A/N: First of all, thank you to everyone still here who welcomed me back last chapter! I'm so excited to give you guys this one because there will be drama. I've had this one done for a while now, but like I said last time, I wanted to have a good few chapters ready to go so I could update regularly.

There will also be some Spanish in this chapter. I am doing my best between online translators and my limited knowledge, but hopefully I did not embarrass myself (or my Latine ancestors) too badly here.

His grip tightened on her.

He needed to hold on. To her.

Chapter Seventeen: Misery Business

The reception was lovely.

The newlyweds danced to a song so old that Jack was sure he had heard it and somehow always known it, but could not tell you the name. Listening to the yetis and sand instruments play was less of an act of hearing and more like a feeling. A feeling of waking from a satisfying dream, a feeling of being inspired.

Food from cultures around the globe was prepared with care, platters never left empty for long before being replaced with a fresh batch.

Guests laughed and gossiped and danced as the sun sank below the horizon, the glow of the sparkling dream sand pleasantly and romantically lighting the island.

On occasion, one of the muses would gently run her fingers through passing dream sand and watch it swirl and change color at their touch as they influenced the dreams within, bringing a more festive light to the party.

When Calliope touched the sand, it didn't quite turn one color or another, but rather became a sort of iridescent shade that was purple, green, blue, or pink depending on the angle in which you saw it.

Clio's touch left the gold sand turning a bronze color, sometimes taking the shapes of old cave paintings, of hieroglyphs, of forgotten alphabets and gears.

The sand became a bright, sultry, passionate red at Erato's touch, twisting around her gloved fingers in a sensual way.

It appeared to become a million tiny, white, glowing pearls when Polyhymnia smiled and stroked some passing sand to play along.

Melpomene was reluctant to interfere with the sand without some goading from Thalia. She, too, turned the sand red, but it was darker, deeper than Erato had left it, like fresh blood.

Thalia's was green, bright, and seemed to have more of a cheerful bounce to it after interacting with her.

Small galaxies seemed to form around Urania as gold sand turned purple and blue, with sparkling stars like the clearest night sky. A few swore they saw planets, moons, and comets form as well.

Terpsichore's touch left it shades of blues, of yellow, like a bright afternoon sky, moving with the music from the band.

The sand became red and orange when Euterpe ran her fingers along some passing dreams, the exact same shades as a dress her abuela had made her in her mortal life, she mentioned to Jack fondly, and he swore he heard music faintly playing as the sand passed them.

There was another toast in a long line, this time from Manny, who had stuck around longer than anyone had really expected him to. Cupid and Clio had each already made their own speeches. North hadn't been able to resist emotionally dedicating a song to the newlyweds with a raise of the glass. Bunny was unwilling to be outdone and said his own piece as well, despite one of his groomsfolk conditions being that he wouldn't be composing a speech at all.

After the glasses had been set down after Manny's toast, and as another slow song played and lovers of all varieties swayed across the dance floor, Jack excused himself and slipped away from the large courtyard where the festivities were taking place. There were some stairs not far off, which he assumed led to part of the golden beaches that surrounded the island.

He found himself to be correct, locating a bench that gazed out over the not-far-off beach and sea, the water sparkling with the light from the nearby party and the dream sand that stretched from the island and into the distance to find the children that were currently asleep.

The spirit took a seat, his back to the party, leaving his face in shadow as he sighed heavily and gently rubbed the side of his jaw, still sore from all the forced smiles.

He had hoped that if he faked joy long enough, that if he smiled enough, cheered along with enough toasts and dedications for his friend that perhaps he'd be able to trick himself into being happy for a few minutes.

It had not worked, and now the closest he felt to joy was the relief that for a few minutes at least, he didn't have to pretend. He could let his face fall, his eyes glaze over as he stared sadly at the sea, not putting on an act for anyone.

How long did he have to stay before it was rude to leave? Were members of the wedding party expected to stay the entire time? He was sure that Urania had already left, citing her discomfort around crowds. Euterpe and Terpsichore had checked on her earlier when Jack was passing time with them, discussing the music and watching the other guests interact.

Terpsichore was asked to dance often, unsurprisingly, and she was taking the opportunity to speak to some of the guests about alliances, as dancing was when she was the most comfortable and persuasive.

It was at a moment when Euterpe had stepped away to dance with the Horseman, Terpsichore already on the dance floor with Dionysus that Jack had separated himself from that small group. He had turned down a few invitations to dance, himself, a good few being from Baron Samedi's party, and had been lurking on the edge of the party when the last toast had happened.

It wasn't as though Euterpe and Terpsichore had made him feel unwelcome. On the contrary, he probably now felt the most at ease around those two muses, Euterpe in particular. But it was hard not to feel like a burden, when they laughed easily and smiled genuinely and he was simply putting on an act.

Surely everyone would have a much better time now that he wasn't there faking it.

Perhaps he should leave.

What was the point of staying anymore? To keep feeling the bitterness settle into his chest as lovers danced to the music and longingly looked into each others eyes during the sappy speeches? To keep hating himself for feeling that way, for being mad and jealous of the joy others felt?

He didn't want to feel this.

Jack hadn't hated himself like this in a long while.

A figure appeared, taking a seat beside him on the vacant side of the bench.

He barely had to glance her way, already knowing it was Melpomene before she fully settled down. She always brought an unsettling feeling with her, though in his current state it was far more subtle.

A small part of him told him to get up and walk back to the party. Fly back, even. Just don't stay there.

If this had been perhaps a year ago, even months, that part of him would be larger, louder.

He would have listened.

The pair sat without a word, each staring at the water for a while, each with a frown settled into their features. It would have been silent, if not for the distant hum of the music and the guests at the reception.

"I hate weddings," Melpomene said, finally. Jack wasn't sure if she was meant to be talking to him, or simply thinking aloud.

Still, he replied, "Don't you hate everything?"

The muse turned slightly to gaze at him. Jack did not return the favor, still watching the water.

"No," she said softly, after a beat. Her voice had that quality of sadness it often had, as though she was ashamed to admit it. Jack chanced a glance back at her only briefly, her familiar gray eyes cast in shadow, but clearly miserable all the same.

"Hating everything is giving up, and that's long past tragic. Hating everything is giving up on joy. Joy brings tragedy," she said when it was clear he was not about to speak. "Joy gives tragedy its impact. What's tragedy without the hope or longing of joy?"

Jack didn't know how to answer, and figured it was rhetorical anyway.

The small part of him that told him to leave, told him so again. But still he sat.

"If you've never been full," Melpomene continued, "how can you possibly know you're starving?"

They both watched the waves again.

Leave, or tell her to leave, came that small part of him again. Months ago he would do everything in his power to avoid standing near her, to avoid speaking to her if at all possible.

But not now.

Something was comfortable about this. About sitting with her in silence, backs turned to those so full of joy they could not find in themselves. There was, indeed, quite a difference between being sad by oneself, and being sad with company.

He should have been surprised by her head resting on his shoulder, her fingers gently brushing his sleeve.

But he wasn't.

On the contrary, the weight of her head, the way her hair brushed against his cheek, was the first thing in a long while that began to smother that empty feeling in his chest that longed for contact.

It took several minutes, which felt like ages, for him to lean his head against hers in return.

Her long, spidery fingers found his hand and settled there. Her cold touch that used to be so comforting was comforting once more.

The song at the reception changed. It was a piano ballad now. Another old song by most standards, but rather new compared to the others. It had only been around for a couple of centuries. In fact, Jack was older than this tune that he knew so, so very well.

"It's our song," Melpomene said after only a few notes. "Do you remember?"

Jack remembered.

He remembered dancing with her in the street as the song played from nearby pubs, the snow falling softly, catching the dim light of the old street lights that had to be lit by hand. Jack had never been a good dancer. Melpomene had never cared. He had managed, at least, never to step on her feet.

He remembered feeling content, at ease, like nothing else in the world mattered but the two of them, twirling about with the nearby mortals unaware.

They used to be happy, didn't they?

They used to be able to find joy, hadn't they?

Melpomene lifted her head from his shoulder, and as she stood up, he thought perhaps she was leaving. His chest ached again, feeling hollow as she released him from her grasp.

She turned to him, offered her hand, and simply asked, "For old time's sake?"

The Muse was facing the light now, so he could clearly see her face. That same sadness was settled in her eyes, begging to be taken away by anyone willing to try. A wave of nostalgia, of comfort, hit him as he watched her stand there, looking like Snow White, like a fairy tale.

He just wasn't strong enough to tell her, "no." To walk away.

So he set down his staff down, propped it against the bench. He laced his fingers with hers and put his other hand at her waist.

They moved slowly with the music. It was just as they used to dance, not particularly skillful, but in sync at the very least. Simple steps in the shape of a box. They managed not to step on each other or stumble. It was as though they had never stopped.

He had to glance up slightly to meet her eyes. They were about the same height when barefoot, but Melpomene wore black heels, clicking on golden tile floors as they moved.

The piano played on, the murmurs of the other guests seeming a million miles away.

Jack could feel his heart breaking with every step, a real physical pain in his chest, which had started as something dull and easy to ignore as early as the ceremony, but could not be ignored now.

However, that hollow feeling was finally gone.

It seemed the pain of being with her was preferable to the emptiness of being alone.

At least it was something.

"Jack," Melpomene said softly, eyes still fixed to his.

"What?" he asked, unable to look away. She slid the hand on his shoulder to the side of his neck, frost twisting across her skin as she went. Jack wasn't sure when they had gotten this close, close enough for her to rest her forehead against his.

Her eyes were welling with tears. His were, too.

"Jack," she said again, hesitant. "About… about all those years ago."

Everything hurt. Somehow referencing their past together, out loud, made it worse. Jack thought for sure that his chest would break open, his heart crashing to the floor for all to see and mock as tears continued to blur his vision.

His grip tightened on her.

He needed to hold on. To her.

Melpomene understood. She had always understood.

He never needed to force a smile around her, he never felt that his sadness was a burden or something to hide.

He needed her.

"I just… I don't know where to start," she said, a tear finally rolling down her cheek, freezing partway down due to their short distance. Her words, her breath fogged before her.

Jack couldn't say who kissed who.

Truthfully, they seemed to meet each other halfway.

They clung to each other, mouths moving in haste, desperate. He couldn't let go. He couldn't stop. He was too afraid of what might happen if he did. His pained heart rattled his insides.

Melpomene understood. She always had.

Her arms wove tight around him. She only shivered slightly as he pulled her closer and closer.

It was familiar, it was comforting, even as his chest ached, even as tears froze upon both their faces.

He had perfected the movement of his tongue with hers centuries ago. The muscle memory returned at once. It was the same desperate motions, the same desperate need for human contact. Her breath fogged just the same between gasps for air.

He needed her.

Melpomene understood. She always had.

For the first time in months, Rowan Sawyer was nowhere on his m—

There was a crash, a clattering noise, and they broke apart in surprise, each turning to see what had caused the disturbance.

Euterpe stood with eyes wide next to the broken pieces of a potted plant just a few paces away.

"I—I'm sorry!" the younger muse said at once. "I was just—I thought I'd—Jack I was going to ask you if you, um, wanted to, uh, to come back to the party, we were going to get the band to play—but, um, but you're busy, I'm sorry, I—I didn't mean—"

Euterpe was fumbling to explain herself and kept nervously avoiding Melpomene's eye in particular.

Jack eyed the broken pieces at Euterpe's feet, the dream sand that constructed it beginning to pull itself back together as she stammered. He wasn't sure when he let go of Melpomene, but noticed the tears had stopped filling his eyes.

He looked to Melpomene, who was glaring at Euterpe, her mouth a thin line, the frozen tears on her face thawing.

What was he doing?

Jack hastily wiped at his eyes, stepping away from Melpomene as he did so, the last few notes of their song ringing out.

This was wrong.

What was he doing?

"Yeah, let's go," Jack said, hastily over Euterpe's repeated apologies. He grabbed his staff from where he'd left it and flew over to where the other Muse was at once.

Euterpe's expression flashed from embarrassed to confused as he took her arm and headed up the nearby staircase that would take them back to the party. Melpomene remained where she stood, and Jack did not look back.

"Jack," Euterpe said as they reached the landing, "I'm so sorry, I swear I wasn't spying or anything, I didn't mean to—I swear—"

Jack turned to her, his frown still fixed. "Euterpe," he said, "Don't apologize."

"But you were—" she started.

He released her arm and set his trembling hand to her shoulder. Looking her straight in the eye, he said again, "Don't apologize."

Euterpe watched him, her brown eyes wide with concern. "Are you okay, Jack?"

He felt the nauseating emptiness settling back into his stomach, the longing for touch was back in his chest. If he didn't have one hand on his staff and the other gripping Euterpe's shoulder, the trembling would be impossible to ignore.

His mind was racing. People turning blue and struggling for breath as he and Melpomene watched. Following her around like a lost puppy through towns where no one saw them. Leaning into her embrace as she insisted that she understood him better than anyone ever would.

Telling a mortal girl all of this. A mortal girl that showed him what love actually looked like.

His eyes were welling up again. He blinked back the tears.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Jack said, not looking Euterpe in the face. "Just don't apologize, okay? Melpomene and I—that was stupid. So stupid. It shouldn't have happened."

Euterpe set a hand atop his, still on her shoulder. "It's okay, you know. If you're not okay. I now how Mel can be. She can't really help it."

"I'm fine," Jack insisted. "Let's go back to the reception."

Erato loved weddings. There was little else she enjoyed more than celebrations of love and devotion. Calliope had been dancing with Sandy all evening, floating on dream clouds and grinning with her groom. Occasionally they would part to dance with other guests, but inevitably found their way back to each other.

Erato was happy for her sister. Political as this wedding was, Calliope and Sanderson loved each other, with a love so strong it had lasted thousands of years. Even Erato, the muse of love poetry, could not boast such a feat. She'd had many loves in her life, but none demonstrating this level of commitment. She often felt torn between a longing for the domestic bliss and monogamy of traditional marriage, and keeping herself available for whatever may come her way.

Lately, however, it was a different sort of conflict that she had. North bowed politely to a nymph as the song they were dancing to came to an end and Erato could not tear her eyes away from the man, so tall, so strong.

She always did seem to go after warriors.

Soldiers, amazons, bandits, they all drew her in. North was no exception.

He caught her eye and smiled. She smiled as well, offering him a wave as he walked over.

"We have not danced yet tonight," he said as he closed the distance between them.

"We haven't," Erato said, glancing slyly up at him through her eyelashes.

Usually Erato was the first to ask. She was unafraid of asking for what she wanted, particularly when it came to matters of the heart. However, she had come to wonder if, perhaps, North always accepted her invitations to dance or to sit by the fire and have cocoa simply out of politeness. So, at the reception she had held back.

To say she was delighted that he was the one to bring it up would be an understatement.

The music started up again, he bowed and offered her his hand with a smile. She set her champagne glass down and curtsied.

He was not her first dance of the night. No, the Muses were never wanting for partners. She had danced with Baron Samedi and with Maman Brigitte. She had danced with several Nymphs, the Headless Horseman, and Johnny Appleseed. She had waltzed with Bass Reeves and tangoed with Anubis.

But this, she was sure, would be her favorite dance of the night, as North effortlessly twirled her about the floor. Their height difference should have made things difficult, but it seemed he was used to dancing with partners shorter than him (most others were) and it caused no problems.

Yelena taught him how to dance, she remembered, hoping he didn't notice as she cringed at the thought of the mortal woman, her sister, dancing about with North at their own wedding.

Erato loved Yelena, loved her like any of her sisters. She would have done anything for her, to protect her, to make sure she was happy and safe.

That very likely did not include gazing lovingly into the eyes of her husband as they danced, after silently hoping all evening that he would ask.

He isn't her husband anymore, he's her widower, the selfish, selfish part of her thought as he dipped her in a way that prompted her to grin, never breaking eye contact with him.

But didn't that make it worse?

This was not the first time she had gone back and forth on this subject.

If only she could ask Yelena, if only she could talk to her and clear the air.

She briefly considered speaking to one of the death deities present, but it was considered quite rude to ask them to play messenger, as if that was all they were good for, and they did not need anyone else mad at them now.

Give me a sign, Sister, Erato thought to herself, her gaze still locked with her dance partner's. Just let me know one way or another.

The music came to an end and the pair stopped, releasing each other from their grasps in order to clap politely for the band.

The muse glanced back at North, sighing a bit as she considered what to say to him next. All she wanted was to spend the rest of the evening dancing with him, but perhaps that was not for the best.

She didn't get a chance to say anything, however, as someone else interrupted.

"Have either of you seen Jack?" Bunny asked, walking up to him.

"Not lately," North said, shaking his head. "Not since Manny's toast."

"He's been making himself scarce," Erato said. "Why?"

"Worried about him," Bunny said.

"We all are," North said with a slight frown.

"More so than I've been," Bunny elaborated.

"Well," Erato said, "At least he's been sleeping now, sometimes you have to take these things one day at a time. A broken heart takes a lot of time to mend."

"He needs someone to talk to, and I don't think it's any of us," Bunny said thoughtfully.

"Well, then who?" North said.

"A therapist? We might be able to find someone close… Unfortunately Apollo and Artemis would be the first choice because of their association with healing," Erato said, shaking her head slightly at the thought. At least neither deity had decided to make an appearance despite their lack of invitation.

"No. A friend," Bunny said. "I think I need to go talk to a certain mortal."

North raised his eyebrows. "Not usually your strategy."

"Well, a mortal got us into this," Bunny shrugged. "I think I'm going to duck out and head to Burgess, though, it's not too late there. After I say goodbye to Sandy and Calliope."

"Good luck," Erato said.

"Thanks," Bunny nodded. "You haven't seen Sandy or Calliope, have you?"

"Ah, they were finally eating, over there," North said, gesturing to a table on the other side of the room where Sandy and Calliope were eating with Dionysus, who kept pouring glasses of wine from a bottle that never seemed to run out.

"Let's see if I can say goodbye without getting roped in for a wine tasting," Bunny said with a slight cringe. "See ya."

"Let us know how it goes!" North called after the retreating pooka. Another song had started up during their conversation and North turned back to Erato with a smile. "Another dance?"

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" Euterpe said gently as she and Jack walked back toward the party.

"I'm sure," Jack said, seeming more and more exhausted with every moment that passed. "I'm very, very sure."

"Well, if you change your mind," Euterpe said. "I won't judge."

"I'll let you know," Jack said, knowing very well that he would not, but also aware that Euterpe was trying to be helpful. She generally didn't pry much, and he liked that a lot about her.

But he didn't think he was at a place to talk to her about Melpomene. Especially not considering that they considered each other sisters. It was true that Melpomene and Euterpe also had a complicated relationship, but Jack still wasn't sure he wanted to open that wound again.

Rowan had made it easy at the time. He wasn't sure that would ever happen again with this topic.

Thankfully, the topic was sure to be dropped as a small creature ran up to them and began barking madly at Jack. At least, "barking" was the closest thing he could think to describe the noise it made, though it wasn't quite the correct word. There was something ghoulish about the sound, unsettling.

The creature had small spines barely growing in from its back, now sticking up in an attempt to be threatening. It had small, sharp teeth, sparse hair, bulging eyes, and large paws and bat-like ears it had yet to grow into.

Jack hadn't been able to get a good look at it before, as it slumbered on the lap of a woman during the wedding ceremony.

It was cuter, then.

"What the hell?" Jack said and the chupacabra bounded forward and began gnawing on his staff. Jack shook him loose and he rushed back immediately.

"He must have gotten away from Maria," Euterpe said, kneeling down and whistling for the creature to get it's attention. "Sit!"

He hissed at her.

"Siéntate," she tried again, and this time the creatures ears twitched, understanding the command. He sat, watching the muse with his big, inky black eyes. "Aquí!"

Jack watched as the creature approached Euterpe and cautiously sniffed her hand before wagging his boney tail. She scooped him into her arms, scratching behind one of his massive ears as she went.

"We should give him back," Euterpe said.

"Who's the woman that owns him?" Jack asked.

"Maria, you know, La Llorona," Euterpe said. "Pascuala gave him to her, to try and cheer her up sometimes."

"Can you cheer up La Llorona? Is that a thing?" Jack asked as they began to walk to try and find the woman in question. He wasn't sure who Pascuala was, but the name was slightly familiar, as though he might have heard it in passing.

"Oh I think it's helped her a lot, actually, from what the Horseman told me. She still weeps at night, obviously, it's like Melpomene, it's just… it's her curse to carry. But the company helps, I think," Euterpe said.

Jack nodded, feeling at least slightly comforted at the idea that even La Llorona, the Weeping Woman, could find happiness in something. Perhaps he could eventually find something, too.

Just as long as that something wasn't Melpomene's company. He shuddered slightly, wanting desperately to forget all of that.

"Oh, hello Pascuala," Euterpe said, stopping suddenly. Jack eyed the woman in question, wondering if perhaps Euterpe was messing with him. "It's nice to see you were able to make it! Have you seen Maria?

She was dressed very formally, her stare blank and glassy, and her body very, very still. She did not blink. She was a deathly shade of pale, with dark hair, pulled back.

If Euterpe hadn't stopped to talk to her, Jack might not have noticed she was there at all. Now that she had his attention, however, he was slightly unsettled. She was like a statue, one so close to looking human but just off enough.

"Hola, Euterpe," she said, her mouth barely moving, her eyes vacant. "Mi Inglés es muy pobre. ¿Quién este?"

Her eyes twitched in Jack's direction to indicate she was referring to him.

"Oh! Este es Jack Frost," Euterpe said, introducing them. "Jack, this is Pascuala."

Pascuala extended a stiff hand forward, which he took for a very, very stiff handshake, in which her fingers never grasped his hand.

"Hola," she said. "Mucho gusto."

"Hola," Jack replied. "Mucho gusto. Uh, mi Español es pobre, disculpe."

Pascuala took her hand back and gave but the slightest of nods to indicate that she understood his Spanish was a bit poor. While he understood most of what Euterpe said when she spoke it, he truly didn't have a lot of opportunity to use it himself.

Euterpe continued speaking, asking Pascuala again if she had seen La Llorona, so that they might return her chupacabra pup to her. Pascuala revealed the pup's name to be Armando, and stated that she had last seen La Llorona on the other side of the courtyard, pointing stiffly.

Jack and Euterpe thanked her for her time before walking off, Armando in tow.

"So, uh, what is her legend?" Jack asked.

"She's La Pascualita, you don't know La Pascualita?" Euterpe said, cocking a brow.

"Er, no?" Jack said.

"I can't believe you don't know La Pascualita!" Euterpe said. "She's famous! I mean I guess she's much younger than most of us, though. Oh, but there's Maria, I'll tell you about Pascuala after we return Armando. ¡Maria! ¡Maria, tenamos Armando!"

The woman turned around, her long dark hair fanning out as she did, tears streaming down her face. Her eyes lit up, however, upon seeing the pup in Euterpe's arms.

"Mijo!" she cried, rushing over. Armando wagged his tale and let out another one of his terrible noises (this one sounding cheerful) at the sight of the spirit that called out to him. "Armando, ay, Mijo!"

She took the pup from Euterpe and cradled him in her own arms, his strange forked tongue licking the tears from her cheeks as she pet him. "Gracias, Euterpe, Señor Frost."

"De nada," Jack and Euterpe said at once.

"Ay, Maria," Euterpe said, seeming to suddenly realize something, gesturing for the other woman to step aside with her. She asked if they could talk and gave Jack a quick, knowing look.

Right, yes. Pitch. They were supposed to talk to whoever they could at the wedding, since they would all be in one place.

Jack had not even attempted to sway anyone to their side.

Maria gladly went along, still cooing over Armando as Euterpe spoke to her in hushed tones, in Spanish so quick that Jack only barely caught any of it. He gave Euterpe a slight wave to indicate that he intended to just leave her to it, sure he would be little help.

He would have to hear about Pascuala later. It was not an urgent matter, after all.

He stepped away, hand in his pocket and finding himself forcing a smile for the other guests without even having to consider it now.

Perhaps it was time for him to find Sandy, say goodnight, and go home.

Daedalus' workshop seemed humble at first glance. Inventions and artwork strewn about in a small room, with a bed and a small kitchen to the side. But there was a staircase in the corner that would take you down many, many, many stories, where more and more machines and tools were stored. They were years, centuries maybe, ahead of what some mortals had accomplished.

He had nothing but time to tinker with these things, but he rarely did anything with them. No invention, no painting or sculpture brought him joy or satisfaction upon completion anymore. They hadn't for centuries.

Still he tried, hoping that he would find that feeling again, knowing no other place to possibly search for it.

He had taken today off, however. He had gone to a wedding, hoping to find joy there.

He had not.

And so, he headed home, where he expected to continue not finding joy until eventually he drifted off to sleep.

When he opened the door and turned on his lights, however, he found that he was not alone.

Sitting at the chair at his work table, shades of gray and black, high cheekbones and all, was none other than Pitch Black, seeming quite relaxed. A smile twitched at his lips as Daedalus jumped in surprise, reaching for whatever weapon was the closest.

"Oh, you won't need that," Pitch said casually as Daedalus pointed a far-too-complex-looking crossbow at him.

"What are you doing here?" Daedalus demanded.

"I have a proposition for you," Pitch said, standing up and seeming very unconcerned about the crossbow, still pointed his way.

"I've heard you're going around with some kind of weapon," Daedalus said. "I don't need it. Besides, I pledged my loyalty to Apollo centuries ago, so you might as well leave now."

"You don't dream anymore, do you, Daedalus?" Pitch said, approaching him.

"I dream every night, you bastard. You know that, get out," said the man, never lowering his weapon. He had the look about him that said he was always tired, no matter how much rest he got. Always hungry, no matter what he ate. Eternally unsatisfied.

"No, no," Pitch said. "You have nightmares. Not dreams. Actually, one specific nightmare, correct?"

Daedalus didn't answer, his hands trembling.

"The same one, over and over. Of your son, plummeting to the sea," Pitch said, glancing to the wall above Daedalus' bed, where a meticulous portrait of his son was situated. It was the grin that he had given him before they left for their flight, before he had flown too close to the sun, before he had fallen to his inevitable death.

Daedalus had seen the grin every night in his nightmares for centuries.

This was not the only painting.

There were also sculptures, sketches, ink washes.

The grin haunted him in every medium.

"Get out," Daedalus said again.

"What if I told you I could make it stop?" Pitch said.

Daedalus eyed him carefully, hesitantly, as he lowered his weapon but slightly.

"I control nightmares," Pitch said. "I can make yours stop. You can move on. You can have your life back. You just have to do something for me."

"I'm loyal to Apollo," Daedalus said again, though he did not raise his weapon.

"And what's that got you?" Pitch said. "Years of misery? Years of guilt? Was he not the cause, indirect as it may have been, of your son's death in the first place?"

"Apollo has been good to me," Daedalus said.

"But I can make it stop," Pitch said again. "You fear that you will never feel joy again. That you will spend the rest of eternity looking for something that makes it feel like it wasn't a waste that you're still here and he isn't. You fear that it should have been you and that every minute you breathe is a mistake. You fear that you will never move on. But I can make it stop. What has Apollo done?"

Daedalus did not respond, hands still on his crossbow, eyes cast to the floor.

"I can help you," Pitch said.

"I'm—I'm not saying yes, but… what… what would I have to do?" Daedalus said softly.

Pitch smirked, a set of blueprints appearing in his hands.