The ending quote of the last chapter comes from "Come Undone" by My Darkest Days. Amazing cover. Amazing voice. Love love love.
Jack dresses while the ravenous mare devours the charred corpse, lying rigid on the floor. He considers it a courtesy more than anything. With the evidence gone, it is as though it never happened. Unfortunately, threads of innocence are harder to find now. Jack studies his hand and the mysterious ring crowning his finger, turning his palm over. He admires and fears it. He loves and despises it. Whatever power it provides is both a comforting and hazardous. Jack, besotted with victory, is too stunned, too delirious with murder to come to terms with what he has done. He waits for the satisfaction vengeance promises – the alleviation of the pain and the repair of his person. It never comes.
Why?
Where is it?
His fascination and the wild rush in his veins give way to grief.
Jack, in a stifling fog, finds his way out of Pitch's lair, using mirrors, moving walls, and reshaping shadows. Sliding. Growls. Whispers of fabric and phantom breath. The doors yawn open before him, groaning in protest. He can see the courtyard and the fields beyond the private garden, barred by the secondary gate. With a sudden rush of need, he hurries to the gate and throws it open.
Not warm. Not cold. Numb. Stale. Still.
He finds no comfort in the bleak wilderness beyond – a ghostly, morbid black and grey world. Ash is falling from the sky, peppering the ground in grey. It does not take long for Jack's hair to assume the same hue and his skin to smudge. Battling tears, he picks his way over a path rarely used, overgrown with tangled black vines, heavily thorned and especially menacing. He passes statues and stones, but pays their significance little mind. Jack does not realize where his feet are taking him until he sees the dividing line up ahead.
He is suffocating.
Not physically. There is plenty of air in his lungs. But the world is caving in about him. He has a mind to step out of the ash and into the snow, seeking it like an antidote. It lays in wait before him, pure and unpolluted. Clean. Beautiful. Jack reaches out in hopes of catching a few white flurries in his hand.
Thud.
"No…"
He can't.
He can't because before him is a barrier he cannot see: a barrier surrounding the Nightmare King's fortress. There is a barrier between the world of ash and the real snow beyond. He can feel it. He can even see faint ripples in the air, blossoming out from where his hand touches the force field. He also sees a flash, sees his world rotate and thrown into sharp focus, as though he is standing on the outside looking in. It's a cage.
And from the other side, there is nothingness. From the other side, the ominous castle does not exist.
Jack removes his hand and staggers backwards. He doesn't understand. Hoping it is just an illusion, he turns his hand over and looks at his palm. Bile rises in the back of his throat. Grey. Black. Smudged.
Jack goes to wipe the filth away. The motion becomes more furious when it will not come off.
It is as if he is being inverted – turned inside out. As he stares at his flesh, he sees the staining of his own soul, marred by some unnatural lust and the dastardly deed. Jack shakes his head. "I had to. I had to," he whispers, his eyes wide as they search for justification. "He made me. I had to!" And now, the only clean pieces of his face are the tear streaks.
His knees buckle. He sinks to the ground, cushioned with ash. He is trapped here, whether by this barrier or his own guilt. Jack tries to recall the reason he came. That reason, of course, was Pitch. Pitch: the only creature to ever entice him so. The dark, seductive romance was the perfect lure. And Jack still craves it. But Pitch has yet to take any interest in him other than fleeting glances and sporadic visits.
Does he… know?
Jack covers his ears and shakes his head.
Does Pitch Black know that his virtue is gone? Does he know about Jack's indiscretions? Does he regret bringing him here? Will he leave as a result… or toss him out like rubbish? Jack cannot bear the thought. He'll go mad. He'll go mad!
Jack yanks the ring off his finger, preparing to chuck it as far from him as possible.
Something snorts. Jack turns enough to see the mare, her hooves planted on the clouded path behind him. Jack shakes his head. "Go away," he whispers, resuming his original position. But the plea has no conviction behind it – no anger or resentment. Just pain. Obviously none of this is her fault no matter how much Jack pines for something to blame aside from himself.
He hears the dull thudding of her hooves on the path, but the sounds are growing closer. Slow. Cautious. Painstakingly cautious.
When she is close enough, she extends her neck and noses along his shoulder, prodding him gently. She flicks her tail and tosses her head, nickering at him. Jack, teary eyed, glances at her. She starts stamping her hooves and pawing at the ground. Ash flutters up around her hooves. She nickers again.
She doesn't like it here, Jack realizes. Jack's eyes track from the mare to the barrier and what lies beyond. The mare whinnies, practically prancing in place. Jack finds his feet and tucks the ring into his pocket. Whatever it is, it is a gift. He can defend himself now. He's not helpless. Not anymore.
The mare snorts in approval, coming abreast him so he can put his hand on her shoulder for support. Jack manages something like a smile. He wants to throw his arms around her neck and disintegrate. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs. He wants too much.
He has always wanted too much.
Together, they walk back towards the manor.
Pitch stands at one of the empty windows, slender and soaring with a pointed tip and elegant frame. Simple. Stark. Sharp. Not unlike himself.
He watches the figures returning to his dwelling, namely Jack. The sight fills him with a joy most terrible.
Because no, Pitch does not want to change Jack. He wants Jack to change himself. Such is the only acceptable course of action where lovers are concerned… and they will be lovers. And Pitch will be blameless for it. Jack will succumb to him completely and of his own accord.
Jack will be the sweetest lover, given time to ripen and time for the bruising to heal. Jack, unknowingly, opens his mind, his most intimate thoughts to Pitch, with every delicious dark act he commits. And Pitch knows that Jack is so close, so tantalizingly close, to coming to him. It's perfect.
Because Pitch would never stoop to ask. He cannot take either. Such would destroy the animal, the white tigress, inside of Frost. Seductive and sinful and succulent.
No. Jack will come to him. Placate him. Soothe him. Satisfy him. And soon.
There are shreds of beauty in his world, but Jack must learn to appreciate them in order to see them.
You mustn't fear me, Pitch whispers at the edge of Jack's trauma-burned mind, lingering, caressing. Each crack he touches disappears, filled in like melding mortar.
Jack stops in mid-step. The mare glances back at him with her ears perked attentively. His vision clears. His fear subsides. His doubt wanes. He is not alone. Something is watching over him, something dark, but… somehow benevolent. Something that seems to cherish him, need him, care for him.
Jack's eyes pan the dead expanse – a grey world dusted in ash. He watches the flurries float down, like feathers.
No. Not dead.
Jack kneels down beside a tangle of thorns. Something is swelling on one of the stems. Black roses begin to bud and bloom over the vine. He reaches out and ghosts his fingerpad across a petal – soft as silk.
The mare, bristling with curiosity, steps gingerly around him to taste one. She plucks a bloom from the branch and munches, considering carefully. When she snorts and recoils from the fragrance and flavor it leaves on her tongue, Jack is surprised by his own laughter.
The mare is too. She watches him with a mix of uncertainty and amusement, slightly repulsed he would take such pleasure in her misfortune. But then again, he is Pitch's mate.
Why The Master chose such a pale creature with all that fluffy white hair is beyond her. He has a kindness in his Caribbean blues that unsettles her stomach: feminine gentility and boyish charm. But she likes his smirk. He reminds her of a foal – needy and mischievous, but full of potential. He will learn all the appropriate way to behave in time. And like any foal, he needs to be told where to go and what to do.
She suspects that has been the case for the majority of his life.
Flighty, fervent little thing…
She nudges him up the path, impatient to be rid of her charge and drive him back into Pitch's arms so she can return to her own mate in another realm. Water-horses make quite the partner. Jack's scent is changing. Strange that she cannot smell the Master on him… nowhere near as thickly as she could smell it on him when they first met.
Pitch should fix that.
Some other shadowspawn may mistake him for prey, or a potential mate themselves. Two legs… Always waiting until the right time instead of staking claims and acting on primal urges. Silly silly silly.
Jack chuckles a bit as she butts him up the path and back through the gate. He raises his eyes to see Pitch standing in the doorway. The arresting sight floods his face with heat and he averts his eyes. The mare will not be deterred by his shame, or bashful tendencies, and prods him into the courtyard. When Jack crosses the threshold, she pivots on her hooves and dashes away, vanishing into the ash with a shrill, jubilant whinny.
Pitch steps aside, his back abreast the open door, and gestures into the keep with an open hand. And somehow Jack knows the invitation means more than the norm. It's not just for now. It's forever. The idea occurs to him then… that perhaps it is time to offer Pitch extra incentive. Gratitude. Praise for keeping him.
They pass dinner that evening in silence that transcends Jack's definition. Jack cannot meet his eyes, knowing how badly his cheeks burn. Appetite for food alludes him, but fantasies abound, whetting an appetite for something else. Jack can feel strange caresses to his mind, coaxing more explicit scenes to the surface.
Jack stands before a mirror, clad only in the long sleeved bottoned nightshirt he discovered in the closet. It is long enough to cover what it needs to. He also must be mindful of losing his hands in the fabric. Lastly he removes the ring, laying it on the bureau.
With nothing but the moonlight to guide him, Jack's feet take him down the corridor… to the soaring doors of Pitch's room. His heart is hammering. His hands are clammy. Should the man refuse him, for whatever reason, Jack has little concept of what he would do. It would squash what little confidence he had left. He closes his eyes, musters his courage, and pushes the door open. It yawns inward silently. Jack steps inside. Pitch is not abed. Rather, the man sits at the cushioned window sill with a book in hand. He lifts his eyes, fixing Jack to the floor with his glowing ambers.
The strength all but leaves Jack's legs. Willing his knees not to start knocking, he tries his best to maintain eye contact. A silent message passes between them. Before Jack is fully conscious of his own actions, he is unbuttoning his shirt. Slowly. One at a time. No matter how fast his blood races or his heart flutters, he cannot bring himself to go faster. When the last button is thumbed open, he pulls the fabric apart and lets it slide down his shoulders and his arms to pool on the floor at his heels. He shifts slightly, body conforming into something of a modest stance, though his actions rob him of that virtue.
They gaze at one another. Jack cannot read Pitch's stare. He swallows.
Pitch rises. He closes the book and leaves it on the sill. The man is dressed in sleep pants and a short, open robe in matching black, both boasting a liquid-like sheen. Pitch approaches. Jack is terrified. What appears to be beeline diverges. The man moves behind him with all the grace of a jungle cat – an apex predator – a shadow. He circles him once, surveying and scrutinizing every nude inch.
Judgment Day.
Pitch strolls behind him once again. But this time, he stops. Jack feels a cool knuckle between his shoulder blades. The folded digit trails downward, following the path of his spine and the trench of his back. Jack shivers. There are lips on his shoulder. They hover over the crook of his neck. They kiss him again. Jack's eyes fall closed. There is a hand on his hip. That hand moves to his abdomen. It pulls. There is no space between Jack's posterior and the body behind him.
"Are you afraid?" Pitch asks against the shell of his ear.
A series of flashbacks blaze through Jack's memory, burning him with their blunt reminders and ugly reflections. At the end of it all, Pitch is there, near the end of some tunnel, holding him. His heart calms. His pulse levels out. Jack opens his eyes. A tear drop escapes from a corner.
"No," he breathes, his vacant eyes fixated ahead, on the stark colored bed.
The other male pauses before he says, "It is alright to fear, Jack. I know."
The weight of those words crushes him. Jack's lips part, his expression plummeting, brows on the incline. He could die. In this moment, he could die. "What?" he whispers.
"This is my keep. I see all. I know all." Against Jack's ear, "You are no less beautiful, no less desirable. What is done makes no difference." The hand snakes around his torso as Pitch wraps Jack up in his arms. "I have waited… wanted you to come to me. You needed time. It had to be your choice."
Jack's hands clutch the man's arm, bunching up the sleeve of his robe. "I thought… I thought you had lost interest," he croaks.
"My interest in you is an obsession that will never diminish. You are a dream incarnate. An immaculate dream." Jack emits a soft, pain filled sob. Had Pitch not been holding him, Jack would have crumbled to the floor. The man takes the weight easily. "You have exacted your vengeance. You have corrected the imbalance. You have dealt justice for yourself… masterfully. There is nothing else to be done. It is over, my pet. It is over," Pitch says against his ear. Jack's fingers burrow into his arm, clinging to him. Pitch holds Jack until strength returns to the boy's legs. He stands, cheeks freshly stained with tears. There are lips on his neck again.
Pitch leaves him. Jack feels bereft of something invaluable.
The Nightmare King strides to his bed. He angles towards Jack. He extends his hand. "Now… you will come to me."