Breathe, cold, another bad dream

Got mud on my face that I can't get clean

Feel whole, but I rip at the seams

If I can't get you away from me

¿ - Halsey, Bring Me the Horizon

CH.9

Her Last Bad Dream

Rapunzel's breakfast consisted of sweet honeyed cakes with some sort of strange, fruity center that she was unfamiliar with. On any other day, she would've been delighted by the unusual sugary treats. This morning, they sat sick and heavy in her stomach. She only managed a polite taste or two before quietly excusing herself. Her thoughts weighed heavier than the rolling, half-digestive cakes in her gut.

It was Pitch's fault, of course. It was strange how much her life had circled to revolve around him.

A small act of peace, Rapunzel had neglected to take her sedative last night. She'd purposefully left it out, untouched and full, by her bedside. She'd expected his wrath, perhaps even some gloating.

She had not anticipated his cruelty.

For the first time in weeks, Rapunzel had awoken to her own gasping, agonized whimpers, visions of blood and terror bursting like lightning inside her chest. She'd flung herself from her bed, propelled into motion by her own half-awake instincts. She'd thrashed in her blankets on the floor, a scream on her lips before the touch of something very, very cold on the back of her neck froze her.

For a moment, still lost in the haze of her past, she'd feared it was a knife, ready to take her own life next. She'd closed her eyes, ready to face an end, to follow her love to death when a chuckle colder than any steel cut through her delusion.

"Tomorrow," hissed a voice like the crackle of burning wood.

Rapunzel didn't need to turn to know he was already gone. The room seemed to gain several degrees of heat in an instant, and her lungs suddenly felt the task of breathing was not as challenging as it had been moments ago. Rapunzel had dragged the blankets around her, off her bed, and restirred the dying fire in her room until the flames were once again crackling. The practiced motions brought back lonely images of a small child, shivering and cold in the drafty tower, doing the same. Rapunzel had only slept in brief, dreamless instances throughout the rest of the night.

Today, several women attended her lessons. Thankfully, they'd seemed to be moving on to something that didn't require the level of attentiveness some of her lessons did. Mathematics of yesterday had been erased from the board to be instead filled with images of different titles and names, each of which she needed to understand intrinsically—along with the associated decorum each title befit. What at first seemed a daunting task had quickly unraveled to simplicity at the realization that everyone who wasn't a titled member of the monarchy was to show her the utmost respect, and she was expected to be dainty and politely distant in reply. The physicality of the lessons were a nice distraction from the swirling sickness in her stomach, the women taking turns feigning reverence while the others adjusted and fixed her postures.

Rapunzel's biggest hurdle was discovered to be her overly familiar nature. She was quickly learning that words like "sweet" really meant "misguided," and "excitable" really meant "inappropriate." More than once she'd beamed at a compliment, only to recognize the thin smile of polite impatience. She didn't really understand completely why people wouldn't like to be greeted with hugs, or why offering to remove a complimented hairpin to give the viewee a better look was garish. She still didn't get the whole shoes thing. But Rapunzel was also learning it didn't really matter if she understood the reasons behind the way everything was. It was instead much more important that she follow the endless list of arbitrary decorum.

So she curtsied at the knees rather than the waist, careful to practice soft smiles that made her jaw ache rather than her much more natural, wider ones.

"No teeth," one woman with a mole just below her eye had chided. Rapunzel's cheeks had immediately slackened, nodding with the firm resolution of a soldier following orders.

Things became much more complicated when they affixed her with what someone called the framing structure of "bone corset." Rapunzel had been horrified to discover that the material was actually bone from some aloof, enormous sea creature. The lesson had quickly dissolved thereafter into a mess of Rapunzel wavering between remorseful disgust at its existence, and trying to take the contraption about to see how it worked. It seemed Rapunzel's lessons would always be derailed by her sweet nature, or incessantly curious mind. Or both, in this case.

In truth, Rapunzel was doing everything she could to stall the end of the days coming. When lessons had failed for the day, she'd hustled herself off to the stables. When even sweet Mr. Nilmer had to apologetically hustle her out for the day with a lengthy explanation about how hibernation was ending, Rapunzel had found her way into the kitchens, offering sincere flattery towards some very anxious bakers and chefs. When that had inevitably drawn to a close, she'd wandered into the viewing area for troupe training. Wisely, Rapunzel had not interfered in that particular entertainment, but she had managed to quell the restlessness with the sight of the training. She'd gone largely unnoticed from her viewing area, even with her personal entourage. The few soldiers that had noticed had been shouted at and hit for their inattention. Rapunzel felt guilty for causing injury, but they seemed well used to it. Rapunzel had managed to wile the rest of her day away with sketching the forms, crests, shields, and other interesting details she happened to notice.

Tonight, an echo of a voice whispered in her imagination.

The lead of the pencil snapped in two.

Instinctively, her eyes darted around for that familiar, long silhouette. She knew instinctively she wouldn't find him, but she checked regardless. She couldn't feel him around. He wasn't here.

But he would be.

Tonight, the wind whispered again, and this time it sounded smug.

Time, Pitch was familiar with. He had plenty of it, an infinite amount of it in fact. When Pitch had first discovered his own sentience, he hadn't immediately understood the burden of the life he'd been given. He spent most of his time in the shadows, naturally, but it wasn't as though he was actively avoiding his own reflection. As time passed, he noticed he never aged. He was always tall, always gray, always dark. His eyes seemed to fluctuate between silver and gold, but even that fluctuating was consistent. Pitch was a permanent fixture in a constantly changing world. No village remained the same, no human life lasted forever, no matter how enormous they seemed while living. The world was impermanent. Pitch was not.

To be entangling himself in this pettiness of a mortal's life was unlike him. It wasn't his warm, inviting personality that he was infamous for. He thrived on danger, lived for the moments fear was indistinguishable from the thrill of it. Pitch's one consistent relationship was with his immortal enemy, who'd fled out of his reach, into the moon, and sent a battalion of guards to keep Pitch from following. He always wondered if the Guardians really knew who they were protecting. It wasn't just the sticky faces of children's hopes and dreams at stake. Not even remotely. Pitch's power came from fear, and who was more vulnerable to it than children? When he took it, when all of it was within his power, he'd be strong enough to escape Earth. When that happened, there would be nowhere for Manny to hide. Pitch was eager for the day, but he was patient. His methodical, unwavering nature had more than once been the undoing of his enemies. Today—tonight—another would fall to his powers.

It was unfair to her, really, how futile her struggle had been. What a miserable existence to have all the power of a monarchy, and still have freedom out of her reach. She was being needlessly petulant about this. Pitch would've been happy to take, and be on his way. Last night had been a warning, a taste to remind her of what it was he was offering; her sanity. And in return, was it so much to ask for a bit of cooperation?

He was unsurprised to find her awake and waiting for him. Moreso, however, when he noticed she wore a heavy cloak, and a book. It seemed comically large in her grip.

His lips twitched, "A bit of light reading?"

In spite of how heavy the book must have been, she only seemed to cling to it tighter, her mouth thinning wordlessly. No witty retort was forthcoming. Her small, pale fingers clung to it like it was some measure of security. Pitch became suspicious at the fortitude she seemed to gain from its presence.

He glanced towards the cover, the title hidden beneath the heavy sleeves of her frilly nightgown. It wasn't something he recognized, and it seemed much too large for her to still be searching for answers within the fantastical children's stories. The only thing he could make out was that it seemed very, very old, bound with dark, near black, oiled leather.

She stood, "I've been waiting for you."

"As you should've," he replied. "I did give you a bit of a heads up, after all. Did you like my gift last night, princess?"

Rapunzel scowled. To his surprise, she turned her back on him drawing him further into her rarely used sitting room. The attached room was at least thrice the size of her bedroom, ornate pale furniture with patterned cushions that gave him a headache just to look at.

She set the book neatly on the center of the tea table. It seemed to have been bookmarked, as she opened it specifically to a page and stepped aside, gesturing. Bemused, and unable to resist, Pitch drew closer, leaning over the book. Pitch had never been a slow reader, but he was befuddled.

"I believe you've misplaced your bookmark," he said. "This appears to be a page on tea brewing. Unless, perhaps, I'm expected to serve you. Or you're threatening me with a poor brew. What will you do, dear girl? Give me the valerian?"

"The tea isn't the plan." She said, and Pitch startled to realize she was no longer in front of him. "This is."

He righted himself, looking about the room.

It wasn't hard to miss. Perhaps he should've been more suspicious about how far the chaise were from the tea table, but he'd simply attributed it to the spaciousness of the lavish parlor. Clearly, the arrangement had been more deliberate.

Her cloak pulled away, revealing what was apparently a sack of . . . Oh dear.

"Salt," he said, with deliberate slowness that he felt suitable for her intelligence.

Astoundingly, she seemed smug, if wary. "For warlocks, witches, zombies, and—."

"Snails?"

Her nose wrinkled. "Demons, actually. You don't look slimy enough to be a snail."

His lips twitched. "You suspect I'm a warlock."

"I suspect that whatever you are, that should hold you." She emphasized this by palming her pouch, emphasizing the last bit of salt within. "Long enough for us to come to a mutual agreement."

Pitch found the whole situation so absurd as to be amusing. The salt, of course, was useless. He was none of the things she'd listed—and in fact wasn't entirely sure salt would even work on those things anyways. But for now, he remained still inside her useless barrier.

"If I'm to be a captive audience, the least you could do is entertain me."

She stood taller, shedding the cloak now that it's purpose in concealing her little pouch was done with. "It's time you and I came to an agreement."

He pouted. "Oh, but we were having such fun. You, drugging yourself, and me, threatening your parents. It's a bit like tug-of-war, isn't it?"

Rapunzel's brows furrowed, "What's tug-of-war?" Pitch blinked several times. When it was clear he was either unwilling or unsure of how to answer, she shook herself. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that you and are I going to settle this once and for all, right now."

"You do recall that I initiated this visit," Pitch reminded her. "Judging by your little circle of seasoning, you were clearly aware of the invite. This seems perhaps a poor way to begin peaceful negotiations."

"It's not peaceful," Rapunzel said, a serene smile on her face. "I thought this would be a very clear way of establishing hostile negotiations."

Oh, she was a delight.

"And what if the salt hadn't worked?" He mused, taking a slow, dramatic step backwards. Rapunzel watched as his form began to melt, his distinct features fading into a black silhouette. "What was your plan then?" As he disappeared, his voice echoed off the walls. "What if I'm none of those things? What if I'm worse?"

Rapunzel turned to find him behind her, a large, wicked grin on his face. It faded slightly at the sight of her passive, unsurprised expression.

"Then I know you're not a warlock, witch, zombie, or a demon. I suspected, but the confirmation is appreciated. Tea?"

Pitch's smile evaporated. With a scowl, he moved to the nearest chaise as she moved to the nearest opposing one.

"I'm fairly certain salt is not the ward you seem to believe it is," he told her flatly.

She shrugged, "It didn't need to work. I just needed you to think that I thought it worked, and prove me wrong."

Delight was inaccurate. Loathsome, manipulative brat was far more fitting.

"Tea?" She offered again. He waved it off dismissively, watching her pour herself a cup.

She seemed vaguely amused about his irritation, which only irritated him all the more.

"It's not even salt," she added, seeming to delight in his growing irritation. She tapped the cup twice with her nail. "The salt was in the other cellar, and I didn't want to risk another trip."

A terror, Pitch decided. That's what she was. A little terror.

"I kept thinking how I might start this conversation," she continued, sipping quietly at her tea. "And then I realized there really isn't a good opening to negotiate a peaceful union between us."

"I thought this was strictly hostile?"

It was her turn to scowl at him, setting her tea aside. Pitch suspected she only had it just to have an excuse to do something with her hands. Humans were so very fidgety. "I want straight answers from you."

"As opposed to flexible answers?"

She felt herself beginning to grow frustrated. "You're not fooling me. You're here for something bigger than my nightmares."

He simply stared back, polite smile antagonizing her in the silence. It was clear that he had no intention of answering her.

She huffed, frustrated, "I don't know why you insisted on a conversation if you're just going to lie."

"I've never lied," he insisted, severely. Clearly he'd taken offense to the implication. That was surprising.

Rapunzel's nails drummed against her cup as she considered her position. Really, progress here depended on what she was willing to do. She had no reason to trust Pitch, of course. But she had to admit he had thus far been entirely honest with her (when he bothered to answer).

Still.

He sighed loudly, startling her from her thoughts.

"Must you do that?" He snapped, eyes fixated on where her nails drummed against the teacup.

Rapunzel's fingers curled into her palm. "I'm thinking."

"It must be terribly taxing for you."

"I can't just let you roam the city unsupervised."

His brow rose, sitting up a bit. Ah. And so came the bargaining. "You can hardly follow me around constantly. I'm not even tangible half the time." To illustrate his point, he let his hand sink into the darkness cast by the heavy curtains that sliced shadows in the glow of her windows, disappearing for a moment before he pulled it back out.

Rapunzel watched his wiggling gray fingers with dissatisfaction. "If you tell me what your real intentions are, I wouldn't feel like I have to. You can't go around terrorizing people."

"And you think you could prevent me from doing so, if that was my desire?"

It was a loaded question. Obviously, she could punish him. But if they continued to play this game of back-and-forth, things would escalate. They needed an agreement. A truce.

"Here are my terms." She began. "You don't incite hysteria in Corona, and I won't prevent you from draining my nightmares."

His head tilted in consideration. "You know, you're not the only person I feed from. I do visit others. Before you ask," he added, when she seemed to inflate with irritation. "It doesn't affect much of anything, the way it does you. You're a curious case, I must admit."

"And you must check in," she emphasized, crossing her arms firmly. "Regularly. At a set time."

"An appointment with a king is a great thing to demand."

"I'm a princess," she dismissed. "In this, we're equals."

Pitch scowled, offended. "You are mortal. Your crown pales in comparison to mine."

"I'm under the impression you're hardly in a state to raze kingdoms to the ground, at the moment. Perhaps we can equate that to my mortality, o' bleak king."

Not for the first time, Pitch mused how he might strangle that neck of hers. It'd be a short lived victory, he reminded himself. "And when does the mighty would-be-Queen expect an audience?"

"Before bed," she said at once. "When the maids leave, you're to appear."

"Should I take notes on my daily accounts?" He mused, lips twitching. "This morning, I watched your gallow's man piss into a very expensive vase on his way to remove someone's head from their neck. I also saw—."

"I don't care what you saw," Rapunzel interrupted, nose wrinkling at his vulgarity. "Or who . . . went."

Pitch mulled it over. The price of his peace would be perhaps thirty minutes of his the evening discussing the most mundane parts of his day with a young woman he was quickly coming to loathe. But something was niggling at him. He rewound their conversation until he noticed it, his fingers weaving in his lap as he leaned backwards.

"Oh," he said slowly, drawing out the syllable. "So you've discovered something, have you?" He didn't pause, his fingers. "Let's hear it."

She set the tea in the saucer, her focus narrowing on the small ripples in the tea as she breathed. "Fear," she began, looking up without moving her head. "I found fear."

He leaned forward ever so slightly, compelled by the heavy danger in her voice. "And?"

She shook her head slightly in disbelief, flashes of judgement and disgust on her face at his simmering enthusiasm. Her lips thinned, anger clouding her face. It seemed she didn't know what to say. It was, perhaps, more convincing than if she had spoken.

"Say it," he hissed, eyes blazing. He could feel his shadow growing. "You didn't believe me when I told you I was Fear itself. You thought me something as pathetic and final as Death. No, princess, I'm greater than that. Much, much greater. I've paralyzed nations. I've caused all you pathetic mortals a lifetime of lessons. I am the wave that comes before war, and the one that lingers far after. And you know that now, don't you?"

"I know what fear does to people," she whispered, fury nearly robbing her of her voice. "You're a plague."

"I am a King," he snarled. "The fact I've deigned to converse with you at all rather than tear your kingdom apart is a privilege you're squandering with insults and delusions of—!"

"It's not delusion though, is it," she said, in a much different voice that seemed to have suggested she'd had some sort of epiphany. "You're barging with me precisely because you can't tear me apart, or you would've by now."

The ringing truth in her words hung heavy.

She continued, "You're here because you need my cooperation, my submission, because you don't have the strength to fight me."

"Well done," he sneered. "Just because I am weak today doesn't mean you'll be safe forever."

"I'm not asking for forever," she insisted. Her voice grew louder, setting the tea aside completely, and with it, the pretense for banter. "I'm not asking anything from you. I'm telling you that I won't cooperate, that—!"

.

.

"—for the rest of my life I will fight!"

.

.

She clutched her head.

Pitch did his best to hide the toll his outburst had caused. Even still, his outstretched hand faintly trembled, his shadow less opaque than it had been moments ago, and he had to physically force his breathing to slow in order to mask his panting.

"Just because I am weak," he said, very slowly, "does not make me incapable of causing harm."

"I am not . . . afraid of you," she panted. "My entire life I've been afraid of—of just—everything! You can drag up my worst fears all you want, and maybe I won't be any less afraid of them, but I will never be afraid of you."

He could feel the near-physical blow that her vindication struck inside of him. The Guardians and their belief—Pitch loathed them so much for it because he identified with it so greatly. He wouldn't fade, but he knew what it was like to be alone, surrounded by people who couldn't see you, who couldn't even comprehend your existence. He bristled, glaring deep into her eyes, terrified between one blink and the next she suddenly would no longer see him, would look around wildly. But it didn't happen, and Pitch violently shoved down the tiny tremors of his hand that spelled out his relief.

"One story, every night."

Her brows furrowed.

He continued, settling back into the chaise as though it was a throne. "I will give you one story, every night, and you're to decide whether or not it's true. If you guess correctly, I will tell you a true one, and the next night, you may guess again. If you do not, the next night, you tell me a story."

"You've been in my head," she snapped. "What else would you have from me?"

'Everything' was on the tip of his tongue, but he only just managed not to reply. There was something wrong with her. She was cursed, or hexed, or otherwise indoctrinated into some greater purpose. This shouldn't have been possible. He wondered how she'd feel if she realized that she had a bargaining chip of her own in regards to revealing personal information. Oh of course Pitch saw her nightmares, but that wasn't nearly enough. He needed to understand every step of her life until he could find the place her existence interacted with something much greater. And the moment he found out what that greater being was, he was going to skin it alive for inciting hostilities with him. No one, not even a Guardian, stood against him without fear. Whatever it was, it would regret the day it hadn't simpered at his presence and run off while it still could.

When he continued to say nothing, she huffed with frustration, wringing the fabric of her nightdress as though she might tear it apart. "Does my story have to be true?"

The victory felt hollow, weighed down by the black spots dancing in his eyes. Privately, he thought it a fitting lesson for him about losing his temper. "No. I extend the same rules."

Her eyes narrowed, "What is this for, Pitch? I won't play games with my kingdom, or it's people."

He smiled, lips curling in arrogance, fisting his hands to keep their trembling from being noticed. "How about this," he said. "You play my game, princess, and for every day I'm allowed to remain will be another two that I will be absent when our game is finished."

"And when is it finished?"

He leaned forward ever so slightly. He could be honest. 'When I am strong enough to lay waste to my enemies' seemed a poor choice of words. 'When I understand who you are, what made you, and how to kill them' seemed equally unwise.

"When you banish me," he decided.

She sat up, "What keeps me from banishing you immediately?"

"Then that will be only two days that I promise to stay away," he said. "And this wager will have been as pointless as our conversation."

She loathed him for this move; placing the safety of her people on how long she could tolerate his presence. All of the power, with all of the looming threat of Pitch's return. How long would she have to do this? A month? A year? More?

Her eyes narrowed, "I want your promise that you mean it. When this is over, you stay away, and don't come back any sooner. I don't want to see you before the sun rises on that day."

She held her hand out.

With a flash of a smile, he reached out, clasping hers tightly enough for her to wince. With a jerk, he drew her closer—heady fact he could touch her at all—mania surely flashing in his eyes.

"You have my oath," he swore.

He took a moment to relish the expression on her face. In spite of her bitter words to the contrary, he saw the fear in her eyes, buried deep beneath the loathing and affront. Something black and twisting was churning inside of her, and he relished the opportunities to come of how to make it dance.

He released her, and she froze only a moment before taking the opportunity to draw away from him.

"Go to bed, princess," he purred, stepping away. "You and I have an appointment tomorrow, and I'd hate for you to sleep through it."

"I have a feeling I wouldn't be successful if I tried," she replied, faintly.

He grinned, "You would be correct."

And then he was gone, leaving Rapunzel alone in her sitting room. She took a few steadying breaths, but the feeling clawing inside her chest remained. She shuddered, revolted at the remaining chill that still seeped into her palm. She felt hollow. Only one question of a thousand seemed to linger inside her, quiet in the emptiness of the room.

.

.

.

What have I done?

.

.

.

A/N

I just want to clarify, Pitch didn't actually smack Rapunzel. I wasn't sure how to make that abundantly clear without taking a little bit of the pacing from the scene, but he merely inflicted her with a flash of one of her worst fears, aka reliving the moment everyone she ever knew died. Pitch however isn't strong enough to do that without overextending himself, which is why he was shaking. Just wanted to clarify. Keep your hands to yourself, everyone.

I really struggled with hashing out the details of their agreement in a way that they both benefitted while also being unhappy with it. I always wanted Pitch to have to check in on a daily basis with Rapunzel, but I wasn't quite sure why in the world he would agree to that without Rapunzel already being aware of his circumstances exactly. Which she will learn of course, but he has no reason to tell her right this minute, and she has no reason to have discovered it by now anyways. I wrote their conversation about three times, the first two times going into it with a general idea, and the third time just sort of letting it happen. Clearly Pitch had his own ideas, and mine were just getting in the way. My apologies to our favorite shadow King, of course.

I hope I'm keeping up with their constant volley in a way that's enjoyable (and coherent) for you all to read. I think it's incredibly unfair that Rapunzel gets a reputation for being one of the more dim Disney princesses, just because people associate naïve with stupid. My story is meant to bring out how clever and eager to learn she is, and just as eager to tell Pitch to stick it where the sun don't shine. I resist the knee-jerk reaction to may her a simpering Mary-Sue while Pitch cackles in the background. I don't think he'd respect her—or, later, be nearly as personally interested—if she was. And I absolutely demand that their animosity be coupled with a begrudging respect, especially because if they didn't respect one another, they wouldn't be as wary as they should be. I'm rambling. Anyways!

Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I've decided to include the songs in my Black Gold playlist at the beginning of every chapter, to hopefully give you guys an idea of where the story is going. I don't think I'll make it public just yet, as I'm worried that doing so would sometimes be too big of a hint or anticipatory, but I absolutely promise to have that playlist published on my youtube channel when the story is finished. For those of you who did not come from my channel, I'm xxVioletIntrusionsxx. I'm sure just searching up "Rapunzel Pitch crossover" should help you find me if you don't want to type all that out. I'm sure you can hazard a guess at who my profile image contains.

Speaking of my channel:

I'm working on a really large crossover, sort of preview/trailer thing to put on the channel. It'll feature some of the most exhausting masking/manipulations/edits that I've ever done, along with tidbits of text from future chapters I've already written. I hope to encourage more readers, sway more shippers, as well as give all of my current readers something fun to look forward to. The clips are going to be as close as I can get them to how I envision them in my story, but sadly I'm limited by the source material in the movies. Let me tell you, I need more looming Pitch, Dreamworks, damn you.

Happy Holidays everyone, and as always, stay indoors, and stay safe.

Updated - 12.11.20