Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jack is sleeping in my bed. Just inches away from me.

With very little effort, I could reach out my hand, touch anywhere I want.

I need to leave.

*

I walk to the library, where the sprite is caught. Nasty, aggressive thing, no manners, barely coherent. It sits spitting, wrapped in threads of shadows. The more it struggles, the more it entangles itself.

I have no pity for it. It attacked Jack – that would be crime enough, except it followed him; it dared to enter my lair in order to continue attacking him.

The lack of respect is shocking, an outrage. But what is worse, far worse, was seeing Jack, already lethargic and weakened by the summer, bruised and bleeding. Exhausted, barely able to stand; as soon as I pulled him to me, he fell into my arms, a dead weight. I feared he may be dead.

He is not. He is resting, slowly healing.

My fear and my relief turns to rage. White-hot fire that leaves nothing but ash.

This sprite has forfeited its life. Not only did it attack what is mine – but to come in my house, as if it were open to all and sundry…

The sprite pulls into itself, as if it can protect itself. Hands with long fingers and talons are held up, eyes bright with fear, mouth trembling. It pleads for forgiveness, it begs for mercy.

There is no mercy in me. I, who had nothing but bitterness and hate, a covetous and avaricious monster for over a thousand years…there is no mercy in me.

My shadows lengthen, strong and sinuous as eels, and they wrap around the sprite: the ankles, the wrists, the neck. The sprite is pulled apart, slowly, in danger of being torn asunder.

It is terrified. The fear is delicious – I crave it the way humans crave sugar and fat. It is ambrosia, food for the gods, and I can’t help but feel like a god when I take it.

I could kill it. Easily.

I could shape it instead. Make it forget what it was.

I could turn it into a nightmare. Bend the bones, flesh, and muscle, beat it into shape. Twist the mind, the soul of it.

Do unto others as was done unto you.

*

I think… I think I was something else once.

Someone else.

Someone wanted. Someone loved.

*

I am at the mirror in the library again, bare to the waist. I stare at my eyes first.

There is a change there. Flecks of gold in the black – like stars in the night sky says Jack, but then he is overly sentimental.

My body is still the same. I rarely look at it (what is the point?), and I don’t usually think of it. But, when I think of Jack… how beautiful he is, skin like porcelain, sapphire eyes, and a smile that would cause angels to fall… I am reminded how ugly I am.

My skin across my whole torso is mottled. Patches of red, orange and black. A coarse, rough texture in some areas, and almost waxy smoothness in others.

At one point I was burnt.

*

I presume it was a small fire – conjecture I know, but I would have died from the smoke before the flames got to me if it were a large fire. Trapped in a burning house? Or did someone do this to me deliberately? Watched as I slowly, and painfully, burnt.

*

Were any tears shed for me?

*

I am at the mirror again, and I hear footsteps behind me (Jack is obviously still weak if he is walking – otherwise he would float over to me, as it means he can sneak up on me, and he still finds this amusing). I turn to Jack leaning against the door, black circles under his eyes.

‘You should be resting.’ I state.

He smiles at me (oh gods, his smile). ‘No point being in your bed if you’re not there, Pitch.’ His eyes dart quickly to my chest and back to my face, as if he can pretend he hasn’t seen them.

I swallow, and can feel the chitter of my shadows, a sound like startled insects. I am nervous and ashamed.

‘I am aware that… they must…’ I begin, though I have no idea what I will say to him. I keep my eyes to the floor – I will not see the disgust in his eyes, or (god forbid) pity.

‘Pitch, look at me,’ he asks. ‘Look. At. Me.’

I raise my head and see him walk towards me with purpose, even though he stumbles slightly. He stands in front of me, barely any space between us, and places his hands on my bare shoulders. ‘Can I touch?’ he whispers, and I nod, both terrified and desperate for him to touch me.

He moves his hands – fingers cool and soft – down my arms and slowly across my chest in swirling, random patterns. He doesn’t linger on the scars, nor does he avoid them, but all the skin is caressed with the same care.

It feels… it feels wonderful. I feel wonderful.

I want to do the same to him. Want to touch his skin. Want to feel it underneath my fingers. Want to see what makes him smile. What makes him moan.

I want to worship him. With my hands. With my mouth.

I lower my head and place my lips on his. They are cold and sweet, the taste more addictive than anything I have ever had before. He sighs and his body rests against mine, and it feels oh so good…

‘Bed!’ I drag myself away to command, before I am pulled under into a fugue of pleasure.

‘Your pillow talk needs work,’ he quips, one eyebrow raised.

I shake my head. ‘You are weak, and you need to rest.’

He bites his lip in mock petulance, creating a small mark that I want to kiss away. But he needs to rest, to heal, and he can only do that if he sleeps.

Eventually he groans ‘Fine!’ There is a look of mock doe-eyed innocence on his face. ‘You’ll come with me, won’t you? Help me sleep?’

I nod in acquiescence, swallowing down all nervousness.

‘Great, come on then,’ he says excitedly, turning to go and tugging at my hand to hurry me along. ‘Oh wait!’ he exclaims. ‘What happened to the sprite?’

I could lie to him. Say it’s dead. Or gone away. Yet, I don’t want to lie to him.

I think I was loved once. And I want to be loved again.

But love needs truth. Even if it is a cold, ugly truth, with sharp edges.

I gesture to a flickering purple flame on a black candle in one of the holders set into the wall. ‘There,’ I say. ‘I was not sure whether to kill it, or make it forget itself and become a nightmare. Or I could just leave it there, in that state, for a thousand years, before I return it to its former glory.’

Jack tilts his head, a thoughtful bird. ‘A thousand years is too cruel a fate, Pitch,’ he scolds. There is a gleam in his eye. ‘A few centuries will do.’