign to his ears. The girl responded in a voice like nails dragging across a blackboard, and Pitch chuckled as he got to his feet and rounded on Jack.

"Did you really think I'd come without company?" he asked, his dark eyes flickering with mirth. "I did learn a few things from the last time we fought, after all."

"Who is that?" Jack asked, unable to help himself. Stepping into a defensive stance, he circled Pitch, keeping his staff poised and ready.

"You don't need to know." Pitch laughed, long and hard. "All you need to do is turn around."

Something rippled at his throat, and he spun on his heels, erecting a wall of ice behind him to guard his back. A shard of blackened ice shattered against the wall, having just missed his throat, and Jack's eyes grew wide. No. No. No.

She approached: skin grey and frostbitten, hair white as ash, eyes bluer than the fjords she'd once called her home. Her sword was ice, and her crown sparkled upon her brow, cracked in a dozen places, and she smiled.

"Elsa," he whispered, staring at his wife, now risen as Faceless.


Pitch Black's treachery knew no ends, thought Tsar Nicholas as he backed away from the shadow approaching him. Her scarves billowed behind her, and her coat was ragged and patched.

Tsar Nicholas could fight for the rest of his days, but never against her. In life, he had loved her very much, more than he had loved himself, and he had gifted toys whenever she'd asked. Once upon a December, her eyes had filled with wonder, and when his had closed forever, her name had been the last upon her lips.

"Anastasia," he murmured, dropping his blades. "My beloved daughter."

In a gown as black as night, her tousled brunette hair now jagged and dark, she smiled a sad smile as she pressed the knife into his throat.


In his long life, Jack had fought in countless battles. He'd faced off against Pitch more times than he could count, he'd sparred with Emily Jane, he'd duelled the Fearlings and the Nightmare Men, and he'd put down more Faceless than all the others put together. He was powerful—the first of the Guardians. Yet, never, not once, had he believed he'd one day find himself forced to fight his own wife. Pitch, you will burn for this.

He swallowed as they circled each other. Even in death, Elsa was beautiful, and it stung at every corner of his heart to see her like this: Skin burned grey by frostbite, brittle hair turned the colour of ash, but it was the expression she wore that was the worst. His Elsa had never clothed herself in haughtiness, and her smiles had never been so cruel. This isn't my Elsa. He shuddered, extending Twinetender ahead of him. For the first time in forever, he felt his age.

"He will pay for this," said Jack as he rose into the air, Twinetender crackling in his grasp as Elsa approached him.

She giggled, the sound sending a shiver down his spine, and she lunged. A jagged shard of blackened ice burst from her palm, and he spun out of the way. Catching her ice on Twinetender's crook, he hurled in back down at her before firing a volley of icicles. With a wave of her hand, the ice turned to snowflakes, and a blade formed in her hand.

He caught the blade with his staff and turned it, vaulting over her head and kicking her in the back. Elsa went down with a hiss, but she spun around as she fell, ice bursting up around her in barbed spires. They tore themselves free from the earth and flew at him, and he gritted his teeth as he knocked each aside with his staff before replying with a volley of his own.

A brilliant plume of light lit the air, and he glanced up for a fraction of a second, just in time to see Alice hurling what looked like a comet of pure light at Pitch. The Boogeyman cackled, disappearing into a pool of shadows as the comet turned a portion of the fortress into a smoking crater. Then, Elsa was charging at him, slivers of ice spiralling through the air, and his concentration snapped back to him just as something—it looked like a top hat—went spinning through the air like a frisbee in Alice's direction.

Jack caught Elsa's blade in the crook of his staff and shoved it aside, and a whorl of frost burst from around his feet to strike her in the chest. She screamed, the sound enough to make him want to tear off his own ears, and for the barest moment in time, he hesitated. Elsa. It was all the time she needed. Her glowed gleamed as it buried itself into his shoulder, and he yelled as blood bloomed across his jacket.

Gritting his teeth, he tore himself away from her and yanked the blade free from his flesh. Hurling it at her, he brushed his fingers over the wound, sealing it with a fine layer of ice, and he rose into the sky. He had to focus. This wasn't his Elsa.

"Jack!"

Toothiana's warning cry came just in time for him to whirl around and see the roiling mass of nightmares charging in his direction. Tendrils of cold curled around his body and his eyes glowed blue as he thrust out his staff, and like lightning, jagged beams of frost shot into the nightmares. They scattered and screeched, most collapsing to dust under his onslaught, and a second later, he darted aside as another jagged icicle flew through the air. The nightmares were circling back around, and there were a rippling wave of Fearlings approaching, and Elsa was rising up to meet him on a tower of ice, and if the cackling was to be believed, Pitch was still here. He could not fight on four fronts at once. There was only one option.

"Nightlight, bright light. Sweet dreams I bestow," he murmured. "Sleep tight, all night. Forever I will glow."

The strain of the spell almost brought him plummeting to the ground, and he tasted blood in his mouth as Twinetender ignited in his grasp. Frost-tinged starlight spiralled around him, and the sky grew blacker than the darkest nights. The Fearlings chittered and fled as they were struck down, bursting into puffs of vapor, and the nightmares screamed as they dissolved into piles of golden sand. Elsa shrieked, averting her eyes, and a maniacal voice roared in fury.

Tendrils of black burst out of the ground to surround him, and with a blink, Jack dispelled them. His body trembling as the light began to fade, he sank down to earth, leaning heavily on Twinetender, and he turned to face Elsa. She staggered forward, her skin covered in burns, black blood dribbling from her mouth and nose, and her sword appeared in her hand.

"I pray that Nick never has to see you like this," said Jack, and something strange flickered across her eyes. For a second, she lowered her sword an inch, a lost expression settling on her face, and it was all the time that Jack needed.


The Nightmares had broken into the citadel itself, but his stone eggs were holding the corridors. In enclosed spaces such as these, they were at their best, and Bunnymund was certain that he could hold the line long enough for Toothiana to cut her way to his position.

Then, he smelled it. Acrid and black, the stench of smoke filled the hallways of the North Pole, and he reached for his boomerang. There was no smoke, and he heard no fire, but the smell grew stronger and stronger all the same. It was so familiar, and he shuddered.

Hellfire. Bunnymund could smell Amoré burn around him once more, and he could see her dance through the blaze. Her skin was fire, her hair was a ravaged mess of flames. The boomerang slipped from still fingers. She… she had been the one person in this world he could not save, the person he had failed most.

"Esmeralda," he said. "I'm sorry."

She laughed, the hellfire a whorl around her, and her kiss burned the blood from his veins.


Pan arrived to desolation, the likes of which he hadn't seen in centuries. Strangely, the North Pole was silent and deserted, save for the brief flares of magic that erupted within the castle itself. Of Pitch, the only sign was the Black Castle, but even he did not dare enter without the support of the other Guardians. Speaking of whom… They'd been here. He could feel the surges of their power as they fought, but it was growing fainter with every second.

Landing, he kept a wary eye around him as he landed. The snow was black with corrupted dreamsand, and corpses littered the ground for as far as the eye could see. Passing by the withered husks of elves and fairies, he took care to not step upon the thousands of broken wings buried in the snow. Bunnymund's eggs lay cracked beside the courtyard, their mouths gaping open. He could barely make out the yetis, for the snow was falling thicker than ever, and when the flakes drifted onto his lips, he could taste grief.

A flare of frost tore into the sky from behind a broken tower, and Peter whirled. Jack. A woman laughed in response, her voice sharper than a knife, and black hoarfrost burst around the tower. Peter ducked, cloaking himself in starlight to keep himself being pierced by the barbed shards. Was that? No! It couldn't be. Peter darted forward, determined to find out what was going on.

A Nightmare Man burst from the ground. Forged from shadow and armored in black steel, the creature raised a serrated sword into the air. With a roll of his eyes, Peter snapped his fingers. The Nightmare Man exploded, and Peter turned back to the tower only to see that Jack and whatever he'd been fighting were gone. A spire of frost erupted from the other end of the courtyard, and Peter turned again, only to pause at the chittering of Fearlings. He looked up in time to see the small swarm descend upon him, and he destroyed them with a single blink of his eyes.

"Pitch," he yelled, certain that the Nightmare King was still present.

There was no answer save for laughter which forced daggers into his heart. It was high and shrill and twisted, but even corrupted, he could hear the echo of what it had once been. Like the tinkling of a bell. Wings fluttered behind him, and he didn't want to turn, but he had no choice.

Tinkerbell. Her wings were grey and tattered, and her eyes were red as blood. She was young, not old and gnarled as she'd been when he'd buried her, and her golden hair burned black as midnight. She reached out to him, cupping his cheeks in the palm of her hands, and he fell to his knees before her, the dagger falling from his grasp.

"Tink," he whispered. "What did he do to you?"

Her laughter grew mournful as she stared into his eyes. Even in this ruined state, her hands were soft and warm, and the memories surged forth at her touch. They were dancing across the moonlit sky, one arm on her shoulder and the other on her waist. Then, she was perched on his shoulders as he closed a deal, content to remain in her miniaturized form if it meant she'd be carried in his pocket. Her lips were upon his, then, and almost immediately they were sitting on the beach enjoying a picnic as the starry waves lapped at their ankles.

His Tink. His flicker of happiness.

The scythe took him in the back, bursting out his gut, and he gasped as she dissolved before his eyes until all that was left was a pile of sparkling soot and a few crumbling bones. The scythe jerked out of him, and he looked up, his eyes flickering as the tears fell.

"That was a low blow, Kozmotis," he said, pressing a hand to his wound. "Even for you."

Golden blood poured from the cut, staining his green tunic and flowing through his fingers, and it was all he could do to not collapse.

"What else could I do, Rumpel?" asked Pitch, kneeling beside him. "We both know that I could never take you in a fair fight."

Pan's form flickered at the words, his youthful features melting away. His skin grew hard as leather, and yellow pooled in his eyes. The ichor flowed more freely as his illusion shifted, and he could taste blood on his tongue. Against all odds, he chuckled, his head lolling to the side.

"You should give her credit," continued Pitch, steadying him as he slumped forward, keeping him on his knees with a single hand upon the nape of his neck. "It's very hard to raise a fairy, and her spirit fought me at every turn. She would never fight you, not like the others. She was the only one who died pure. The rest had hate and anger that I could use. Tinkerbell… she lived a brief but happy life, and the only negativity I could use was the grief she felt at leaving you behind."

He'd always known how to twist the knife, Rumpel thought. The toxins were leaching through his veins like cold fire, and it was hard to breathe. The scythe had cut deep, too deep. Tens of thousands of years and this was how it would end. He would laugh if he wasn't in so much pain.

"Pure," Rumpel scoffed, black spots dancing across his vision. "Joy would weep tears of blood… to see you this way."

"I know," said Pitch. "Your game is over, Rumpel. Know that you will be alone in the darkness, as I have been. I am not merciful that way, you see. You will not know oblivion. I know the pain to condemn another to that fate. I know it very well. When my allies abandoned me to ten thousand years of solitude in the deepest corner of space."

Rumpel slumped to the ground as Pitch released him, landing in Tink's remains. He forced one final smile to his lips as he caught sight of the full moon above him, and he shook his head. Tink always loved my smile. The moonbeams wrapped around him, and he felt the millennia fade. He was young again, so young, the boy he had been before becoming Rumpel, before being raised as Pan, before trying to balance both parts of himself.

"Your mother would be proud," a voice whispered in his head, and his smile grew. "And I don't forget my champions."

With the last of his strength, Pan lunged as the moon erupted above them both. Grasping Pitch by the collar, he held the Nightmare King in place as a blinding beam of moonlight struck them both. Pitch screamed and Pan laughed as the wrath of Tsar Luna exploded around them, scorching the very bones of the earth. Only, he felt no pain, only release, after so long.

.

The world went white, and Pan staggered to his feet. Grass swayed beneath his feet, and he turned. Was this death? He didn't know. Padding forward, he climbed the small hill in front of him, and tears brimmed in his eyes. There was a small cottage there, with a red roof and a red door, and a white picket fence around it. There were a pair of names upon the mailbox, one written in a messy scrawl, the other in a flowing script. What are we? A bed and breakfast?

And there, standing at the gate with a smile on her face and wearing a green dress, was someone he'd thought he'd never see again.

"Hello Peter," she said, her laugh soft and sweet, like the tinkling of a bell. "I've been waiting for a very long time."


"Is that the best you can do, Tsar Luna?" bellowed Pitch, cackling as the light faded. The skin sloughed from his body, and he was burned beyond all recognition, but despite everything, he was still alive.

Tsar Luna glared from his balcony. His fury crackled like static in the air, and he had to fight to restrain himself. No, he could not be rash. Not now. Not when Pan had already sacrificed so much to see this through to the end. He was not a man for tears, but his eyes stung at the thought. Pan. No, he could not think of it. If he did, he would lose control, and that would complicate matters a great deal. He had to remain methodical in his approach.

His wrath had been a mistake. Had he not drawn back his power at the last second, all would have been lost. That was something he could not allow. Killing Pitch was not the answer. If it was, he'd have done it already, thousands of years ago. But, if he did, the fearlings that dwelled within his body would be freed, and each was as powerful as Alice. There were the fearlings that they had fought in the Age of the Dawn, and they were beasts with no intelligence or mercy.

If they escaped, they would devour all of creation, and even he would not be enough to stop them. No, it must be the way it was, with sacrifice after sacrifice as he moved his pieces into position. Pan had done his best. Not Pan. He was never Pan. You know his name, old man. Rumpelstiltskin. The son you condemned to die.

Tsar Luna wondered, not for the first time, what his Stella would say if she could see him now. Would she turn from him in disgust, or would she understand? He supposed he would never know. She had always loved their son, though. She will never forgive me for this. Never.

"Tsar Luna, you must let me go," said Margaret, pushing her way onto the balcony. "I am useless here, and they are losing."

He sighed. So young, so foolish, but he'd needed to raise her all the same. The girl still had a role to play in the great game, and his son was no longer here to move the pieces for him. Rumpelstiltskin… his greatest secret and his greatest shame, and the one thing in the world that he had still loved... in his own way.

"You are not battle-tested," he said, keeping his voice level. "If you go now, you will die."

"I'm new. That's the point," she argued. "Pitch won't expect me. I'm not an idiot. I know that I can't fight him. I can help the others. He doesn't know about me yet, Tsar Luna, and my brother is still alive. I don't have a ghost for him to raise."

"It is not wise to put all your eggs—"

"We are losing," she all but screamed. "Peter Pan is dead. Don't you care? He's older than the stars themselves and he's dead. Who's next? The Godmother? Jack Frost? They're fighting for their lives, Tsar Luna. Don't you care?"

"You have no idea of what I have just lost," he said through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to obliterate the girl where she stood. Rumpelstiltskin… Peter Pan… The Lord of Neverland. My son. My only son. He had to close his eyes to keep from blasting Pitch again, and this time, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold back.

"I know you'll lose more if I don't help them. Let me go."

Tsar Luna took a deep breath. This was not according to the plan. If something went wrong. Something has already gone wrong, old man. No, he had to see this through. Blood would be spilled until the world drowned in it, but it would lead to a world that was free of Pitch. When the dust settled, it would be a permanent end to Pitch. Every sacrifice and every loss... all for a world that would be forever free from Pitch's darkness. That was worth it all, wasn't it?

"Go," he said. "Before I change my mind. Go."


The dreamsand trickled from his fingers as Sandman came upon the rocking chair, and the man upon it was old and wizened, a toymaker without measure. He stared, jaw going slack, and he remembered. Painted wood and strings, and a father who have given him the world.

Gepetto, he thought. In his mind, his nose began to grow.

His father laughed, and the strings flew from wrists to close upon Sandman's throat.


Toothiana's swords were sharp, but the smell was sharper still. The jungle surrounded her as he swung from the vines, and his name echoed in her mind. Man-cub. Raised by wolves. The earthen smell of the river and the damp earth took her back almost a thousand years, when the raiders had first come to their village.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you, Mowgli," she whispered.

His fangs were sharp as those of the wolves who'd raised him as he sank his teeth into her throat.


"No," said Alice. "Not you. I will not fight you."

The Hatter drew close, his manic smile twisted into a macabre grin. He twirled on his heels, leaning on his cane, and his eyes were as mad as they'd ever been. The vorpal blade trembled in her hands as she pointed it at him, taking a few steps back.

"I'm warning you, Hatter," she said. "Don't make me do this."

The Hatter tittered and drew a long knife. He was quick, but she was quicker, but he nicked her across the arm anyway. Blood soaked into her sleeve, and she shook her head. Fight. But, she couldn't. Not really. She could dance around him for the entire night, dodging his blows, but it hurt to raise a sword to him. Her duty… she had a duty, she knew, but what was duty compared to the friendship she'd once shared with him.

"Please, Hatter," she pleaded. "Please."

He dashed forward, and a beanstalk burst through the floor to wrap around him. She stared in alarm as it squeezed, growing larger and larger, and she turned to see Margaret standing in the doorway with her leather-bound tome open.

"I read a story once," said Margaret in a sing-song voice, her grey wings fluttering out behind her. "Of a beanstalk that grew to touch the sky. It grew from the ground and wrapped around a man, and it squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until he was dead."

The Hatter shrieked, fighting against the beanstalk, but it grew tighter before her eyes. Such a painful way to go. Tears in her eyes, Alice raised the vorpal blade and shoved it into his chest with as much force as she could. He crumpled to dust as the beanstalk stopped growing, and she wanted to scream. No, she told herself, he's dead. He's been dead for thousands of years. He's just a ghost now.

"Thank you," she said. "I'm surprised he sent you."

"He had no choice," said Margaret. "Peter's gone. The others as well. I can't feel them anymore."

"How?" asked Alice, trying to compose herself. She reached out with her mind, searching for the others, and to her horror, she couldn't feel them. No. No, they couldn't be gone.

"Same as you," said Margaret, "He knew your weaknesses. All of them. He's fought you before."

If the Hatter had come for her. Tink's bones. The plundering of Elsa's tomb. The desecration of Mowgli's grave when Punjam Hy Loo had been besieged. They should have known. Tsar Luna above, where they all gone? Were Margaret and her all that was left of the Guardians?

"The day is lost," she said, her voice numb. "I cannot feel the others, and we cannot fight Pitch alone. Hold onto me."

Margaret looked like she wanted to argue, but she reached out to grasp Alice's arm regardless. Closing her eyes, Alice felt the Vorpal sword shift in her hand, returning to the form of her wand. With a single flick, the two of them vanished in a shower of sparks.


"Promise me, Jack," she'd whispered to him. "Promise me."

He dragged himself across the ground, bloodied and bruised, with tears streaming down his cheeks. Behind him, she lay still upon the ground, pierced with his ice. The shadow that had been his wife had fought without mercy, and it had killed a part of him to end her suffering. Elsa… She'd always been a warrior, but without the mercy and kindness that had stayed her hand in life.

Finally, he reached his staff, and he felt a brief flicker of strength return as he grasped Twinetwender between his broken fingers. Rising into the air, he glanced around him, trying to see through the film of blood covering his eyes. The North Pole was gone. Pan was gone. Jack had seen him burn. He didn't know about the others. They were likely gone as well. Pitch had been right. He'd always been right.

Love was their weakness, and he had used it to break them. Jack's breath came in ragged pants. It was hard to breathe with cracked ribs. He needed to leave. The Black Castle was still here. He couldn't fight them. Not like this. At least…

A tendril of corrupted dreamsand closed around his ankle, yanking him back to the ground. Swiping at it with his staff, he severed it with ease, but his hopes died in his chest. It was impossible. Pitch was standing on the ground, leaning on his staff, his burned skin sloughing off his body. Yellow bone was visible in places. It was impossible. Nobody could have survived Tsar Luna's wrath. Nobody.

"Did I say you can leave?" Pitch sneered. In his hands, his scythe shifted, collapsing into corrupted dreamsand and reforming into a bow. Nocking a black arrow, the Nightmare King grinned as his lips fell from his face.

Jack flew as fast as he could, his blood dripping from his wounds like rain as he soared across the desolation. He couldn't stay. Alone and weakened, he was no match for Pitch. He needed to reach Arendelle. Nick… Promise me you'll protect him, Jack. More than that, he needed the Diamond Lance. As Nightlight, he could stand against Pitch. As Jack…

The first arrow took him in the thigh, punching through the front and sticking out the back. He bit his lip to keep from screaming, but he dipped lower in the sky regardless. No. I need to keep going. I can't die here. Nick… The second arrow hit his shoulder, and the third punched through his gut. Twinetender fell from his grasp, but he couldn't slow to grab it. Gliding his hand across his wounds, he let his frost take hole, stopping the bleeding if not the corruption, and he put on a fresh burst of speed.

The fourth and fifth arrows both struck him in the chest.

Jack cried out as he crashed into the ground, flipping over thrice and landing in a heap of tangled limbs. A thick smear of blood trailed behind him in the snow, and he gasped for breath. Tsar Luna, it hurt. Promise me, Jack. Fighting his way to his feet, he began to run, stumbling, each step sending a fresh wave of pain through his body. Jumping, he took flight again, finally out of range.

Something punched him in the stomach, and he gasped. Twinetender. His power flickered briefly, but he pushed on regardless. He was more than a staff. Pitch snapping it would not be enough to stop him keeping his promise. Putting everything he had left into his flight, Jack Frost pressed on. Arendelle. I need to reach Arendelle.

It hurt. Everything hurt, and the corruption was spreading through his veins. It was too much. He could barely move. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and see Elsa again, not the wraith that had worn her face, but the girl he'd loved. I love a queen as fair as winter, with moonlight in her hair. He couldn't rest. Not yet. Not while Pitch was still alive.

Promise me, Jack, that you'll keep our son safe.

A whip tangled around his ankle once more, and he yelped as it yanked it to the ground. The snow broke his fall, but the scream of pain left his lips nonetheless. Staggering to his feet, he held out a warning hand as Pitch approached.

"I put you down last time, Pitch," said Jack, his voice barely a whisper. "I'll do it again if I have to."

Pitch laughed, throwing back his head in mirth. He had always been unnatural, but his burns now made him distinctly hideous. His flesh was visible were his skin was gone, and what remained of it was dry and cracked. Bones jutted out of his body, and he didn't have lips of eyelids. Leaning on his scythe, he approached, still cackling, and Jack fired a warning volley of frost from his outstretched hand.

The bolts flickered and died within a few feet, collapsing into snowflakes, and Jack sank to the ground.

"You're going to die alone in this frozen land, Nightlight," said Pitch. "Tsar Luna should have left you dead. It would be more merciful."

"He… raised me for… a reason," Jack gasped, his blood spraying across the snow. "And… I'm never alone. I've lived… I've loved. I'm not… alone."

"You will be," said Pitch, his smirk growing. "With the Guardians gone, I can pick the humans apart, one by one. From the Imperium, my armies will march across the land, devouring all in their path. Do you know where my first stop will be, Jack?"

Pitch knelt in front of him, grasping him by the chin with a single skeletal finger.

"Arendelle," said Pitch. "I won't kill your brat, though. Not right away, at least. I'll make his dying last a thousand years, so that he'll feel every last bit of my pain before he goes, and then through it all, he'll wonder why his daddy didn't save him."

Promise me, Jack. Tendrils of ice burst around him as he rose into the air, still bleeding, still broken, but filled with rage all the same. It sputtered around him, escaping his control as his eyes flared, and he clapped his hands together like thunder. The ice burst from him, and Pitch didn't even have time to scream as it encased him, swirling thicker and thicker until not even the sun could pierce the depths of the glacier. The moon glowed above him, and burning sigils engraved themselves onto the glacier. Wards, he realized, and he intensified his cold, focusing it as Tsar Luna strengthened his ice.

I can't kill him. I can't fight him. I can slow him down. I can trap him and buy us all time. Blood vessels burst in his head and blood streamed from his eyes, but he forced himself to keep going. Against Pitch, he stood no chance, but he had no choice.

Jack sank to his knees, his head spinning. He had just a few droplets of power left. The glacier wouldn't hold forever. It was his ice, though, and only time could thaw it. Time… he'd bought them time… but at what cost. His ears were wet as blood leaked from them, and he groaned as he staggered to his feet and forced himself back into the sky.

Arendelle. He needed to go home. "Promise me, Jack. Protect our son."