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Chapter Text

Pitch screamed, throwing himself against the sloping cavern wall. His bloody nails clawed the unforgiving rock. He was sobbing, choking things that shook his wasted frame. He was too weak to keep up his pitiful onslaught, and whatever panicked strength he had had deserted him. The Boogeyman, once so proud, crumpled. He pounded ineffectually against the shadows that refused him escape.

Hearing the unmistakeable ringing of hooves on stone, Pitch's quivering sobs grew stronger and his eyes darted about the shadows that no longer yielded to his sight. Hoarse, cracking pleas fell from his torn lips; convulsively, he twitched. Shapes played mockingly about him, leering flashes of hungry yellow eyes appearing only long enough to make Pitch gasp raggedly.

He begged incoherently to anyone in a shaking litany, eyes wide and feverish. It was useless; no one would find him in the dark. No one would look. Somewhere, a horse whinnied. Pitch whimpered, pressing his thin body against the cold rock and prayed it would not find him. The Nightmares needed no sight to follow the heady scent of Pitch's fear, but the Boogeyman was too far gone to realise it.

He scraped bloody furrows against his forearms, willing his betraying mouth to keep silent, but he could not. Raw sobs tore themselves from his aching and abused throat like animals clawing their way from a dark pit. Tears ran down the hollow cheeks, streaking salty paths in the blood around his bite-mangled lips. He craved their warmth. He shivered, a spasmodic skeleton of skin stretched taut over bone. His fingers and toes had been bitten by the icy chill of the dark, and were swollen and purple. (It amused them to mock him with the breath of the winter spirit he had hoped would become his companion against his madness.)

Another shrill scream. Pitch bit his broken fingers to keep from crying out, his sharp yellow teeth grating against the bone; hot wet copper on his tongue. The pain thrilled against abused nerves, building to an intolerable shriek of agony.

His free hand groped in the darkness of his robe. Something cold and metallic brushed against his fingertips. It took him a second or two of blind pawing before he could work his thick fingers enough to grasp it. He pulled out a dirty old locket, tarnished and rusted, warped by ill-care and brittle with age. Complex gears groaned when he rubbed his bleeding thumb across the worn surface. Carved into the face was the long-eared shape of a bipedal rabbit in flowing robes, holding a staff topped with an egg-shaped stone.

Holding it soothed the edges of a wound Pitch was only subliminally aware of, a weeping empty void like a maggot in his heart. But even the cruel comfort of a wrong-shaped locket was lost on Pitch, seized as he was in the clawed grip of the panic the shadows loved to evoke. He was reduced to a low, animal groaning, pushing his aching head against the rock, following some deeply-buried human instinct to seek comfort from the dark that had always been mothering to him, though a vicious, demanding mistress. It only made the jagged depths of the betrayal deeper.

His fingers rubbed against the cold metal, cold enough to feel like ice. Numb digits poking roughly, he fiddled with the catches. He had hoped that it would give him something, something he didn't care to recognise he needed, alone in the dark with only the twisted mockery of his powers as company. 

The staccato thunder of  hooves took up a new urgency, golden eyes appeared madly out of the dark, black bodies flowing like a monstrous river. The King of Fear wept like a child at their approach. 

One Nightmare pranced closer, her skittish head raised high and lips peeled back. Tendrils of black sand served as her mane, tangled onyx dust swirling as if she were underwater. She was elegant in her savagery, with long, equine legs and delicate hooves for all their sharpness. He recognised her; Kelpie, the fear of drowning. In response he felt something skating up his spine, the lapping of waves against his skin, salt stinging in his wounds. He gasped for air through lungs that felt too tight, choked at the brimming liquid at his lips. It tasted sour and cloying, like rotten fruit.

Unconscious, he clenched the locket tighter. Something sharp jabbed his thumb, a small silver pin, clicked out of place.

Kelpie skittered to him, her yellow eyes gleaming with anticipation. Around her, her sisters whinnied- high, screaming sounds that howled like a child's fingernails scrabbling at locked cellar doors. She snapped at his hip, and at her touch a chill swept through his body like cracking ice underfoot.

Pitch coughed, rasping for air that Kelpie did not grant him. The saltwater roared in his ears; he flailed weak arms in the vague memory of swimming. It was cold, cold as the spaces between the stars. Pitch thrashed under the touch of the Nightmares, a wild thing, although he never loosened his grip on the locket. The mares he had raised from scattered grains of fear took their fun with him, plunging him first into one hellscape than another, observing his reactions with the delight of boys pulling the wings off butterflies.

His left hand, gripping something silver tightly, struck rock. A jar went through the locket. The pin shifted. Old gears groaned in protest, forced out of alignment. A light shone from between the twisted grey fingers; warmth spread up to his shoulder, a prickling discomfort like needles jabbing into his bones.

The Nightmares screamed, confused and slighted at their prey's actions. He didn't normally start glowing when they played with him.

A tickling, tightening sensation built up behind Pitch's sternum, like white-hot wires closing around an invisible core. The heat and pressure increased beneath his skin, and Pitch's eyes widened, glowing cracks of light seeping out from the tears in his skin. To a being engulfed in shadow, it was immeasurably painful, and had he any breath, he would have howled.

The world exploded into light, heat, and twirling fractals of gold. Pitch was caught up, whisked along, as beneath the locket's ticking gears the passing of ages dwindled away into dust. 

Kozmotis Pitchiner moved slowly, methodically buckling straps with the numb ease of a man who had done so every day for years. 

He lifted a helmet from the shelf carefully, balancing the metal piece in his gauntleted hands. It shone faintly even in the harsh white light of the guardroom. Dark brows furrowed almost contemplatively as he looked down at the helmet; it was a functional creation but no less noble for it, with a full guard over his face that paused over his lips, the edges of the metal curving down to sculpted points either side of his jaw. The pale moonmetal was embossed with protective sigils that formed elegant lines of gold on the silvery metal, framing the eye-slits, which were wide for the best visibility. It was these symbols that gave the armour its shining power.

An almost silent sigh breathed from slightly parted lips. He slid the helmet on, adjusting it automatically and meeting his own still grey eyes in the mirror as he did so. They were cold and reserved, giving away no secrets, and fully armoured, there was no tell of exhaustion, as if Kozmotis had become one with his armour, equally as unforgiving and remote. Another soldier, comfortable in this skin as if he had been born with it.

Visible, the grim line of his mouth quirked into a bitter shape that could not be called a smile. 

The lone General allowed his right hand to fall negligently to his sword hilt as he turned sharply and left the small guardsroom that served as his quarters. The wire-wrapped hilt was familiar to his hand, a comfort in the strong starsteel that had not yet failed him. The dark red cloak that swung heavy from his shoulders snapped behind him as he walked, a tall imposing soldier dressed all in gold and silver, his only concession to the biting chill of the prison planet, unwarmed by any sun.

He did not bother to look up at the starless dark sky when he emerged into the crude courtyard of tamped down earthen rock before the great door, a menacing, ugly thing, crouching patiently in wait, hiding the corruption that writhed and seethed beneath it's gilded surface. There was no friendly light in the sky; the Tsar had built the planet where no star would ever go, in the darkest and blackest reaches of space.

Kozmotis mounted the low, smooth dark steps towards the door where awaited a solitary chair, spindle-legged and weary, the lines on his forehead only deepening as he felt the darkness whispering in his ear.

Their promises were the same that they always were, power, riches, wealth beyond Kozmotis's wildest dreams, beautiful women falling at his feet begging for his touch, entire cities bowing low at his passing, the very stars themselves tamed to his hand. 

He stared down over the seldom-used docks, depressingly barren, his only connection to the rest of the world. A small escape shuttle was docked there; an ugly, hideous thing. He felt a piteous sort of comradeship for that little ship. It was utterly pointless, doomed to live out the rest of it's life surrounded by fearlings, and in the end, if the emergency it was issued for was ever to happen, it would be thoroughly inadequate.

He blinked, feeling sluggish; the fearlings preyed on his mind constantly. He blinked again; no, it had to be a mirage of his tired eyes playing tricks on him, otherwise, why would the little space shuttle start to glow...?

Kozmotis shook his head impatiently, but as the glow refused to disappear, he felt instead growing suspicion. This was a trick. 

He advanced cautiously towards the source of the light, pinpointing as he grew closer that the glow was not coming from the shuttle but rather the wide, empty clearing in front of it, where the supplies were unloaded. He squinted warily. He could not determine the focal point of the light, only that it was growing bigger and stronger, and a thrumming feeling was emanating from it, like the hurried whispers of stars tickling the edges of dreaming and consciousness. Kozmotis drew his sword.

The light abruptly gathered inwards, and then exploded, with one last pulsation so bright it forced Kozmotis to stagger back and shield his eyes. There was a horrendous shriek and an iron clang in his ears. Blinded, the general was instantly on alert. He was vulnerable as he blinked away after-images, struggling to make sense of what he saw.

The soldier stared.

A pale man had appeared, spread-eagled on his stomach in the raw earth, still as if dead and utterly nude. His skin was pallid grey, wasted silver, and his hair fell in tangled, greasy locks around his thin face. His body was painfully emaciated, all spidery limbs and narrow, bony protrusions, covered in a dark mottling of bruises and the occasional patch of dried black liquid. His right hand was clenched in a tight fist, so tight Kozmotis could see blood trickling lazily from his palms where his nails had dug in. Smoke curled from his skin like caressing shadows.

The sight of him caused something to twist uncomfortably in Kozmotis' stomach and goosebumps to race over his skin. He corralled the uneasy feeling with iron control, stiffening his spine.  He waited for a full minute, not moving a muscle, ready to spring towards the stranger and kill him instantly, but the man was utterly still. 

Kozmotis kicked a scuff of dirt over the unconscious man, but there was no reaction. Tensely, the General took a single step forward, then another, when no attack came.

Cautiously, Kozmotis poked him with the tip of his sword, and then stepped back swiftly, sliding instinctively into a ready position. Nothing. Nor was there when he tried again, nor for the third time, until at last he accepted that the man would not react. He kept his sword carefully drawn as he crouched slowly beside the figure, reaching out to unclasp what appeared to be a smoking hunk of metal on a chain from the tight fist. The grey palm was burned and blistered. He narrowed his eyes at the mysteriously superheated metal, still glowing with faint light.

Kozmotis removed his right gauntlet slowly, then placed his fingers gently against the long curve of the man's gaunt neck. A birdlike pulse thrummed, and Kozmotis permitted himself a silent acknowledgement of relief. The man's skin was feverishly hot. Kozmotis replaced his gauntlet and studied the mysterious arrival flatly.

Perhaps this man was a moonmage, left over from building the prison planet. Kozmotis had heard that they could transport themselves short distances using beams of moonlight, or focusing objects, like lockets. He eyed the grey skin. It fitted the colouration, although the prison planet had been evacuated before the fearlings had been imprisoned, Kozmotis had made sure of that. But this man was not exuding any obvious fearling corruption, and was obviously wounded. Perhaps he had been trapped someplace inside the prison itself, only gathering the strength to escape then.

Kozmotis sighed inaudibly.

He sheathed his sword and unclasped his cloak from his shoulders. The fabric was dark scarlet against the man's greyish skin. The man was worrisomely light when Kozmotis lifted him, and his head lolled against Kozmotis' shoulder, a thin bead of dark blood dipping between his collarbones. He stared for a moment at the man's slack face. He had high cheekbones, gaunt cheeks, dark lips, eyelids like bruises. A flash of holding Seraphina just like this when she had fallen asleep outside and he had carried her in to bed distracted him for a brief moment. He shook it off, ignoring the all to familiar ache in his chest at the thought of his dead daughter.

Kozmotis Pitchiner had not survived as long as he had by falling for fearling tricks, but there was an odd feeling surrounding the mystery man that nagged at him insatiably. He would find somewhere secure to put the man and wait for his awakening.

Left behind in the scuffed earth, the locket smoked. 

Chapter Text

The Moonbots hummed and clicked as they worked, extending robotic appendages that glowed with a buttery yellow light against the unconscious man's skin. The starlight worked wonders; muscle and skin flowed together as if it had never been split, leaving only faint pale lines behind. Kozmotis had been under its influence more than once. It felt like bathing in summer.

Kozmotis leant against the luminescent white wall of the guardroom, arms crossed over his chest. The room was not large; it was almost unbearably stark, but for a couch the colour of fog (an unusual luxury that Kozmotis knew was due to his rank as a General) positioned slightly off centre, facing the recessed vidscreen hidden by a panel in the wall. Behind the couch, another rectangular depression indicated the door to the cubicle that contained Kozmotis' narrow cot. The entire room was lit up harshly by the bright, glaring overhead lights that frequented the entire prison, chasing away shadows and rendering the entire room curiously flat and colourless. The walls, ceiling and floor were all white; sometimes it hurt Kozmotis' eyes to look at it, all the brightness reflecting off itself, but it hurt the fearlings even more, the absence of friendly, deep shadow.

The stranger was limp on the couch, his greyish limbs sprawling off the ends like trailing spiders. The slight man was dwarfed by the couch; he really was thin, and long, as if he had been stretched out and pounded flat. Kozmotis could count his ribs protruding against his papery skin with ease; his legs were so slender Kozmotis wondered how they could possibly bear his weight, and even his ankles appeared swollen compared to his shins and calves. His arms and mangled hands curled protectively over his head. His brow, disturbingly hairless, was lined with old pains, though slowly relaxing under the ministrations of the moonbots.

A desperate neglect was present in the picture, perhaps in the way he seemed to quiver and shake unintentionally under their care, as if he constantly expected the gentle healing to become a vicious attack the moment he allowed himself to subconsciously relax. There was something childlike in the way he huddled against the hard couch, something that demanded slow, cautious approaches, like taming an abused animal trained to bite and snap.

He had to be a powerful sorcerer, to be so beaten and malnourished yet survive fearling influence and teleport himself to Kozmotis. It was clear that his torture had been ongoing for a long while; underneath the fresh cuts and bruises were deep, purple-yellow colourations, most of which had the stamp of hooves, old, half-healed scars in the shape of ringing bite-marks no sane creature possessed, more than half score inflamed and puffy with infection, and his notes reported many internal injuries such as concussive fractures in his arms and wrists, broken ribs, twisted ankle, petty enough injuries on their own that added to the marks of a competent torturer experienced in the skill of taking pain without killing his victim. Oddly, many of his wounds appeared to be self-inflicted, such as his twisted and gnawed fingers, bloody to the bone, and deep, clawing scratches all over his body.

Kozmotis knew what it took to make a man claw so desperately at his own skin as if he could slit it like an overripe fruit and physically rip out the darkness within, but the stranger was like no Nightmare Man he had ever seen, those former humans become inky figures of shadow. For one, he could bear the touch of light, and his form was as solid as Kozmotis' own, if severely abused. Perhaps it was a failed possession, then, or maybe he really was a grey-skinned moonmage, trapped with only fearlings for company in a locked prison.

If the possible-mage was benevolent, and his answers were satisfactory, Kozmotis would send him on his way when the supply ship came in two months, or if he were truly desperate (and Kozmotis would not blame him) he would give him the sad little escape shuttle. Perhaps he might even make it to the supplies waystation before the stuttering engine gave out.

If he were not...

Were it a purely physical fight, Kozmotis would win in an instant. The General knew well the benefit of being strong and fit and honed his body like a blade. He was made General not only for his strategic mind, but for the fact he was virtually undefeated among his peers. Yet this man carried a sense of otherness around him that rightly made Kozmotis wary. He sincerely doubted that the possible-mage did not have any tricks up his figurative sleeve.

Straightening, Kozmotis ordered in a voice rough from disuse, "Notify me when he awakens." When was the last time he had spoken? At the moonbots' acknowledgement, Kozmotis turned stiffly and returned to his post. If the fearlings had been behind the appearance of the man, there would be damages to their prison.

Kozmotis would protect the doors. The fearlings could not be freed. The price had been too much for their imprisonment.

Identification COMPLETE, flashed the moonbots to no one, K.PITCHINER.  Sex: MALE. Species: HUMAN. 54%  Healed. Estimated Recovery Time: 2hr 24min 38sec. 

Pitch Black surfaced in the slow, hazy way a dreamer allows himself to rise, careless, cradled in the warm currents of deep unconsciousness. He became aware in increments: first of a pleasant satisfaction of heat working its way into his bones; second of the quivering pleasure of aching muscles releasing, tightly-coiled, from knots he had not even known were there; third, a warmth and softness comparable only to clouds flushed pink from sunset against his raw skin; fourth, of being enveloped so sweetly in this dreamlike, fugue state heavy upon him, it brought tears to his eyes.

Pitch had never been embraced in his life, but the light he could feel sinking into his skin was as close as he had ever allowed himself to quietly imagine it to be like, on brief stolen moments when he had not looked away quite fast enough from a parent consoling their child after a particularly gripping nightmare. It felt strange, uncomfortable, and Pitch disliked the new terror that came along with it. He had not experienced this before.

There was no pain.

Pitch could not remember the last time there had been no pain.

This was a trick, obviously. A trick, put on by the Guardians, one last mockery of his weakness. They had pulled him from his dark hole, they must have, no nightmare had ever felt so warm, it was Sandman's work, it had to be, none other could make Pitch feel so simultaneously weak and faltering, and there was the telltale golden light shining against his eyelids...

Pitch twitched experimentally, not daring to open his eyes just yet, although he knew that Sandman would be able to tell he was no longer asleep. It was with a sinking sensation he realised he was restrained, by light, thin ropes that were nonetheless unbreakable and incorruptible.

As if in answer to his movement, the light shining against his eyelids diminished to bearable levels, enough that Pitch thought he could open his eyes without being blinded, and a series of shrill clicks and whistles emanated from...somewhere.

The sight that greeted him was of a freakish robot, vaguely humanoid, with long, extended limbs, several of which were letting off that soothing light, and a blinking display screen in place of a face. It was armoured entirely in a smooth white casing. Behind it, he could see another, identical to the first. The robot chirruped a few more sounds that Pitch assumed were meant to sound reassuring, and strange, circular symbols began to flash rapidly on the glowing display screen. It was unlike any technology he had ever seen- this was beyond any current human invention.

Pitch leaned back as far as he could in his ropes, trying not to show his bewilderment. He had a tight enough lid on his fear after all this years that he did not immediately yelp and flail, as his instincts begged in the face of an alien robot with appendages armed with long- were those scalpels? Once he broke out of this place, surgery nightmares were going to get a lot more vivid.

Pitch sagged. So, this was it. He was captured by the Guardians, restrained by some new rope that was far more effective a constraint than Sandy's dreamsand or powerlessness. No doubt the crackpot North's sentimental weaknesses had allowed Pitch to be healed by his little medic-bot before he was locked away inside a prison. He had known it was coming, that the Guardians would eventually try and put him out of action once and for all...And now with Frost, even Pitch had to admit he was hopelessly outpowered. He would spend the rest of his days languishing at their mercy...

No. He would not. The Guardians were fools, weak, sentimental idiots with soft hearts and softer minds. He would only be here for a little while; he could manipulate them into letting him go. Frost. Frost was the weak link, so full of fear...

At the thought of fear, Pitch's plans ground to a halt. He wondered what he would actually do if set free. Leave? And go where? Back to his lair, where the Nightmares waited, hungry for their master's weakness?

There was nowhere he could go. Even if he could regain the strength to take back his title of Nightmare King at some point  in the future, in the meantime, he would be living a haunted existence of running from his own shadows, and the entirety of the spirit world, now that he had nowhere to go to ground. The Sandman was a well-beloved spirit, after all.

As if sensing his melancholy thoughts, the little robot clicked and whirred some more, and extended it's glowing appendages over Pitch's midsection. The Boogeyman did his best to lean away in confusion, flinching and awaiting pain as the light hit him.

The expected pain did not come.

Pitch blinked as that soothing warmth seeped into his muscles slowly, like being slathered with thick, heated honey. Automatically, he relaxed.

What was this?! Why were they doing this to him? Some new weapon to lure him into dropping his guard? ...Well, he wouldn't! He was the Nightmare King! Pitch Black, fear itself given form-!

But the feeling was so very pleasant, not constricting but gently reassuring, soothing some hurt laying jagged under his protective shadow like a trip wire.  He could not quell the irresistible urge to just give in, let the honey light work away at his wounds, restore his battered and broken body. Was it so bad, to just let himself enjoy it, just for a moment-?

Pitch jerked, forcing himself out of the reach of the gentle light. It's a trick, he reminded himself harshly, you're pathetic. He ignored the part of himself that pleaded to return to the gentleness, allow himself to be tricked, because stars Pitch had never known he could feel this safe, and couldn't he just- if only for a little while- just to know how it...felt?

Don't be a fool!

weak -and what was that? That slow, suggestive murmur- had he imagined it? There had been whispers in the dark once, but not for many, many years...

"Get away!"  he snarled at the robot, which started flashing more symbols at him Pitch could not read. Savagely, the Boogeyman yanked at his restraints, his eyes darting around the room for an escape. He wriggled futilely, it was impossible to break free. Unless he could get the light off him, he could not teleport using the shadows. Pitch bared his teeth and lunged for the robot, which moved backwards frantically, clicking and flashing. He did not know where the other had gone.

The golden lights in it's appendages disappeared, replaced by fine spools of more of the gossamer like bindings he was already entrapped in. Pitch hissed at the sight of it. He looked barely human, his nails hardening into claws and the shadows in the room writhing to his distress. The robot clicked and whirred, it's display screen suddenly lighting up red. It backed into a shallow depression in the wall that suddenly slid away to reveal a rectangle of light leading into a brightly lit hallway. The robot disappeared, probably to warn someone about Pitch's escape.

we'llkillthempunishthemtogetheryeswewill -the shadows prompted, and Pitch was helpless to ignore them, with the ease in which they twisted into his mind.

The rage in his heart only grew, unfettered, hot and poisonous like lead fumes. The shadows grew claws, raked unforgiving lines on the robot's smooth white casing. Pitch grinned, feral, hearing a dark delight mirror his own in ten thousand starved whispers from somewhere.

yeshurtitbreakusfreeletusoutoutyesgoodboypitchblack

Pitch snapped at the air, convinced he had heard his name. But who would say it? The believers he didn't have? The Guardians who refused him existence? This was good. He had to break free. He had to get out.

takeitbackthepoweryouwantit

He would take back his power, the power of the Nightmare King! But first, he had to get free.

Pitch narrowed his eyes at the cowering shadows, and reached out, tried to force them to his command. They were unusually reticent, and Pitch bit back a hiss at the reminder of his weakness.

lookwhattheyhavedonetoyouyouwillbestrongagain -something promised, and Pitch found himself suddenly pushing with a spurt of newfound strength.

Reluctantly, the shadows rose up, crawling sluggishly over the stark white panelled walls until the entire room was covered in a dim, flickering grey that made everything appear a shady monochrome. Pitch snarled in frustration, pushed harder against the shadows, but he was just too weak. It was like swimming through thick molasses, something in the gleaming walls was repelling the shadows. In his power, he could have swallowed the room with ease, but without it, Pitch was weak.

you'llnevergetout

What if he couldn't get out, break free? No, it wasn't an option. He had no choice. He would.

With a scowl, Pitch redoubled his efforts, and the room darkened. He smiled victoriously as he felt his form begin to blur shapelessly into shadow. All it took was a quick twist and a snap-

Pitch was free, driven down to one knee and panting from the force of his exertion. The shadows wavered and then collapsed, rushing back to their hiding places without Pitch's control to keep them corralled. He remained there a moment longer than he would've liked, catching his breath. Without the light, his body was beginning to ache and protest, and his muscles kept jumping and quivering, played like a piano.

youwillbeours!

He could feel rage blurring at the edge of his mind, a dark, intoxicating whisper of blood and fear and revenge and power, and oh, Pitch was so hungry, he could just let them out, yes, let them out, good boy, just let them in and they'd feed and feed and feed off his delicious fear until it was gone and they'd take everything destroy the stars-

Pitch coughed, his body convulsing with the force of it. His skin felt wrong, too big, too small, as if he were somehow both shrinking and growing impossibly large at the same time. His breath came in rasping spurts as he laboriously pushed himself to his feet.

movethebodyhowdoyoumoveit?

It was an incredibly long way to go up, all of a sudden, and he fell gracelessly against a wall, his head pounding as blood rushed through his body. Somehow he forced himself to keep moving, dragging awkward limbs in some semblance of a shuffling walk, his eyes glowing bright gold and glazed with the hungry whispers of the dark that surrounded him with phantom claws trailing over his bare skin.

we'lltakecareofyouyouareoursnow -but it wasn't complete, some voice deep in his mind shrieked, they needed more, they were too far away. They had to get him closer, get them out...

The shadows gathered at his feet like the hems of his cloak, but the overhead lights were too powerful for their weak concealment. Pitch dragged a clawed hand against the hallway as he mindlessly lurched in the wake of the moonbot, following a tug of something that told him to go there, there, towards whatever it was.

yesthiswaygoodboytothedoors

 He caught up with the moonbot, which was clicking along as fast as it could but not fast enough to avoid Pitch overtaking it, stumbling over the little white robot without registering it's presence. His eyes were fixed unerringly on the rectangular shape of another of those peculiar doors, left ajar, through which he could see the enveloping blackness of a sky.

We are the Pitch Black between the stars. Something whispered in his ear, as if there were someone pressed close against Pitch's back, one hot arm flung around his neck in a strangle-hold, amorphous legs around his thin waist, shadowy fingers raking through his dishevelled hair. He felt something puff against his ear and found a mindless shudder run down his spine. The whisper was stronger, louder now, as if some barrier had been removed.

He staggered out into the open air, felt chill erupt over his body and had he been in control, Pitch may have curled his knees close against himself and shivered against the earth. This was a deep, bone-freezing cold, a cold that sank lethargic teeth into his skull and prodded at dull reflections of the past, faint, out-of-reach golden lights twinkling mockingly against a vast black curtain.

He turned slowly on the spot, numb gaze passing blankly over an empty shuttleport with one snub-nosed craft unlike any he had ever seen housed in it's dock and a wide circle of charred black earth and a wink of silver, to the looming front of the dark building, and the massive, imposing doors, made entirely out of bleached white metal and golden looping runes that made it appear like a sacrifice to the dead, decadent gold coins scattered over old bones. He saw without seeing a figure stood before it, saw the figure begin to run towards him with steady, loping strides, shining all over with a silvery, cold light.

Pitch lurched forwards, ignoring the icy light, towards the great enamelled doors. He could hear only a great shrieking in his head, ten thousand conflicting orders that made Pitch jerk uncertainly as he moved. At last, Pitch ground to an unsteady halt, swaying as he stood, staring fixatedly at the doors. If they would just tell him what to do- kill the Guardian or open the doors? Kill the Guardian or open the doors? Kill the Guardian or open the doors? Kill the Guardian or-

jackfrost? There was something silver, something icy and cold. He had to- had to- what? He couldn't remember. jackfrost? Someone, a someone, all white and cold and tall, someone with a blade -that wasn't right, was it?-  outstretched...jack?

Pitch took an awkward step forward, tripped, and fell to his knees. That single moment of gracelessness saved his life.

The shining starsteel blade whipped directly through the air where his neck had been a moment earlier, changing direction just fast enough to cut a shallow slash against Pitch's shoulder but too slow to kill him.

Pitch's shoulder erupted into white fire, and he screamed as pulsing waves of light tore the whispers from his mind. He snapped back to the forefront of his mind as if he had simply dozed off and woken somewhere completely new. He gaped at the scorched earth, scrabbled at it with grey fingers, but it was no less real than the room had been, just a moment earlier, and how had he gotten out here? What was going on?

There was a swish of displaced air, and Pitch rolled just in time to avoid being sliced in half by a brilliantly glowing silver-gold sword. He yelped, caught sight of a tall, powerful figure dressed entirely in smooth plates of gold embossed silver armour, scarlet cloak whipping from his shoulders. Pitch did not have the time to stare in awe before the sword came down again, and his brain abruptly kicked into gear.

"Wait- wait!" he shouted hysterically, scrambling backwards and defensively raising a hand. Futilely, he scrabbled about for a shadow, anything he could use as a weapon. There was none.

The soldier's face was almost entirely concealed by a silvery helmet, but there was not a single flicker in those steely eyes as he advanced, raising his sword for another blow.

"Stop!" Pitch yelled, "I- we can talk about this-!" He was struggling to gain traction, had a ridiculous flashback to a very similar situation on Jack Frost's pond outside his lair, before his torment had begun. "Look- ahh!" 

This time, the sword actually struck the earth, and Pitch stared in horror as a little of the shadow cast by the man abruptly dissipated into nothing. He swallowed and resolved to not get hit by the admittedly terrifying man with the giant glowing sword that was going to cut him in half if he didn't move right now.

Forget the Nightmares, Sandman, Frost, Pitch Black never wanted to go toe to toe with this man ever again, at least, not until he was back at full power. Then, the soldier would regret attacking the Boogeyman.

He begged quickly, hurriedly leaping to his feet and backing away, but his evasive action only seemed to enrage the silent, grim soldier further, and the swings came swifter and more violent. It was only Pitch's flexibility and long experience battling the Sandman's whips that saved his hide from being diced into rapidly evaporating clouds of smoke. Pitch's words had no effect on the man- it was as if he didn't even understand what Pitch was saying, or indeed recognise it to be a language.

Pitch gasped raggedly as he was forced to duck wildly under another calculated swipe, only to bend like a reed to avoid the follow-up jab that, had Pitch been anyone else, would have definitively ended the battle with a sword in his gut. It was bizarre, the soldier seemed to know his every move a second before he made it, as if Pitch was the easiest and most predictable open book he had ever read.

Finally, the soldier broke his silence with a short, vicious order that sounded curiously familiar to Pitch, though similarly unlike any language he had ever heard. Caught off guard, he received another gash, along his left thigh this time, not serious, although Pitch could feel hot blood oozing down his leg. Desperate to put distance between himself and the light soldier, he staggered backwards, tripped up some stairs, and fell into a patch of shadow dark enough for him to hide in.

The soldier stopped his advance immediately, his eyes darting about warily for his opponent and his sword held in a ready position. "Come out!" the soldier snarled, and suddenly, it clicked, and Pitch understood.

The return of the darkness soothed the white-hot agony in Pitch's shoulder, and he felt strength flowing back into him like water. Pitch's lips twisted into a victorious smirk. He didn't even question how he had remembered the soldier's strange language, putting it down to being an advantage of being a millennia-old fear shade who had learned all of Earth's burgeoning languages and as such, had a widespread ability to communicate with almost anyone.

Nonetheless, the words twisted, felt odd and unused in his mouth when he spat out an answering challenge. "Afraid?"

He emerged from the dark, (not from the same shadow, he was no fool) allowing it to cloak him in caressing waves. He had no nightmare sand, and bitterly regretted the ability to form his scythe, but he had the thick, reluctant shadows, which he summoned into a swirling vortex with him at it's centre.

The soldier whirled to face him, and there was the tells of an experienced swordsman in his stance, weight lightly balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to move at any moment, sword held with confident ease. His fear felt dull, blanketed, barely there, and Pitch had to concentrate intensely to even feel the barest flicker of acknowledgement. The soldier was not afraid of him.

He threw a howling cyclone of shadows at the soldier, watched with mild curiosity and a spark of fascination as he treated it for the weak attack it was, sidestepped, that long, powerful blade slicing through the shadow like damp paper.

"Coward," the soldier growled, "Weakling. Hiding in your shadows, you're too afraid to face me!"

"I am Pitch Black! I am fear!" The taunt stung Pitch's pride, and impulsively he allowed the darkness to fall away, appearing before the soldier with a whip of darkness already slicing through the air towards the man's sword arm. The soldier leapt to one side, spun, thrust his sword towards Pitch's torso but at the last moment, changed direction and swept it towards his left arm instead. Pitch dissolved into shadow and reappeared behind the soldier, narrowly avoiding another wound.

He couldn't keep traveling through the shadow, it was too draining. He had to be faster- but damn, the soldier was good. Pitch almost regretted having to kill him.

They traded blows, Pitch unable to land a single one on the soldier, but the soldier making up for his lack with small cuts and nicks that only served to infuriate Pitch further and make him start to lose control. Jagged shadow reached hungrily for the soldier's light, and bled inky stains across the walls, light bending in bizarre, unnatural ways. Pitch's laughter gained a mad tinge, and he still avoided the large majority of the strikes but appeared often, a smile in the dark and glowing yellow eyes.

The soldier was unperturbed, irritatingly, and Pitch snarled at him. Why wasn't he afraid?!

"Who are you?" he demanded, tired of this new game.

The soldier's grim mouth pulled into an equally grim smile. "General Kozmotis Pitchiner," he spat, each word dropping like a stone from his lips.

Pitch froze, something deep inside of himself recognising the name with a pang of dread. The second it took for him to master himself was all Kozmotis needed, and he lunged forward, stabbing directly through Pitch's leg, the sword sliding out the other side.

Pitch howled in pain and sprawled against the smooth stone steps, his vision flashing  white. He lay there, wheezing for breath, unable to move for the agony. He stabbed all of his power towards the soldier's fortified mind in one concentrated strike, felt walls stronger than iron firm against his assault. Pitch's influence undermined the strong parts, nagged at the weaker, but the soldier's mind was too well-defended. Pitch could barely read his fear at all.

"You'll never see her again," rasped Pitch, possessed by some need to make the soldier hurt before he could kill him, "You're alone." Just like me. "She's dead! You killed her. You killed her! If you had been there- if you had been faster- she would still be alive but you failed."  There was something desperate and aching in Pitch's voice that he did not even recognise himself. He did not know where the words had come from, he could still not pass into the General's heart.

It did not seem to matter, the General's expression was unchanging, unmoved.

Inexorably, Kozmotis approached, ignoring the way each word struck at his carefully cold heart like precision arrows. The fearling creature was abandoned on the steps like a puppet with its strings cut.  Kozmotis raised his sword, feeling only hate for the repellent creature. He would kill it, destroy it.

It seemed to recognise this, and went slack against the stone, the fight draining out of it astonishingly quickly. It's shoulders bowed with defeat. "Kill me, then," murmured the shadow creature, "Moon knows I tried."

"Glad to grant your request," Kozmotis bit out, his tone harsh and mocking. 

The shadow-man flinched as if the mockery in Kozmotis' voice had physically struck him. He let out a bitter laugh. "I would rather die than be alone, again," he confessed- it- suddenly with such raw, brutal honesty that Kozmotis almost believed it was telling the truth.

The sword descended, and Kozmotis, full of hate, made the one, final mistake the army taught its soldiers to never make, under any circumstance, since day one.

He looked into Pitch's eyes.

Chapter Text

They taught him to never look into the eyes of anything he was about to kill. It made soldiers weak, made them do stupid things, made them hesitate. There was no room to hesitate on a battlefield, where a second could mean life or death. There was no room for empathy, for mercy when the job called for killing.

Against the Fearlings, it mattered little. Their eyes- if he could call them that- were blank, hungry pits of darkness, greedy and senseless, worse than animals.

But the creature that called itself Pitch Black did not look senseless, or greedy, or an animal.

Kozmotis Pitchiner was a good soldier, which did not necessarily mean he was a good man. He had the blood of hundreds on his hands, most of which had been directly caused by him, close enough to see the whites of their eyes. A war always had casualties, and sometimes those who were possessed were still human enough to scream as the sword impaled them. But he had been a father, a husband, a son, a friend before he had been nothing but a soldier, before war and loss had stripped away anything but his iron core and his empty shell, following orders until he was too old, too weary to get up to face the next day.

He had softer memories amid the pain, cold rage, and darkness. Memories of a little girl dancing in the sunlight, laughter like bell chimes and long dark hair. He remembered the heat of the summer sun, the sweat on his skin, the cool of the breeze, the warm touch of his wife at his elbow as they watched her play- she's always such a wild thing, Koz, she's got your spirit and twelve helpings of your stubbornness besides!- the bright colours on the wings of the butterflies. There were daisies blooming in the flower patch, technically weeds, but none of them cared, mixed in with the nodding fiery heads of dandelions, gravel from the path bed scattered everywhere, fine crushed white stone. The water fountain that gurgled in the centre of the courtyard, of a young star-person drinking from a horn of light that bubbled water over the carven lips- she hated the thing, though she never said it aloud, it was in all the tiny crease in her brow when she looked at it, -it's vulgar Koz, using them as ornaments, the star people are such a gentle race- but their daughter loved it, would climb the stone slick and slippery with water, perch on the outstretched arm holding the horn and petting the flyaway stone hair while the water pelted her dress, laughing all the while.

She was like that, happy and carefree, and a little too spirited, although Kozmotis could never find it in his heart to tell her off. She broke the rules, disregarded them, trampled over them completely, tugging him out of the house to show him her little glider- look daddy, I can do flips now! - with a breathless giggle and a shared conspiratorial smile, sneaking out of bed when he came home late at night having spent weeks, months away to drape herself in his lap and fall asleep- and her mother would come in, tut at the pair of them but with such love in her eyes Kozmotis could only smile weakly in return, because he knew he hadn't deserved this, his wife, his daughter...

She'd had such bright eyes, his girl, bright eyes that were full of light and laughter and joy, eyes that shone with admiration when she begged stories of his adventures, her heroic father, the Golden General (he never had the heart to shatter the illusion (he wasn't a hero, he was a murderer with shiny medals)) eyes that looked that filled glossy with tears when he had to leave - Daddy don't go, please stay- looking so lost from the protective circle of her mother's arms while she was still too young to understand her father wasn't going away for just a little while, those adventures were life-threatening battles and one day her father might never come home- older, and she did, full of hateful pride, simultaneously hating him and loving him - daddy, why do you have to go- still fiery, still his beautiful, dear girl, Seraphina-

-staring up at him, lost and a little forlorn and afraid against the dark stone steps, not a senseless, greedy animal-

Kozmotis inhaled like he had just been hit in the solar plexus. The sword in his hand, held to the creature's-Pitch?- throat, the starsteel barely half an inch from his skin, did not tremble, but Kozmotis felt suddenly, violently sick at the sight of it. All he could see was Seraphina, imprints of her even in Pitch's cheekbones, his long face, the shape of his nose, the wide, wide eyes, almost completely grey against the shadow, staring up at Kozmotis, lost and confused, just like Sera had been, the last time that Kozmotis had seen her alive-

A tremor ran up the length of the blade, and Pitch's eyes darted to it; he swallowed convulsively. Kozmotis was unmoving, no sign of his distress in the strong, confident way he held himself, the assurety of the blade in his hand, but his steely eyes under the helmet were a storm of rage and bitter pain, and a grievous loss never fully mourned. There had not been time to fall apart, there were still fearlings to capture, work to do, and all that bottled, repressed grief suddenly forced it's way to the surface, inflamed, with the power of a cork shooting from a bottle, at the hands of a creature who looked like his daughter but spoke like he knew a father's loneliness.

The sword dropped.

It made a hideous sound as it crashed against the stone beside Pitch's head, forcing a startled whimper from dark lips despite his previous urging to be killed, close enough to nick his ear. Kozmotis hunched over the sword, holding it desperately tight in his gauntleted hands, the tip boring into the rock hard enough to score a small groove. His head was bowed; he was not looking at Pitch. His breathing was low, even, carefully controlled. No sign of his distress was visible outwardly, but for the spreading cracks in his hard, emotionless shell which revealed the roiling turmoil seething beneath.

Warmth trickled against the shell of Pitch's ear; blood. He was shivering with adrenalin, terrified eyes fixed on a point somewhere straight ahead, ramrod still and shaking from the shock. Somewhere, numbly, he registered that his leg hurt- why did his leg hurt? Oh yes, Kozmotis had stabbed him, and that was really starting to hurt now, like he was being burned alive, and oh stars that really fucking hurt oh sweet holy fuck what the fuck was that it fucking hurt he was being BURNED ALIVE IT WAS FUCKING SPREADING-

Staring down at the point of his sword digging into the rock, Kozmotis attempted to push down his rampant feelings, but they were too strong. He was too exhausted from years of nonstop fighting, both himself and the fearlings, to muster a defence. Choking memories clawed their way from his subconscious: the gleam in Seraphina's smile; the easy grace of his wife's footsteps; his daughter's bell-like laugh when she found something so funny she couldn't control herself, the little repressed giggles she'd make as she tried to restore herself; the sweet tones of a flute floating down from their bedroom; his wife's body shattered and twisted in a pool of blood and glass-

Kozmotis' shoulders shook silently. There was a lump in his throat, painful and constricting. He was finding it difficult to breathe past his clenched teeth, gripping the sword hilt tightly as if he could push down the inconvenient emotion through force alone. He didn't have time for this. He wasn't some weeping widow worn by war, he was Kozmotis Pitchiner, the Golden General, and his family had been dead for years, he hadn't fallen apart then- why was it happening now?! It wasn't, because Kozmotis didn't need this. He could grieve to himself later. He had a job to do.

Finish the job. Kill it.

He couldn't tear his eyes from the point of his sword. He knew, numbly, he was supposed to be killing Pitch, but it seemed rather removed and unimportant.

Another thing you have failed in.

Shut up!  He drew a traitorous strength from his objection, straightened, and levelled his sword once more at Pitch.

Pitch had collapsed back against the steps, his face an unhealthy greyish white as he clutched at his leg. It was smoking, the starsteel blade having eroded away at the shadow-corrupted flesh, creating an ever-widening hole in Pitch's leg, through which Kozmotis could see the black stone of the steps. There was no blood, the flesh instantly cauterizing itself. He had closed his eyes tightly and looked to be doing his best to restrain his shaking, the muscles in his neck taut and weak little choked noises jumping from his parted lips between his gritted teeth without his permission.

He was a pathetic sight; there was even a thin trail of tears curving down his gaunt cheek. Kozmotis had seen more threatening training dummies.

Yet he was clearly polluted by fearlings; he wielded shadows; his reaction to the moonstone was proof enough of his nature. And he'd gone right for the doors when he'd first stumbled out- albeit, he had moved slowly, jerkily, like a puppet, and the gold had disappeared almost entirely from his eyes the first time Kozmotis had wounded him. He'd fought like a child, impulsive tells, thinking with his pride and letting his emotions cloud his judgement, but the shadow had moved to his command as if it were an extension of himself.

Perhaps Kozmotis had gone insane, alone at the prison with only the screaming nightmares for company, perhaps he really was so desperate for someone, anyone, that he'd grafted human emotions onto a fearling...

Pitch had responded to his taunts with injured pride and rash judgement. He fought like he was used to having a weapon in his hands, not just whiplike tendrils of darkness. Two handed, probably a scythe based on his stance, but Kozmotis had recognised a mash of swordwork in there too, similar to the style he favoured, quick and light. Fearlings did not fight with weapons. They tended, for the most part, to be unable to pick one up unless they were in a concentrated mass. Perhaps then he was recently possessed, with bare hold-overs of humanity, but it didn't fit to Kozmotis. He'd seen men possessed on the battle field- they transformed into instant fear-hungry monsters, and eventually their corporeal bodies dissolved into the shadowy forms of nightmare men. This creature was too skilled to be newly possessed, too at ease in his body. It was impossible, it would take immense strength of will beyond ordinary humans to survive past a few days in fearling possession.

He'd flinched away from touch as if he expected healing light to burn him. Perhaps that was a natural reaction for a shadowmancer. But he'd begged for death. No fearling had ever relinquished their hold willingly. He had admitted to not wanting to be alone, as if a fearling could experience loneliness. He had been scared. He had been bruised and battered and weak when Kozmotis had found him collapsed in the earth. He had shivered and flinched and he had expected to be hit, like he knew he was a monster, that that was all he deserved. And he was crying, tears streaking down the face that looked like Seraphina's.

The solution came to him then, and he cursed himself for not thinking of it before. He would imprison Pitch, lock him up with the rest of his kind. If he was human enough to succumb to starvation, well then, he'd starve. If he wasn't, he'd have the company of his own race to feed off. And when the supply ship came in two months...Kozmotis could send a message- to Tsar Lunar, warn him that the fearlings were getting to new tricks. Perhaps Lunar would want to send someone to study Pitch. He was unique among the fearling forces, and besides, Lunar was well-experienced at picking the option that would inconvenience Kozmotis the most.

He grabbed Pitch's bony wrist in one hand and began to drag him to the door, ignoring the muffled scream that burst from his throat as the movement jostled his wound, and the smoke curling from Pitch's skin at the contact with his moonstone gauntlet. The starsteel wouldn't kill him. Inhibit his powers, hurt him, yes, but not kill him. If he had survived the beating he had had before, he would survive a minor leg wound.

Pitch looked up, saw the door, and went immediately rigid, yanking against Kozmotis with all of his might. "No!" he howled, "You can't-" He seemed to guess Kozmotis' plan, and was horror-struck. "NO! GET AWAY FROM THE DOOR! YOU CAN'T- you mustn't- don'topenit," he begged, sobbing and screeching and thrashing against Kozmotis' immoveable hold, not even seeming to notice the pain anymore.

Despite himself, Kozmotis glanced down at Pitch warily. The dark man looked mad, writhing and hissing like a cat, foaming at the mouth with blood and spit, eyes wide and- silver? Hadn't they been gold and grey, like an eclipse?

The split-second of distraction was all Pitch needed, and his fist swung around and clocked Kozmotis firmly on the jaw hard enough to make his teeth rattle, fuelled by all the strength of a madman.

The world went dark.

Chapter Text

Kozmotis woke with a throbbing jaw and a vague feeling of annoyance.

His cheek was pressed against something cold and hard, and his body ached as if he had been rattling down a hill in full armour. A low, splitting agony pulsed through his jaw and left temple, sending angry needles into his brain. His thoughts felt slow and slightly muddled; he had better not have a concussion, or he would flay Pitch alive. Thinking of Pitch, he could hear constant, rambling nonsense he assumed came from the other man, his voice growing louder and more distant, as if he were pacing restlessly, although his footsteps were as light as a shadow.

Slowly, wincing, Kozmotis opened his eyes. The light was shockingly bright, it took a few hazy blinks before his sight swam into enough clarity for him to recognise that he was in one of the prison planet's exterior hallways. Oh, thought Kozmotis slowly, that's good. The cold and hard surface was the floor. The chill soothed the ache in Kozmotis' face.

"Open the door, they said, foolish soldier, I knew he was going to open it, he couldn't open it, let them out, letting them out is wrong, fear and pain and the voices screaming in my head, the fear- my fear?- his fear, we were so hungry-" rasped the muttering voice. The trailing hem of a shadow cloak brushed past Kozmotis' face. "The others wouldn't've- but they weren't here-no! precious children- obviously- weirdos- just me and the fear, nightmares, not mine though- no! not again, never mine but they were and the fear I couldn't even feel the fear-I was just hungry," said the voice plaintively, "I just wanted-oh, the fear, but not that fear, that fear is wrong and bad and the shadows that eat and eat-"

Kozmotis rolled his shoulders, found his hands and legs were bound in rough, hasty knots of moonsilk, presumably taken from Pitch's own bonds left snapped in the guardroom. The knots were novice, sloppy. He was on his stomach, head turned to the side. Pitch didn't appear to notice. With fumbling, awkward movements that made his armour clink together too loudly, he slipped out of his bonds and rolled to the side. The dark red cloak twisted around his body. The movement suddenly caused a violent wave of nausea, and Kozmotis groaned.

The pacing and muttering stopped, and when Kozmotis' eyes flickered open tiredly, he came face to face with Pitch, hovering less than an inch from Kozmotis' nose. Kozmotis blinked slowly at him, his thoughts meandering in lazy, strange circles about Pitch's eyes. They were pretty eyes, grey, sheened with a reflective surface of gold, pupil slitted in the bright light, standing out against the grey of his skin. They reminded him of someone.

"You're awake," Pitch stated, tilting his head like a curious bird. He looked like a bird. Gold eagle eyes and that beaky nose.

"...yes." Kozmotis' voice was low and slightly slurred. He sounded drunk. The thought made him want to laugh, but his stomach was turning protesting knots.

"You were going to open the door," Pitch told him, "You can't open the door." He looked frenetic. "You can't open the door!" He repeated.

Kozmotis' head lolled back against the floor, a few weak chuckles making it out despite himself. He felt bile at the back of his throat. There were galaxies swirling above his head. Pitch's hands were blistered and raw. "...Hands," he said. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.

Pitch blinked and abruptly sat back on his heels in a manner that reminded Kozmotis of a skittish horse, turning his head slightly to examine his burnt palms, apparently forgetting his leg injury. For a split second, he was still, before his face twisted into an alarming agony and he slumped forward. Their foreheads bumped together, and Kozmotis felt the hit all the way into his brain. Suddenly, he was throwing up, gagging on his own vomit, his horizontal position leaving him unable to clear his airway.

Pitch's hand gripped Kozmotis' helmet and yanked him up, his other hand coming round to thump Kozmotis' back- a largely useless action while Kozmotis was wearing his armour that only got him a bruised and blistered fist. Kozmotis dry-heaved for a while, bringing up nothing but bile, but feeling a cold sweat all over his body. His muscles trembled, and then he collapsed in the puddle weakly, Pitch's arm still thrown over his back in a hungover parody of an embrace.

"Gross," hissed Pitch; his breath was foul, and his teeth stained and yellow. It was nearly enough to make Kozmotis sick again, but he quailed from the thought of turning his aching head.

Definitely concussed, Kozmotis decided miserably. Pitch appeared to have forgotten about his arm across Kozmotis' back, but Kozmotis wished he would move it. The smell of scorching flesh was making him feel queasier. 

Kozmotis and Pitch lay sprawled on the corridor floor, eye to eye and nose to nose. Pitch's rancid breath was washing over Kozmotis in waves; this close, he could see the grease stiffening the spikes in Pitch's hair, and the crawling of things in the dark locks that did not look like any sort of creature Kozmotis had seen. His eyes were sunken and bruised, he looked exhausted, but the lazy yellowish eyes remained open, staring numbly into his own. 

Pitch's breath stuttered and his eyes grew wide as if struck by a sudden realisation. He lifted his burning arm and pressed his palm to Kozmotis' cheek. The acrid smell of burning flesh was back, and coils of smoke peeled from his raw skin. Pitch did not appear to care. "You see me."

Kozmotis blinked at him slowly. His vision was sliding in and out of focus. 

"You see me." Pitch whispered again.

"I see three of you," Kozmotis groaned.

"You believe in me. That's why- oh, that's why I could wield the shadows here...one believer. One believer left. You."

Somewhere, there was a blessed clicking sound, the sound of a moonbot hurrying at full speed.

"The last light." Pitch's lips suddenly pulled up into a crazed grin of exultation. "My last light!"

The clicking and whirring stopped, and there was several confused sounding chirps from the moonbot. "Heal him first," rasped Pitch, "he's my last light." He began to laugh, a terrible, wheezing sound.

Kozmotis' world was suddenly saturated in rich gold, and he lost consciousness.

With a gasp, Kozmotis was ripped from shady, nightmarish sleep. His heart thudded in his chest and he had broken out in a light sweat. He felt grimy and nauseous, and there was the faintest memory of an ache in his jaw. A heavy ball of dread settled, poisonous, in his stomach, causing flickering waves of unease to prickle up his spine. He could feel knocking whispers murmuring in his ear, the insidious not-there touches of shadows and smoke brushing over his skin left uncovered by the armour, his eyelids and lips, his chin and jaw, the barest sliver of his neck- especially savoured with tiny, hungry bites.

GiveintousShiningGeneral, the Fearlings purred from their prison, letus-haveyou.

A shudder jerked through his body. The Fearlings sighed with pleasure at his discomfort, almost physical in their appreciation; he could feel their influence, like thick, oily tentacles, rippling obscenely in his mind's eye.

Kozmotis breathed out, counted to three, and mastered his emotions, sealing his mind under the iron grip of control. Ruthlessly, he crushed any weakness, and moaning their disappointment, the Fearlings were driven away to flirt at the edges of his re-erected mental barriers. 

Swallowing, Kozmotis opened his eyes and wished he hadn't.

He was laying in a dried puddle of his own vomit, which had crusted itself to his breastplate and collar. There were a few drops of what looked like blood mixed in, but it was not Kozmotis', he knew, it was far too dark and tarry. There was a foul taste in the back of his mouth, and all he could smell was brimstone and sickness. He was slumped against the wall of the hallway leading towards the guardroom, the tatters of moonsilk bindings around his wrists. 

When he prodded at his memory, understandably shaky - and how the hell had malnourished, weak Pitch Black managed to punch him hard enough to not only knock him out but give him what was obviously a concussion, looking back? - he remembered staring into Pitch's eyes, and someone ranting about light and believing. I'm his last light?

Kozmotis groaned and rubbed at his temples; contemplated taking his helmet off just to yank exasperatedly at his own hair. The Fearlings hummed their approval. This is why I don't sleep, he remembered bitterly. 

There was a residual warmth and suppleness in his muscles that told of being healed by the moonbots' light. Pitch must have programmed them to heal him- and then left. 

The prison. He heaved himself to his feet, and lurched to the doorway still thrown ajar. I need my sword. 

Once outside, the evidence of Pitch's efforts to drag him suddenly became obvious. There was a large track worn from the base of the steps to the doorway, interspersed with irregular scuffs where Pitch's strength had given out and he had dropped Kozmotis. There was even more thick dark blood spatters on the blasted, wasted earth. Abandoned before the the still-sealed doors, was Kozmotis' sword. Judging by the tracks, Pitch had dragged him by his cloak. Smart. The cloak was the only part of Kozmotis' apparel that would not burn his skin like fire to dry wood.

Why did he bother?  The question tormented Kozmotis as he dragged himself to the doors and ran mechanically through the process of checking everything was still sealed. It was- the last time the door had been opened was when Kozmotis had last opened them that morning, after Pitch's appearance. Suns, has it only been half a day? Pitch hadn't opened the door, instead he had laboriously dragged Kozmotis, bigger and heavier than he was, whilst bleeding from a very painful leg wound caused by Kozmotis running his sword straight through his thigh barely a few minutes earlier, into the relative safety of the brightly lit prison hallway. Why?

Where is Pitch, anyway? Kozmotis didn't know how to feel about Pitch. On one hand, he still wanted to kill him- or did he? 

No, Kozmotis realised, he didn't want to kill Pitch. At all. The similarity to Seraphina had badly shaken the stoic General, and Pitch's baffling behaviour only reinforced the tentative belief that Pitch was far more complex than a fearling trick. He had the sinking feeling that getting Pitch into the prison would be impossible, considering his reaction to the door itself. So what in the name of the Constellations far and wide could he do with him?

He picked up his sword and sheathed it, feeling some measure of control settle back over his shoulders once it was back in it's proper place. There was really only one place Pitch would be; the guardroom. 

When he passed the spot he had been unconscious, Kozmotis was surprised to see that the mess had already been cleaned up. Had Pitch done that?

Stars, I really, really need a clean, Kozmotis repressed a shudder, and did his best not to think about the sweat making his light clothes underneath the armour stick to him like a second skin, the sick on his breastplate- and Kozmotis was reluctantly amused that he had managed to throw up only on the Lunanoff's jagged crescent moon symbol embossed in the center. 

Pitch stepped out of the guardroom, tall and upright once more, his wound clearly healed. He walked lightly, bouncily, almost, to Kozmotis, with a wide, toothy grin on his face that was more disturbing than it had any right to be. There was a bright, almost frantic, energy in his yellow-silver eyes. His dark clothing was also completely unmarked- where had he gotten that? Kozmotis certainly didn't own any deep, swooping V-neck black robes. There was a familiar tint to his skin that spoke of a recent healing, tanning his grey pallor to a strange shade of healthy, glowing silver that looked slightly bizarre. 

He's overdosed, Kozmotis realised. The healing light could have effects like excessive energy and endorphin release if used too much in short spans of time, yet Pitch had received two major healings in the space of a few hours. He's higher than a celestial belt, Kozmotis thought with some amusement, observing Pitch's dilated pupils and cheery, jerky movement. 

Pitch's mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, but seemingly without his permission if the slightly alarmed tinge to it was any indication, his smile only stretched wider, showing off more of his yellow shark-like teeth. Pitch struggled against his muscles for a moment before admitting defeat and shooting Kozmotis a panicked glance through the drugged happiness. 

Kozmotis took pity on him. "The healing powers of the moonbots target centers in the brain which make you feel happy and relaxed. Spending too much time underneath it can have interesting side-effects," he explained, and Pitch looked slightly more relieved.

It was as if a dam broke, and suddenly Pitch started babbling, with his frankly creepy smile never wavering, in a language Kozmotis didn't understand but caught dropped words of Constellation. Most likely it was a mix-up if all the languages he knew. 

"Hold," said Kozmotis, raising a hand, obligingly, Pitch stopped, staring at him with very wide yellow eyes. "Do you plan on attacking me?" He doubted Pitch even could in his drugged state, but it never hurt to check.

Pitch shook his head so hard Kozmotis could hear his neck click. Breathless reassurances spilled from his lips, of which Kozmotis caught about one word in three. Light, mine, pink, unicorn, explosive flowers.

Kozmotis hummed non-committal replies as Pitch fell into step beside him, talking animatedly and gesticulating wildly. The grey-skinned man's face was incredibly expressive, and Kozmotis found himself rather fascinated by the sheer variety of facial expressions Pitch used to accompany his speech. He spoke with his entire body, his attention entirely fixed on Kozmotis. 

It was rather...nice, after having spent almost an entire year alone, trapped with the Fearlings for his only company, to be the sole focus of another creature so eager to communicate. 

Two hours later, Kozmotis was feeling less charitable. He was clean, which had done wonders for his mood, although Pitch had been infuriatingly inquisitive to the point Kozmotis had simply made him sit outside while he cleansed himself with the small scanner built for that purpose. At loss with what to do with a chatty, fearling-powered-but-apparently-not-controlled person who was possibly the most ignorant he had ever met- he marvelled at the smallest things, like that there were no hinges on the doors (how backwards did he think the prison planet was?) Kozmotis had taken him with him when he went outside to resume his post.

He'd set down a chair in the middle of the wide courtyard, ordered Pitch to sit in it (Pitch obeyed all of his orders with very wide yellow eyes that reminded Kozmotis of startled Star Fish) and then had stood in front of the doors. 

At first, it was almost humorous watching Pitch trying to figure out the chair, evaluating it's material with wide eyes, before trying out all the strange positions he could contort himself into without technically disobeying Kozmotis. Soon enough Kozmotis was reluctantly impressed- Pitch bent like a reed, twisting himself into truly fantastic shapes that had Kozmotis' eyes widening and muscles twitching in sympathy.

By now, Pitch had apparently gotten bored of that game, and had settled with his back against the seat of the chair, his head upside down and resting on the ground, and long legs flipped over the back of the chair, his arms dangling off the sides and brushing in the dirt, staring unblinkingly at Kozmotis with a soulful  expression. Every so often, he would mouth words and twitch occasionally. A vein throbbed in his temple, his skin was flushed dark purple, the colour of fine grapes. 

"You'll pass out if you stay upside down for much longer," Kozmotis warned him idly, resisting the urge to lean tiredly against one of the pillars. Giveintousandneverbetiredagainsweetgeneral. He ignored the fearlings' whispering, just as he always did. It was easier when he could focus on Pitch's antics. 

Pitch stirred, as if Kozmotis' voice had awoken him. "Voglio tenerti." I want to keep you. He said earnestly in his strange language, tilting his head, "tu stai sul soffitto. Nessuno di loro puo farlo. La mia luce." You stand on the ceiling. None of theirs can do that. My light.

Kozmotis only stared at him, ignorant of the words' meaning.

 "You make dragons want to retire," said Pitch in Constellation.

What the hell is a 'dragons'? "Good to know," Kozmotis replied evenly. 

Pitch passed out.

Kozmotis sighed.

Chapter Text

Pitch had truly relentless nightmares.

That night, Kozmotis lay restlessly awake, listening to him scream in the adjacent room. The light strips were dimmer directly above his head, but still shone bright enough to see beneath his eyelids. He was lying silently, unmoving and fully dressed, on the narrow cot that served as a bed. Every hour or so, after Pitch had jerked himself awake with his own screaming, Kozmotis would slip into an uneasy, surface sleep for thirty minutes before his body clock snapped him back into wakefulness.

Clearly, Pitch had never underwent the training which allowed a warrior to sleep in short bursts, always waking before he could fall into REM sleep and be subject to an enemy who used nightmares for weapons. Pitch's exhaustion and lack of protective armour like Kozmotis' was probably not helping, either. Kozmotis' armour was engraved with symbols that reduced the Fearling influence, though it could not eradicate it entirely, and they could still whisper in his ears.

yessweetgeneralwewillnevergoaway. The Fearlings purred, soft, hungry and pervasive as always. Their influence seeped like smoke in the tiniest of cracks in Kozmotis' mental and physical armour, coaxing him to a blind darkness unless he was on his guard. And even then, they made his heart race and skin chill with cold sweat in a thousand false alarms simply for the pleasure of watching him gasp.

Although, the fearlings had apparently found it laughably easy to subdue Pitch's will last time, if his mutterings about the "shadows in his head" telling him to attack Kozmotis were not just the ramblings of a madman. He had, Kozmotis reflected, been terrified that the fearlings would worm their way in again, a fear that Kozmotis could sympathise with. The insidious touch of the fearlings was a fate he would not wish on anyone. whysoseriousSweetGeneral? He swallowed dryly, wished for a drink of water. He'd seen men eaten alive by their own nightmares.

He had locked the door to the guardroom, turning his body to hide the keycode from Pitch as he punched it in. Pitch had not appeared to notice the gesture, but when Kozmotis had turned the lights up to a strength to a point when even he felt slightly uncomfortable, stripping all the shadows from the hallways completely, Pitch had looked almost desperately grateful. Kozmotis had also mentioned nonchalantly that the lights in his own room were dimmed slightly as he slept. If the fearlings tried to reach through the shadows, and use Pitch's apparent ability to teleport through darkness, the only dark space besides the cages themselves was Kozmotis' room. And Kozmotis was most adept at removing fearling possession. Forcefully. And usually the head of the possessed while he was at it. letushaveYOUthensweetgeneral.

While the fearlings could not control Pitch's body while he was on guard for them, apparently, they could still warp his dreams. Kozmotis had not had a night's sleep in years, getting by on snatches of stolen recovery time and the occasional soaking of healing light when he was especially exhausted. It had made him paler, weaker and older-looking than he really should be, but it was better than being the plaything of ten thousand vindictive fearlings looking for a resting mind to poison. Ohbutsweetgeneralwewouldtakesuchgoodcareofyou.

Another shrill scream echoed from the room beside, this time with recognisable words. "Please, please, no! I'm sorry! Don't put me back down in the dark!" The cries jagged off to broken soft sobbing that soon trailed out of hearing. Kozmotis sighed inaudibly and forced his clenched jaw to relax, working muscle by muscle.

He wondered idly what tormented Pitch so. He called continuously to 'them', always screaming for help, bitten-out apologies twisting into desperate begging as the night wore on. What was Pitch's story? How had he ended up with such control over shadow, yet simultaneously so fearful of it? And who were 'they'?

Fearlings, perhaps, he thought. Was Pitch some sort of failed fearling experiment? Kozmotis thought Tsar Lunar would have definitely told him if he had been a failed attempt at corralling fearlings escaped and loose nearby the prison planet.

wouldhegoldengeneralaloneinthedark? ohpreciousgeneralourgeneraljustbeours.

Pitch was a mystery. Attempts at questioning him the previous afternoon had been largely fruitless, as Pitch had simply babbled at him in various different languages Kozmotis had never heard, and in the few moments he actually spoke a civilised tongue, asked Kozmotis to wait a minute and hold his cup. Pitch did not have a cup.

By the morning, the healing-light's effects should have worn off enough to get a straight answer from him, until then, Kozmotis would just have to trust in his vigilance against Pitch's trickery.

Pitch howled, his terror cutting the silence like shards of glass. shardsofglassandpoolsofbloodsmashedwindows. Kozmotis inhaled and pushed the fearlings away. He did not want the vision of her death in his mind's eye. ("General...Kozmotis. I'm sorry. She's gone. Both of them are gone." "NO!...no..." "I'm so sorry.") wecouldmakeitallgoawaygeneral.

Get out of my head.

A hiss of laughter. neversweetgeneral.

Kozmotis checked the time. He had one hour until the time he would rise to check the prison's doors, do a work-out to maintain his physical fitness, perform his daily ablutions, then do his rounds inside the prison itself checking each individual cage itself. This was without doubt the most dangerous and testing part of his routine. Their murmurs were like shouts, and if he was even the slightest bit unwary, they could slip images into his mind, make him doubt his own eyes. Kozmotis' armour protected him from the worst of it, but nonetheless it was a horrific experience.

ohsweetgeneralwedisagreee(yeswelovetoseeyouprettygeneral)sotiredourpoorgeneral(youcouldletustakecareofyousweetgeneral)we'dtakegoodcareofyouyesyeswewould.

What could he do with Pitch whilst he was in the prison? Lock him inside the guardroom like he was now, Kozmotis supposed. He could seal the room so none of the access ports could be used, effectively locking all the cupboards, although considering Pitch's almost disturbing ignorance about the simplest of things, Kozmotis doubted he even knew how to tell the cupboard from the wall.

For that matter, how was he going to feed Pitch? If Pitch stayed with him, there would not be enough food for the both of them. Kozmotis was supplied with the bare minimum of what he needed to survive on the prison planet. Most of the supply ship's cargo hold was taken up by powerpacks for the lighting and recharging the wards. Judging by how slender Pitch was, he would need a bit of feeding to get to a healthy weight, feeding which Kozmotis could simply not afford.

If he even needed food. How human was this creature?

he'llbetrayyou. - would he? Could he trust Pitch? -No, don't listen to them, they're trying to get in your head. Ohsweetgeneralwouldwedothat?

Kozmotis realised his hands were clenched in unconscious fists. He relaxed his muscles, silently fuming as the Fearlings laughed at the physical sign of his mental turmoil. He breathed out measuredly.

How much more can I take? I'm not even safe in my head. There's nowhere left to run. The thoughts struck Kozmotis' resolute spirit like lances. Why am I bothering? My daughter's dead. Do I really care about the rest? Enough to endure this?

Kozmotis was so tired. He just wanted to slip into a deep, dreamless sleep, mourn Seraphina and his dear Archaline without having her memory ripped like shards of glass mixed in with dark scarlet blood, and her long dark hair tangled ropes damp with the blood from her crushed skull, dark skin pale and cold. She had her blue dress on that day, the one he loved, the green embroidery on the bodice brought out her dark eyes. It was navy-blue, ragged with fearling claws, her demure feet were bare, long and so, so white, her toes were painted green to match the dress, (they both used to tease her for matching the colours to what she was wearing every day although no one ever saw them (apart from on this day when she died -lucky she had done it, then, she would have been ever so upset if the one day she hadn't painted her nails to match was the day she leapt shoeless out of a fourth-story window to her death)) clutched to her chest like a lifeline was a pillow from their bed (he could even see a few of his scattered hairs, strikingly dark brown against her red-and-black) wrapped in their daughter's favourite pine-green blanket. Everything was sharp, clear, cold, frozen as if in a heart of glass, a photograph printed on his retinas that blinked at him every time he closed his eyes, Archaline, Archaline was dead and Seraphina oh suns he had failed they wereDEAD-

Pitch's scream rent the air like knives, and Kozmotis jerked upright, only half-conscious that he had fallen into a nightmare. It took him a while to calm his racing heart and stop his muscles from leaping with energy. He had been in too many battles that had chipped relentlessly away at his complacency until Kozmotis was nothing more than a raw bundle of war-tuned nerves that jumped and twitched at the slightest provocation.

He exhaled silently and checked the time again. Half an hour. He could miss half an hour.

Kozmotis rose and stretched carefully, working the kinks out that inevitably occurred when one slept in full metal armour every night. He winced as a series of sharp cracks echoed from his spine. Ouch. He was getting old- and he hadn't even hit middle age yet.

He checked the buckles on his sword belt, made certain his armour was securely on, redid his boots with a slightly tighter knot. He wanted to take off his helmet to run his hand through his hair, but he dared not. The helmet was undoubtedly the most important piece of his armour, that which protected the seat of his mind.

Settling his cloak over his shoulders, Kozmotis tapped open the code to open the door, which slid open soundlessly. He blinked slightly in the bright light, gaze automatically drawn to Pitch's writhing form on the grey couch.

The shadowy robe he had been wearing was surprisingly intact, the only spot of darkness in the entire room. It was twisted and soaked with sweat, and Pitch's body was shiny with perspiration. His eyes were hollow sockets in his gaunt face, and as he lay, brow furrowed by whatever torture played out from behind his eyelids, he twitched and uttered soft, gasping sounds that sounded like whimpers of pure terror.

The sight struck an odd pity into Kozmotis' heart, and roughly, he pushed Pitch's shoulder, throwing him off the couch and effectively waking him.

Pitch came up in a crouch, teeth bared and eyes yellow with fever. The creature snarled; it was a rich thing, layered with dark derision and dripping with contempt and indignant fury. It was the sort of sound that made hair prickle up on the backs of necks and children weep sleeplessly in the night.

Kozmotis raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Recognition seeped slowly into Pitch's eyes; Kozmotis watched with detached interest as the yellow retreated to a sharp glinting ring of gold around the silver, giving the appearance of an eclipse. The pupils were slitted against the light, and grimacing, Pitch brought a long grey hand up to shield his sensitive eyes.

"Good morning," Kozmotis said flatly. Archaline had drilled manners into him, after all.

"Ah," said Pitch, he seemed almost surprised to be addressed. He fumbled for words for a moment, and then offered, almost tentatively, "Good morning?"

Jerking his chin in acknowledgement Pitch had spoken, Kozmotis made to leave. Pitch lurched up, all at once his shadow-robe seemed to flow around him like water, automatically conforming to his shape.

"Where are you going?"

"Checking the doors," Kozmotis replied shortly. "Stay."

Shocked into compliance by the unexpected order, Pitch fell back, though he peered nervously around the door after Kozmotis as he left, and his long grey fingers clutched the door-frame so tightly his knuckles went white.

Once he had affirmed the doors were untouched since the previous day's opening, Kozmotis doubled back to the guardroom in order to leave his cloak. Strictly time-wasting, but Kozmotis had developed quite the routine of unnecessary actions simply to keep himself from falling on his own sword for something to do other than watching the doors and ignoring the fearlings. It grated against the ruthless efficiency of the military, but then again, Kozmotis really was the only one at the prison planet anyway- and he was certain the fearlings didn't care.

Not anymore, Kozmotis thought to himself, thinking of the grey-skinned man waiting for him in the guardroom. I'll question him first, now I've checked the doors.

Pitch was sitting awkwardly on the couch, perched on the very edge like a hunched crow, staring at his fingers twisting the shadowy material of his robe as if it held the secrets to the universe. He seemed to know what was coming, if the way he glanced up at Kozmotis was any indication. Kozmotis observed Pitch's long neck bob in a dry swallow. He looked just like the raw recruits in awe of the great General, shy, diffident and slightly terrified.

Unable to keep the military snap from his walk, Kozmotis stopped in front of him and, unconsciously standing at parade rest, fixed Pitch with his hardest, most emotionless stare.

It didn't take long for Pitch's discomfort to pass through nervousness and, to Kozmotis' surprised approval, resolution. Pitch's shoulders straightened slightly, and he raised his head to look Kozmotis in the eye, and if Kozmotis had been less adept at telling when someone was scared, he would have called his look determination or resolve. Instead, Kozmotis saw the brave front of a trembling child waiting for punishment, admitting the crime with haughty pride, as if he were used to being condemned and had learned to take pride in his rulebreaking, knowing he could never escape it.

Who are you? Kozmotis thought privately, recognising something in the snatched dignity of Pitch's expression, the refusal to give up on pride when it was the last thing he had left.

Finally, Kozmotis broke the silence. "What's your name?" He already knew, of course, but he wanted to start somewhere.

Pitch jerked his chin slightly, forced to look up in order to meet Kozmotis' eye. He looked as if he wanted to get up and pace, but doing so would admit he was uncomfortable under Kozmotis' examination, and the slight was too great to bear. "Pitch Black." He paused, as if he wanted to add something, but then closed his mouth with a snap.

Kozmotis did not allow a flicker of emotion to mar his flat mask. "How do you have power over the darkness?"

Pitch's hairless brow raised in cold superiority, and a twitch of a smirk pulled at his thin lips. "I am the spirit of Darkness and Fear," he said simply, "It is my birthright."

The spirit of darkness and fear? "You are no Fearling," Kozmotis snapped, perhaps more harshly than he had intended, at the flinch hidden in Pitch's eyes he could not hide.

"I have never encountered 'fearlings'," Pitch responded, leaning back against the couch's back and examining his nails as if he were bored, although Kozmotis could still see tension in the taut line of his narrow shoulders. "Only the Shadow."

"Speak straight, shade," Kozmotis ordered.

A layer of gloating smugness applied like powder over bruises. "I am the Boogeyman...I am the personification of your nightmares..I am the darkness at the corner of your eye, I am the whisper in your ear. I cannot be killed, or conquered, or rooted out." Pitch abandoned the pretence of interest in his nails, and leaned forward instead, a sharp-toothed smile curving his grey lips like a knifeblade against the night. His eyes gleamed with a glint of feverish delight. "I am Fear."

Despite his reserve, a chill prickled up Kozmotis' spine, and a coldness settled heavily into his stomach, making goosebumps ripple over his skin. He remembered half-whispered stories of dread things in the dark caverns of space, evil slinking things with hungry eyes and grasping mouths that ran after little boys and ate them up if they stayed out on their skiffs too long. He remembered grown men reduced to whimpering children at the shift of a shadow, soiling themselves and quivering for hours. He remembered formless, tentacle-festooned creatures with bright, bright eyes and always that seductive, insidious purr- sweetgeneralwon'tyoubeOURS?

Kozmotis' eyes turned colder than a glacier, harder than steel. Something shifted, barely perceptible, and Pitch blinked in surprise as the tall, stern soldier suddenly became something threatening, ice-white armour, cloak like blood, eyes flat and impassable like a mirror, blankness cloaking his emotions as if he had never experienced them, all without shifting so much as a single muscle. The tension was so thick it felt as if Pitch could cut it.

Pitch reclined with a dark smile of lazy satisfaction. Got to you, didn't I? The only thing that furrowed his enjoyment was that he still couldn't sense any fear from Kozmotis Pitchiner. The longer he pondered it, the more it bothered him. He felt everyone's fear, even the Sandman's- heat solidifying his sand into fragile glass, rushing sands of his homeworld closing in over his head, Pitch's poisonous touch luring him to the dark nightmare form of himself- who was by far the best at shielding himself from Pitch's insidious power.

Kozmotis was as open as a wall, but clearly he feared something, and believed in the power of shadow, strongly too, or else Pitch would be little more than a reflection of himself, unable to wield shadow at all, let alone hold out in that fight in front of the doors. Pitch's eyes narrowed even as his smile tugged a little wider. A puzzle. I do so love unpicking those...He eyed the burning armour that brought him immense pain at a single touch, and the innocuous sword that made his leg ache in remembrance. Piece by piece.

Unaware of Pitch's less than charitable thoughts, Kozmotis cleared his throat and said sharply, "Considering how wounded you were when you arrived, however you did so, I would say you failed in that aspect."

Pitch's face twisted immediately into a snarl of fury, and Kozmotis had to restrain a bitter twitch of the lips, the only sign of the cold glow of satisfaction in his heart.

"I would like to see you try," Pitch spat venomously, but there was that flinch of fear in his eyes again.

"Don't put me back in the dark!" Pitch's sleepless begging rang in his ears, and Kozmotis felt a sudden and savage stab of guilt.

He made a conscious effort to soften his stance, but he didn't think it worked. Kozmotis was no good at this...it had always been Archaline who had been the negotiator. But she's dead and I as good as killed her.

"...my apologies," Kozmotis ground out eventually, forcing his dignity to unbend enough to push out the words.

Pitch looked stunned. His eyes, narrowed in hatred, went wide and startled, his mouth dropped open. He stared mutely at Kozmotis, who felt awkwardness creep up on him, did his best to master it with cool pride, squaring his shoulders and refusing to move his eyes from Pitch's face.

No one had ever apologised to Pitch before! He was reeling, mind scrambling to catch up with the soldier's words. Despite himself, he felt his cheeks warm slightly as he realised he had been gaping for almost ten seconds, shutting his mouth and glancing away from that implacable grey stare. He fidgeted with his robe.

Kozmotis had apologised. For nothing more than a remark. A puzzle indeed. Don't you know what I am, soldier? Why are you not afraid? I could destroy that stern resolve of yours- break you down into the ground and build you up again my perfect servant. But I won't. You know that, somehow, don't you? I want to keep this one- the last light, my last light. Untouched by any of them.

"It is...fine." Pitch said slowly, trying the words out. Courtesy felt foreign on his tongue. He felt painfully awkward.

There was a long hesitance in which both of them deliberated what to say next to avoid setting the other off.

"How did you get here?" Kozmotis asked eventually. "It was unlike any travel I am familiar with."

Pitch's shoulders twitched in an approximation of a shrug. His gaze was focused on the floor as he replied, "The last thing I remember is the darkness. And the fear. Then- light, and you."

"Me?" Kozmotis repeated, confused.

A flush. "You held me...and the shadows went away."

"Ah." Kozmotis felt embarrassment stain his cheeks.

"...Who...who are you?" Pitch demanded suddenly, yellow-silver eyes darting up to pin Kozmotis with an intent stare. "You're unlike any other human I have ever seen. There's something..." Different.

A tilt of the chin, squaring his shoulders in automatic pride. "General Kozmotis Pitchiner," said the soldier.

General...Kozmotis...Pitchiner.

Pitch supposed it was as close to an answer as he would get.

"I can't trust you," said Kozmotis suddenly, jerking awkwardly into motion that made Pitch startle slightly. "You're a stranger, with an unknown past. I have a mission here- to protect the doors. What am I supposed to do with you?"

Pitch stared at him and felt something fall in his chest. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the laughter of the shadows in his head.

Kozmotis saw him in the corner of his eye and felt once more speared by that bizarre guilt. Pitch was staring at his feet, hands clasped, shoulders hunched as if even now he waited for a hit. Don't put me back in the dark. He reminded Kozmotis absurdly of himself when he was a young boy caught playing out too late, shoulders hunched inwards to protect himself, damp hair hanging over his face, waiting for a scolding. Don't put me back in the dark.

"The supply ship doesn't come for some time yet...I don't have enough food to feed two of us." Kozmotis paused in front of Pitch. "I can't keep you locked in the guardroom all this time. I can try and call the Tsar."

Panic. "No!"

Kozmotis stopped. "No? Why?" Suspicion.

"..I don't need to eat." You're a fool. He'll never believe you. "I can stay in here." There's light in here.

"You appeared out of nowhere covered in blood." Kozmotis stated flatly. "This is a high security risk."

"He won't know who I am," Pitch bargained desperately, "The Tsar. I'm not from this place. I don't know any tsars, not anymore, and I've never seen a place like this before. I've never even seen the like of your armour..."

"What are you saying?" Kozmotis couldn't help but be suspicious. Why was Pitch so vehement on staying with him?

"There was a locket." Pitch was scraping at his memory, fighting for reasons. "A magic locket. It had- it had something carved- a face. It brought me here." He mauled his lip between his teeth, shot a look both entreating and demanding at Kozmotis. "A rabbit."

The Pookan Brotherhood...It was the only explanation. They were rumoured to be able to travel through even time...all of space was open to them. Had they transported Pitch here from a far away planet? Why? A horrific thought struck Kozmotis. Did the Pookas think Kozmotis would fail? Was Pitch sent to stop him?

He had to have been sent. Kozmotis barely realised he was still staring at Pitch, pinning the slighter man in place with his piercing glare. Why you? How will I fail? Why now, of all the times? He waited for a moment, subliminally expecting a dark whisper that was not there. He doesn't know his mission...I am too weak to protect the doors...I fail, once again...

His shoulders slumped slightly and Kozmotis dipped his head with the utter weariness of a man pushed and pushed, too exhausted to fight back. The Tsar couldn't know, then. Most likely the Pookan Brotherhood had already informed him anyway; Kozmotis was too weak, was still a man, flawed and fallible at heart. Pitch would prevent him from destroying the galaxies with his weakness.

"Of course you will stay," he said quietly. Something in Pitch's face- perhaps it was the stark, desperate gratefulness in those cursed eyes- forced him to drop his gaze. Numbly he undid the clasps holding his rich scarlet cloak to his shoulders. "Excuse me."

"Where are you going?" Pitch asked immediately, then closed his mouth as if he wished he had not spoken, given away how much it mattered. He isn't going to turn me out. Why? I attacked him, I tried to open those stupid doors. But as soon as I mentioned the locket...

"Exercise," Kozmotis replied shortly, dropping his folded cloak over the back of the couch. Pitch shot to his feet and took a few quick steps after the soldier. There was no indication of surprise other than a stiffened back and a tilt of a dark eyebrow, hidden under the helmet.

"I'll go with you." The words tumbled out breathlessly from Pitch's lips. It had been awful, trapped alone in the guardroom, eyeing the open door and trying to grind out the whispers murmuring how easy it would be to breakoutgetfreedestroytheguardian.

Unseen, the muscles pulled a grim mouth into an approximation of a smile that looked closer to a fearling grin. "Can you keep up?"

Kozmotis Pitchiner was a madman. Of this, Pitch was firmly convinced.

He'd followed the soldier into the courtyard, pleasantly surprised that he did not have to shorten his strides. It was bitterly cold; the absolute blackness of the empty sky overhead gaped like a yawning mouth. It was bizarre, seeing it uncrowned by the Moon. He'd grown so used to the silent presence of his old 'friend' watching over him.

The prison was the same as ever, those great, decorated doors looming imposingly out of the grey-stained bricks, tarnished gold gleaming alongside the same pale silvery metal of Kozmotis' armour. There was the cold, roughly hewn stone steps leading up to the doors from a circular courtyard of brownish grit, but further down, where the slope flattened into a wide space before the dock and it's singular craft, there was a rough patch of soot, and it's centre, a wink of silver. Pitch's eye was caught, and curiosity prompted him to investigate.

Before he could however, he was almost bowled over as Kozmotis took off beside him, sprinting as if he were being chased by a pack of starving wolves. Pitch blinked, taken aback, but the soldier's pace did not slow, in fact, he only pushed himself to run faster, punctuating his stride with the occasional duck, roll or jump. Pitch very quickly lost count of how many laps the seemingly possessed soldier did.

That was only the beginning.

Pitch did not know what Kozmotis considered 'exercise', but the work-out he put his body through was enough to make the King of Fear wince. It was positively inhumane. Eventually, Pitch perched on the steps and watched, feeling a sympathetic ache for Kozmotis' abused muscles. My God. Now at least he knew why the soldier had been so fast in their fight and had barely seemed to tire.

The fact that he did it all in full armour- Pitch had lived through the medieval penchant for steel suits, he knew their weight- did not bear thinking about.

Shuddering, Pitch was forced to look away, as Kozmotis pushed himself up from the ground, muscles straining underneath the steely covering. Pitch could see the perspiration on his upper lip, and his breath was fast, but still even. He suddenly felt pitiful next to the powerful and reserved soldier. Pitch's strength was tied into his powers. At full power, he could run faster and hit harder than any mortal being was capable of. At his weakest, he struggled to walk. Kozmotis apparently honed his body like a blade, not a crack of weakness was allowed.

The sparkle of silver caught his eye again, and this time, Pitch did not bother to resist. He skirted Kozmotis carefully, who, to his credit, only turned to watch Pitch instead of getting up and physically following him. Pitch knelt cautiously in the sooty mark, brushed his fingers through the charred dirt. The silver thing was a lump of twisted metal on a warped chain, which, surprisingly, was still intact.

Pitch picked it up curiously, rubbing his thumb along the sharp edges. The twisted hunk was touched by edges of shadow that darkened it into a flanged spire, but revealed the barest tints of faded and melted brass cogs deep inside. He lifted it carefully, and then, without quite knowing why, slipped it over his head. The ruined locket rested perfectly between his collarbones, the silver a striking contrast to his grey skin. He liked it. It's asymmetric imperfection appealed to his taste.

He padded over to Kozmotis and showed him the misshapen metal. Kozmotis made a noncommittal sound. "You showed up with that," he remarked, breath short, "holding it so tightly I had to prise it free lest you harm yourself."

The soldier rose to his feet with a tired sigh. Pitch gave him a speculative look, tall, imposing, even noble in his silvery armour. The discovery of his new treasure had cheered him, he wanted to work off his energy. He licked his lips once and suggested, with a smirk, "Want to fight?"

Kozmotis blinked at him, those cold grey eyes unreadable as ever. "Are you that eager to be beaten into the ground?" His voice was deadpan.

"Come on," Pitch wheedled. "I just want to have a little fun. Are you scared, General?"

Something flashed in Kozmotis' eyes, something deadly. "Very well." Calmly as ever, he drew his sword and settled with smooth ease into a ready position.

Pitch grinned savagely. He pulled on the shadows around him, tipping his fingers with wicked claws. He eyed Kozmotis' armour. That would be a problem. If only he could get it off...

Pitch did not have time to think before the first move came. Kozmotis lunged forwards like a striking snake, sword whipping through the air so fast it was reduced to a blur of silver. Pitch launched himself upwards, flipping over the soldier and scratching downwards with his claws. There was immediately a sword up to block his attack, and Pitch hissed at the grate of his claws on the metal and the wisps of black smoke.

Pitch landed, and the two eyed each other warily, measuring, judging. Pitch took a careful step sideways; Kozmotis mirrored him. They circled each other cautiously, Pitch trying to get Kozmotis' back to the shuttleport so he could utilise the weak shadows near the arches of the doors, but Kozmotis forcing him back with a flurry of starsteel every time he tried. He moved with the practised, controlled savagery of an experienced soldier, not an ounce of energy wasted, flowing into the next thrust of the sword with ease. It was an impressive display, power tempered by ruthless skill.

Ducking forward under the blade he knew would be there, Pitch twisted to the side and tried to kick Kozmotis' leg out from underneath him. The soldier sidestepped, and an iron grip caught Pitch's ankle, holding him fast and yanking him to the ground. Pitch yelped as a boot came down on his midsection with crushing force, pinning him with ease as the point of a sword was levelled at his throat.

Panting and dishevelled, Pitch looked up into the cold grey eyes of the soldier, dressed entirely in his steely armour, shining all over with an empty light. Kozmotis was emotionless, as if he had been carved from stone. The point of the sword dug in slightly, and Pitch gasped, pressing his head back against the ground, wide yellow-silver eyes trapped by that icy stare.

"Dead." He said no more, and turned to walk away. Pitch watched him go, his heart still thundering in his chest. He could feel a bead of blood welling up from the tiny cut the sword had left behind.

Chapter Text

Pitch set his teeth and tried his best to ignore the steely, threatening rasp of Kozmotis sharpening his damned monster sword beside him. They were only sat on the couch in the loosest of terms- in reality, Pitch was perched as far away from Kozmotis and his burning armor as he could without being on the floor, thus was balancing awkwardly on the thin arm of the couch, doing his best not to lean any closer than he really had to in order to avoid overbalancing.

Kozmotis appeared oblivious to Pitch's discomfort, but Pitch knew the observant soldier had probably noted it as soon as he had sat down. In complete contrast to Pitch's stiff tension, the soldier was apparently as relaxed as he ever got- that was, fully armored, emotions drowned under a blank mask, muscles the careful looseness of a lion waiting to pounce. He was perfectly content ignoring Pitch's existence. The repeated, periodic strokes of the whetstone over the blade were shrill and discordant, grating on Pitch's sensitive ears, frustratingly irregular as Kozmotis paused to eye the metal and wipe it with a variety of cloths, the function of which Pitch had little idea. He had never been interested in learning the fine details of weapon care.

Pitch found that he was gritting his teeth, and forced himself to relax. In an effort to distract himself, he stared at Kozmotis' crimson cape, folded meticulously and set at the soldier's boots. He did not wear it unless he was planning to do guard-duty, Pitch had surmised, as it restricted his movement. Pitch disagreed- he had fought Kozmotis with and without the cloak, and Kozmotis had been equally agile on both counts.

Dead. The chilling touch of the blade at his neck made him involuntarily touch his throat, the small burn-mark seared there. He remembered the flat, cold, merciless eyes into which he had stared, convinced he was about to die. Kozmotis was the only one who consistently and reliably made him fear for his life simultaneously while preparing to give it up entirely.

The soldier was truly unlike any he had ever met before- immortal spirit or human. It was fitting then, that the truly most fearless man Pitch had ever met would be Fear's last believer. Pitch knew people, knew how to get inside their heads. There was no way Kozmotis would be this dedicated to whatever peculiar mission had led him to guard an empty prison full of shadows, working his body relentlessly to keep himself in shape, were there no private reason for him to be thus. But what was it?

He realised his fingers were still lingering at his neck, and that the sound of Kozmotis sharpening his sword had ceased. He flushed an ugly purple at being caught by the soldier's piercing steel gaze.

"Do you need that healed?" Kozmotis asked, a ring of order in his tone.

"No," said Pitch defensively. He wasn't weak. Had he been at full power, this little scratch would have been healed almost as soon as he had gotten it, but whatever components made up that damnable sword weakened him immeasurably.

Kozmotis simply turned back to caring for his sword, as if Pitch had faded from existence right before his eyes.

Rage boiled in the Boogeyman's heart. He hated being ignored- especially by his own believer!- yet he knew now what pushing Kozmotis would entail. He remembered that burning cold touch at his neck and those shuttered steely eyes and shivered, as if possessed by fever. He felt an immense need to get up and pace, stretch his legs, but doing so would further alert Kozmotis to his distress, and such an action would be inexcusable.

Pitch may have once been great, but he had never spent any large deal of time actually interacting with his believers. The Boogeyman was a shadow-creature, a nightmare, just like the King of Dreams, to be unseen, unheard, unknown in the dark. He had railed against the mold for many, many years, refusing to admit he was shackled to a job as it eroded him away to barely more than a shade. Pitch was more than a shadow- he was more than the Boogeyman, but he would settle for being their fear if he could have nothing else.

Kozmotis's expectations of him were vastly different, and as such, Pitch had no clue how to respond. For starters, Kozmotis treated him like a person, not just a malingering fear shade, which was a thoroughly unaccustomed but surprisingly pleasant change.

"My apologies." He'd spat out the apology like it had burned him, and his eyes had never once wavered from cold and steely, but he had apologised, actually apologised, to Pitch for a low remark. And he'd agreed to let Pitch stay- recuperate under his watch. Pitch had no idea where he was, but anywhere was better than the shadows and nightmares.

Pitch eyed him out of the corner of his eye. He supposed he could get to enjoy being a person in someone's eyes for a while.

It did not take long for Pitch to memorise Kozmotis' routine. The first thing he did every morning was check the doors. Pitch never saw him without his armor- for all he knew, the man slept in it, though oddly enough he never seemed to sweat or smell, as Pitch would expect from a man wearing the same clothes day in day out. Pitch would stay in the guardroom whilst he went to check the doors, coming down from the panic attacks the night's torments had inflicted upon him. By the time Kozmotis got back in order to deposit his cloak and collect Pitch, he was generally awake and aware. Thankfully, Kozmotis neither seemed bothered by Pitch's screaming during the night nor asked questions about what he dreamed of to make him shout out so. There was a grave understanding in the soldier's silence that Pitch quickly grew to like.

Pitch would follow him and watch him as he exercised, generally with a sense of utter awe. He never attempted to join in. Pitch Black may have been beaten to the point where his own nightmares could defeat him, but he was still too proud to get openly trounced by a mortal human in something as trivial as fitness- though by this point, Pitch was really starting to doubt Kozmotis' humanity. Since the first disastrous 'play-fight', Pitch had not dared to suggest such a thing again. He had little doubt that if he continued to push Kozmotis, Kozmotis would very quickly change from being amenable to his presence to desiring his head on a stake.

Then Kozmotis would 'escort' him back to the guardroom, where he would disappear into his room and reappear, somehow, with all evidence of his exercise gone from his body, though Pitch had never heard a shower running. He was possessed by an insatiable urge to try and sneak into Kozmotis' room during those times, but equally repelled by the memory of Kozmotis' sword at his throat. Often, he got to the point of standing awkwardly before the recessed door, staring at it intently and listening to the unmistakable sounds of metal rubbing together, but he never did. He was fairly certain Kozmotis knew what he was thinking, but he never did anything more than send Pitch a stare of warning rebuke. He didn't have to.

Kozmotis would lock Pitch into the guardroom before disappearing to do his routine patrol inside the prison itself, checking every cage. This would take the longest portion of the day, and Pitch would spend it in utter boredom, playing with shadows and trying to form weak nightmares. He never attempted to escape, remembering the dreadful feeling of being prisoner to the invasive touch of the shadows within his own body, helpless.

When Kozmotis returned, he would often be pale and weak, as if the patrol had drained the very life from him, and moved a touch slower, with a hint of tremble to his limbs. Pitch felt an odd sort of pity for the stubborn and stern soldier. He got the feeling that none other than Kozmotis would routinely subject himself to such horrific terrors that the patrol inside the prison exposed him to. In response and a quiet kind of understanding- there was none other than Pitch Black who knew as well what it felt like, Pitch did his best to remain as unchallenging as ever during those times, trying to give a relaxing space for Kozmotis to come back to. Though the long silence and loneliness had filled him full of so many words it was torture to keep his lips sealed, when all he wanted to do was shout and scream and fill the world with noise, in the hope that anything would just answer.

The first time Kozmotis opened the cupboards, Pitch had been amazed. He still could not discern the difference between the walls and the oblique, cleverly hidden recesses in the wall. They were lined with boring grey packets that Pitch learned contained the food that sustained Kozmotis- apparently, it was indeed food, though to Pitch it looked more like excrement mashed with chalk paste. Kozmotis ate with the same manner with which he approached everything- a stern, military composure that dictated finishing swiftly and neatly. Once he was done, he would scan the single piece of cutlery he used with a small scanner that appeared to bathe the thing in light and lift away all grime. Pitch had only been offered some food once- and he had adamantly and immediately refused.

The both of them would remain awake, sitting side by side in the silence while Kozmotis either cared for his equipment or did some other meaningless task, often incomprehensible to Pitch, which filled the silent waiting until Kozmotis at last rose and turned the lights up, signalling it was time for him to disappear into his room and Pitch's nightly agony to begin.

Time was meaningless on the prison planet. There was no sun, formatting Pitch's movements into strict, regular patterns that, suddenly removed, felt aimless and drifting. For fear of losing himself in the emptiness, he set his time by Kozmotis' mechanical routine, understanding the soldier's mind-numbing repetitiveness was a way of keeping himself anchored in reality whilst letting his mind drift away from the terror of the truth.

It had been only a week, Pitch surmised, since he had arrived. A week- in which Pitch's body recovered but his mind stagnated, and he grew to observe Kozmotis' actions obssessively, for something to do, to break the monotony. The more time passed, the more energy built up beneath Pitch's skin. A taut expectancy began to grow heavy in the air when their eyes met. It was as if the prison planet was a boiling pot, and Pitch and Kozmotis two opposite forces pushing against one another inside it.

It was no surprise that eventually something gave way under the pressure.

Chapter Text

The Fearlings in the prison were hungry. For endless nights the Gatekeeper had imprisoned them within the great prison to slowly starve without their source of strength. The Gatekeeper refused to feed them, and the flickers of fear they could glean from him were barely enough to stop themselves fading into nothing more than empty shadows.

Since the coming of the Puppet they had fed well, much better than they had done before. He was a rich well of fear, deep and cold, and he had a habit of falling into deep sleep, that unlike their Gatekeeper, made him very susceptible to the insidious powers of the darkness. Already his defenses gaped with holes, holes he didn't even know were there, holes that allowed the Puppet's tame shadows to slip in and out of his flesh. The Fearlings had already managed to twist their claws into the Puppet's mind and wrench control from the tame shadows, but each Fearling was too wily and contradictory to band together and control the Puppet as one, and their Gatekeeper had driven them out with his singing starsteel.

But the fear the Puppet yielded tasted stale and second hand, having already been wrung of its freshness and vitality by the strange pits of darkness caged inside the Puppet. The restless shadows wanted more- they wanted revenge, they wanted their Gatekeeper.

And now, with the unwitting Puppet's fear filling their amorphous bellies, they were strong enough.

Shadow tendrils reached first to the open mind of the Puppet and coaxed his uneasy dreams into a torturous nightmare. His fear burst, like sweet citrus, but before they could even glimpse a taste the tame shadows inside of the Puppet swallowed his fear, and the aggravated Fearlings were left with the pale memory.

A few Fearlings paused to observe their prey, sweating and shaking and whimpering in terror. They could feel his throat working to a scream, and withdrew before their feeding could waken the Gatekeeper.

There was a sliver of darkness, barely more than a shade, but it was enough. The shadows grew and warped in the darkness of the Gatekeeper's closed eyes, and while the helmet was like a shining barrier of light protecting his mind, they had the full expanse of his throat to play with.

Tentacles of slick darkness squirmed at the soldier's lip, urging his mouth open and dipping inside to the warm dimness within. Caressing shadows constricted gently around his throat, working his muscles to cause him to cough and gasp, the instinctive flash of primal fear from his body walled behind the glowing cage of armour. A curious Fearling explored down the soldier's oesophagus, but the powerful protection of the armour was enough to stop it in it's tracks, and instead it swelled, causing the soldier to jerk and the muscles in his throat to ripple as he tried to eject the unwanted blockage.

The Gatekeeper's head thrashed and his body thrummed to the higher activity that indicated he was waking up. The Fearlings were desperate now, yanking and tugging at the soldier's unprotected throat.

The Gatekeeper's head struck the bedpost, and the lip of his helm caught upon an embedded ridge that enabled the bed to slide up against the wall. The soldier struggled, head now caught in place as well as airway blocked, and in his struggles, his head twisted and shook in the grip of the helmet, until at last, it slipped clean from his head, and landed with a thunderous clatter against the floor.

Shrieking their triumph, the Fearlings twisted into the verdant crop of the Gatekeeper's mind- for the first time, unprotected enough for them to dig their claws in. They submerged him into a deep, dizzying plunge of nightmares, coaxing terrified starbursts of fear from his racing heart, the sweat slicking his temples, the body writhing and arching on the bed as he, defiant even in sleep, fought down screams to choked whimpers. Delightfully they squirmed deep, past the fears of failure, the fears of loneliness and boredom and of the Puppet, and saw a face, a face that reeked of potential and rich, heady terror.

A little girl's face, a hoarse voice howling "SERAPHINA!" and the endless imagined dying screams of a little girl, no older than six- Pitchiner's daughter.

Gloatingly the Fearlings fed, and fed deeply, drinking in their Gatekeeper's luxurious fear with pleasure as in his dreams, he watched his daughter die again and again, with nothing to do but watch, and be afraid.

Pitch Black's eyes snapped open.

He was lying on the stiff couch where his nightly torments took place. Shadows arched stiffly around him, holding deadly still. Suddenly, his chest inflated and his heart seemed to start beating. His head fell back with a pleased sigh, and the shadows gained a liquid fluidity, uncoiling slowly.

Fear.

He had almost forgotten, almost buried the sweet, electric taste of pure, fresh fear- the feel of it, thick like ozone but crackling with lightning on his tongue, suffusing the air with a heavy, intoxicating fragrance able to make him drunk faster than any spirit.

He had forgotten how it made his old heart quicken, how it turned the blood in his veins to fire and sent tingles shooting up his spine in a pleasure sweeter and more dangerous than any sexual arousal or chemical high could ever achieve.

He had forgotten how addicting it was, how it blanked his mind and blurred his memory, how he simply didn't care so long as he had more, more, oh, more, he needed more! It sparked a greedy, insatiable lust inside of him, wakening some hungry and rapacious animal that gasped and groaned and sang in his nerves, reducing Pitch's body to a pliant mess of needy hunger.

No sooner had he tasted the sweetest drop then something dark dropped like a lead curtain around the source of the delicious fear, cutting him off entirely.

Pitch's teeth bared in an immediate, terrifying snarl. He would not be denied what was his and oh, he needed it, needed it so badly his hands were shaking and his heart was thumping and he was staggering off the couch towards the door he had never entered, and somehow he was pushing at the door beating at it with his fists and it wouldn't open and stars Pitch was so hungry starved for fear and please please oh god just let him in let the darkness in yes he was so so hungry-

He crumpled against the immovable door, tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. A weak fist punched the door, solid and indifferent to the desperate spirit's suffering. His sensitive ears could hear thumps as the sleeper within writhed, caught in the grips of a nightmare.

Pitch rested his head against the door, straining as if pushing could force him directly through the door and into the room where the prey slept and feared. He could feel the oily satisfaction of the dark shadows, the evil ones with hissing voices and slick darkness that worked their way into his mind like turgid snakes, casting phantasmagorical plays in his mind where silent characters laughed and jittered and screamed with familiar faces he no longer knew.

Violent anger erupted white hot in Pitch's heart and before he knew what he was doing, he was howling in rage, shadow claws forming over his fingertips and slashing the door, attacking the smooth white paneling with vicious hatred. It seemed as if the pale white were the mocking face of the moon to Pitch's starved, delirious eyes, and he hissed like a wild thing, unholy threats of death and torture. The Moon laughed at him, cold and distant and ever-silent, ever-remote, and Pitch shrieked, for how dare the Moon mock him now, when he had been the one to reduce Pitch to this- crawling slinking shade whimpering and begging in the dark because he was just so hungry and he was being eaten inside from his own desperation and please Sandman, just one nightmare? But it was never enough, and once he had tasted it he needed more, like an addict he was trapped in a cycle of his own making, and sometimes Pitch wondered if it had driven him insane and he was just the tremulous byproduct of whatever he had once been.

Maybe he was still down there, in the dark, screaming and scratching out his own eyes because the visions they saw hurt too much while his own powers fed from him- caught in a too intense feedback loop of decay, shuddering with pleasure as his powers harvested his own fear and sobbing from terror.

His shadow claws were snapping off, but still he gouged at the walls with nails, breaking open scars melded seamlessly together by healing light and feeling blood run down his raw fingers. His hands scraped relentlessly at the immovable obstruction, and he began slamming himself against the door, fevered snarls rumbling from his throat. And still he could feel the undercurrent pulling him towards the sleeper, like a hook pulled around his midsection. It was agony to resist it, and Pitch flattened himself against the door with a low groan.

Inside, the tormented sleeper cried out, a low hoarse yell, and Pitch quivered. How terrified he must be, to be screaming already! He redoubled his efforts to kick down the door.

Pitch needed the fear. But he couldn't get in. He started running at the door, rebounding off it with a painful crack. His shoulder erupted in fire, but Pitch didn't care, he ran again and again.

"Let...me...THROUGH!" He screamed, and at the last moment, his form flickered and went insubstantial, shadow form, and he tumbled straight through the door, landing with a crash against the floor on the other side.

Almost immediately, he was scrambling to his hands and knees, inadvertently kicking a discarded helm to the side. The sleeper lay twisted on the bed like an offering, and Pitch hissed in fury.

The silvery armour glowed mutedly in the lower light, shining on the wearer's sweat drenched skin. Shadows crawled caressingly like thick syrupy feelers over the soldier's helpless body, dripping with a dark ooze that evaporated with a hiss when it touched the armour, originating from a point near the head. His face was obscured by rippling darkness, but Pitch could see the soldier's jaw forcibly stretched wide around a shadow tentacle, obscenely pumping his mouth and making him choke and thrash. Each cut off whimper made the vociferous Fearlings coil in pleasure. They were dim, shadowy forms of their real selves, projections, taking advantage of weakness. They couldn't take Kozmotis from here, not unless he released them from their prison.

Pitch was breathing heavily, his gold eyes burning bright with hunger and hatred. The shadows were still blocking him from tasting Kozmotis' fear. He lurched upright, staggering to the floor but without pause pushing up again, his hands extended as he stumbled closer. He swiped a bleeding hand through the darkness, which felt greasy and smooth under his skin, collapsing beside the soldier against the narrow cot. The skin of the soldier's cheek was feverishly warm against his palm. The shadows howled in anger as Pitch's own darkness seeped like a net over Kozmotis' form, pushing aside their influence.

The Fearlings slammed against the barrier, but it was unbreakable whilst they were so weak. Infuriated, they retreated, raking amorphous fingers that felt like stone-cold tingles of fear against Pitch's face and neck, but Pitch didn't care.

He was too caught up, glassy-eyed and flushed, in the inexplicably glorious taste of Kozmotis' full, unbridled fear.

It pooled in his mouth like saliva, sticky sweet and thick like honey and syrup, but not cloying or sickly, but like drinking in pure hot white lightning, fizzing and crackling against his tongue like popping candy magnified by a thousand. His blood sang to it, and he moaned, hearing his heartbeat pick up and thunder in his veins. The heat from Kozmotis' body, and Pitch, arching yearningly towards him, absorbed that heat, taking it into himself, stone-grey skin warming and flushing dark purple rose against thin features. Shocks juddered through his body, triggering his nerves and making his muscles twitch and jump as if they too longed to leap right out of Pitch's skin and become one with the rich heady fear.

Beside him, Kozmotis was frowning in his nightmare, turning his head as if he searched for something, undeniable desperation etched into his features. Sweat slicked his skin to a high sheen, reflecting the light, and something confused and lost in Pitch ached to lean forward and lick the salty taste from Kozmotis' skin, straddle his hips and work his fingers into the dull locks of hair, choppy across the pillow and mussed from days of wearing it underneath a helmet. In the delirious high of his feeding it almost seemed plausible, Kozmotis' muscles gliding smoothly under that sallow skin that promised to be warm olive-gold under sunlight, head tipped back and mouth parted though whether in terror or pleasure Pitch could not say.

It was like bathing in summer starlight- mysterious and powerful but warm and intimate, demanding and intense like a supernova inside his mind. Pleasure hummed beneath his skin as his shadows writhed in jagged, twisted formation no creature of bone and sinew could produce, ecstatic in their feeding, and Pitch their master gasping as if he could drink in that fear, swallow it like a long draught of shadow and feel it fill his shrunken stomach until he was bloated and still greedy for more, sinfully lapping at the empty air, a pointed dark tongue gleaming wetly between thin grey lips.

A breath caught in Kozmotis' throat, and Pitch moved, not registering the easy grace of his own movements, a panther-like ease he had not felt since the Sandman had risen, to sit at his head, resting his knees just short of the tips of Kozmotis' hair, placing his hands over either side of the man's face as he leaned down, staring down at the upside-down face of Kozmotis before him.

Pitch had never seen Kozmotis without his helmet before, and a deep fascination had taken hold of him. He cocked his head, fool's gold bright eyes shimmering like molten fire in the darkness and shadows swaying easily under his commands. Kozmotis' face was human, disturbingly so after so long seeing him as that mechanical, removed presence, safe behind his armour to keep the shadows at bay. He had a noble face which would probably be handsome if it wasn't so weary, and worn pale and sallow from years at space without regular exposure to sunlight. His skin was faintly translucent, enough that Pitch could see a vein throbbing in his neck- just like his own, he thought, numbly, at the tendons that liked to pop there. There were lines at his eyes and mouth but they had not been caused by smiling. Those assessing grey eyes, now closed, were set over a proud Roman nose, accentuated by a strong jaw and high cheekbones. There were dark, bruise like bags beneath his eyes that gave him a haunted appearance, and his thin lips were set in a permanent slight downward tilt. His hair was dark brown, slipped with thin streaks of grey, and spiked back in a wild mess caused by his helmet in a style rather similar to Pitch's own.

Pitch drew close, until he could feel Kozmotis' breath against his cheek, and watch his own exhalations move a strand of hair near the soldier's jaw. He was so close he could feel the heat radiating from his skin, and still he curled in closer, caging Kozmotis' head with his spindly arms and spiderlike fingers without ever daring to touch, although a thin finger fluttered desperately near the smooth column of Kozmotis' throat, urging to find his pulse point and feel Kozmotis' heart hammering from Pitch's presence. Pitch sucked in a breath, nuzzling against the unconscious soldier's cheek without ever breaching that sacrosanct fingers-breadth between their skin, though he allowed himself the use of puffs of air- a privilege he thoroughly abused, blowing gently on Kozmotis' eyelids to watch them flutter, pressing his face close to the sensitive skin behind his ear and exhaling, just enough that goosebumps erupted over the bare skin and chased shivers down his spine. Kozmotis moved far less frequently now, and Pitch hummed at the decadent roll of his fear, low and simmering like hot coals.

He don't know why he did it. Ever after he would ask himself why, why. Perhaps it had been some left over remnant of a glowing boy made of light, or a wistfulness in golden loops of dreamsand twirling against the sky like powerful streamers. Perhaps it was even a sincere, quiet hope that for once in his life, Pitch Black might be able to ease the rest of a sleeper, a warm glow of affection hidden behind his heart in some part of Pitch that remained human and grateful to Kozmotis for doing what none other would- giving Pitch a second chance. The reasons why he did what he did Pitch wouldn't come to understand until much later. But for now, as he hesitated with his lips hovering over Kozmotis' forehead, he simply knew that he was going to do so.

Pitch kissed Kozmotis gently on the forehead, as he had seen Nightlight do, even Sanderson himself once or twice, closing his eyes and unconsciously flinching at the feeling of hot skin beneath his lips.

And so it was that a creature of nightmares invoked with all his might the power of a Goodnight Kiss.

Chapter Text

Kozmotis was running, running not for his own life but for his daughter's. He could see her ahead of him, nothing more than a flash of dark hair and the memory of a laugh before him. He shouted for her to wait and put on a burst of speed, but she ignored him. He knew she was running into danger. "Seraphina!" he cried, and the rugs under his feet laughed, and the hallway around him flexed like the underbelly of a snake. Kozmotis had the horrifying realisation that the hallways was getting smaller.

The further he ran the more cramped it became, and thick sludgy cement still wet reached up from the floors to ensnare him. Grinning faces leered out of lewd, terrible paintings, paintings of his father kissing Kozmotis' daughter, of knives and maces and whips and torture devices and every creature Kozmotis had ever killed, glaring out with dead blank eyes and the rotting scent of flesh making him gag. There were rippling shadows in the darkness behind him, shadows that purred and ran what felt terribly like fingers against his heels and whispered in a deep voice too familiar that Kozmotis should just give up, take the shadows.

Black mares ran beside him, sleek and fitting in the night, and their citron eyes burned like stars. There were whips in the darkness, stinging, lashing whips that caught at his heels and at his wrists, pulling him back, yanking him as if they begged him to allow himself to lean into the yielding flesh of fear, those squirming hungry eldritch horrors lapping caressingly over his skin. The mares bared onyx teeth like daggerpoints and Kozmotis screamed, high and shrill like his daughter's fear, and there was the rasp of sand over his neck like a choking vice. Fear cracked and snapped and bit and grey fingers stroked smoothly over the curve of his spine.

He was nameless, faceless in the dark, swallowed by the inexpressible urgency of the chase- he was searching, he had to find her, she wasn't dead. "SERAPHINA!" And her smile, taunting and warped by the dark flashed in a hallway, "Daddy, daddy, won't you come find me? Daddy? daddy?"

Kozmotis tore after her, the brush of sand against stone the following dark mares, their burning eyes fixed on him, great flaring nostrils wet and gaping as they breathed in his fear like it was rich smooth chocolate, and Kozmotis had never seen a horse but he knew they didn't have hooves like knives and manes like whips, eyes like vengeful stars and teeth poised to rend and tear.

"Seraphina!" he shouted, and he shouldn't open his mouth, he knew he shouldn't because the darkness forced it's way down his throat like too-sweet sickly rotting fruit, bruised and wet and filling his mouth, filling him, pulsing and empty like dust on cradles and bitter like coppery blood soaking her hair. It was saccharine cellars dripping with syrupy  black sand, and he gagged. The claws scraped like broken glass in his palms as his feet pounded the floor, suspiciously slick and soft, but Kozmotis dared not look down even after he felt the body of a child give under his weight, cracking ribcage spearing tongues of bone and cold guts over his feet, knotting around him like snakes.

He skidded into a vaulting cavern, cold and empty and dizzyingly high, draped in thick cloaks of shadow pierced with golden pinpricks like needles. Crumbling bridges smeared with blood as he ran over them, icy cold and sending numbing spears up his legs, making him lurch clumsily. Hanging cages swung above, filled with silent screaming faces, faces he knew- there was his second in command, there the Tsar, there his wife, cracked skull and all and there-

"SERAPHINA!"

His little girl knelt calmly in the cage in the center of the room, a cage of bloody bones twisted into a shape dripping with black ooze. His locket was around her neck and it melted, rivers of turgid gold that burned and blistered and dripped like a hideous mockery of jewels. Behind her crouched a man, if Kozmotis could call him that, jagged limbs and spidery fingers woven in Seraphina's long black hair, twisted fingers digging into her scalp and blood and glass sliding down her pale neck. A mad, mad smile, feverish teeth and golden eyes and "What's wrong, General? General, General, my General?"

"Daddy!" shrieked his daughter, and slowly her head turned to face the man crouching behind her, neck twisting and snapping as she reached for the coalskinned man- "Daddy! Daddy!"

Kozmotis woke up screaming, already twisting to slam his bodyweight into a thin neck and choking. His teeth were bared and somewhere there was snarling, low, animal, inhuman. His heart was pounding in his chest and slick sweat was collecting on his skin. There was the hideous reek of scorching flesh and high screaming, a bucking body underneath his that struggled to escape.

Narrowing his eyes, Kozmotis breathed harshly through his nose. It wouldn't live while he did. He would kill it with his bare hands.

Tiny whimpers and choked pleas burbled endlessly from the dark lips, but Kozmotis was too ensnared in the remnant grips of his nightmare to understand.

"STOP! KOZMOTIS!"

The soldier pressed the heel of his palm into the thin, twiglike neck- he could snap it in half- stopping the budding shriek. The weak body under his thrashed, helpless arms punching Kozmotis' hard armour, not even felt by the soldier.

Dark spots were flashing in Pitch's vision, and adrenaline was turning his veins to fire. Kozmotis' grip around his neck was like iron bars, constricting painfully slowly, heightening every sensation as Pitch rasped and fought for breath. Kozmotis' eyes were wide and silver and mad, like flat foxfire caged and railing inside his flesh. He was a crushing weight over Pitch's skinny hips, holding the fear spirit down with complete ease. Pitch was gasping, his hands clawing desperately at Kozmotis' armoured back, the scrape of his nails squealing like it was a chalkboard, the stench of burning flesh, the fire burning where Kozmotis' armour touched Pitch's body. Tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes, and Pitch flailed his hand, managing to slap Kozmotis across the cheek with one hard, definite crack.

The moment hung in time, and the burning grip around his neck disappeared. Pitch sucked in greedy lungfuls of air with sobbing little whimpers, tears streaking down his cheeks. He trembled uselessly, barely registering that the inferno weight holding him down had also gone, and there was desperate, ragged breaths beside him.

Pitch became aware in increments as the burning pain, while growing no less agonizing, reluctantly ceded complete control. He was curled in a twisted ball, agony throbbing from his hips, throat and hands. It hurt to breathe, as if the choking grip had permanently forced closed his windpipe, and salty tears were still streaming down his cheeks and collecting in puddles in the sharp dips of his bones. The shadow robe he wore was tattered and torn, and the stench of cauterized flesh hung nauseatingly close in the air.

It took a moment more to rationalize his own incoherent whimpers into words. A constant litany of broken "'m sorry, sorry, didn' know, sorry" streamed from his mouth, from bloodied and mangled lips, clearly torn by his own sharp teeth. It took an immense effort of will to force his mouth to close, hot coppery blood on his tongue, biting his cheek hard to keep back the senseless apologies.

Kozmotis' breaths were still shuddering and uneven, and Pitch could feel the fear rolling off him, muting as Kozmotis struggled against it, fighting to erect barriers against his unruly emotions. Pitch, biting his lips hard and uttering a low, animal groan, uncurled himself from his fetal position, rolling off the narrow bed with a thump that sent excruciating jars through to his very bones.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, breathing quick and fast as he fought to master the torturous spikes of pain. Once it had subsided to a simmering fire rather than a raging inferno, Pitch opened his eyes and peered into the dimness under the bed. Yes, there it was, the unfinished piece, the final defense. Bravely, he stretched for it, hissing as the metal burned his raw skin, and managed to pull it out with a harsh clatter. It rolled to a stop dangerously close beside him, and Pitch eyed it warily.

"Koz..." His breath ran out. "Koz...Koz...mo...tisss." No reaction. "Koz...Koz...Koz..."

He barely had the strength to flop his arms weakly, but somehow, Pitch forced himself into an upright position, retching as it caused his burns to flare in pain. He groaned, pushing his head against the cool metal of the bed. Thankfully not the same metal as Kozmotis' armour.

He curled his fingers around the helmet and with a quick movement flung it beside the shaking soldier. It bounced of the wall and hit him in the face, and Kozmotis, with weak fingers, pulled at it as if he couldn't remember how it worked.

"On...on...Koz..." Pitch chanted breathlessly, and some numb part of the soldier heard him, because the fumbling fingers managed to slip the helmet on. Gradually, his shaking began to calm, and the jagged claws of uneasy fear began to abate in Pitch's stomach.

Pitch remained where he was, hunched like a crow and shuddering through the worst of the pain, trying to ignore the few tears that still slipped out. He could feel blood running from numerous shallow slashes that stung maliciously, cuts he didn't remember receiving.

There was a groan of bed springs, and Kozmotis moved off the bed to crouch before him, something glassy and shocked in his grey eyes. His composure was back, and the iron walls around his mind slammed up once more. Pitch looked at him through half-shut yellow eyes, harsh little whimpers still catching in his throat.

"Hurts," he managed to gasp, and something in Kozmotis' eyes shifted regretfully, and the soldier reached out towards Pitch's throat, the angry, ugly bruises already forming. He paused before his gauntleted fingers could make contact, and unexpectedly withdrew, disappearing off to the side somewhere. Pitch's eyes closed, and he felt a desolate despair welling up inside of him. Even Kozmotis had left him alone.

"Koz...Koz...Kozzy," he mumbled weakly. Where had he gone? Please don't leave me in the dark again. It hurt so much. The fire was growing stronger. The sudden burst of fear and then cut-off was crueller than any drop.

Light fell against his closed eyelids, and Pitch barely had the energy to utter a soft "nn" of dislike. He heard a steady breath released in what was almost a sigh, and then a familiar chittering. Something soft and warm covered him, gentle hands arranging the cloth carefully around his body, before he was lifted against a powerful chest, protected from that burning armour by the red material of Kozmotis' cloak. Kozmotis was careful to avoid jostling him, but Pitch still hissed in discomfort as he was moved anyway.

Kozmotis fought the urge to apologize, looking again at the ugly ring of deep bruises around the slender neck, and the hideous burning he could see through the tears in his robe. Pitch was very light, just as light as he had been when he had first arrived, bruised and battered. Not much has changed, Kozmotis thought grimly, carrying Pitch into the guardroom.

He paused, shocked.

It looked as if a rabid animal had been set loose within it, especially at the door that led to Kozmotis' room, which was ripped as if by great claws. Withering scars of darkness charred the walls, floor and ceiling. Miraculously, the couch had survived untouched. Kozmotis glanced down at the grey-skinned man in his arms, a little disturbed. He didn't quite know what had happened, but the torn apart room allowed him to make his own conclusions. Pitch must have nearly broken the door down to get to him and cause him to have the nightmare.

He laid his burden down on the couch carefully, wincing at Pitch's quiet sobs as the movement pulled his wounds. Kozmotis turned to the moonbot he had ordered and tapped in a heal command, standing back and watching as the moonbot got to work, extending soft healing light.

Before his eyes, the dark, raw red burns began to scab over with new skin that turned fresh and pink before fading to the pale silver Pitch's skin favored. The same was done to his neck, and as the pain he was feeling began to fade, Pitch's trembling steadied and clarity sharpened his eyes. The moonbots withdrew, leaving bands of paler skin where their work had been done, and Kozmotis dismissed them without taking his eyes from Pitch. Yellow eyes flickered up to meet his, and Pitch twisted his fingers into the cloak like a security blanket. "Koz," he said, and there was fear enough in that sentence to make Kozmotis purse his lips.

Kozmotis was still shaken from his nightmare, but his eyes were drawn to the paler skin in the shape of hands around Pitch's neck, his hands, and guilt welled up, sharp and cutting. He'd done that. "...what...what happened?" he asked eventually, searching Pitch's face.

A rebellious flash in Pitch's eye. "They were drinking your fear," whispered the other quietly, "I...could feel it. I forced them away and...Koz," his eyes looked a little desperate now- reminding Kozmotis sharply of please don't leave me in the dark- "I didn't mean...the nightmare...I think-" he paused, not willing to risk the tentative thing between them breaking, "...I may have made it worse. I didn't mean to! But- your fear."

They were drinking your fear. He felt sick. "You felt it?" he demanded, but it didn't come out harsh and sharp but weak and revolted.

"I felt your fear," Pitch answered, a shadow falling over his eyes, "and I drove away the Fearlings feeding off you."

The Fearlings had caused the nightmare, then, and Pitch had...protected him? He said he had driven the Fearlings away. And Kozmotis had repayed him with...His eyes darted down to the pale ring around Pitch's neck, like a damning collar. He swallowed in shame. "Thank you," he forced out, and Pitch's eyes went wide, then abruptly something shy formed there, something that was almost a hint of warmth creeping out from behind yellow irises.

"You're welcome...Koz." There was a hint of teasing in Pitch's voice as Kozmotis released a barely audible huff. He hated nicknames.

"Kozmotis," he insisted firmly.

"Koz."

Kozmotis would later deny it for all time, but there may have been a hint of a smile playing about his lips.

Chapter Text

A wary sort of peace descended upon them after that. Neither Pitch nor Kozmotis dared to bring up the events of the early morning further for fear of upsetting the other. As such, the day passed in the usual rigid routine but with a deep seating of awkwardness. Despite this, it seemed as if Pitch was making an effort to be if not friendlier, less abrasive. He had not stopped calling the jailer 'Koz', but Kozmotis' eyes needed only to drop over his neck and he would allow it. Kozmotis' icy attitude appeared to have thawed- just enough that Pitch didn't fear immediate dismemberment if he stepped out of line, although he remained as guarded and uncommunicative as ever.

The only break in the routine was the prison. Kozmotis had avoided going inside to check the cages personally, though he had run exhaustive magical checks of the wards. Pitch, who had, to his surprise, been allowed to accompany Koz to the gates, made no comment of the difference. Koz was easily pallid and grimmer than usual, and he moved with a noticeable stiffness overriding the swift, deadly efficiency he usually employed. The dark circles under his eyes had only worsened. He was jumpy, flinching at the slightest noise, hand flying to his sword hilt. Pitch derived a sharp pleasure at watching the reserved soldier's cracked composure shatter.

 He knew the shadows within the prison were still whispering to him, Pitch could see it in the way his cold grey eyes were haunted and turbulent. In silent support, Pitch hadn't left Koz's side. The Fearlings preyed heavily on the armoured soldier but their influence seemed to slide away from Pitch like oil over his skin- slick and lingering too long, but ultimately impervious. Pitch had not forgotten that it had been his touch and presence that had driven away the Fearlings' control over the nightmare the first time.

 As the moment when Kozmotis would slip inside his room and they would part for what passed as night drew close, Kozmotis seemed to grow wearier than ever. The nightmare may have lost it's grip on his sleeping self as soon as he had woken up, but it was clear to Pitch that whatever horrors he had seen within it still followed the soldier. Had it been his own work, Pitch would have observed Koz's troubled demeanour with satisfaction and a touch of professional pride; a proper nightmare always left remnants, remnants that shaped the waking mind and achieved the goal of the nightmare. But the fact that it wasn't, that it was a twisted mockery of the shadows' hunger only infuriated him even as it made his knees weak with the memory of the fear he had been able to consume.

There was little he could do, without his ability to read fears, Pitch felt blind and helpless. Even exhausted, he knew better than to think Koz couldn't kill him- the morning's episode and phantom pains across his waist and throat reminded him sharply. The burst of fear from Kozmotis had been better than any few weeks of recovery and healing light, and for the most part, his skin had turned back to the normal ash-grey, excepting the most recent healings. He felt more alert, and his senses stronger, as if he had been walking around half-asleep before, but Pitch knew he was still laughably weak compared to his last battle against the Guardians.

 It would not be an easy recovery, but for the first time Pitch wouldn't have to claw himself out of the darkness and reclaim his own fractured mind. Koz's companionship was cold and impersonal, but the shining solidity of his belief was like a stalwart candle keeping the darkness at bay inside of him, and when he looked at Pitch he saw him, and when Pitch spoke, Koz would hear.

Surely it wasn't so wrong to feel protective of Koz? Why- the Guardians had been ridiculous with the Bennett boy, and Kozmotis was clearly more important than any tremulous brat with a lonely obsession with fairytales.

Pitch only had the one believer, and he preferred his only company on the barren planet (and sole ticket to escape, eventually) didn't go mad, torn between two hungry forces of fear and darkness. Even so, he was not fool enough to believe Koz would willingly subject himself to Pitch's control just to escape the whispers of the shadows in the prison.

He exhaled, running his hands through his hair in irritation. Kozmotis was far too alert for Pitch to trick him into allowing Pitch to weave him nightmares, and Pitch just wasn't strong enough to force him, let alone having to sculpt the nightmare from Koz's sleeping mind, instead of simply corrupting and directing another spirit's work, like he had done with Sandy's dreamsand. And who would willingly volunteer to allow the Boogeyman to feed off their fear like a leech, even if the alternative was possible influence from the shadow prison?

Koz was watching him carefully, having heard his almost-sigh of frustration. The tall soldier leaned casually against a folding down countertop, upon which he had prepared the meal of the day in a faded blue bowl painted with stars. 

If it hadn't been someone as eminently dangerous as Koz, Pitch might have laughed to see a fully grown man eating mush with a spoon out of a kids' bowl, but the echoes of “Daddy!” through Koz's nightmare were still loud in his mind. There was probably a story behind the nonsensical bowl, a story Pitch didn't care to hear.

Koz swallowed another spoonful, and unwisely Pitch thought about the soldier's throat flexing around the choking touch of the shadows. He only realised he was staring when a thin eyebrow rose, though Koz didn't look up from the bowl.

 Pitch cleared his throat, embarrassed, and quickly glanced away. He had always gained all of his sustenance from fear, and unlike the Guardians, didn't have the time or the freedom to find food. Aside from a few brief, tentative experiments- stolen crusts of hard bread, once a lump of cheese- that told him he could ingest food, although he assumed it was burnt off completely, as he had never experienced the need for a bathroom, he hadn't tried much of anything. Pitch was curious.

 “What does it taste like?” he asked, finally, avoiding Koz's eyes.

 There was a short pause before Pitch heard the sounds of the empty bowl being put down on the counter. “Shit,” was the eloquent reply, and Kozmotis busied himself cleaning and putting away the spoon and bowl.

 I should have expected that, Pitch thought wryly. Apparently food did taste like it looked.

 It was taking Koz longer than usual to replace the countertop in it's hidden position against the wall, and Pitch eyed him with confusion. It was not in Kozmotis' nature to deliberately linger over a task, once he had decided to do it, he did it swiftly and curtly.

 A smirk threatened at Pitch's lips as he remembered that lightning-gold shot of fear. He didn't need his fear-reading powers (blocked by Kozmotis' armour) to recognise when someone was afraid. He bit his lip in frustration. He could be drinking in Koz's fear, if it wasn't for his armour.

 Finally, there was no more that Koz could possibly do, and he turned to Pitch, something conflicted in what was visible of his face beneath the helmet. Stretching languidly over the couch, one leg thrown over the arm, one foot resting on the floor, arms folded loosely across his chest, Pitch quirked his brow with a lazy smile.

You're afraid, his knowing yellow eyes told Kozmotis, I know you're afraid.

 “Move,” Koz said flatly, and with a petulant twist of the lip, Pitch did as he was told, shuffling up to take up only half of the couch, although his spidery limbs still sprawled off of it in a manner which made Koz roll his eyes.

 Though he didn't give any indication, Pitch was interested. Sometimes before bed Koz would care for his sword, and he generally didn't mind if Pitch asked questions. Pitch found the subject tragically boring and had an irrational hatred for the sword Koz had skewered him with once or twice, but it was still conversation, and it was hard to come by on a planet where the only (debatable) sane company was a taciturn soldier whose emotive abilities rivalled that of a statue.

 “Do you want to watch something?” said Koz, and with a press of his hand against the wall, slid back a white panel covering the black vidscreen. He wasn't eager to go to sleep so soon after the nightmare. A film would adequately waste time, even if it was a monotonous way to kill an hour or two by Kozmotis' standards. It was almost comical watching Pitch's eyes light up and his mouth drop open in a stare of awe.

 “Watch something?” Pitch repeated, eyes wide and bright like a child on their first shuttle trip. He had sat up when Kozmotis had revealed the mysterious presence of the wide, flat black screen embedded on the wall, and was now leaning forward, fingers twisting into the black material of his robe.

 “Yes.” Kozmotis humoured him with the kind of patience he would with an especially dim person from a backwater planet. “On the vidscreen?” He unclipped the remote from it's seamless position beside the screen, fighting down a chuckle at Pitch's eyes going as wide as saucers.

 “Like a movie?” Pitch questioned, and Koz blinked, the word was unfamiliar to him.

 He switched on the screen, which flared blue and then settled on the welcome screen. Stars shine, General Pitchiner, scrolled across the screen.

 “What does that say?” Pitch asked curiously, and Koz sent him an incredulous look.

 “You can't read?”

 “Not that language,” said Pitch evenly, evidently unbothered.

“But- it's Lesser Constellar. Every child in the known galaxies can read and write it, even if they can't always speak it,” said Kozmotis, bewildered. If Pitch had been sent by the Pookan Brotherhood- what sort of backwards planet did he come from?

 Pitch blinked. “I don't,” he said flatly. “What does it say?”

 “Stars shine- just a greeting,” he added, when the confusion on Pitch's face didn't clear. “Then General Pitchiner.”

 “That's your name?” Pitch looked closely at the latter section of the text. Kozmotis shook his head.

 “No- this part.” He pointed it out. “That's my surname- Pitchiner, and general, there. I will have to teach you,” he said, as an afterthought. Kozmotis paused, remembering abruptly the dark scars still carved into the walls and door and the shadow claws that had caused them, but the breathless shock on Pitch's face disarmed him.

 He looked honestly surprised that Kozmotis would ever offer to teach him. With a pang of pity, Koz remembered the strange nonsense Pitch had babbled at him when he had first woken up, clearly his native tongue, and the numerous wounds on his body. A dreadful suspicion lurked poisonously in his mind. He was ignorant of the simplest things...evidence of belonging to a backwards planet...he couldn't even read Constellar nor work rustic appliances...He was constantly surprised when Kozmotis treated him as a human being and not the malingering 'Spirit of Fear and Darkness' he had introduced himself as. Kozmotis had never met a spirit that bled when it was hurt and wept when it was in pain. His shadow powers certainly suggested a mage of a sort. Had the people of his home planet so badly mistreated Pitch he didn't think of himself as a human but simply the essence of darkness, just because he had a magical affinity for shadow?

Who were you? He thought, what did you do to deserve what they did to you? He frowned, thinking of the twisted wreck Pitch's body had been reduced to. No creature deserves what happened to you...whatever it was.

 He clicked the remote and joined Pitch on the couch, settling stiffly in his armour and wishing he could take it off. As an added precaution, he tugged his cloak over the arm nearest Pitch. He didn't want to accidentally burn him.

 "What do you want to watch?" he asked, controlling the screen effortlessly. An army battleship was far more complex than any vidscreen could ever hope to be. 

Pitch grinned at him, all sharp teeth and flashing eyes, but Koz could tell he was genuinely excited and had to force his face to remain even. "I've never seen a film before," he said, quietly, as if it were a secret, and confidentially he tilted his head towards Koz and whispered, "I used to watch sometimes, from the back of the sofa or inside the cupboard." A cut-glass smirk. "The horrors were always better with me there."

"Right," said Kozmotis. Oh stars. "Why were you in a cupboard?"

"I had to hide from the children, obviously," said Pitch. He pointed at a title on the screen. "What's that?"

Kozmotis read the description aloud, groaning inwardly. "Celestina is an ordinary girl, until passing Star Pilot Cygna falls in love with her and grants her deepest dreams. But dashing prince Altair is her husband-to-be, can Cygna and Celestina save their love before it is too late?" Don't pick this one, don't pick this one.

"Can we watch it?" Pitch asked eagerly, and Kozmotis' hopes died a vicious death. "Koz, please!"  He seized Kozmotis' arm through the cloak, eyes desperate and pleading.

"Fine..." It was going to be a long night. Maybe, he thought optimistically, when he sees how bad it is, he'll change his mind.

 An hour later, Kozmotis was honestly considering falling on his own sword. He thought he could probably get away without dishonor. No man should have to endure this. Pitch Black was clutching his arm like a lifeline, his nails digging into the fabric covering Kozmotis' armour, sobbing his eyes out as Celestina wailed over the dead body of Cygna. 

"Mother was right!"  Celestina cried, "You were my only true love, Cygna!"

 "He didn't deserve to die!" Pitch yelled, hiding his face in Kozmotis' cloak, "Kozzy- he loved her!" He turned his tear stained face up to Kozmotis, who felt put under pressure. What was he supposed to do about it? 

No, no, no. Koz, I can deal with. Kozzy is just ridiculous. "Call me that again and I will impale you," he threatened, but Pitch wasn't paying attention, railing angrily as Altair entered the scene, hiding the dagger he had used to kill Cygna.

"All will be well, Celestina my love. Come live with me." 

"NO!" shrieked Pitch, loud enough to shatter glass. "Kozzy-"

Kozmotis growled and rubbed his temples with his free hand as Pitch went into a rant over how eminently despicable Altair was. "Pitch," he interrupted tiredly. "It's just a film."

"IT'S NOT JUST A FILM!"

"Oh look," said Kozmotis desperately, "It's very late, we have busy things to do tomorrow-"

"We have to watch the end! It's only one more hour!"

Kozmotis groaned. The Fearlings would almost be preferable.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Pitch took care to observe the subtle absence of the drag in Kozmotis' step, and the barely perceptible glance he had shot the vidscreen as he left to check the doors. His fear had not woken Pitch, although he knew that the Fearlings had been trying to cause another nightmare by the stale scent of fear- fear of being trapped, held down, and mysteriously, forced to watch terrible films on repeat.
Round Two to me, he thought smugly, and the Fearlings snarled in displeasure.
wewilltakehimhavehimyoucan'tstopus- they hissed.
See if I don't, he responded harshly, pushing them out of his mind. The Fearlings may have had the advantage of raw power over him, and a readier access to Kozmotis' mind, but Pitch knew fear, had centuries upon centuries of experience causing nightmares and observing their effects. It was the one thing he was best at.
The experience may have mentally scarred Kozmotis and he would likely never look at Pitch the same way again, but at least it wasn't his daughter this time. Pitch had been thought of far worse things than soft.

Kozmotis closed the prison doors firmly behind himself, redrawing the complicated locking symbols with pale and shaky hands. He was white, and trembling, chills of sweat racing up his spine and clenching fear taut in his belly. His skin felt prickly and slick. His heart was pounding in his ears and he could hear those voices whispering in his brain, urging him to break them out. He shuddered, gripped by a visceral horror, and as soon as the doors were secure leaned against one of the dark pillars, soot coming away on his gauntlets. He felt weak-kneed and limp, as if he'd just come out of a week-long space battle with only stimulant draughts and willpower keeping him awake and aware instead of a few hours of a routine prison check.
If anything about that prison could be called routine- the prisoners themselves hungry, squirming messes of shadow oozing sensuously inside their thick bright cages, like animate tar, molten and languid, teeth and eyes in the darkness. They came in different forms of Fearling, the shadows themselves, insubstantial howling wraiths with gaping black eye sockets and mouths, Nightmare Men, inky pillars of dead men, sometimes wearing their old faces but horrifically distorted, with glaring yellow eyes and needle sharp teeth, Dream Pirates, the soul-sucking entities that moved primarily off dreams and took most commonly the form of hunched, spidery thin creatures with the height of children, though none could ever call them such. It was a hellscape of twisted sadism caged in harsh white lines, strict and dictatorial.
It's over, it's over, he reminded himself, rebuilding weakened walls like a dogged master craftsman constructing sandcastles against tidal waves. He just had to master himself, remember how to move his body and ignore the voices in his head, and then he could return to the relative safety of the guardroom and the distraction of Pitch's presence.
Kozmotis had no idea how he would be faring without the promise of Pitch waiting for him on the other side of the doors. It had only been about two weeks since the man had arrived at the prison planet, but the mindless routine, depressing in the extreme, was freshened and brightened by the presence of a companion, even if he was a sulky one who liked to press Kozmotis' buttons.
Kozzy. He shuddered. Kozmotis had had to go through an entire childhood of terrible nicknames- he'd been hopeful, that upon his promotion to General of the Golden Armies and status as hero in the eyes of almost every citizen of the Constellations that he would be safe from such things again.
Apparently not.
The other man's past was darkly troubled and mysterious, and Kozmotis didn't understand why he specifically, shadow-twisting mage that he was, had been sent to Kozmotis at the edge of known space, far away from anyone who could truly help the scars left behind. He felt pity for what he could piece together from Pitch's life before he had come, the shadow-man was immensely recalcitrant about his past and the events that lead to his arrival, though Kozmotis noticed he had developed a habit of staring at the melted locket and rubbing it with his thumb whenever the topic came up. Perhaps Pitch felt that the locket had freed him from whatever he had been enduring before, and Kozmotis, despite Pitch's numerous irritating habits, twitches, and inability to shut up, couldn't help but feel grateful to the Pookan Brotherhood for sending Pitch to him.
He didn't know how long he would have held out without him. The past week had been difficult enough- Kozmotis couldn't imagine what it would have been like had he not had Pitch to tear him out of the nightmare and distract him with a ceaseless babble of unimportant words, almost physically painful to Kozmotis, who had a great appreciation for silence and thought. Admittedly, silence invited him to listen to fearling whispers and thought was laced with poisonous influence, so perhaps Pitch's way was better after all.
Kozmotis straightened, pulling his mask of cold severity over himself like a cloak. His real cloak snapped at his heels as he strode back towards the guardroom, eyes just as blank and untroubled as before. Pitch didn't need to know any of this.
The dark man was sprawled, upside down, over the couch when Kozmotis came in, staring boredly at the far wall. His legs were hooked over the back of the couch and his dark hair was brushing the floor. Kozmotis was abruptly reminded of dealing with a light-drunk Pitch attempting to understand chairs and had to quash a smile.
"Koz," said Pitch flatly, "I have discovered the secrets of the universe."
"Have you," said Kozmotis indulgently, walking to stand in front of Pitch and look down at the upside down man's flushed face. A vein was throbbing in Pitch's temple. "You'll pass out again if you stay upside down much longer."
Pitch waved a hand dismissively. "White is an awful shade to paint a room."
"Is that the secret of the universe?"
"No, the secret is that I am terribly bored and you left me here for another hour longer than usual."
The exchange was dangerously close to friendly banter, and Kozmotis found a rare smile aching to pull at his lips. He did his best to master his desire, but some of it must have shown in his eyes, because the next thing he knew, Pitch had flipped himself over and was studying him intently with an expression that was nothing short of amazed.
"Are you feeling well?" Pitch asked, and Kozmotis scowled. He was fine- the Fearlings in the prison hadn't permanently affected him. Kozmotis was easily able to handle their attacks. Pitch relaxed, seemingly contented. "There you are."
Kozmotis glared at him and Pitch smiled back winningly, all sharp teeth and flashing eyes. "Hilarious," he deadpanned.
"I am vastly unappreciated," Pitch agreed.
"You're in a fine mood today," Kozmotis commented, opening up the cupboards. He surveyed his choice of dinner with an internalised sigh. Chalkpaste with essence of rocket fuel. Chalkpaste with essence of bird shit. Chalkpaste with essence of- what the fuck was 'Moon Sands' supposed to taste like? Why would anyone want to eat anything that purported to taste of 'Moon Sand'?
"I believe I have gone insane due to boredom," replied Pitch airily, "I am now back to my natural state of sarcasm and extreme dislike of children."
"Who would ever let you near children?" asked Kozmotis, genuinely confused. He couldn't ever imagine letting Seraphina anywhere near someone like Pitch for fear she would come back missing her sanity and a few limbs.
generalsweetgeneralyourdaughterisDEAD, the Fearlings hissed nastily, and Kozmotis flinched as if he had been punched. He hadn't- he'd forgotten- the Fearlings' laughter was cold and echoing in his mind, and Kozmotis was possessed of an icy numbness that at once wiped all the humour from the situation.
How could he have forgotten? For one moment? What sort of father was he if even for a second he forgot his own daughter was dead?
"Believe me I didn't choose it," Pitch snarked back, but Kozmotis was frozen in the grip of his horror, Pitch's words echoing as if he were shouting from far off. The Fearlings seized the opportunity of his stunned and momentarily defenceless mind, and Kozmotis shuddered, jerking as he felt their slimy touch trace against his skin again- for a moment, he was back in the bedroom, pinned, a howling vortex of thirsty shadow prising open his jaw and twisting into his hair.
daddy!daddy!daddy!youfailedme! the Fearlings shrieked mockingly, their voices high and shrill.
-Blood matted in limp black hair, shards of glass glittering like tears, crushed white spears of bloody bone and brain matter from her crushed skull, eyes blank and bloated and staring, blue dress ripped and torn and pale feet, her toes, he always remembered the green nail polish on her toes, impeccable, not even slightly chipped, Sera's favourite green blanket soaked with her mother's blood and brains over the cool white marble (she'd loved that damn floor)-
He gagged, his vision blurring, and stumbled to the floor, where he clenched a fist and stared down at his gauntlet against the white floor determinedly, fight them, fight them off- get them out.
yessweetgeneral-LETUSOUT! they screamed delightedly, their harsh and vicious pleasure cascading through his mind like a storm of fishhooks. Kozmotis groaned between his teeth and frowned, a splitting headache building up in his temples.
Suddenly, it was as if a cold grey veil fell over his mind, and the Fearlings were gone.
He gasped for air, feeling weak and light-headed, aftershocks and trembles shooting through his body like lightning strikes. Something was burning against his neck, something cool and grey and lightly pressing into the exposed column of his throat, and Kozmotis caught blurry glimpses of a circle shrouded in black in a hazy world of white that itched and stung his eyes bending over him, someone talking, low and worried and concerned, what was a Koz, he wondered- did they mean him?
The fear was not gone, sharp and roiling in his stomach, but the dreadful after-images of Archaline's broken body were pushed away, somewhere in the darkness of Kozmotis' mind to ambush him once his guard fell. He felt queasy and vile, but his mind was clearing, the Fearlings driven out by that fog-like barrier of shifting greyness, not a blackness dark and absolute like the Fearlings' touch- but a comforting, cold grey, like deep cloud banks of mist on a wet morning, dangerous, draping concealing arms over dark secrets that lay hidden in wait, but somehow isolating and protective.
"Koz?" Pitch asked quietly. He had seen Kozmotis' eyes sharpen and regain their usual clarity. The soldier winced, he had been staring directly into the overhead light strips, and Pitch shifted so that he blocked the worst of it with his body.
"Pitch," came the weary response, after a short moment of Kozmotis frowning at him, struggling to re-orient himself. Reassured, Pitch lifted his fingers from their light hold around the soldier's neck, pausing to see if there was any adverse reaction. Kozmotis sat up, his hand going to his head and wincing.
"They're getting stronger," he muttered, and then glanced awkwardly at Pitch. "I suppose you stopped them again?" It wasn't really a question. "...thank you."
Pitch looked deceptively still, and Kozmotis wondered if perhaps he was feeding off Kozmotis' fear, but then he looked closer and saw the emotion lurking behind Pitch's golden eyes was not hunger but sheer, unadulterated fury. He was positively thrumming with hatred, his eyes narrowed into slits and his breathing sharp and controlled. A muscle jumped in his tightly locked jaw. "They got to you again," Pitch hissed. "They got to you again." The grey-skinned man quickly, jerkily, turned away, raking his hands through his hair. Shadows were twitching and crawling over his skin in response to his fury. "What was it this time?" he demanded. "What set you off? You just fell!" He was almost shouting, and his voice was too loud for Kozmotis' aching brain. "How did they get to you!?"
Kozmotis stared at him dumbly, mind messed too much for him to understand. Why was Pitch so angry? "I..." he trailed off, and cradled his head, the low throb of his splitting headache seeming to amplify even his own heartbeat to a pounding war drum.
Pitch dropped to his knees in front of him, teeth bared in a hideous snarl. He seized Kozmotis' shoulders, heedless of his burning flesh, and shook him lightly, once. "What did you see?" he snarled lowly, coming so close Kozmotis could see the flecks of silver in his eyes, "WHAT DID THEY SHOW YOU?" He roared, shaking Kozmotis again, and it was too much, the combined yell and the shake that seemed to rattle his brain inside his helmet.
"My daughter!" cried Kozmotis, cringing from the noise, "My wife! Archaline-" he choked off with an inarticulate noise that was halfway between a sob of pain and a moan of anguish.
Pitch came back to himself, and at once his manner changed. He didn't bother to apologise, instead grabbing handfuls of Kozmotis' cloak and urging the soldier to his feet. Kozmotis swayed dangerously, and Pitch supported him carefully, leading him to the couch, whereupon he manipulated Kozmotis' body into a lying down position. Kozmotis was breathing quickly, pained, and Pitch perched on the arm of the chair, looking down at him and waiting for the migraine to subside.
Slow minutes trickled by, and eventually, Kozmotis found the pain and black flashing spots behind his eyes started to abate. He exhaled a shuddering breath, and Pitch jerked into movement once again, hand fluttering over the soldier as if he wanted to administer some sort of awkward pat.
"I forgot," Kozmotis whispered bitterly. "I...what sort of father-" He stopped.
He heard Pitch inhale beside him, perhaps surprised. He supposed Pitch hadn't known that Kozmotis had been a father. Pitch still didn't speak, and Kozmotis cleared his throat, forced another few fumbling words out.
"The...the fearlings," he explained numbly, and it seemed to be all the explanation Pitch needed, because yellow gold eyes glittered at him, and Pitch's head dipped into a nod.
"...Fearlings." He couldn't identify the note in Pitch's voice- bitter wistfulness, hard irony, loathing.
A pause dragged on and became a silence. Kozmotis was thinking about nothing and everything, his mind still slow and muddled and aching with pain.
Finally, Pitch said distantly, "I am sorry."
Kozmotis didn't know what he was apologising for. Over-reacting? Seraphina and Archaline's death? Anything? "...For, what?" he managed to rasp out, struggling onto an elbow.
Pitch looked down at him with remote eyes that seemed suddenly so very old, ancient, eyes that had seen galaxies rise and fall and stars burn. For a moment, he hesitated, but then something flickered in his expression and he said simply, "Your head must be sore."
"Yes," said Kozmotis, and laid back down.
They didn't talk any more after that. Eventually, Kozmotis closed his eyes and slept. He dreamt uneasy dreams of wandering down dark paths, dogged by a sense of constantly missing something, someone, just behind him.
When he woke up some hours later, Pitch hadn't moved, staring off into the distance with unfathomable and silent golden-silver eyes.

Chapter Text

Kozmotis' breath was deep and steady. He had fallen asleep, stretched out on the couch with his long legs hanging over the end and a perceptible exhaustion hovering around him. He was almost flattered that Kozmotis apparently trusted him enough to sleep in his presence, even exhausted as he was.

Pitch looked down at him, the closed eyes beneath the helm, bruised purple with exhaustion. Without quite thinking, he allowed his fingers to ghost over the soldier's closed eyes, lulling him into a dream not quite a nightmare. He would wander restlessly down endless grey pathways, always searching, haunted by a out of sight memory of what he needed, some aching remembrance of incompleteness. It was a feeling coolly familiar to Pitch, and weaving the uneasy dream was easier than breathing. The fragile skin was heated against his cool grey fingers, and he warmed his fingertips idly as he thought. He didn't want to feed from him now, not now, with the sharp and bitter memory of his failure to protect the vulnerable believer's mind from the shadows. He doubted he could control himself.

Mine, Pitch thought. He didn't understand. Kozmotis' sleeping mind was supposed to be his to do with as he pleased- such as it had always been, throughout the centuries, a battle of believers. By the rightful code of spirits, Kozmotis Pitchiner's heart and mind, untouched by any other spirit- even Sanderson, and Pitch had no idea how he managed to believe in the power of nightmares without sweet dreams- was Pitch's playground.

The Fearlings posed an annoying addition, but Kozmotis believed in Pitch, believed in Pitch strongly enough to give him enough power to fight. Being constantly cheated of what he perceived as naturally his infuriated Pitch. He'd never had to deal with an awful amount of competition, obviously aside from Sanderson. Pitch was the sole leading nightmare spirit.

A dark scowl creased his brow, and he folded his hands in his lap, removing his influence from the nightmare. His pale grey fingers, healed now, still ached with a phantom memory of scratching and scraping at cold, immovable walls. It had taken them a little while to grow in again, even with the healing light. Pitch had been the King of Nightmares, the darkest shadow of all. For all the good it had done him, he'd lived up to every reputation, beaten every dare, allowed the only light within himself to be the pinpoints of his eyes, gleaming and glittering in the dark like lamplit beacons calling foolish mortals to the arms of the dark. He had no mercy, pity, or kindness. He was the dread, eldritch terror lurking underneath beds and closets and in the evil of men's terrified hearts since the dawn of their race.

Look what I have become, he thought, looking down at his thin wrists and tracing barely visible scars, cracks in the grey skin just a shade lighter than they should be. Old, healed whip lashes, teeth marks. Even the greatest fall. He looked to Kozmotis, again, cracking under the strain of holding up his vast burden, and felt a cold, removed sort of pity for him. Such as it has always been for the grand heroes of old. His name will be sung until some dusty library is burnt away, and then the cycle will repeat. All your work will be undone. But you never stop trying, do you?

He thought he admired the human race's persistent, determined approach in the face of complete and utter pointlessness. Maybe it was rather charming to Pitch Black, spreader of fear, he who whispered the very same doubts he'd watched breaking hearts struggle to overcome throughout the long years. Fear will always endure, while there is hope to spring it.

"You are not so different from them after all," he murmured, "though perhaps I understand why they insist on their individuality so much, now." He tilted his head up and looked at the scars on the ceiling. "All your kind fear the same, base things. You are no exception. But you are to me- and I don't know if that damns or distinguishes you."

He was silent after that, for a long time, and once Kozmotis awoke, seeming surprised to find him at his side still, he followed the General mutely outdoors, both of them disregarding the fact that it was in Kozmotis' prescribed nighttime.

Once outside, Pitch thought perhaps Kozmotis would exercise, to work off his energy and tire himself out before he slept. Instead, Kozmotis sat on the low dark stone steps before the great white and gold doors, and looked up at the black canvas of the empty sky with a terrible wistful longing that suddenly struck Pitch as immensely private.

He hesitated in the tamped down square of earth, unknowing if he should approach. The General did not react either way, a tall armoured figure at rest on the steps, clad in icy armour and looking so weary, so tired, it made Pitch inadvertently remember that the reserved soldier had once been a father. With a pang of something dangerously close to hurt, he remembered a grey-eyed, red-haired little girl, whose name and face he could no longer remember, only haunting his mind and memories whenever he went too far. He thought perhaps it was some waif that had taken to following him around, deluding herself that Fear cared for her when nothing else would. That road brings only pain.

Not so for Kozmotis, though. He imagined the man was a wonderful father, the sort the Guardians praised, if he offered as much dedication to his family as he did his duty. He wondered if losing his daughter had made Kozmotis so cold, tried to imagine Kozmotis with youth and vibrancy, his perpetual air of emotionless distance and weariness gone, but found he could not. He wondered if that was a sad thing.

Jarring himself from these melancholy thoughts, Pitch approached, soundless as a shadow, and bent his long limbs awkwardly to mirror Kozmotis' position. The sky overhead was endlessly black and hopelessly empty. It was the perfect time for a nightmare, a cold and echoing abandonment. Fear of loneliness was strong. He glanced sideways at Kozmotis.

"What do you look for?"

The question surprised even Pitch as he asked it, and he immediately wished he could take it back. But Kozmotis didn't seem to mind.

"Anything," muttered the soldier. "I've lived in some desolate places...but this is by far the most hellish." He scraped some gravel off the ground and tossed it, as if he too had recognised that he had uncharacteristically offered something further about himself, unprecedented and unaccustomed in their unvoiced agreement of avoiding any mention of the past. It forces you to talk, the emptiness. The void beckons you to fill it up with the sound of your voice, if you can.

"Why are there no stars? No moon?" Pitch asked suddenly, and Kozmotis gave him the sideways look he did when he had asked an ignorant question.

"Tsar Lunar ordered the prison planet built where no star would ever go," was the short answer. "...he would never bring any ship like the Clipper here." Kozmotis skimmed the gravel, the motion practiced and familiar. It bounced morosely over the hard packed earth.

"Where does Tsar Lunar live?" Pitch queried. He had figured out by now that Tsar Lunar, whomever he was, was not the MiM he had known. Kozmotis seemed to assume he would know who he was, so Pitch didn't ask.

"The Celestial City," responded Kozmotis. "Heartland of the Golden Empire..." He trailed off, but Pitch motioned for him to continue, something like interest on his face. "It's a dead planet, hollowed out and replaced with gleaming marble. A city-planet of every creature you could dream of, crowned by the Towers of the Moon, where the Tsar lives, rising tall above them. They say the streets are paved with shining silver, and every street corner is embossed with gold."

"Is it?"

"No. Well, unless you count the usual shit and filth as silver and penniless whores as gold." He paused, resumed skimming stones. "It has it's good points. Rich place. There's few slums, not the sort you'd get in Illinois, anyway. Everything's made of strong stone. It has to be, to stop the planet from collapsing in on itself, the place has been tunneled through so much. But the Celestial City has it's fair share of the desperate, the depraved, and the dying."

"Did you live there?" Kozmotis seemed to brighten with the talking, and Pitch felt as if he were drawing out snippets of a story from him, assembling a weaving from it.

"I stayed in the barracks with the rest of the soldiers. Close enough to the Towers of the Moon that every other house was a luxuriant mansion with silk hangings in the doorway, and the streets clear. I didn't stray to the lower parts all that much, but I know some of my crew did. They'd bring back the wildest stories." He shook his head, and it seemed as if there was a ghost of a smile on his lips, some fond memory in his eyes. "I believe a favorite place was one particular brothel staffed entirely by stars. You could pay to sleep in their arms for the night, and they'd grant you your dreams as you slept- they could be anyone, for the right price. I know more than one soldier who lost his head and heart that way."

Pitch hid a smirk behind his hand and tried not to think of the innocent Sandman's reaction in the same situation. Probably horror.

"What about you?" Kozmotis asked, with idle, undemanding curiosity. Pitch paused, sorting through his thoughts and deciding what he was about to say. It was a strangely comfortable silence.

"I come from a singular planet...I never left. To my knowledge, there were no ships capable of such feats, although I know that the humans there managed to go to the nearby moon, once, and launched different observational telescopes with which to observe the planet's weather patterns." Kozmotis was giving him a look of great sympathy, as if he couldn't imagine not being able to sail the stars. "It was a place like many others, I suppose. Humans crawled over it's surface and poked beneath it. Animals died, spirits rose." He shook his head, a private mourning for old, romanticized days long gone. "There were times when I was strong...times when every man feared the dark and what it could bring. But electricity and their towering cities of innovation marked the end of my reign. Empires rise, empires fall."

Kozmotis did not speak, and Pitch supposed he was reluctant to hear of the inevitability of the Golden Empire's destruction. A shining pinnacle must always be pointing the way bravely forward, he thought cynically. This silence was not a good one, so he said, "Tell me of your birthplace."

"Everywhere," Kozmotis answered succinctly, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his arms on them. His long cloak pooled over the steps, brushing Pitch's own shadow-dark one. Pitch's legs were stretched out, one dark foot idly scrubbing patterns in the dirt as he leaned back on his arms, face tilted towards the soldier. He sighed, and elaborated, sensing Pitch's silence as an indication to continue. "I was born in a mining colony, on Beta III. We moved around a lot, following the ore." He uttered a rueful laugh, bitter and cold. "I was in and out of star skiffs before I could walk. It was good practice, I suppose, for- later. Not that there was anything else to do. Dreadfully boring place." He gestured at Pitch, clearly meaning for him to reciprocate.

Pitch stiffened slightly. Truth be told, he didn't know where he had come from. The mystery haunted him for many years, and he hated how even still it nagged at him- why me? Why am I as I am? "I was born from the darkness," he answered simply, as if he had not taken offense. "As you well know."

A palpable awkwardness descended then, and Kozmotis seemed to know he had hit a sore spot. The soldier was eager to make amends- he had been privately enjoying the conversation, even laden with melancholy reminiscing. "I did not." He hesitated delicately. "You said...you were a spirit of darkness and fear. But you are corporeal enough to me."

Pitch took great delight in returning the sideways glance of- that was an immensely dumb question. Kozmotis evidently recognised it, for the soldier's cheeks warmed slightly under his helmet. "In my world..." Pitch began slowly, "There are individuals who cannot be seen."

Kozmotis looked confused, but Pitch quelled his questions with a silent glare.

"Spirits...intangible, unable to be perceived or felt, unless they are believed in by a live, human mortal. The strength of that belief fuels our powers, allows us to work greater acts, which then increase our pool of belief. It is a cycle." Bitterly, he added, "There are some who are more beloved than others."

"...So, you aren't...real?" Kozmotis sounded dubious.

Pitch flinched, pressing his hand automatically to his sternum, remembering the icy emptiness of being walked through like he wasn't even there. "I am!" he snapped. "Do you not see me?!"

"Of course!" Kozmotis assured him hastily.

"I am the fear, the darkness that keeps you wake," Pitch snarled, and his tension was visible in the taut line of his muscles. He rose stiffly to his feet and began to pace. "For thousands of years- in the shadows, pushed away, held back, because no one wants to be afraid. And then they come along- the Guardians- with their wonder and hope and dreams." He paused, his teeth grinding audibly, and spat out "Fun" like it was a curse word. "Throwing me back under the bed, where I belonged."

"...Fear is needed," Kozmotis said softly, so softly Pitch barely heard him.

Stopped in his tracks, the Boogeyman whirled around, glaring proudly down at the Golden General, who met his eyes defiantly.

"What did you say?"

"Fear is needed! It's suicidal to go into battle with it," he gestured at the prison behind him, "but suicidal to live life without it. Too much fear kills, too little does the same. It makes sense there would be a spirit to shepherd it."

"Rule it," Pitch corrected quietly. "...you cannot shepherd something as volatile as a nightmare. Either...you rule it or it rules you."

Kozmotis pulled himself to his feet, and Pitch allowed himself a few steps back, getting out of Kozmotis' immediate reach. He was slightly taller than Kozmotis, he noticed, with a jab of satisfaction. "I have fought fear all my life," Kozmotis told him quietly. He shook his head. "It seems to me that people are content to sit in their marble palaces whiling away the time on senseless pleasures, and forget what it means to live. No one likes bad emotions. But they are necessary." He hesitated, avoiding Pitch's eyes. "I would not have survived past my nineteenth year if it were not for fear. I feared where others did not, and I was the only one who flew out of there alive. It taught me a lesson I've never forgotten."
"I bet that was popular among your crew," Pitch needled, waiting for Kozmotis to turn his back and proclaim however much fear was needed, it was still hated, and anyone who took pleasure in the spreading of it was a foul and senseless beast.

Kozmotis shook his head. "It's not a lesson you can teach. But it's one that has kept me alive, throughout everything." His eyes were haunted. "You are never alone...and when you least expect it, it will be yourself that betrays you, nothing else."

Chapter Text

Of course, with Pitch's habit of following Kozmotis closely everywhere he went, barely a handspan between them just in case the Fearlings should try and attack him again, it was only a matter of time (a week, in fact) before Kozmotis' politeness was thoroughly eroded and he simply had to say something.

Pitch stank.

It wasn't so much the smell of sweat or body odor- more the built up reek of blood, dirt, desperation and the pungent sulfur and ozone scent he seemed to carry with him everywhere he went. His skin seemed to be naturally grey, although Kozmotis couldn't tell if it was simply the thick layer of dust and grime that covered him, and the robe barely helped- it hung in thin, ragged tatters over his corpselike frame. His hair was beyond description; things crawled and squirmed within, hideously mutated generations upon generations of insects, from larvae to death, and caked in such a thick layer of grub and muck that the streaks of grey through it Kozmotis wasn't entirely sure were not just the excrement of some passing bird. A solid coat of brackish dark cave mud clung to his legs and feet, that, from a distance, could be confused with shadow black leggings. He looked like some sort of dug up corpse that had dragged itself bodily from the ground and continued to hang around and decompose in an abandoned cave for the next several thousand years.

Putting it kindly, it was revolting.

Personal hygiene didn't seem to occur to Pitch. His cracked and yellow teeth were proof of how little he cared, and he seemed to treat Kozmotis' continued freshness as simply another quality alongside having grey eyes. Kozmotis found himself wondering if anyone had ever bothered to explain or show Pitch why he should keep himself clean, and how. It seemed fairly self-explanatory to Kozmotis, but then Pitch's less than excellent social skills and quiet reference to being alone were more than enough to tell him that Pitch had rarely had the need to keep himself fit for company.

Pitch's knowledge was bemusing. He knew endless amounts about seemingly irrelevant topics- such as in depth knowledge on how to forge a correctly balanced bronze sword- but conversely didn't even seem to notice that his physical appearance was below acceptable, to the point where he was positively antisocial. Kozmotis would have certainly preferred to not have been forced in close quarters with him. He felt strangely guilty when he realised that the other people in Pitch's life- the mysterious others for whose forgiveness he pleaded for in his nightmares- probably had thought the same thing, and that Kozmotis was likely the first to move to help Pitch.

"In my world...there are individuals who cannot be seen...some are more beloved than others."

No one wanted fear and darkness, he thought. It's the price I have to pay to know Pitch.

He decided that he would try and deal with the problem, for his own sake as well as Pitch's. He wasn't sure how much longer he could continue discreetly breathing through his mouth when the other was near. He raised the topic later that night, once his rounds within the prison had been completed.

"Pitch." He said, attracting Pitch's attention instantly. Not that he had been doing anything particularly gripping other than picking at a loose thread he had wormed up from the couch with incessant poking and prodding. The lanky spirit didn't bother to sit up, but raised his brow inquiringly, with a look of cold, remote interest on his face. He had, characteristically, sprawled over the entire surface of the couch, spreading every inch of his long limbs.

"Kozzy." Pitch smirked as Kozmotis' muscles twitched in annoyance at the nickname.

He decided to try tactful at first. "Did you want to borrow the dustscanner?" Pitch's brow furrowed in confusion, and Kozmotis quickly elaborated, "The scanner that cleans your skin." He gestured a little helplessly. "And hair- and clothes- most everything. If it can bear the light intensity," he added. "It's only that-" he hesitated. He wished Pitch would say something. He felt awkward speaking by himself. Kozmotis steeled himself and settled his hands behind his back, unconsciously at parade rest. "I don't know how you did it on-" he paused when he realised he didn't know Pitch's planet of origin, "-where you came from, but the Golden Armies have high expectations of cleanliness." His chin tilted. Kozmotis was too polished a soldier to shrug. "I cannot help but continue that..." He trailed off. There was no kind way to disguise it.

Pitch looked down at himself. He picked a tattered sleeve and didn't speak, but there was a slight, shamed flush on his cheeks, dark purple against the thin bones. He didn't think he looked that bad, he thought, assessing, the moonbots' healing light had removed most of the muck and cave grime that had clung to him for several centuries- he was in fact cleaner than he could remember being in a long time. He took into account Kozmotis' fresh, glowing skin and polished armour and felt embarrassment curl through him. Suddenly, Kozmotis' careful distancing between them took on a harsher and more hurtful light, and Pitch swallowed, unable to meet his eyes. He hadn't even been aware, and felt shockingly self-conscious, folding his arms across his chest and curling his spidery limbs close to himself.

"Is there a lake or stream nearby?" he asked softly. He could at least try to peel away the layer of dirt. It was doubtful it would work- and personally, Pitch was dubious. He'd seen what the humans dumped into the lakes and rivers, and ofttimes he came away dirtier than before- the London Thames came to mind. He had never used nor understood the humans' prevalence for personal washrooms that had magic pure water spraying from the walls. He understood the basics of pumping water and electricity, but how to operate it bemused him.

Kozmotis blinked at the random question. What did bodies of natural water have to do with cleanliness? It took him an embarrassingly long moment to get it, a soldier who'd grown up in the mechanised and compartmentalised order of an asteroid mining ship and spent his years in and out of sailing ships. He couldn't quite restrain a flicker of disgust. Bathing in public waters was a positively ancient custom that was only practiced on the most rural and backwards of planets. He did say they had only been to the orbiting moon once.

"No," he said, and then, "I will show you how to use it. The gears can be a little complex for the first time- military issue." He added, to make it a little less patronising. He felt awkward as he led Pitch into the small cupboard that served as his sleeping room. He unlocked a cupboard and pulled out the scanner.

It quickly became apparent that Pitch had absolutely no idea where to even begin with operating the device. He stared at the sleek dark rectangle, the attachment on the end appearing to his eyes like a bladeless razor. He glanced at Kozmotis, hoping that the soldier would make it self-evident without Pitch having to ask for advice.

Kozmotis looked at him and then down at the scanner. He sighed internally and offered a wordless 'Stars help me' to the skies for patience. "Hair first," he decided, eyeing the lank mass of stiff, greasy hair, pushed up almost permanently in a spiked manner.

He explained how to switch the scanner on, but as soon as he began showing Pitch how to adjust light intensities and the different varieties he would need for different parts of his body- he took off a percentage to factor in Pitch's shadow powers and lack of exposure to light tools such as this one before- in order to avoid burning himself. Like with Kozmotis' armour, he explained. Pitch seemed to at least understand that much, although he shied from using the tool with confusion.

"I'll show you," he said, finally, and setting the scanner to Pitch's hair, slowly passed it over, like a comb. Pitch stiffened at the bizarre feeling, the light working soothingly against his scalp, the hiss and burn of the dirt as it was burnt away by the light. Some small creature caught in the light's path died an agonising death, and Kozmotis, watching, winced.

He handed the scanner to Pitch. "You try."

Pitch watched Kozmotis hesitantly as he, flinching, attempted to copy the movement. He had clearly no idea what to do, and Kozmotis suddenly experienced a sharp memory of patiently combing out Seraphina's long tangled hair, teaching her how to do it for herself. He thought Pitch probably had had no one do that for him. A thought came to his mind, and Kozmotis observed Pitch struggling, and made a tentative decision. Why not? He'd just be showing Pitch how it was done. It wasn't as if he would be endangering himself or Pitch.

He went to the bed and sat down at it's edge, laying his cloak over his knees and removing his gauntlets slowly. Pitch's eyes zeroed in on Kozmotis' uncovered hands. They were pale and long-fingered, like his own, but covered in old cuts and scars the stories of which Pitch didn't know. "Sit," ordered Kozmotis softly, and Pitch found his body lurching towards obeying even before his confused mind had time to steel itself in outraged pride.

He wasn't some child, he thought indignantly, and his back went ramrod stiff with discomfort as Kozmotis coaxed him into the correct position so that he could reach his head with his hands. Some part of Pitch was shivering with anticipation at the thought of being touched- it was such a rare occasion that the desperation and longing to have his existence proven solid by someone else occupied him, haunting like a ghost screaming and scrabbling away in the darkness of his mind. The rest of him was taut with nervousness and gut-wrenching terror.

Kozmotis told him to open his mouth, and Pitch did as he was told, eyes flying wide and sputtering silently in indignation as without preamble the soldier pushed a small, cylindrical fitting into his mouth. An itching built up in his gums as the scanner worked on his teeth. It couldn't straighten them, but it could and did remove the worst of the plaque build up. It took only a few seconds, perhaps half a minute, before Kozmotis was apologetically removing it, leaving Pitch's mouth feeling numbed and oddly-tasting, like he'd swallowed a tube of toothpaste. He worked his mouth, disliking the sensation, an unhappy frown on his face as Kozmotis turned his attention to his hair.

He didn't know what to expect, and foolishly braced himself for pain when the scanner was set carefully at his forehead again, although he already knew that the light's touch didn't harm him. The first brush was easier than he had thought it would be, and Kozmotis' fingers were nimble and gentle, easily teasing out knots in Pitch's limp hair before they could catch on the razor. It was lucky that Pitch couldn't see Kozmotis' face, which was pallid with horror as he forced himself to endure touching the slick and greasy mass. It didn't look so bad from further away, but when he got close...

It took several passes to even remove the surface layer on one section, but Kozmotis worked with the patience of a father who had had one very wild, very long-haired daughter. He tried not to think about Seraphina too much as he worked, but the alternative was concentrating on the slick and disgusting things that screamed and died in Pitch's hair. The memory of her came easily, but although it hurt like nails catching in his heart, it almost made him smile to remember how indignant she'd been, how she'd settle only for a long story of one of Kozmotis' 'adventures' as her hair was brushed. Pitch, thankfully, was silent.

His shoulders were stiff and taut, tremors running down his spine as he fought to keep his shuddering at bay. Pitch's eyes were tightly closed, face screwed up in concentration as he simultaneously tried to memorise the feeling of fingers stroking through his hair and ignore that it was even happening. His face was burning with discomfort and he was flushing, an ugly and shameful blush. He hoped the back of his neck wasn't too warm that Koz would notice. He felt mortified for his reaction to the attention equally as he craved more- the pad of Kozmotis' finger, roughened from swordwork, was searing and rough against his scalp. He felt as if every whorl was etched, branded into his skin as Kozmotis continued his ministrations.

It was a curiously intimate thing, and neither male was particularly comfortable with it. Kozmotis, never a touchy person anyway, was trying to ignore that he was combing and cleaning the hair of an ancient fear spirit and Pitch likewise was trying to conceal his longing, touch-starved reactions, little shivers and biting his lip so hard that it bled.

Cleaning Pitch's hair to an acceptable standard took a long time, especially when there was no access to anything other than the small scanner. Eventually, Pitch allowed himself to relax just slightly, just enough that the hard bones of his knobbly and thin back was leaning against the unyielding surface of Kozmotis' armour clad legs, separated by the barrier of the cloak. His head moved slightly with Kozmotis' rhythmic brushes, and his eyes had long since closed, a comforting warmth soaking into his bones not unlike that with which he had been blessed under the healing light, so intense and almost vibrantly lovely that it made tears come to his eyes, though he refused adamantly to allow them to fall.

Pitch's hair was soft and dark against his fingertips now, having relaxed from it's rigid, slicked position to soft waves of jet that seemed to suck in the light without reflecting it. He allowed a few more passes, before adjusting the scanner for Pitch's skin and carefully going over his hairline, making very certain the last of the dirt was gone. Pitch's neck was pliant, letting Kozmotis move him however he pleased and keeping obediently still.

"Keep your eyes closed," Kozmotis warned, voice low and rough from a long while of not speaking. Pitch obliged, his head tilted over Kozmotis' knee as the soldier worked the scanner over his head and face. The stone grey colour of his skin peeled away under the light, revealing the more suited to the white environment, pale colour of greyish mist, tinted heavily by a purple blush. "There," he said, finally, his hands dropping to Pitch's shoulders and urging him to stand up. Pitch's shoulders were narrow and thin- protuberances of bone.

Kozmotis replaced his gauntlets, all evidence of his silent, almost affectionate gentleness vanished under a cold, hard exterior. His eyes were steely as he handed the scanner back to Pitch.

"Over your skin," he said shortly. "I have adjusted it to your skin tone. You won't be burnt."

"Thank you," said Pitch. His voice sounded odd and he cleared his throat, still a little out of sorts from the unfamiliar sensation of being cared for.

Kozmotis opened another cupboard and took out his only spare set of clothes, soft breeches and a ruffled, loose shirt identical to what he was wearing beneath his armour. He had the full set of alternative clothes, including boots, in case it happened to be damaged by fearling influence whilst on his rounds. He laid out the articles on the bed and nodded to Pitch sharply before vanishing into the other room, closing the door firmly behind himself.

Once Kozmotis had left, Pitch set the scanner to his skin, and copying what Kozmotis had done to his hair, cleaned his skin until he couldn't see any more dirt. He was thorough, removing and discarding his robe. It took a while, certainly, and was uncomfortable- the light itched if he used too much of it in one place, but the grime was so thick in some places that only heavy duty repetition would clear it. By the end, Pitch felt raw and pickled, but his skin was glowing with a fresh vibrancy he had never felt before. It felt- nice.

He had underestimated the effect having a clean body would have on his mind. Simply by being clean, though feeling awkward and exposed, he felt stronger and more assured in himself.

The clothes were of a foreign make, and he took a moment to examine them before he slipped them on. The leggings, doe-grey and softer than any silk or cotton he'd had the pleasure of wearing, hugged him like it had been made specifically for him, clinging to his calves and thighs without being constricting, allowing for ease of movement without any restriction. The socks were silky and felt like water when he slipped them through his hands. The boots were long, designed to be worn with greaves to protect his shins, stopping just above his knee and fastening with a small array of gold clasps that took him a little while to figure out how to operate. They snapped shut with relative ease, and he thought they were certainly faster than laces, though there were those as well, to tie the greaves more securely to his legs. He simply wrapped those around his calves and tied them to prevent them flapping around.

The shirt was ruffled and white, loose, a poet's shirt, and he chuckled quietly as he slipped it on. It was a typical Earth 'pirate shirt', and Kozmotis, an actual sailor of the sky, unknowingly conformed to the stereotype. There were shadows under his new clothes, and he pulled them loose and wove them into a coat of shadow that he pulled on, a dark jacket that flared into tails at his hips, swirling about his ankles as his robe used to and covered his arms, a perfect 'pirate's coat'. The thought amused him. He buttoned a few over his navel, allowing a strip of grey skin around his neck to showcase the twisted silver locket, and a high collar imitating the old style he used to wear, before he'd adopted his shapeless robe. He tugged a hand through his hair, ruffling it into the familiar spiked style, before cautiously leaving to face Kozmotis' judgement.

He thought he looked good. The added weight of boots on his feet and the clothes was strange, after so long of simply clothing himself in shadows, but he found he enjoyed the feeling. Plus it generated deep pockets of shadows against his skin, a silent appeasement to the glaring light strips overhead.

Kozmotis had been caring for his sword, sharpening it with a whetstone and a practiced eye. Once Pitch emerged, he paused to give him a quick visual assessment, a dark brow raising in silent surprise and approval.

The ragged, lurching corpselike look of before was gone. Pitch looked less like a stray wight found hiding at the bottom of a dingy closet and more of a human, smartly dressed and clean, a shine in his eyes and a confidence to his smirk that had been absent before.

It was amazing, thought Kozmotis wryly as Pitch stalked towards him, how a simple change of clothes and a wash could transform even the most desperate and derelict into something powerful and assured.

Chapter Text

Pitch thumped onto the ground with a groan, his trembling legs giving out. He lay there, sweaty and panting, trying not to notice Kozmotis blithely running literal circles around his prone form. Bitterly he cursed fitness-freak soldiers who weren't hindered by lack of belief in their powers.

"You're getting better," Kozmotis lied kindly as he ran past, not even out of breath, and Pitch shot him a blistering glare that would have stripped paint from walls.

He still hadn't moved when Kozmotis, breathing slightly heavier, finally stopped and began cooldown stretches. Pitch turned his face into the dirt and muttered dark promises of vengeance.

One day when I'm powerful again I'm going to challenge him to a fucking race and see how well he does against Shadow itself, he thought bitterly. Fuck you Kozzy.

His body was protesting viciously, and he groaned in pain as his muscles spasmed and cramped. It felt like his very blood was throbbing, and his feet hurt, unused to running in shoes, even though he had been wearing them ever since he'd got them from Kozmotis nearly a week ago. Self-pityingly, he flopped back against the ground and thought about how this was truly the most hellish way to die.

I am betrayed by my own body, he thought woefully. Again.

"Up and at 'em, soldier, you can sleep when you're dead," said Kozmotis, lightly nudging Pitch with his boot. Another advantage of his new clothes was better protection from Kozmotis' armour, although sometimes, like that moment, Pitch wasn't certain if it was an advantage or not.

He rolled over and snarled in his most threatening manner, hoping to convey a proper tone of leave me be, insignificant mortal.

Kozmotis raised an eyebrow and kicked him again. "Hurry up. You're first at the scanner- I've got a surprise for you."

Pitch huffed, trying to pretend his interest hadn't been piqued. Something new on the prison planet was exceedingly rare, but his pride wouldn't allow open interest.

So despite the fact he was itching to get up and investigate, he remained lying down nonchalantly, until Kozmotis had strode back to the guardroom. Pitch watched him go and thought venomously that Kozmotis was almost certainly so obsessed with his body to compensate for his lack of intelligence, wit, and boring personality.

Pleased with himself, Kozmotis surveyed his preparations thoughtfully. He'd scrounged up the input holo- a flat rectangular touch screen device that would transfer commands onto the larger vidscreen for display- and connected it up to the vidscreen. He'd even managed to find a stylus, and had spent a frustrating few days enduring the exceptionally slow Net that was broadcast this far out- heavily restricted, basic military only- hunting instructions on how, of all the things, to teach someone how to write Lesser Constellar.

He had no idea what the supplies outpost that directed his Net requests thought of him by now. Romantic comedies, trash films, Beginner's Guide to the Alphabet, children's books complete with vivid pictures, starstories; no doubt his reputation was taking quite a knock. He smiled slightly sourly. Let them wonder if he had lost his mind all alone on the prison and was turning to stories like the Happy Comet Who Couldn't Cool Down.

Sometimes he wondered if he had and Pitch really was just a figment of his imagination, but usually the so called spirit of fear and darkness would conspire to do something obnoxious to prove to him that even Kozmotis' masochistic mind couldn't come up with something so infuriating. Such as stealing the mysterious lump of 'Moon Sand' flavoured 'food' and stuffing it down the back of his neck when he came in from his rounds.

Pitch had very nearly died that day.

He wouldn't admit it even under pain of death, but Pitch's antics had sent him to rest with an absence of grimness about his mouth, and his nightmares that night had been almost- tame.

He'd decided, guiltily, to forego his rounds that day, knowing he would need all his mental strength to battle wills with Pitch. If he was going to attempt to actually teach him something he was going to need a mighty amount of patience for endless sarcasm and bizarre questioning.

As if summoned, Pitch stalked out of Kozmotis' cabin, fresh-smelling and clean once more, although he still moved stiffly and with a hefty glower. Kozmotis had to stifle a smile.

It was amusing to him when Pitch attempted to join in on his morning fitness regimes, purely out of pent-up energy and boredom. The man was so thin and weak he collapsed fairly soon, despite holding up longer than Kozmotis would have thought from his skinny frame. It was affirming to Kozmotis, who often had the feeling of being trapped in between an invisible tug of war between the Fearlings inside the prison and Pitch's shadow powers.

Pitch glanced down at the setup with blatant curiosity, sprawling across the couch in a manner which left his head beside Kozmotis'. "What's that for?" he asked.

"I'm going to teach you how to write," Kozmotis told him, and Pitch's eyes suddenly gleamed with excitement. He struggled to keep his face uninterested still, but Kozmotis saw right through the flimsy disguise.

Kozmotis indicated the floor next to him, and with a petulant huff, Pitch joined him, his long legs bending up awkwardly at the joints as he arranged himself in a crosslegged position. They leaned against the couch and Kozmotis picked up the stylus, drawing a symbol on the input holo, which was then transferred to the vidscreen, glowing and enlarged.

"This is shapsa," he said, "That's the ushh sound. Learn it."

So began the attempts to make Pitch Black literate.

Kozmotis was an exacting taskmaster, ruthless and efficient, but he was also patient, enduring Pitch's inevitable annoyance and frustration with a sort of militaristic, immovable calm that often made Pitch wonder if he was going to be ordered to run laps whenever he annoyed Kozmotis too much.

At one point, Pitch had gotten so upset with absolutely nonsensical grammar rules he'd shouted and prepared to stalk off, but Kozmotis, with a single, icy command, had stopped him in his tracks with a peculiar shiver. "Sit down." He hadn't even looked up, occupied with sketching fyotr.

Pitch had sat down.

As difficult as it was to understand, since Constellar appeared to share no roots or very little to the Earth languages he had learned. There was some correlation, but Pitch chalked that down to there only being so many sounds and shapes possible to create. At least it seemed to be largely spelt how it was spoken, which made it easier on Pitch.

It took them the rest of the day, but Pitch proudly at the end could spell his own name and Kozmotis', and had the hang of a few basic pronouns, verbs and conjugations. Kozmotis was impressed with how quickly he picked it up, as if he were simply rediscovering old knowledge he had once known. Pitch said it was because he'd learned so many languages before the routine got old after a while.

They spent the next few evenings this way, and Pitch quickly grew to look forward to it. The mental work was welcome compared to the alternative, brain-numbing boredom, and the language was something new he had never done before. Puzzling over grammar rules with Kozmotis stretched out awkwardly beside him was Pitch's new favourite activity.

They talked until they grew hoarse, into the small hours of the 'night', and sometimes they were distracted for hours, like one evening they had ended up ignoring the input holo entirely in favour of a lively theoretical debate about the existence of a higher power, or God. Kozmotis was fascinated by the different religious interpretations Pitch offered, and they discussed sects until abruptly Pitch noticed Kozmotis hiding yawns and ordered the soldier to rest.

Pitch sometimes left messages for Kozmotis scrawled on walls, purely to mess with him. Don't turn around. They said you were beautiful when you sleep. Whatever you do, don't blink. Time's up. He'd find spelling corrections written underneath them, and the obligatory, Pitch, you really shouldn't be vandalising the prison walls, very funny by the way. I'm sure the Fearlings' perceptions of beauty aren't at all warped.

Pitch would spend long half-hours deciphering the soldier's easy scrawl, working through it with the holo, and sit there staring at the translated product with a ridiculous grin on his face, sometimes laughing so hard Kozmotis would find him there, with a raised eyebrow, at Pitch half-collapsed against the wall, clutching his stomach and still shaking with humour.

"It wasn't that funny," the General said, self-consciously, and that only made Pitch laugh harder.

He'd never had anyone he could share jokes with before.

Writing opened up a whole array of new pranks. By far the best had to be scratching hey there sexy onto the small mirror hidden behind a panel in Kozmotis' room. He'd listened to the unmistakeable rattle of armour dropped in sheer shock and had to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from howling from laughter. Kozmotis, when he'd come out of his room, looked so uncomfortable it sent Pitch laughing until he cried.

Kozmotis didn't bother asking Pitch to stop. He was cold, not a monster, and watching Pitch fidget like a naughty child with a secret when he'd found somewhere new to write, some new inevitably creepy phrase to scrawl was worth it. He couldn't bring himself to tell Pitch off for something that brought him so much excitement- and it wasn't like it was hurting anyone, was it? No one but the Fearlings and Kozmotis would see the writing, and he seriously doubted the Fearlings cared. In fact, it was even helping Pitch practise his new skills.

Kozmotis found smiling uneasy and unpractised after this long. It felt as if he was struggling through a dark grey fog most days, Pitch a whirling bright thing, a kaleidoscope of colour and cheer- ironic given his dark powers. He often felt like he couldn't keep up, but he'd practised the pretence of being fine for so long pulling a shroud over his cold bitterness was easy. He woke from his restless dreams wishing that it was all over, but in what way, he didn't bother to sort out. His iron duty compelled him to rise every day, but Kozmotis was so tired of serving. He was so tired, full stop.

Pitch's tentative joy was a new, young thing, and he treated it like a baby bird unfurling it's wings for the first time. Kozmotis found it both amusing and upsetting to watch. We're both a bit destroyed, aren't we?

-We are watching you.

-Should I put on a show?

-Can I say yes?

-How about a 'run through' of when we first met?

-You're cruel.

-And you lost.

(carved into a wall nearby the Guardroom)

Chapter Text

Since he had taught Pitch, painstakingly, how to use the vidscreen by himself, Kozmotis regularly came back to find him engrossed in some pre-downloaded tripe. He loved films that depicted the illustrious cities and people of the Constellations, and watched, awestruck, as they performed seemingly simple tasks. It took very little to impress Pitch, normally a fool's trait, but to Kozmotis it was just another indication of how little Pitch had travelled.

Pitch liked to ask questions, a lot of questions. When Kozmotis came in from guard duty, exhausted, Pitch usually gave him about ten minutes grace and then began firing rapid questions at him, questions that Kozmotis answered tiredly, unable to deny Pitch when his eyes lit up so vibrantly, and he seemed to shake with eagerness as he prized answers out of Kozmotis' unwilling mind. These questions ranged from highly technical explanations for the power system of a hyperdrive to innocuous queries about of all things, washing dishes. The contrast was quickly becoming something Kozmotis just accepted of Pitch.

Nonetheless, after spending an exhausting four hours checking the cages inside the prison, Kozmotis wandered back to the guardroom at a steady pace, until he heard the music. The sky was dark and endless outside, the clean whiteness of the halls disturbed by scratchy, sooty markings, scrawled graffiti depicting creepy messages. His boots clicked rhythmically on the floor as he walked, and his cloak stirred in the breeze of his passing. His temples throbbed with a light headache – most of it had dissipated during the half-hour recovery time outside the doors he'd allotted himself.

The music seeped out from the guardroom, rang in the silent, cold corridors. It was soft, lilting, and immediately brought Kozmotis back to memories of waltzing in the park with his not-yet-wife, her teasing smile and glittering eyes, the soft curtain of bound hair rippling over her back. He paused, struck by a hollow, aching sadness, and swallowed as he remembered vividly, as if suddenly he could feel her gentle touch on his shoulder.

She'd been so light, so graceful in his arms, her laughter ringing like bells as she taught him, stumbling, graceless soldier, the steps. He'd been so rough, raw, a bare captain, disliked by his troops and shoved in a dress uniform and told not to speak because of his commoner's accent. She'd been a positive miracle- sly, bold woman, mercilessly tutoring the worst of the accent from his voice, the players of court, the steps in the dance far more complex than that of the parquet ballroom.

He'd courted her, shyly, insecurely, bringing her what rude gifts he could cobble together- his pay wasn't extreme and she was a noble lady, already once married to a rich governor who'd died, she told him, with lowcast eyes, from a vindictive assassin. But she liked him, claimed to love him, though Kozmotis found it hard to believe initially.

The first dance they'd danced together had ended up being their handfasting song, and Kozmotis, far more graceful at it than he had been then, had spun her with exhilarating ease.

He had enjoyed dancing, once.

When she and their daughter had died, it was as if all the lightness and joy had gone from the world, and all that was left was the darkness. The darkness that had after all this time brought him a new companion.

It was a disturbing thought, and immediately Kozmotis banished it from his mind. The Fearlings, unusually quiescent, made no comment, though he expected them to seize upon their indirect mention.

Hesitantly, Kozmotis approached the door, left ajar just slightly as a non-verbalised test of trust. He put one troubled grey eye to the crack, and felt his breath shudder out of him in a silent, measured sigh.

The vidscreen was on, the screen flickering with images he recognised from his younger days, learning to dance. A male and female human pair were demonstrating the Lover's Waltz, though it was not a waltz at all but a highly complicated dance involving very little actual physical contact but plenty of footwork and moving in slow, spiralling circles around one another, moving forward when the other went backwards, clasping wrists and elbows. It was a very slow, languid and graceful dance; Archaline had enjoyed teaching him this one, though the complex footwork had puzzled him for weeks, and left them both breathless with laughter. He couldn't see Pitch, the back of the couch rose sternly, concealing him from view.

He pushed the door open lightly and walked in, pausing when he took note of Pitch's position.

The darker, slighter male was curled up on the floor in front of the couch, his knees pulled tightly to his thin chest, his arms wrapped around them like he was holding himself together, sharp chin resting on one knee, gold-silver eyes unblinking on the screen, the rhythmic movement of his breathing the only thing breaking his absolute, statuesque stillness. There was an odd, hungry expression on his face, that suggested perhaps the stillness was enforced to stop himself from attempting to imitate what he was watching.

He looked intently focused, and Kozmotis made a point of walking in front of him to make certain he knew he was there. Hardened soldiers like Kozmotis were twitchy enough, but Pitch took paranoia to a whole new level. Pitch barely twitched in annoyance, and Kozmotis sat above him on the couch, awkwardly cross-legged to avoid kicking Pitch, the metal plates of his armour rubbing together noisily. Pitch made no comment, nevertheless Kozmotis settled as quickly as he could.

Together, they watched the tutorial in silence, neither one moving, although Kozmotis' legs ached from the unfamiliar pull of muscle in this position, and he wasn't comfortable.

Once it was over, Pitch's long-fingered hand reached immediately for the remote, but then Kozmotis cleared his throat and suggested gently, “Let me?”

Silently, Pitch passed him the remote.

Kozmotis put on another dance clip, this time on a far easier dance, one of the ones he had learned himself in the beginning. It was rather simple, and applicable to all races. Kozmotis had danced it with a variety of partners; it was normally done in a large circle so that everyone could switch partners once one cycle was through. It was an active dance, including five movements, clasping hands at the wrist with spread arms, then spinning into one another, a dip one way, the other, pressing palms flat together and pushing as they did so, and spinning out again, at which they would each take the hand of a new partner and so the dance continued.

Finally, Pitch spoke. “This is very similar to certain styles of dancing I am familiar with.”

“You dance?” Kozmotis was surprised. It didn't seem, at first thought, a very Pitchlike thing to do, however the more he thought about it, the more he thought Pitch's natural grace and overflowing energy made him perfect for dance.

“Only alone,” Pitch replied. “I'm not so good at couples' dances.”

How surprising, Kozmotis thought to himself dryly.

Pitch stood up, rising to his full height and eyeing Kozmotis speculatively. Kozmotis, uncomfortable with being loomed over even if enough training in the army prevented him from showing his emotions on his blank face, shifted to look up at him. Pitch's lips twitched into what might have been a smile.

“I want you to teach me,” he said suddenly, and Kozmotis looked at him, puzzled. The meaning came to him slowly, and his eyes widened in an almost comical display of shock.

“To dance?” he questioned a little weakly, and Pitch nodded, linking his hands behind his back in what seemed a familiar stance. “I...” The memory of learning that exact dance from his wife was coming back, and he was transfixed by the vision from the past, his heart weighted as something bitter and cold moved through him.

Dancing was always something they had done together, something he had learned with her for her. He didn't want to share something like that with Pitch; selfishly he wanted the memory all to himself, something untarnished of hers to cling to. He hadn't danced in years, since she had fallen to her death, precisely.

There was something profoundly intimate about dancing to him. It had been the way he and Archaline had fallen in love, how they established their connection. Sharing that with Pitch, a former enemy, felt like it was tantamount to cheating on her memory.

“I can't,” he said instead, and Pitch's face seemed to sharpen slightly, something cruel lighting in the hollows of his cheeks, the curve of his thin lips.

“Why?” he asked, coldly, removed, he cloaked himself in impersonality to hide the sting of Kozmotis' refusal.

“It...” He felt as if he owed Pitch the truth, although it was a bitter struggle to push the words out, a shamed flush appearing high on his cheekbones. He found it difficult to maintain eye contact and looked away rather than see the derision on Pitch's face. “It was something we did together.”

“Oh for goodness' sake,” sighed Pitch, uncaring and bored, “Which is it this time? The dead daughter or the wife? When will you get over them? Pull yourself together.”

The words struck harshly, and Kozmotis felt them all the more acutely for their unexpectedness. Pitch's dismissal was like a slap in the face, and Kozmotis reacted the only way he could fathom; anger.

He stood up, getting into Pitch's space, something dark and hard turning his stormy eyes like flecks of granite.

“Did I hit a nerve?” Pitch inquired sweetly, and Kozmotis frowned, lips pursing at the brightness in Pitch's eyes, the wild smile pulling his lips. He was enjoying baiting Kozmotis.

“Fuck you,” Kozmotis snarled, restraining himself from punching him. Unnoticed, the recording of the dancers stopped, and the music fell away. The silence only made the tension more fraught.

“Or what?” Pitch hissed, unafraid to square up to him in return, “You'll stick a sword through me? Again?”

Kozmotis' breath huffed out through his nose. He whirled away and punched the wall, the armour of his gauntlet making a horrific crash and bruising his knuckles. He felt blood well up, ignored it, and stalked off. He was in no mood to listen to Pitch's stirring, and knew that he would regret losing his temper and hurting Pitch if he stayed.

Nonetheless, it was no easier to restrain himself from knocking the skinny bastard out when he heard Pitch's mocking laughter follow him from the guardroom.

The argument had left things cool between them. Kozmotis had spent a while looking up at the black, blank, icy expanse of the starless space around the planet, calming his thoughts until he slipped into the meditative state where they ambled like the circular orbits of stars. Like a master craftsman, he had laid out his emotions and scrutinised them deeply, the tools of his heart.

He was angry, yes, but underneath the anger was a surprising hurt. He hadn't anticipated how much he'd come to rely on the current of understanding between them, hard-won yet always present. Pitch hadn't really pushed Kozmotis too much about his persistent grief, the darkness of his thoughts, and Kozmotis had blithely accepted it, been grateful for what he had assumed was Pitch's silent empathy. He had thought that Pitch had understood that the same symptoms of loneliness and coldness that so gripped, defined, consumed Pitch also wrapped heavy, listless tendrils around Kozmotis, held him down until he couldn't see a reason for rising up anymore.

He shied away from touching the still raw grief and pain twanging like a shattered instrument, a steady throbbing pain he'd learned to live with, live over, ignore, seething beneath the surface of this veneer of sanity, of composure, like an ugly river of poison. It turned everything he saw grey.

Pitch had been a convenient distraction. He gave him a reason to open his eyes in the morning at least, and not for the first time, Kozmotis realised that such deep, symbiotic hunger in each other's craving to be soothed had created a co-dependence, a co-obsession, that was almost certainly unhealthy. Pitch was unstable. Leaning on him, Kozmotis knew, would cause him to crack, break within himself and fall to pieces, the strong core within eaten out with corruption. He knew he was the same. He wondered if Pitch did.

He breathed a bitter laugh. There was no wisdom or cold comfort to find in the desolate horizon, so he returned to the illusion of the bones of some civilisation, within the idle trap of the prison's hallways.

His anger had cooled, but he didn't bother to confront Pitch when he readied himself for retiring for the night, seeing Pitch's simmering anger and also the half-hidden regret- I've broken it, I've broken our truce, I've pushed him too far and I don't know how to bring it back, how do I fix us? -gave him a stab of unkind pleasure. Let Pitch flail in the abject misery of his own unsurety. No one had ever said Kozmotis couldn't be cruel.

They'd both overreacted. It was hardly any wonder, really, trapped in each other's constant company, nothing new or interesting to stimulate minds too haunted to turn to their own thoughts for comfort, presided over by a malicious force of ten thousand whispering shadows.

He lay on the thin, hard bunk that night and drifted in uneasy, shallow nightmares of Archaline's death, of Seraphina's empty casket, of Pitch's bowed head and glassy eyes, “Kill me, kill me, I just want to die, make it end.” Halfway through, his head lifted and Kozmotis saw his own face staring back out of Pitch's head.

He woke up with a thundering heart and cold sweat. At first he thought it was the nightmare, disturbing as it was, but then he heard a scream, a scream as familiar as his own after all these nights, and his heart sank despite their fallout.

“DON'T PUT ME BACK DOWN THERE!” Pitch howled, “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!” His screams cut off, raw and scraped from his abused throat, and Kozmotis could hear nothing but muffled thrashing.

Slowly, he rose and entered the main room, pressing his palm over the dark scars raked into the door to his cabin as a reminder to be cautious of Pitch's powers. Pitch was thrashing like a possessed thing on the floor, having fallen from the couch, still fully dressed. His thin chest was heaving and gleaming with sweat, there were tears streaking down his cheeks, and he was crying, sobbing, gasping wetly for forgiveness, muttering incomprehensible things in languages Kozmotis didn't know.

“imsorryimsorryohimsofuckingsorry LET ME OUT LET ME OUT please ill do anything GET ME OUT OF HERE DON'T LEAVE ME gods help me-”Kozmotis didn't have to know the words to understand the message, he was hoarse, screaming, desperate and broken and still so ashamed his clawed nails dug into his palms, creating weeping moons like red smiles on his misery.

“Pitch!” he shouted, loud enough to override Pitch's screams. “Pitch! Pitch! Wake up!” He knelt beside him, throwing off his gauntlets without a thought as he grabbed Pitch's thin wrists, felt his deceptive strength struggle to push him off, immobilising him.

“Pitch! Pitch! Wake up!”

Pitch arched and a yearning scream tore from him, but then he slumped and his eyes opened, though they were glassy and not present, lost somewhere in the grips of his nightmare. “Don't leave me alone,” he said. “Don't leave me alone.” He blinked and there was something raw and childlike and flinching when he said, “Kozzy. Don't leave me.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” said Kozmotis with a trace of bitterness through his reassurance, and Pitch clutched onto him with desperate hands, pressing his body to Kozmotis' chestplate, hands scrabbling at his back like he ached to push them closer together, a rough sort of needy embrace. Pitch's shirt protected him from the most of Kozmotis' armour, though by the hiss of burning flesh it wasn't adequate to protect him everywhere, though neither of them could muster the energy to care.

Kozmotis let Pitch press his face into the crook of his shoulder, rested his forehead on Pitch's own, felt the sting of his sweat on his lips as unthinkingly he chased the contact.

“Kozzy, Kozzy, Kozzy, Koz.” Every repetition of his name was followed with a desperate sort of hold with his teeth on the skin of his neck and throat, too vulnerable, not quite a bite but more of an anchorage, holding Kozmotis in place just a little more.

“I'm not going anywhere, you're not alone, I'm here,” he said meaninglessly, robotic, and Pitch was crying, but Kozmotis felt nothing but numbness, echoing emptiness where there was supposed to be feelings. He thought he should be crying, or shaking, or something, but he could feel nothing but a detached sort of disinterest. Idly, he thought about Pitch's teeth in his neck and wondered when the last time he'd checked Pitch had cleaned them was.

He couldn't remember. It didn't matter.

“Koz, Kozzy. I'm sorry.”

He didn't know why Pitch was apologising. For some past crime he never explained? For their argument?

“I forgive you.” It wasn't like he had a choice. “I'm sorry.” He supposed while they were apologising he may as well get his own meaningless and worthless one out.

“Kozzy.” Pitch still sounded so cracked and desperate, and Kozmotis slid one arm underneath his legs and relocated them to the couch, ignoring Pitch's distressed sounds when he extricated himself in order to cover himself a bit more thoroughly with his cloak.

The smell of burning flesh had never sat pleasantly with him.

Pitch took advantage of the change in position to sit in Kozmotis' lap, turning his face back into Kozmotis' neck, hands gripping his cloak-covered shoulders hard enough that his knuckles turned white. He appeared to be coming back to himself, breathing harshly, riding out his shivers.

Aimlessly Kozmotis started rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles, feeling the jut of Pitch's vertebrae and the hard planes of his shoulder blades. Blades was accurate indeed.

He knew Pitch was himself once more when he stiffened abruptly in panic, evidently unused to the touch. Kozmotis continued it. It was soothing to him, and he vowed silently to himself that he would find a way to get Pitch used to receiving contact.

In the back of his mind, he realised that his gauntlets were still off and wondered about going to put them on. It wasn't safe to leave chinks in his defences with the fearlings around- but by now, thought Kozmotis with a tinge of bitter amusement, he barely thought he had any left.

“I have a...” He trailed off.

“What?” Pitch rasped.

“I was going to say I have a bottle of potion that is used widely for trying to fend off nightmares. To be honest I'd forgotten I've got it, it doesn't work on me anymore. If you drink it and think of good memories you wish to see again as you fall asleep, it's supposed to simply send you walking through them again.”

Pitch huffed a laugh. “The only good memory I have is a split-second moment of triumph I felt when I shot my oldest- I suppose you could say he was the closest thing I had to a friend, meaning a bitter enemy- in the back. It lasted for roughly three seconds before I fell out of the sky.”

“I had a feeling it wouldn't work on you,” Kozmotis sighed. Pitch laughed.

Neither of them mentioned the argument.

Chapter Text

Pitch busied himself painstakingly drawing runes onto the white gleaming walls. He used his shadow-claws, which was probably not the wisest course, but Pitch was inured enough to pain that it was just a background groan. Lesser Constellar's runic alphabet was constructed of mainly straight lines and simple curves in a style that reminded him rather of Elder Futhark. It didn't translate perfectly to English, either, which was an added grievance.

He was on his knees, not a spot of dust to mar the pristine dark grey of his breeches. Continual proximity to his skin and the shadows underneath had dyed all his clothes to a darker shade of monochromes than Kozmotis', but Pitch privately enjoyed the bleak comparison of it. Kozmotis, ever the lighter one with his moniker of Golden General – Koz had been reluctant indeed to tell Pitch he was a famous war hero – to Pitch's coal Nightmare King.

“And look at us now,” he muttered to himself. “Like rats in a trap.”

He wondered, if he hadn't been forced in enclosed quarters with the man for almost two months now if they would have still become the awkward friends they were. He doubted it. Koz seemed the sort of man who went in for all of the Guardian tripe – honour, valour, courage and all that ridiculousness that was only ever a 'noble' covering for cowards and fools.

Not to mention he wouldn't have seen me. Or would he have? Pitch probably would have killed or tortured him back on Earth, delighted by the novelty of a mature adult able to taste the truth of their fear. There hadn't been shortage of writhing little maggot-humans to extract the fear that sustained him, then.

Not anymore, of course. Fancifully, Pitch imagined what he'd do with Koz should they ever go back to the Earth Pitch knew. He chuckled humourlessly at himself. Probably teach him how to ride the Nightmares, because with Koz at his side Pitch had no doubt that he could overpower his creations, infuriate the Guardians. If Koz chose to stay with him, which, obviously, he would.

“Is that supposed to be remember what you are, or remember who you are?” Kozmotis asked from beside him, and Pitch jumped out of his skin, whirling around with a hiss, his claws raised.

The soldier, dressed in full armour as usual, the pale metal gleaming like moonlight under the bright lights, stood above him, frowning down at the writing Pitch was carving into the wall. His hand was resting nonchalantly on his sword hilt. He looked tired.

Frowns came easily to Kozmotis, Pitch had noticed.

“Either, I suppose,” Pitch said darkly, and Koz huffed an exasperated, fond laugh.

He knelt beside Pitch, the thin plates of his armour rubbing together, and pulled a small stick of what looked like charcoal, but probably wasn't, from his belt. “You've written 'what you are',” he said, and scrawled underneath, ' Remember who you are. And how to spell.'

Despite himself, Pitch smiled, although he rolled his eyes and made a frustrated noise so that Koz knew he hadn't amused him.

The corners of Koz's lips twitched up like he was fighting back a grin when he saw Pitch's expression. “I'm funny,” he said.

“You're an idiot.”

“I'm not the one scratching overdramatic messages into the wall.”

Pitch glared at him. “I'm not overdramatic,” he declared, offended.

Kozmotis was smiling unabashedly now, and Pitch bitterly resented that Koz had become so comfortable around him. “Of course not,” he teased lightly, and Pitch flung himself to his feet, preparing to stalk off.

He wasn't some drama queen.

Hearing Kozmotis laughing behind him, he redoubled his pace, but Koz caught up with ease. “Hey,” the soldier said, “I agreed with you!”

“You were being sarcastic.”

“Oh no! Sarcasm. However shall I recover from my grievous crime against you, your majesty?” Koz drawled.

Pitch stopped to let him catch up, glancing over his shoulder coquettishly. “I could get used to you calling me that.”

Kozmotis blinked, like he always did when he thought something Pitch had done was a little odd, but then he dismissed it and said dryly, “In your dreams, Pitch.”

Pitch grumbled. “Maybe if I ever had anything but nightmares,” he stated flatly, unable to keep the tiredness from his voice. He was tired. Every night was steadily worsening, horrific tortures at the hands of his nightmares, the Guardians, even the Burgess children. They all had the same haunting undertone, 'you deserve this, monster, back in the dark, forget about you, no one remembers you, no one wants you, die already, why can't you?'

Koz evidently caught the change in mood, but aside from a glance out of the corner of his eye, he didn't question it, for which Pitch was grateful. “Why were you writing that on the wall anyway?” he said instead, which was hardly better, but Pitch at least appreciated his effort not to be obnoxious.

“In case I forget,” he said facetiously, hoping Kozmotis would drop it.

A slightly disapproving stare. “Who you are? Or what you are?”

“I forget a lot of things. It happens.”

Kozmotis paused, and then fell silent. Pitch brooded.

They were almost at the guardroom when Kozmotis spoke again. “You...you really don't remember anything, do you? Of your past?” There was a mixture of curious pity and quiet longing in his voice, as he stood with his back to Pitch. No doubt Kozmotis fancied forgetting the hurts of the past that so dragged at his heart as a reprieve, but Pitch knew it was no such thing. He was always wondering what he had been. Who he had been. What had happened.

“No,” he said flatly. “My memory only stretches for a few hundred years before everything begins eroding. I only remember certain things because I repeat them to myself, so that I don't forget.”

'You were born alone. Your name is Pitch Black. You like dancing. You are Fear. You are an enemy of the Guardians of Childhood. You sustain yourself off fear. Belief is failing. You should do something about it. You're not as powerful as you used to be in the Dark Ages. You were strong. You want to be strong again. The stronger you are, the clearer you can think, but too much fear destroys you.' He smiled to himself humourlessly. It was a miserable list.

“I can't decide whether I would prefer that or not,” said Kozmotis.

“You wouldn't,” Pitch told him. “Oh, no doubt it makes life a constant adventure, but after the twenty third time you try the same tactic and fail the other spirits start thinking you're a little- how do you put it? - simple.”

Kozmotis laughed before he could stop himself. “Stars forfend,” he joked, and Pitch glared.

Pitch flopped over the couch, his arms and legs sprawling off it, coat spread out like ravens wings behind him. He watched idly, eclipse eyes empty, as Kozmotis unbuckled the clasps of his scarlet cloak and folded it neatly, settling it over the arm of the couch. There was a silent, extended pause while Kozmotis fussed with his bracers, adjusting a strap.

Finally, he said, “If you could, would you want to?”

It took a moment for Pitch to parse the question in a way that made sense. “Remember?” he clarified. Koz nodded. Pitch bit his lip, frowned slightly. He looked at the black vidscreen, the only darkness apart from himself. “I don't know,” he said, hating the three words. It hurt his pride.

Koz appeared to understand the gravity of it, Pitch suspected he hated them as much himself.

“What sort of an attitude is that?” Kozmotis challenged. “Don't you want to know who you were before?”

I can't help but think I did an awful crime, to end up like this. “It doesn't matter to me.”

“Now you're just lying,” Kozmotis said with almost gentle amusement. “If you had the chance, would you take it?”

Pitch squinted at him, rolling onto his stomach to track his movements better. “What are you planning?” he asked suspiciously.

Kozmotis made a decision, resolution settling over his face, and with quick strides went to an innocuous wall, pressing a depression that made a cupboard pop open. Pitch blinked in surprise. He could never tell the cupboards and the walls apart.

There was a small rack of bottles and various medication inside, names in an esoteric script, handwritten. “I'm not supposed to have these,” Kozmotis said dryly. “They were a gift. From my second in command.” He smiled fondly. “Nastur never gave a flying coma about regulations if he thought they were stupid.”

“Unusual name,” Pitch commented, not distracted from Kozmotis' elusive behaviour. Koz snorted.

“I know. Pooka.”

“You served with Pooka?” Pitch propped himself up on his elbows, interested, despite himself. There were many things that were curious about Kozmotis' life. Pitch wondered why there was only one Pooka on Earth, when Kozmotis made easy reference to many different members of that race. For that matter, stars too, which Kozmotis used interchangeably as an expletive and to refer to a race of people who were apparently like Sandy.

He shivered. An entire race of whip-wielding dreamweavers was terrifying to consider. Had they been hiding from Earth the entire time? Kozmotis hadn't ever heard of it, so perhaps Pitch's planet was in a very isolated sector.

Kozmotis gave him a sideways look. “Yes.” He brought the bottle over to Pitch. “You remember last week, the nightmare you had, where I woke you up?”

“Yes,” Pitch said warily, eyes on the bottle. He remembered shivering in Kozmotis' arms very pathetically indeed and felt a flush of shame on his cheeks. He wasn't a child, yet Koz had treated him like one, and it had been...surprisingly inoffensive, at the time.

“I mentioned a potion that brought back sweet memories if you drank it before sleeping,” Koz prompted. He shook the little bottle. “This is it. I ask again- if you had the chance to remember how you became, would you take it?”

“You honestly think that would do anything?” Pitch asked dubiously. “I can't consciously recall them.”

“But they have to still be there!” Koz exclaimed. He looked bright, eyes alight with the prospect of getting answers for Pitch. Pitch wasn't convinced.

“Whose to say it won't just make me remember every awful thing I've done in the last three hundred years or so?”

Koz inhaled slightly, taken aback as he always was when Pitch made reference to the extent of his age. And to know that three hundred years was truly only a snippet of a very long, mysterious and shadowy past would terrify any sane person.

Pitch had not been counted as sane for quite a while now.

“But what if it did work?” Koz said. “What's the harm in trying, anyway? Worse comes to worse, you have more awful nightmares than you normally do. I'll stay awake, and watch over you. If it starts getting too bad, I'll wake you up.”

Honestly surprised at the offer, Pitch considered it. Koz was right. It wasn't like he had anything to lose in seeing his past, where it all began. He already knew he was destined to be hated and reviled, and he'd endured awful indignities, so it wasn't as if he wasn't acquainted with losing pride. He wasn't sure if he wanted Koz sitting over him, watching him sweat and fear, but the reality was he would prefer far less to be trapped in the grips of truly horrific nightmare and Koz not to bother.

How far I've come, he thought bitterly. At some point, he'd started making allowances for Koz's presence.

“Fine...” He said, albeit reluctantly. Kozmotis grinned. The expression lit his entire face, cast a shine to his skin.

“Three drops is the usual dose, but you want to wander far, so let's give you four.” He unscrewed the dropper, gesturing to Pitch. Pitch rolled his eyes and opened his mouth mockingly, allowing Kozmotis to apply the drops directly on his dark tongue.

“What is up with your tongue?” Kozmotis muttered, slightly disturbed and almost fascinated. It was thin and long, very long, twisting and forked, like a snake, and black. Pitch made a faux-sultry face, wiggling his tongue exaggeratedly. Kozmotis snickered. “Put it away, you creepy creature.”

The potion tasted overly sweet, and oddly burning, like warmed caramel. Pitch worked his mouth around the unfamiliar taste, humming. He quite liked it.

Kozmotis sat beside him on the couch, keeping a careful distance between them. Pitch's clothes offered him quite a bit of protection, but he didn't want to take chances. “It should start taking effect soon, and you'll begin feeling drowsy. Don't fight it.”

“Mm,” said Pitch awkwardly. He really didn't want Kozmotis watching him sleep like an overprotective gargoyle. He supposed it was payback for the times he'd jarred Koz from the grips of the fearlings. “If I'm going to end up screaming my secrets, the least you could do is tell me yours.”

Kozmotis blinked. “Pardon?”

“Tell me how you came to be here,” Pitch reiterated flatly. It was a little too close to asking for a bedtime story like a child for his liking, but he didn't want to sit in silence, flinching as the drug worked.

“Ah...as you wish,” said Koz, bemused. He was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts, and then said, “You know that I was born on a remote mining colony.”

“Beta III,” Pitch said, nodding. Koz looked surprised but pleased that he had remembered.

“My father was in the military as an engineer, he worked repairing the ships. He wouldn't have left, but shrapnel got him, pinned straight through the shoulder. His left arm was more or less useless. But he told me a lot about the Golden Army. About serving the constellations, Tsar and Tsarina Lunanoff. And-” Koz breathed a huff of bitter amusement, “I fucking hated that asteroid ship.”

'Fuck' wasn't a word in Constellar, Pitch noted quietly. Koz had picked the swear word up from him. For some reason, it was almost touching.

“I signed up early. I was younger than everyone else training, but indisputably the best sailor.” There was a hint of a smile to Kozmotis' voice. “I was an arrogant little fool about it, too. Everyone hated me because I thought I was so much better than the city kids, this far reaches miner's child with an accent barely anyone could understand. In my defence, it wasn't like I could practice social skills on a asteroid mining ship with a crew of about sixty.”

“Well, obviously they accepted you eventually,” Pitch said. The drug was beginning to take effect, and he slumped against the couch, listening to the rhythms and inflections of Kozmotis' voice.

“Yes...eventually.” Kozmotis paused. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, sadder. “I was sent out on a group mission to scout out a moon. It was perfectly safe, there was a military ship tailing us, but it was our first solo mission. We landed on the moon, made our checks, and were ready to lift off when out of nowhere a gang of Dream Pirates attacked us.” He sighed. “I was the only one who got out alive. I managed to bring everyone's bodies and the ships back intact, because I was the only one who was afraid...The others didn't believe we were in any danger until it was too late. They were slaughtered. I caught them by surprise when I fought back. After that, everyone was rather impressed with me.” He sounded bitter. “I didn't deserve it. I was a coward.”

“You survived.”

“I failed to keep everyone else alive.” He could still remember their screams- and old nightmare now, Shirona, copper hair shaven short, Hellion, cocksure grin, sparkling eyes, Nebuta, shy but smart. He'd almost forgotten their names. It had been so long.

“But you survived. And you brought their bodies back, alone. Sounds impressive enough for a recruit to me.” Pitch's voice was slightly slurred with tiredness. “Go on.” He settled himself, his booted feet against Kozmotis' thigh, head resting on the arm of the couch.

“I was promoted for it. Out in the real army.” He shrugged. “I suppose I just...worked my way up. They never treated me particularly seriously- I was a poster boy mostly, pretty in a uniform. They sent me to formal balls and told me not to speak. I'll admit, it wasn't quite what I expected.”

“The fearling attacks were getting worse, and I was pulled from 'placating the nobles' duty to the actual frontline. And...I was good at it, I suppose. I was good at killing fearlings, so they gave me a ship and a crew and told me to kill things. Somehow...I ended up becoming one of the high ups, and the Tsar took a shine to me, so he made me the War General.” He shrugged self-consciously. “I fought the fearlings, I imprisoned them, and when everything was over, I 'volunteered' to guard the prison. After...After Seraphina and Archaline- there wasn't any reason not to.” He trailed off, sunk into the past, glanced over at Pitch to see that he'd fallen asleep.

Kozmotis smiled sadly to himself. Reminiscing was always dangerous, but the fearlings were uncharacteristically being quiet.

Pitch didn't seem to be in the immediate throes of a nightmare, but Koz kept a careful eye on him for a little while, studying his face. He looked peaceful, though there was still a little furrow in his hairless brow, and the deep purple shade under his eyes made him look more fragile, compounded by his thinness. Koz was reminded of the first time he'd stood over Pitch like this, when Pitch had been healing when he'd first appeared. The potion would keep him in a very deep, dark sleep, hopefully, where he could view his memories. If all went well, he'd wake up perhaps a day later, having watched his memories and particularly well-rested.

He sighed, let his head fall back. He was tired, too. The potion didn't work on him anymore, but he could deal with a snatched minute or two of sleep. He dozed, diligently staying awake, the barriers around his mind unconsciously relaxing.

And then he heard it.

“DADDY!”

Chapter Text

The first thing he knew was the cold.

He had not felt it before. It was a confusing feeling, sharp and bitter like pricks of light, but somehow spread over his whole skin, the parts of it that was intact. It was a background note in a discordant cacophony, which as if it sensed his awareness, began to strain towards wakefulness.

Decipherable sensation came slowly, muted, like breath on a windowpane. Puff, puff, the glass fogged up. Claws screeching on glass. Glass shards in his hands now, wicked and glinting.

He was hungry.

He realised there was an absence of light. Not a darkness, because the dark was filled with heavy, sated bodies, thick and turgid like blooded leeches. Occasionally, a white eye opened, and that was how he knew he was in a place where there was no light, rather than a darkness.

It took him a while longer to connect the nerves in his brain to his thought process and figure out that he was lying on the floor. His cheek was pressed into cold stone, unforgiving. His eyes were sanded shut, yet somehow he could still see the darkness swimming within. His body was limp and unmoving. He felt sated, full. He'd eaten well.

He was still so hungry, a gnawing inside that had nothing to do with organs.

He drifted for a little while, errant, confused. Was he a ghost? He hoped so. He was cold, but not in pain. Where there should have been will to move, will to think, there was nothing but a empty, echoing numbness. He wasn't a person. It was good, they thought for him. He liked them. They were his friends. They told him things to do, praised him when he did well. They made him feel good. So, so good when he ate. So very good, better than he'd ever felt before.

He was so hungry.

Something flaky on his face itched, like liquid dried for too long. It was barely more than a niggle of irritation, another pointless sensation. He ignored it. His hunger, he couldn't ignore. He wanted to feed. He wanted the pleasure of it again. He wanted to please them.

He wanted to feed.

"Daddy!" The cry was like glass. Kozmotis jerked. No, there was no way-

And then the whispers started, pulling his strings, twinging in his ligaments until he jerkily began to obey, one more little flesh doll in a toy shop. He was so perfect, they told him. He was perfect. He didn't need to worry. They had everything sorted. He just had to listen, and relax, and feel their influence and sleep.

Get up. It was ten thousand voices, drowning out his own little one so well, so perfectly. He didn't have to think anymore. It was good. He was all ten thousand and one. He was everything, everyone. He was a good puppet. He was proud. He hoped he would be rewarded with a chance to feed again. He wanted their pleasure.

He followed their commands exactly, lurching to his feet and opening his eyes so they could see out. His eyes burned like he hadn't blinked in a while. He didn't care. Another pointless sensation. He was pointless. He was there to serve. There were great doors collapsed on either side of him, blown off as if by a great force. He came outside. There was intricate knotwork all over them, golden sigils wrecked by his sharp claws. He saw his own clawmarks. He'd ruined that. He felt proud. He liked ruining things.

He was hungry.

"Daddy! Daddy! Save me!" She wasn't real, she wasn't- he had to stay with Pitch. He'd promised. His baby girl was screaming.

Blood everywhere, long dried. More, rubbing off his cheeks, his chest. He was so strong. He was a strong puppet. His tattered clothing dripped as he walked. There was something swishy that hung sodden off him, the clasps embedded in his shoulders. Blood ran down his arms like tickling fingers. He would giggle but they hadn't told him to. He liked the feeling. Tickling claw feeling, like them curiously exploring his body inside.

A snub-nosed shuttle, a great big supply ship, crates everywhere. Shattered wood, shattered bone fragments. Dead bodies decorating the tamped down earth of the courtyard, tied together with their intestines. He tried to count them, lost count. Forgot why he was trying.

Art. They'd screamed for him. He thought so. He remembered wet and hot splashing on his face.

He remembered feeding.

More of that, please, he thought, and he felt their pleasure, their wicked amusement.

Such a hungry General, they purred, we knew you'd love this, love us, didn't we tell you?

He thought they must be right. They are never wrong. He was so happy to be serving them. He was so hungry though.

"SHUT UP!" Kozmotis roared. He punched the wall, felt blood on his knuckles. "SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!"

"DADDY!"

There was a shiny thing on the floor, bright and sharp and dangerous. Familiar. Metal thing. A sword, his mind supplied numbly. They told him to ignore it. He did.

He walked through the destroyed corpses, his foot crunching right through a skull as he did so, shards of bone stabbing into the sole of his foot. He hummed at the pain. He knew this feeling, yes he did, but the moment it registered, they took it away and replaced it with a lazy, bone deep satisfaction like he felt when he'd just fed.

He was so hungry. The bodies had just been a light snack.

The Nightmare King was hungry, and he had a hunger to swallow galaxies.

(())

"Daddy!" The scream tore right through the walls, right through Kozmotis' rationality into his heart. He knew that scream, had played it in his mind for hours and hours in his nightmares, possessed by a morbid fascination, a sick and twisted horror and revulsion and unable to stop wondering – did she sound like this, when they killed her? Did she scream like this?

"Daddy!"

Not her. Not her.

"SERAPHINA!"

He was on his feet. He was outside. How had he got outside? He was outside and he was stumbling over wasted earth and shouting himself hoarse and a locket was bouncing against his chestplate.

He padded onto the deck of the ship, leaving footprints of blood and bone. He was so very hungry. There was blood everywhere here too. He remembered nothing but lightning-hot pleasure, incandescent on their joy. They'd been so very pleased with him, ripping apart those other flesh bags. He stared at the controls in confusion. Something was poking at him.

He knew how to fly one of these.

He was scrabbling at the doors, heaving panicked breaths, pressing his ear against the keyhole. "Seraphina-!" He cried, his voice breaking. There were tears in his eyes. He swiped them away. They were in the way. "Seraphina!" Just a chance to hear her voice again.

"Daddy, daddy, please help me, I'm trapped in here with all these shadows," her voice was so tearful and terrified, Kozmotis pressed himself to the door like he could phase through it.

"Shh, baby, shh, it's going to be fine, you're fine, Sera, my girl-"

"Daddy, open the door, daddy, open the door daddy please they're hurting me-"

He felt their teeth scraping on the insides of his bones, cracking him open, tasting his marrow. He groaned when they replaced the agony with a white-hot feeling that sent sparks crackling through his nerves. He wanted this forever. He was nothing, he was there to serve them. He wanted to serve them forever.

Such a good little General, they laughed raucously, allowing him to laugh too although it made his shattered ribs convulse and move around in bone fragments in the wet wasteland of his body. It didn't matter. He didn't matter. He was there to serve them.

He was so hungry.

Kozmotis sobbed, pounding on the door. He couldn't unlock it, his hands were shaking too much. He heard Seraphina shrieking from inside, howling like they were cutting her open-

"DADDY DADDY PLEASE WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING ME? DADDY! HELP ME!" His baby girl wailed, her voice thick with tears, and all Kozmotis could do was grab a locket out of his armour, hands sweating and blurring the faded photograph within.

"DADDY HELP ME DADDY PLEASE DADDY YOU'RE NOT GOING TO LEAVE ME TO THE SHADOWS AGAIN DADDY DADDY HELP ME PLEASE DADDY DON'T ABANDON ME DADDY DON'T YOU LOVE ME ANYMORE? DADDY DADDY HELP PLEASE IT'S HURTING-"

The ship pulled away from the planet smoothly, and shadows were spreading out from his skin, tearing themselves free with soft wet tearing noises, ripping holes through his flesh. Fresh blood spilled over his hands, made his grip damp. He stared mindlessly out at space and felt the rasp of not being able to breathe.

One of them shredded open his right Achilles tendon, and he pitched forward, something metallic and gold bouncing off his chest. A shot of pure terror went straight to his veins.

He didn't know where his mind had gone. He tore through his nails, splashed the door with blood. Each scrape was raw agony jetting through his nerves, but he couldn't stop. His baby girl was in there, getting shredded by Fearling claws. Kozmotis couldn't let them kill her a second time. He couldn't.

"Seraphina I'm coming!" he shouted, grabbing at the thick handles.

He knew that locket. He'd worn it every day since- No, he didn't have a locket.

Yes he did. His was twisted and silver, but Koz-

There was no such thing as Koz.

Koz's locket around his neck-

The memory was breaking up. He could feel fear, turned hungrily towards it, but his body wouldn't obey him. He tried to alert the shadows, but they seemed oblivious.

The fear, he tried to say, but his voice wouldn't come out. He began to struggle. He was so hungry.

Fear. Electric. Thick. Familiar.

Kozmotis. Koz was afraid.

Pitch's eyes snapped open, and he gasped for breath. His body felt heavy, wrong, like he'd just been drugged with dreamsand. But Pitch was used to fighting dreamsand, the sweet, addictive lure of it, and Sandy's most potent dreams were far stronger than this potion. Pitch had bent those dreams to his will, conquered them and ridden them, he could do so again.

Koz was terrified. He could feel it, thick and sharp against the back of his throat. Pitch was running without remembering how he'd got up, pounding the hallways he knew so well after these weeks. Koz. No.

He knew what was happening. Koz's mind was a mess of terror and confusion, gut-wrenching awful fear for his daughter, his long dead daughter, fear that she was trapped inside-

The realisation came like a punch to the gut and he snarled in wordless fury. Using his dead daughter's voice against him to lure him into the dark – wasn't that exactly what Pitch had done to Jack Frost? But this wasn't Jack. This was Koz, stupid, brave, noble idiot Koz who Pitch couldn't stand to lose.

Koz, wait for me, please, I'm coming-

He burst out into the courtyard, nearly staggered with horror, then redoubled his pace. "KOZ!" he howled. "DON'T!"

The soldier was standing before the great doors, his cloak whipping around him - there was something swishy that hung sodden off him, the clasps embedded in his shoulders - resplendent in his silvery armour, glowing as if lit from within, hands on the great handles and broad shoulders tensing to throw them wide.

Pitch leapt at him, tumbling through a shadow and crashing into him bodily, his slight frame enough to unbalance Koz. They went down together in a scramble of limbs, tumbling backwards over the steps, Koz's armour making a hideous clatter. The Fearlings were screeching in a little girl's voice, one that meant nothing to Pitch but had Kozmotis howling and clawing at him, struggling to get free, screaming his daughter's name.

"SHE'S DEAD!" Pitch snarled, slapped him across the face, blistered his hand for his trouble. He was panicking, Koz was bucking like a wild nightmare underneath him and Pitch didn't know how to make him stop. He was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something new, gripping Kozmotis' chestplate and yanking until the leather straps snapped free, and throwing it over his shoulder. It crashed to the stone somewhere near by the doors.

Pitch hissed, grabbing onto his shirt as Koz thrashed underneath him like a man possessed. Buttons flew everywhere as he tore the shirt open and then stabbed his sharp fingernails into Koz's chest, blasting tidal waves of his own shadow straight through his body like a live wire. The Fearlings screamed, but Koz was Pitch's, engulfed in the darkness rising from Pitch's skin like lapping waves of soot, covering his eyes and nose and mouth and ears until it was just them, trapped in an isolated world of their own, a cocoon of darkness that the fearlings couldn't pierce.

"Sera-" Koz choked, Pitch tucked his head into his shoulder and concentrated on diverting the Fearlings' attack. "She was- she's in- we have to get her out-"

"She's dead, Kozzy," Pitch rasped bitterly. "She's dead. She's dead and they tricked you."

Koz was sobbing, tears streaking his cheeks as he shook his head, helpless in denial but knowing the truth of it. "I heard her, I heard-"

"She's dead!"

Kozmotis wept, great, ugly shuddering sobs, a total loss of control like nothing Pitch had ever seen from him before. His blood was thick and hot against the pads of Pitch's fingers as he soothed the unintentional gashes, five claw marks, he'd left splitting his skin, smearing blood with the sweat gleaming on his exposed chest. Tumbled against the crook of his clavicle, moving up and down with each shaking gasp for air, there was a glint of gold.

Pitch felt his guts turn to ice water as he stared down at the locket around Kozmotis' neck, the locket he'd been wearing in his memory, the locket he'd been wearing when he'd walked out of a prison with open doors and a cloak hanging from his shoulders, just like the one twisted around Kozmotis' legs right now, the locket he'd been wearing as he'd numbly obeyed voices inside that told him to feed off fear, the voices that had called him General and directed him to a Golden Age ship he'd known how to fly, voices that possessed-

The idea was too impossible to be true. It couldn't. But Pitch looked down into Koz's face, the high cheekbones, long neck, though splashed with tears, the grey in his own eyes, the messy hair, and suddenly the resemblance was so pointedly obvious Pitch had no idea how he'd missed it. Pitch's first memory was the follow up of what would have been Kozmotis' last.

Because he and Kozmotis were the same damn person.

"We're the same," he gasped, and it was hilarious, and he was laughing as Koz cried, laughing hysterically. "We're the same. You're me! All that time- I was looking at my past all along-! Our locket, our daughter- the shadows- don't you see-" Kozmotis stared at him, choked for breath that wouldn't come. Pitch saw the lightning realisation hit him, the moment he understood that Pitch was actually telling the truth, and the moment he processed it, because at that moment, he passed out, his eyes rolling back in his head.

Pitch hunched over his unconscious body protectively, staring down at Koz's - his, their - locket on his chest, still open, revealing the smiling, faded photograph of a little girl.

It was so funny. He couldn't stop himself from laughing, because the whole universe was one big cosmic joke, because the one man, the one man that Pitch Black had only ever cared for-

was himself.

Chapter Text

Kozmotis didn't know how much time had passed when he came back into awareness. It was a slow surfacing, sluggish and resentful, kicking up from the bottom of an inky, cumbersome lake with waters made of mercury and weights tied to his limbs. He felt scraped raw, exposed and twitching in all his ugly, damaged reality. There was heavy, hot weight over his chest, shirt undone, breastplate missing, constricting his breathing. A searing gust of breath puffed continuously against his neck; he was vaguely aware of a nose pressing comfortably in the crook of his neck and shoulder, loose skin held between sharp teeth like insurance that he couldn't run, thighs hooked over his hips.

There was grit digging into his back, a headache pounding at his temples, his locket splayed and exposed over his chest like someone had cut open his heart. And for all he knew, they had. The Fearlings - Seraphina's voice - it had broken open dark hollow places inside he had shoved full of his brooding hatred and now it lay, festering in the open air. He was ashamed. He was too exhausted to be ashamed. The contradiction simultaneously made no sense and perfect reason in his mind. His mind made a futile grab for clarity, gave up.

He felt empty, like he had cried himself out; there were no more tears he could possibly shed. He felt the dried tears on his cheeks, salt trails on his cheeks. Cried like a baby. (Seraphina was always a fussy baby.) So he stared up at the beckoning blackness of the unfriendly, vacant sky and traced delusions of their faces, his wife, his child. Archaline's smile in the blackness. Seraphina's bright eyes, flash of her rippling hair. He felt overloaded, too much had happened, and it had fried his circuits. He couldn't think. He didn't want to. He didn't want to do anything anymore, just...cease.

The Fearlings had imitated Seraphina's voice, and Kozmotis had been stupid enough to fall for it. He would be dead if it wasn't for Pitch. Pitch who had saved him, protected him. Again. Pitch. Pitch whose very name was in his, and who remembered the exact same thing happening to him, because they were the same person.

He felt hysteria bubble up, but lacked the energy to laugh and the tears to cry. It jerked instead, like shocks in his nerves and made his ribs ache like he had the hiccups. His breath hitched in misery.

Pitch bit down, hard, so Kozmotis' blood trickled into his mouth, though he had to tear a little more with his sharp teeth. So sharp. A carnivore. The pain sharpened his mind somewhat, left him capable of speaking, though he didn't bother to protest. What was the point? "You're awake," he said, after swallowing. "You don't taste anything like me, if that's any consolation." His dark tongue - hadn't Kozmotis only just mocked him for that? - flicked out to catch a droplet on his lip.

"I will, though," Kozmotis said mindlessly. "They'll take me." His sword hand flexed, dug into the soil. If he could call it soil. There wasn't a trace of minerals, of the precious elements within that would harbor fruit in dark ore hidden beneath the surface. He knew well enough the feel of good farming land. This was barren, dead, poisoned by the Fearlings.

"I fail."

His mission, his life-purpose, worth nothing. A failure of every day he had struggled to keep going, keep living through the brokenness and depression their death had left him with. He'd thought maybe he could die at the prison. Planned it, even. Carried his sword on him at all times, thought about falling on it more than once. No one would blame him. No one would look for him. But then Pitch had come, appeared in his life in a literal blaze of light, and he'd been interesting and new and most of all he didn't look at Kozmotis with pity like not being able to function was bad, like he expected him to cast off the rust and return to his previous state. Pitch understood that sometimes when metal tarnished the damage was irreversible.

He'd never shine again. But Pitch Black did his business in the darkness, and would probably find the light that used to seep from the Golden General's skin more offensive than awe-inspiring.

He idly wondered if perhaps he should be more concerned that Pitch was sitting on his stomach, commanding a slow wave of shadows that walled them in, cutting off the Fearling influence. An intangible wall of blurry monochrome, lapping curiously over Kozmotis' skin, slipping with ease against the restriction of his armour. His broken armour. It was cold, private, like a death-shroud, and made tired clenches of panic twist his stomach. They were familiar, Pitch-fears, cold, empty, echoing silences that spanned eons, haughty halls with no companion or end in sight. He knew these old fears, bitter and stale like dust in his mouth, knew them and found them heart-breaking for the loneliness they carried.

"It's not so bad," said Pitch. "Not once you get used to it. The fear is always nice. They'll make you feel good for that."

Kozmotis rasped a laugh. "Least I'll feel good about being a monster."

"You will," said Pitch softly. "You'll learn to crave it. Everything else pales to insignificance. All your morals...your hang-ups, they'll slip away. You'll just be hungry. And then they'll feed you, and you'll come back to yourself, look at the blood on your hands and then they'll whisper, don't you want more? And you'll take it. By the gods-" Pitch's voice broke. "you'll take it."

He rested his forehead against the small bitemark he had left in Kozmotis' skin, a smear of blood on his knifeblade cheek, a glimmer on his thin lashes as they brushed his ash skin. "It won't matter anymore," he murmured soothingly. "Nothing will matter anymore. It all goes away. No more Seraphina, no more dead faces in your nightmares. If you serve them well, they'll reward you. You'll be mindless, Koz. You'll fucking love it."

"I don't want to forget," Kozmotis lied pathetically. He did want to forget. How many times had he longed for it, chasing oblivion in battle and drink and duty? "I don't want to end."

"You're afraid," Pitch corrected gently, tracing circles with his clawed fingertips. "You're afraid that you want the oblivion they can bring you. You're afraid of failure, and you're afraid you've already failed." He tilted his head and breathed in, as if there were a palpable taste on the air, infinitely delicious. "Finally, I can actually feel it." He made a surprised, but pleased sound, dark burning eyes fluttering open and the gash of his mouth pulling up at the corners in simplistic pleasure. "You're afraid for me." He spoke of it like it was novel. It was, to him, Kozmotis remembered wearily.

"What does it...what does it feel like?"

"Like you, Kozzy," Pitch said, with a hint of affection. "Don't be afraid. Only one Nightmare King will rise from this prison planet, and this time, it won't be me." He sighed, trembled like a man promised salvation. "They- they gave me a way to die, Kozzy. I'll be free. And when it's your turn..." Unbidden, his hand slipped to his own twisted and malformed silvery locket, thumbing the sharp edge that always threatened to cut his shadowy skin, the bumps of something that may have once been cogs. He'd stolen it, he remembered. From an old mage with a house made of a giant tree and a dozen owls that had tried to rip out his eyes. He'd thought it pretty, but harmless.

"Like a cycle," Kozmotis murmured. "I don't want to be the one who kills you," he said, plaintive. He felt like a child screaming over the inevitability of growing up.

"Think of it like an animal. You'll be an animal. And I'll be prey in your way," Pitch reassured. "You won't remember it. But I'll feed you, for a bit. You'll like the fight." He sighed, with a smile that Kozmotis' couldn't see. He liked the idea of being Koz's first meal after the Fearlings broke him, giving him all he had left to offer. His fear. The Nightmares had taken it by force, his enemies had tried to make him feel it, but Pitch would willingly give the only thing that would matter to Koz once the shadows were inside. It would be painful. The Nightmare King had toppled galaxies, and he hadn't done it with gentleness. Pitch shivered with anticipation, all ancient student wishing to bow before the master.

"Why did you stop them, then? You remember- you remember opening the doors then, don't you? So why didn't something happen to stop you from stopping me?"

"I don't remember it. I remember waking up, and there's a ship at the dock, and bodies, and blood. And the locket." Pitch twisted his fingers in the chain. "So, I suppose I stop you this time. But next time, maybe not. They'll get you sooner or later. The darkness always finds you." He was almost bitter. They're not my Nightmares!

"What happened to you?" Kozmotis asked. "Why were you so hurt?"

"I was attacked by my own nightmares," Pitch replied. "I was weak. I was failing." He sighed, heavily, sounded childlike and lost. "I was just so hungry."

Kozmotis exhaled, Pitch's clawed fingertips pushing down on his sternum as if he were trying to help, keeping Kozmotis breathing. He'd done so much more than kept him breathing. He'd kept him living and it was worth all the years he thought he would have.

He didn't want all the years he had spent to destroying the fearlings, protecting the galaxies, to all be for nothing. He didn't want it to be a failure. If Pitch was who he was destined to become, than that meant that there would only be one inhabited planet, one small planet in a universe of stars, one planet that had escaped the Nightmare King's wrath. One planet in galaxies upon galaxies of culture, of people and lives.

Only one Nightmare King will rise from the prison planet, and the weaker dies. Like animals.

He wouldn't remember it. He wouldn't remember slaughtering everyone, everything. He couldn't have killed everything. There were so many people in the world, so much civilisation. Surely, one Nightmare King couldn't kill them all? It was impossible. One creature simply couldn't be so destructive.

"Did they all die?" he couldn't help but ask. "Did they really all die?"

Pitch shrugged, an action that Kozmotis thought should prompt more instant rage than the vague, idle annoyance he felt. He didn't remember his time as the Nightmare King. He only remembered being the Boogeyman, trapped on Earth with the legacy that inky, newly-possessed figure had left behind, a legacy of hatred and hunger that had dogged him throughout any attempt to refine his image. He'd always been a madman in the eyes of others, eventually, he'd become it to himself.

Kozmotis stared up at the black, endless sky and thought about failing. He thought about how incessantly he had worked for all those years, to secure a world free of the vicious, shifting monsters that preyed on the worst fears of everyone, swallowed stars and attacked ships. He'd still fought and won, after his family's death. After Seraphina had died he'd lost all light in his life. There was only the duty.

And now even that was being taken from him.

Some great anguish must have shown on his face. Pitch rubbed the pads of his fingers against Kozmotis' forearm, seeing him shudder. "Can you hear them again?" he asked softly, urgently. He meant the Fearlings. Of course he did.

"Are they still talking?" Weary shock. They were still talking, still using her voice even though Kozmotis couldn't hear it anymore, waiting for just a slip in Pitch's defenses to break Kozmotis open. Suddenly, stupidly, he wanted to push Pitch off him and let their lies engulf him again.

"Yes," said Pitch. "They're still using her voice." It meant nothing to him. Seraphina had only ever been Koz's daughter. To Pitch she was just another little girl screaming for mercy.

Kozmotis bit his lip and choked back something rough in his throat. He didn't want to be a failure. Nothing more than a broken General who'd given up-

I suppose that means the only thing I can do is not give up. He was so tired of fighting. But Kozmotis had been fighting all his life, what was a week more? The supply ship would come then. Pitch had said that he'd seen the ship in his memory, it had offered him a way off the planet. Kozmotis couldn't break the timeline, everyone knew there was dire consequences for messing with time.

He and Pitch had one week left to live, and Kozmotis would be damned if he'd let the Fearlings take him without a fight.

"Well," he said. "I hope they try harder next time." The bravado felt flat, and he sounded more beaten and defeated than what he had hoped, but it worked nonetheless. Vocalising the action left him with no choice, he thought firmly. He had to do it now. He had to. Kozmotis couldn't stomach giving up. He wasn't made to break. He wasn't the Golden General anymore, he wasn't the tough, brave soldier he'd once been. Now Kozmotis had nothing left to lose, not even his own life. Something rough curled his lips into a harsh grimace.

Pitch lifted his head, meeting his stare with his own. Such a strange mix of copper and silver, metallic, dark. The smirk that curled his thin scarred lips was pure monster, pure hunger, and his eyes lit up like a beserker. "So we fight," he breathed, not needing Kozmotis to tell him. His claws flexed, points of blood welling up. "I like this plan."

"Your touch does more to block the fearlings than my armour ever did," Kozmotis said, tactical mind asserting itself. He had a plan now. Survive, at all costs. Survive for seven days, then mission complete. After that, he dared not think. Survive. He could do that, follow a directive. Lying on the floor wasn't helping. He pushed himself up, forcing Pitch to sit back on his lap, hands splayed on his chest, the pale film of shadows he was stretching over Kozmotis' mind shifting like a grey river.

Pitch was essential. With his touch, Kozmotis was shielded from the Fearlings. All he had to do was keep Pitch touching him and he would be unable to hear them, and Kozmotis was confident he could weather anything Pitch could throw at him. He grimaced as he realised that meant Pitch would personally be giving him nightmares, and Kozmotis would have to consent to it.

"I'm weak," said Pitch, almost apologetically. "I need it to push my powers on you." He looked bright with excitement, positively vibrating, and Kozmotis grinned at him and wondered if he'd ever felt the brutal camaraderie soldiers going into battle felt with anything but shadows.

"That's fine," said Kozmotis absently, concentrating more on the shifting, hypnotic swirl of Pitch's eyes, and then abruptly laughed. Pitch's eyes had stopped him killing him, nearly two months ago. Human eyes, emotional eyes. "After all, I'm you. Or I will be."

"And I was you," Pitch replied. He tilted his head, shadow curling over his fingertips like smoke. "You're taking this rather calmly." Hesitant now, unwilling to kick the hornet's nest of feelings that raged beneath that stoic surface. Even with the discordant melody of his fears beneath Pitch's fingertips like the strings of a harp, waiting to be plucked and savoured, the first cherry from the tree, ripe and bursting on his tongue, he was blank as stone and unpredictable, thrumming with a restless, ruthless energy, cold and bitter like slow rage before a violent murder.

"I've only got to ignore all my problems for another week. I've been pushing them aside for years," Kozmotis said bleakly, "I'm sure I can manage to pretend I'm fine with this too." He paused, remembered there were two of them. "So do you," he added carefully, and was thoroughly surprised when Pitch Black threw back his head and laughed, low and sharp.

"Oh, Kozzy," he said, like Kozmotis had said the funniest joke in the world. "All these years I had no idea where I came from. I know now, and you," he poked Kozmotis' chest with a sharp nail, "are a past any creature would be proud to have, least of a monster like me. Now," he glanced over at the doors, "Let's go back inside, yes?"

"My future is filled with insanity," Kozmotis muttered, flattered, trying to hide it, and Pitch laughed again, with a definite hint of fondness. A soldier till the end.

"Apparently, talking to yourself is considered one of the first signs," Pitch deadpanned, all sarcasm and sharp edges, scooting off Kozmotis and taking firm hold of his wrist slightly too tightly for it to be anything other than possessive and nearing the edge of pain. Kozmotis pulled him after him as he picked up the abandoned breastplate, tutting at the snapped leather straps. They fluttered against his palm like the tails of a whip, and Kozmotis the failed recruit on the whipping post. His armour was his sanctuary, his symbol. Pitch had ripped it away, the Fearlings had ripped it away, and now Kozmotis would have to learn to fight without it. Defenseless, open, ready for the taking.

But there's nothing left to take from me.

"I'm going to make you eat the Moon Sand," Kozmotis promised, "It's definitely an experience you should have before you die." Gallows humour, wry and dark and unexpected, and Pitch, high on excitement that Kozmotis would have found inappropriate before, looked delighted. His blatant enjoyment of their impending doom made the stoniness in Kozmotis lighten, and he cracked, a small, almost tentative smile on lips too used to frowns.

Pitch capered beside him, grinning like a fool, and obliged him with a shriek that only sounded a little deranged. He was elegant as he had always been, flowing like water, like shadows, his boots clicking on the stone as an arrhythmic counterpoint to Kozmotis' own, brisk, military, reserved. They made a beat together, Pitch the flying, spinning melody, a whirlwind of passion and excitement displayed openly, invitingly, over his expressive face and lanky, vibrant body, Kozmotis the steady firm drumbeat keeping them both on course behind.

One week. This is how it ends. A bittersweet sort of relief, grim acceptance.

At least I'm not alone.

Pitch's touch was a lifeline, his long fingers carefully encircling his wrist like a manacle. He walked close to Kozmotis, and every so often his saffron gaze dropped to Kozmotis' face with a touch of concern. Kozmotis couldn't imagine what he looked like, to incite Pitch's worry. He felt shaky, nauseous, so exhausted his head spun and his vision regularly darkened. He didn't know how much time had passed while he was unconscious, didn't want to ask Pitch for the answer. All of his humour and energy had gone, leaving him to crash, and crash hard. He almost staggered under a wave of sheer exhaustion so strong spots glared in his vision.

Halfway there, he stumbled and Pitch caught him around the waist, his slender grey forearm stark against Kozmotis' stained white shirt. Kozmotis stood there, swayed. He felt dizzy, as if Pitch's strong hold around his waist the only thing keeping him up. It probably was.

"You need rest," Pitch said firmly, and Kozmotis bit a laugh that threatened in his throat.

No rest for the dying, he thought weakly, and the thought was somehow so funny that a few weak chuckles made it out anyway. Will drained, he leaned against Pitch, resting his head against his bony shoulder. Pitch stiffened and Kozmotis felt a sluggish, distant wave of affection. Still so uncomfortable with touch.

"Come on," Pitch huffed, sounding exasperated now, slinging Kozmotis' arm over his shoulders - it seemed very unfair that Pitch was taller than him - and supporting his near-on dead weight as they made the last few slow steps to the guardroom.

Dead weight. I'm hilarious. He felt drunk, but not a happy drunk, or a content drunk. One of the grumpy drunks who spent their time and money staring into the amber liquid in the glass and thinking too deeply about their sorrows. He'd always been a grumpy drunk. He wondered what sort of drunk Pitch would be. He wanted to ask - it was suddenly important - but he couldn't muster the energy to make his voice come. His lips moved stupidly, soundless. Pitch took no notice.

He steered him firmly into the small cabin Kozmotis slept in, and Kozmotis mustered the faintest pride at how Pitch had learned to use the doors. But then he was slamming onto the hard bunk and groaning as his helmeted head struck the wall and stars exploded in his eyes.

"Armour off, I don't want to be burnt if you decide to roll in the night," Pitch ordered, but there was a hesitance there, and Kozmotis dazedly refocused on the long, lean shape of him, angles and lines and charcoal smudgings like a half-finished drawing that had wandered off the page before it could be completed. He had a catspaw silence of hesitation, removing his armour was removing his last defense against Pitch, his sword dropped in the guardroom, and he knew what Pitch wanted from him. He swallowed, nervous despite himself. He could handle nightmares, he always had. Pitch wouldn't be too vicious, he thought, but it was difficult to hold onto the reminder of their friendship when Pitch was looking at him like he was something to be devoured.

Kozmotis was a soldier, born and bred for taking orders, and though his fingers trembled as he drew his bracer to his chest, began to unbuckle, it was worth it for Pitch's surprised inhale. He was just following orders. He had to trust Pitch for this, trust him not to destroy Kozmotis in his hunger. It was the only way he'd survive the night. Without Pitch's direct protection to keep the Fearlings out of his head, he'd be tearing down the doors before he even had the chance to fall asleep.

Pitch's heart was beating fast, fast for him, anyway. He was tense with anticipation, excitement throbbing in his nerves. He hadn't expected Kozmotis to actually do it, allow himself to become wholly vulnerable before Pitch in order for his complete dominance over his mindscape, protection against the Fearlings. He licked his lips, tried to ignore the ravenous hunger from his own shadows within, shadows he now knew to be the ghosts of Fearlings. He wanted Koz's fear, but he didn't want to hurt him.

Pitch gritted his teeth. He couldn't leave Koz alone. He was exhausted, his face grey, eyes greyer, something sad and resolved and dead in his eyes. Pitch hated to see that death in his eyes, wanted to liven it again. Kozzy wasn't a creature made for silence, and Pitch would kill anyone who dared to try smother him again. He had a week to convince Koz to live, to let go of the past before he died.

Each silvery, gold-embossed piece was set aside on the floor carefully, over-cautious. Koz took his time, each click and snap of the buckles like another grain of sand in their hourglass. Pitch watched, silently, balancing on the balls of his feet and not dropping his circle around Koz's wrist, forcing Kozmotis to move with and around him. He didn't make it easier for him, some dark part of him liked to watch Kozmotis struggle to undo his greaves, the strain of his muscled shoulders under his shirt when he bent to place it at Pitch's feet like an offering. He'd wanted since the moment he had arrived at the prison planet to rip the armour from Kozmotis, make him bend and break beneath Pitch's powers, a craving that had only intensified when he'd tasted the sweetness of his fear.

And now Kozmotis was going to let him.

He swallowed dryly when Kozmotis settled on his knees on the bed, head bowed to hide his face and free hand toying at the edges of his helmet. His shoulders strained, tense, beneath his shirt. He wore clothes identical to Pitch's attire, but where it was loose yet form-fitting enough to be comfortable on Pitch, Kozmotis was bulky with muscle-mass, filling out places in the clothes Pitch couldn't, his arm extended and wrist held in Pitch's grip tightly.

Shadows spread out and covered the room, snuffing out the lights until it was dim, and Pitch knew Koz would be straining to see him in the dark. He felt exultant, like a conquering king come to a willing supplicant. There was something far too exhilarating about making this powerful, strong man kneel before him, Pitch, so often disdained and cast aside as a weak puppet of shadow. A joke. He wasn't a joke here. He was something dark and eldritch and hungry, possessive, and Kozmotis was volunteering, giving himself over to that hunger. Willingly. He couldn't wrap his mind around it.

Rationally, he knew the reason. This was the safest way. But the darkness in Pitch reveled in it.

"Go on," he urged, and with a last, heavy sigh, Koz unhooked his helmet and pulled it off his head, revealing his bowed head of mussed brown hair, a terrible case of helmet hair that his hair sticking up almost exactly like Pitch's. Pitch slid his hand slowly down Kozmotis' arm, took hold of the muscled, round cup of his shoulder, leaned down close so that his thin lips brushing Kozmotis' ear. Kozmotis shivered, and he felt a prickle of fear from him. He bit down the raspy groan as the taste of it unfurled like a rare winter bloom.

He couldn't remember how to speak, pushed against Kozmotis' shoulder instead. Kozmotis went with him, grey eyes catching his solemnly as he laid down, stayed there silent and unmoving, waiting, arms loosely around him, body discarded and wholly vulnerable. The final, killing blow was when he closed his eyes, let an exhale through his parted lips, and allowed his head to fall back, exposed the long column of his throat.

The predator inside Pitch ordered he pounce, so he did, teeth nipping at the pale skin, sitting over his chest just as old stories had told long before. He used to cause sleep paralysis this way, sitting on his victims' chests and choking them with fear and darkness until they were unable to move, immobilised by his power.

"Sleep," he whispered, and Kozmotis, ever the dutiful soldier, obeyed.

Chapter Text

What would you do, if you had a week to live? If you had those few, short days in which to cram as much into your life as you could, because it would be over and there was no escape? Would you fight? Would you laugh about it? Would you be frightened, relieved? What would you do, if you had a week to live? If you were doomed to die, what would be most important to experience, in the little time you had left?

No dawn came to the prison planet. No sun's rays kissed the ugly, crouching buildings, or gilded the deceptively lovely doors. Nor did it shine, weak, wan, pale, over the snubbed nose of the shuttle, the scuffed ground of the courtyard, hazy motifs of scorched earth. No pallid ray reached, tentative, within the gleaming hallways of the guard complex, nor crept to the scarred door of the small cabin, thrown carelessly open. There was no dawn lighting the skies of the prison, and no offending light to wake two sleepers, somnolent in each other's arms, luxurious and lax-limbed. One dark, one fair, greyskinned limbs long and slender twined with complete ease around his golden companion like the eldritch curl of tendrils, Fearling fingers picking out a puppet's string.

Pitch had never been in the habit of keeping to a rigorous schedule, snatching moments of sleep curled up tightly on the rocky floor of his lair, sweating through the inevitable nightmares. Koz was easily exhausted enough that it was easy to keep him under, even unconsciously. For possibly the first night in months, years, he had slept for a whole night, and a whole night undisturbed but for the gentlest nightmares.

The General was breathing deeply, relaxed, his heart thudding rhythmically against Pitch's palm curling over the planes of his chest. His nose was nuzzling into Koz's neck, sleepily worrying skin between his teeth. Koz's skin was flushed bruiselike from Pitch's ministrations, and he rumbled a sleepy complaint Pitch proceeded to completely ignore.

Pitch was curled into the small of Koz's back, face pressed against his shoulder, his slender legs tangled up in Koz's as they folded themselves into the too small cot. He'd hiked Koz's shirt up over his midriff, baring an expanse of goosebump- prickled stomach, over which he dragged his clawed fingertips in light, repetitive circles, his arm a heavy weight over Koz's hip.

Koz shifted, restless, held deep in the claws of an uneasy sleep. His fear throbbed between them like a live wire, a low, coiling terror, quietly building but never spiking, and Pitch bit Koz's shoulder to stifle his moan. His eyes closed and he sighed deeply.

It had been so long since he had last had the chance to feed.

Snatched moments off Koz was hardly comparable to his previous intake, and the whole night's gentle feed had been more of a teasing torture than anything else. Pitch was struggling to restrain himself, but his stubborn pride refused a point of comparison between the Fearlings and himself. He could control himself. It was just- so very difficult.

He swallowed around a dry tongue and rubbed his sharp teeth against the grazes in Koz's neck, widening the little holes until a small droplet of regretful blood welled. It really did taste unlike his own blood, something inhuman to the taste of it, not just coppery iron but something else.

Pitch's blood was comparable to tar - thick, black and slow moving. He did have a beating heart, contrary to expectation, but it beat perhaps once or twice a year, and his blood trickled around in his veins like syrup. Shadows worked to keep his body fluid, replacing blood by supplying jolts of fear to the other shadows around his muscles, causing them to have enough energy to contract. Without fear, Pitch slowed, then tumbled into a deep coma.

There was fear here, however. His shadows pushed hungrily underneath his skin, just a little taste, just a little, and Pitch couldn't help but waver. He swallowed. He was so very hungry, Koz was right there, and though Pitch was thousands of years old self-control had never been in his nature.

He turned his broad nose into the nape of Koz's neck and inhaled, something musky and warm, sweat and a glint of that electric-ozone Pitch craved. He slid his fingertips over Koz's arm, feeling the raw power that thrummed underneath the soldier's skin, a contained strength and subtle dominance that had so bewildered and inflamed Pitch in the first days of their acquaintance, now simply a solid, accepted fact.

So long as he existed, Koz would balance on the pinnacle of this bizarre dichotomy, the tenderness of his bruised and battered heart concealed behind the thick bands of flesh and the dark scowl over his eyes, greyer and harder than steel. It only made breaking him all the more tempting, and watching the inevitable prowl of the hunter within taking over the soldier all the more breathtaking.

No, thought Pitch with determination. He had said he would keep Kozzy safe for the night, and he would. He'd lasted this long, he couldn't give up now.

Koz was stirring anyway, eyes moving beneath his lids as he fought off Pitch's pervasive influence. It was not a restful waking, but neither was it fast, until all at once he was waking and his heartbeat was speeding beneath Pitch's palm against his chest, his breath quickening and sleepkissed eyelids slowly parting to reveal the hard, alert steel beneath. For an instant, Koz's entire body tensed, suddenly as solid as rock, as pale marble, and it struck Pitch, of course Koz would be active, mind buzzing the moment he broke free from sleep, sleep had been the enemy for so long clinging to it was foolishness in the extreme.

He relaxed slightly when Pitch lightly scratched his nails over Koz's stomach, tracing the curve of his hipbone with delicate, slender fingers. Koz exhaled slowly through his half-parted lips.

“Good morning,” he said, voice roughened from sleep and bitter with amusement.

Pitch nuzzled his skin, mouthing apologetically at the new set of bitemarks over Koz's shoulders, testament to Pitch doing his best to restrain his urge to feed during the night.

Koz swore softly. “What the fuck did you do to my shoulders?” he muttered, rolling them stiffly and wincing. He sat up slowly and Pitch pressed comfortably into his back and tangled long legs around his hips.

“You smell different when you're awake,” Pitch mused, rubbing his face against Koz's mussed hair. He was insatiably curious, and now, given the opportunity to touch and explore another living body, he was seizing every chance he got.

Koz paused, convinced he had heard wrong, but eventually his brain caught up to him and regrettably informed him that yes, Pitch had indeed said that.

“Has anyone told you that you can be really unnerving sometimes, Pitch?”

Pitch blushed. “Thanks Koz.”

“Kozmotis.”

“Kozzy.”

Koz sighed.

They spent the rest of that day amicably bickering, firing taunts back and forth with the ease of, not friends, but people who understood one another on a level wholly other, who looked into the mirror and saw a warped reflection and recognised it in the other's eyes.

Being released from the routine he had followed for so long left Koz feeling aimless. Eventually he dragged Pitch out to run with him, citing the need for exercise before he ossified from boredom. Enduring Pitch's complaining as he was forced to all out sprint to keep up with Koz's light jog was annoying, at least until Pitch got too out of breath to spit anything more than panted huffs that sounded somewhat accusatory. Koz just smiled at him sweetly and asked kindly if Pitch would like to take a break.

While Pitch doubled over, panting and cursing, Koz scanned the sky, hand linked around Pitch's wrist like his lifeline. His heart dropped when he made out a small spherical silver glint. The supply ship, on its way to restock the power packs and food for the General, days away from arriving. Little did the crew know their little ship would take off again with a monster at the helm and their bodies rotting forever in the cold jaws of an empty, laughing prison gate.

“Pitch,” he said quietly, and it came out toneless, flat; Koz winced.

Pitch looked up, face still flushed and still out of breath, but he stilled at the sight of the little pale blip in the sky. “Is that the ship, Kozzy?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral, as if the angel of their joint death wasn't hurtling down towards them, only visible as far out as it was because of the complete lack of light pollution and clear, clear skies of deep black space around it.

“Let's go inside,” said Koz, all but yanking Pitch after him, who was reluctant to tear his eyes from the ship. It had a curious finality about it, a familiarity in its shine and silveriness.

It looks like a bad moon rising.

This silent pall lasted as long as it took Pitch to sneakily operate the vidscreen, and announce proudly, “Look Kozzy- the Love of Celestina has a sequel!”

“Oh stars please no!” Koz cried in horror.

“Oh, hush, listen- Altair and Celestina have been married for many years, however, when Cygna's seductive sister visits the Virgo Constellation to investigate her kin's death, can Altair keep his secret, and his marriage, intact? Ooh, Kozzy, we have to watch it!” He turned pleading eyes down at Koz, fingers gripping Koz's arm excitedly, grinning from ear to ear.

Why in the name of all things dead and barren does he like this so much...? Koz wondered mutely, staring down at Pitch and feeling trapped.

“Please?” Pitch wheedled, and Koz sighed in exhaustion and agreed.

Privately, Pitch grinned as Koz turned to operate the screen. It had worked to drive away his dark thoughts last time, why not this time?

They settled together on the couch, Pitch keeping slightly shyly away from Koz, though Koz easily linked their hands. Pitch gazed down at the contrast of their fingers, himself, thin and long, fingers meant for creeping up spines in the dead of night and tipped with sharp claws, Koz, work-roughened and calloused from fighting, strong hands, the sort of hands that made and shaped and created new things.

As the film progressed, however, and as Koz seemed either oblivious or completely uncaring, Pitch found himself growing bolder, until he was leaning stiffly against Koz's shoulder, cheeks burning and their hands still linked. Koz made no other movement other than to suddenly lift his arm and lowering it around Pitch's thin shoulders, exchanging one hand for another so that the hand around Pitch's shoulders could rub its thumb against Pitch's arm.

Pitch swallowed dryly. He'd never been this close to someone before, and it was doing strange things to his stomach, making it twist and clench in such a panic as he had never felt before. He was petrified of messing up, but Koz's patience was a vast and gentle thing, accepting and warm. Koz humoured Pitch as kindly as he always had, unselfconscious about Pitch's curiosity, recognising the affirmation he seemed to get with the touch.

His breathing was deep and easy, gaze focused onto the vidscreen, and Koz's attention off him gave Pitch the courage to to explore, drag ticklish fingers against Koz's ribs to catalogue his reaction, memorising the taste of his skin and the thump of his steady heartbeat, the pulse that rushed blood through his veins. He spent hours playing with Koz's fingers, admiring the arch and pull of tendons, mapping the delicate skin of the wrist, tracing veins and rubbing callouses with a sort of childlike fascination that when Koz glanced over, kept him captivated by the look on Pitch's face, foxfire eyes deep and burning with the force of his concentration, hairless brow furrowed and thin lips pulled down slightly, gripped with curiosity finally slaked.

He stopped Pitch when his hands wandered too far, with a simple “No”, that Pitch easily obeyed although Koz could tell he didn't quite understand why, something in the crinkles of his eyes and the slight pout of his lips.

Koz was a soldier, well used to being in close contact with his fellows, and easily secure enough in himself to be unbothered by Pitch's innocent curiosity. He meant nothing by it, Koz knew, and was more saddened than anything else by the thought that perhaps this was the first opportunity Pitch had ever had to touch someone who didn't shudder away in disgust. He kept himself as still as he could, knowing that any sudden movements were startle Pitch like an unwary horse.

They watched the movie together, Pitch's head coming to rest finally on Koz's shoulder like it belonged there, and Koz thinking quietly of his wife, and of his child. The knowledge that he would see them soon, or at least stop caring about their deaths, had alleviated some vast hurt inside of him, and the weight of grief pressed less heavily than it had only days before. Pitch's company had kept him the happiest he had been in years.

Perhaps that was why he had been sent by the Pookan Brotherhood, to keep Koz company in the last days of his life. It was an unexpected mercy from the taciturn and reserved Brotherhood, but as Koz glanced at the misshapen lump of silver around Pitch's neck he couldn't be sorry that they had broken their own rules, this once.

“I am glad you are here with me,” he said so softly that Pitch barely heard him.

Pitch paused for a moment, and Koz kicked himself for saying it. He'd broken some unspoken thing between them, and awkwardness soured the air. Finally, Pitch said, “Shut up and watch the movie, Kozzy.”

Koz smiled and did as he was told, his heart light.

Troubled, Pitch replayed the words again and again in his mind. He watched Koz, the soldier quickly becoming engrossed in the film although he professed to hate it. The flickering images lit up his eyes, and the gentle tug of his lips made Pitch's heart ache, suddenly.

Koz was a good man, noble-hearted and kind, even valiant. He was exactly the sort of man the stories loved to kill.

Pitch looked at Koz, and thought painfully, I don't want him to die.

Chapter Text

“Remember,” said Koz as he pulled the helmet over his head, “you're to stay in there, and not come out.”

Pitch huffed an over-dramatic sigh. “Yes, Kozzy, I know.” Sulkily, he was splayed over Koz's bed, his fingertips encircling Koz's wrist, watching Koz layer himself in gleaming armour they both knew would do nothing to stop the calls of the dark.

The plan was simple, Pitch would stay in the guardroom, Koz would go out to greet the supply ship. In all likelihood, as soon as Pitch let go of Koz's mind, the Fearlings would ensnare him, he would open the doors and slaughter the supply ship's crew, but they were both avoiding talking about that.

Koz looked down at Pitch, the elongated grace of his limbs, and suppressed the intense urge to snatch him up in a last embrace, just for the comfort of holding someone close. They'd spent the morning lounging, silent and unable to force words. Koz hadn't eaten, and his stomach felt light, uncomfortable with nervousness and sick, heavy resignation. Pitch hadn't pushed him to do anything, and they'd sprawled over the couch curiously intimately, Pitch's fingers combing through Koz's hair and humming a soft, monotonous song that Koz hadn't asked him to identify.

He wanted to, now. He wanted to know every song trapped inside Pitch's mind. He didn't want to die.

Koz was frightened. He was so very afraid that it had taken nearly an hour to buckle his armour on, his fingers were shaking so badly. Pitch hadn't reacted to that either, hadn't bothered telling him it would be okay, it would be alright, or at least, that it would be over quickly.

Koz had made the mistake of asking Pitch that before, and Pitch had only looked at him with the saddest eyes and laughed softly, bitterly. “Give my regards,” he'd said, and nothing else.

“Koz,” said Pitch quietly. “If there was a way- would you take it?”

“There isn't,” said Koz. “You know there isn't.”

He stood up, and Pitch's fingers slipped from his wrist. For a moment, his mind was clear, but then their voices slammed into him like a train, and he groaned as his head exploded into splitting agony as they screamed his daughter's voice into his ear.

“It's not real,” Pitch reminded him, and Koz gritted his teeth, took a single shaking step to the doorway, turning his back to Pitch.

Their hideous whispers were insidious, like snakes crawling into his ears dripping poison. They murmured lowly, but laughed high and shrill with glee as if it was all a game to them, ripe and rich with satisfaction. Skin crawling, Koz fell against the doorway, groaning as nausea clenched like a stone in his gut.

“I can't,” he gasped, weakly, and Pitch folded his arms and watched him. He said nothing, but there was a storm of confliction in his eyes.

“What if you didn't have to?”

You'll-be-ours-general-yes-we'll-take-you-pretty-general-shining-general-we-know-you'll-love-it, the Fearlings sang, and Koz shuddered. Their voices were drowning out Pitch's, but Koz knew he could do this.

He could, for however long it took until he couldn't. Faced with imminent death, there was no way but forward.

He walked forward further, mindless and lurching like a zombie, only to stop with a cry at the sound of her voice screaming in his ear. He fell in a cacophony of armour, clutching onto the arm of the couch as the world blurred around him.

“I'm sorry about this,” said Pitch, sounding agonised and far away, “But I just can't let this happen.” The last thing Koz saw before the darkness overwhelmed him was the glitter of Pitch's eyes, and a starbust of pain against his jaw.

Captain Pollux Dioscuri of the Molskarr stood on the quarter deck, his weight balanced forward, thumbs hooked in his belt loops and left hand slightly cocked after the habit of the professional swordsman. His searching gaze, impassive and serious, was squinted by small, glaring eyes the murky colour of comet dust, perhaps blue once but stained with an intermediate amount of grey like soot. He was short and blocky, and had a stiff, mashed jaw, as if he had rested the lower half of his face on a grindstone.

“Estimated time arrival?” His voice was low and surprisingly deep, smooth and still holding a ring of courtly chill.

“Ten minutes, eleven seconds, by my count,” said his lieutenant, by the name of Ino. “He always prepares the docking lights long before we arrive,” she said, admiringly, indicating the thirsty pale beams of the dock lights like the eye of a lighthouse rising tall out of the hunched black sphere of the prison planet.

The taciturn Dioscuri pursed his lips, but did not move to reprimand her for informality. They had been stationed together at the Matapan space station for three years now, and had grown familiar in that time. The prison planet watching duty was an easy one, if long and boring. The pay was good, and the only real work required was hauling supplies down the prison's surface every few months. The station was manned by a skeleton crew, the fervour of serving with the General in his lonely post isolated in the far depths of space had quickly died off at the end of the war, and most of the people coming through were simply officers in need of a boring post with some good “danger” money.

The only one who remained constant was Dioscuri himself, who had taken the post cyclically out of a sense of duty since the General had been stationed there. He liked to think his devotion to supporting the General somewhat repaid the great debt he owed him, that they all owed him.

The crew were in a flurry of action as they neared the dock, receiving permission to dock and hearing the mandatory danger warning of the prison's inhabitants. As expected, the General was waiting at the dock, uncharacteristically absent of his armour and clad only in a grey jerkin and similarly coloured leggings that wrapped tightly to his thin calves, and reassuringly, omnipresent sword at his hip. He stood tall and firm as an oak tree, unwavering as the winds of the ship's descent buffeted him, sent curls of soot whipping the walls of the courtyard.

“Little lanterns bright and small,” breathed Ino, “Stare like that could bore holes right through the hull. Does he ever sleep?”

“I am given to understand,” said Dioscuri in a slow, carefully measured tone, “such close proximity negates most shielding.” It was a blank remonstration, but Ino was unbothered.

“Pollux, get that poor man some wine!” she entreated in a low whisper to him, laying her hand briefly upon his arm to press urgency. “I brought some food from the base, ours is hardly real food but it's better than that packaged slop we're delivering. Have some pity-!”

“I intend to,” Dioscuri reassured her, feeling a slight warmth at her empathetic nature. She smiled at him and descended to direct the crew as they docked.

His boots thudded onto the hard packed earth with a compact thud. He called out a salutation, as his crew immediately busied themselves unloading their cargo and replacing it with the empty powerpacks that had been placed beside the General. Once more, uncharacteristically, the General did not respond, but simply stood there, hands behind his back and feet slightly apart – but not, Dioscuri noted with a frisson of unease, in parade rest as he was accustomed to seeing.

Dioscuri believed he had grown passingly familiar with the General over the years, and he could tell even before he approached that something was different, something was wrong.

“General Pitchiner,” he said again as he drew closer, his hand resting lightly, deceptively lightly, on his sword hilt, and a tiny flick of his other alerting Ino, who stiffened but was adroit enough to not call attention to it.

“My dear captain,” purred the smooth, silky voice of the imposter, and Dioscuri experienced a sharp pang of panic at the colour of the man's skin, stone grey, shadowkissed, and the yellow eyes that flicked up to his, a timeless little smirk already playing about thin lips. “There's no need to be alarmed. Truly.” A hint of teeth, a sinuous tongue tracing the seam. “I simply mean to offer...a choice.”

“What are you?” Dioscuri asked lowly, keeping his stance on guard.

“His shadow,” the man answered succinctly. A lipless smirk again. “Turns out all this proximity to living shadows tends to give alarming properties to one's own.”

“Have you killed him?” Dioscuri demanded of the doppelgänger, who shook his head with a brief chuckle.

“Oh no, of course not. See, being his shadow, if he dies...I die. And I quite enjoy ruling these prisoners here.” There was not a twitch of deceit in the doppelgänger's long sleek features, but the captain knew without doubt he was being lied to, though how he could not place.

Either way, Dioscuri had heard enough. Another twitch to the hawk-eyed Ino, and suddenly he drew his sword and fell upon the shadow as his crew sprang into action around him, racing to his aid. The doppelgänger's eyes widened half an instant before Dioscuri's sword slashed straight through him as if he wasn't even there.

The captain snarled and there were shouts of shock from the crew as shadow ropes suddenly lurched from the ground, springing around all of them and holding them immobile in slick, oily ropes that churned with fear and depraved hunger. The doppelgänger reappeared, golden eyes glowing brightly with satisfaction as he eyed the bound crew, who quietened in fear at the sight of him, not helped by thick gags squirming over their mouths, binding them silent.

“And here is your choice.”

The shadow smiled pleasantly. “You either take Kozmotis Pitchiner with you when you leave of your own free will...or I will shatter your mind and you will take Kozmotis Pitchiner with you when you leave anyway. Tell me,” here, his voice deepened, became menacing, “ Po-ll-ux, do you remember what it feels like to have them inside you? I bet you do, don't you? Kozmotis saved you from the Fearlings that time, but Kozmotis can't save you now. It's your turn. Didn't you want to repay that debt? Do you ever want to look your brother in the eye again? Of course...if you're uncooperative, I can just kill you. I'm sure that pretty lieutenant of yours will take even better to the shadows. All it takes is to fall asleep outside the door, and they'll ravage her mind.”

Ino in her ropes looked sidelong at him, her soft eyes begging Dioscuri strength, and while he did not acknowledge her he was bolstered by her confidence.

“She's trained,” Dioscuri said flatly, and the doppelgänger laughed, rich and chilling in a way that sent skitters of fear up his spine. How could he know this? Was he a mind-reader? He had to be. Dioscuri could see no evidence of General Pitchiner anywhere.

“So were you, Pollux, so were you when those shadows overran you. There's holes in your memory, aren't there? It was just you on a ship full of passengers. You were on leave, with your brother, weren't you?”

“I remember,” Pollux grunted, and the doppelgänger smiled a smile full of glass shards.

“Oh, but I don't think you do. Tell me Pollux. How many survived? How many survived when the shadows took your mind? Let me jog your memory. Two survived, Pollux. There were two hundred on that ship, but only two survived. And do you remember why?”

Dioscuri gritted his teeth and hissed, visions of the past overwhelming his eyes. Yes, he remembered. The Fearlings, coming out of nowhere and swarming the liner he'd been working as guard on. How they'd consumed his mind from inside out, how the world had descended into blackness. He remembered nothing of what had happened after, until General Pitchiner had arrived, pulling him out of darkness with those steely grey eyes and Castor's screaming in the closet he had locked himself into to escape the murdering rampage of his twin brother. Pollux had been horrified. It had been Pitchiner that had convinced Pollux to dedicate his life in wiping out the Fearlings, and eventually Pitchiner's example that had pulled Pollux out the depression and grief. Pollux Dioscuri owed innumerable things to Kozmotis Pitchiner.

“Because Kozmotis Pitchiner helped you,” said the shadow softly. “He helped you when everyone else believed you were already lost to the darkness. He stopped you from becoming a Nightmare Man. And now it's your turn. Please, help me keep him alive. Help me.” The shadow entreated, “If it were your brother, wouldn't you want him to survive? And he won't, not here.” The shadow had turned desperate, reaching up to rake his hands through his hair. “He's dying. He's dying and I won't let it happen.”

“Why should I trust you?” Dioscuri asked, watching him with disgust. “You just said that you were a shadow. Shadow men bring nothing but fear and despair. You only wish the keeper gone so that you might break free the prisoners, your kin.”

The golden eyes darted to the floor and he sighed. “Well, fuck me, at least I tried the peaceful way,” he said, and then his grey hand shot out to grab Pollux's throat. “You may have had a choice, but I don't, and I won't let him die.” He hissed, and then shadows uncurled from his throat, twisting like a snake out of his mouth and sliding along his shoulder, up his arm and coming into contact with Pollux's gasping, choking body.

The shadow coiled around his face like a filmy veil, and a pressure sank into his mind.

Pollux's eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he howled.

Chapter Text

Koz woke up alone.

It was dark; he was somewhere metallic and cold. The hard edges of a box pushed up against his shoulder, point digging in. His arms were tied behind his back, twisted back and knotted so firmly even Koz's most artful wriggling couldn't loosen his bonds. There was a faint glow coming from underneath a a doorway, he supposed, a slit of pale light that spilled across a cold grey floor, the smooth plated sheets of a ship deck.

A hold, then, he thought, straining his eyes in the dim lighting to perceive the faded ridges of boxes, the black lines of Kozmotis' own sharp writing on them. Powerpacks, the empty ones from the prison.

Koz's heart jumped in panic, and nausea surged in his gut. In the dark, his skin was cast greyish, and his clothes stained monochromatic grey. A glint of gold revealed his locket around his neck, and Koz shifted awkwardly to be able to look down at it.

It was untouched, and he felt a hint of relief temper his panic.

Had he been possessed? He felt no different, but then again it wasn't as if he'd experienced possession before. A shaky terror was clenching around his stomach, mirroring the pounding of his head and heart. Where was Pitch? Was it already over? Had Koz killed him?

Don't be ridiculous, he told himself. You'd...you'd feel something, if you'd been taken.

He wasn't sure if that was true. He'd known men that had been temporarily possessed and they remembered nothing of what they had done whilst under, had undergone no physical changes if the possession hadn't taken a deep enough hold.

They'd need me to fly the ship, I'm on the supply ship, I must be, he told himself to try and calm the panic inside. Where was Pitch? Was he still shut up in the guardroom where Koz had left him?

Perhaps he'd fallen under Fearling control and the crew had stopped him from opening the doors, lashed him up and put him securely in the hold, surmising he'd been compromised. It seemed the most likely (most optimistic) outcome, but it didn't account for Pitch. Had he been left behind?

No, it wasn't possible, Pitch wouldn't have stood for being left behind. He'd probably snuck on board, and the first place he would go would be somewhere dark, somewhere mostly deserted, like the hold.

“Pitch?” he called, softly, and whole minutes passed as he strained for an answer. “Pitch?” Please be there.

He wasn't.

Koz rolled onto his knees, trying to work his hands around him so that he could untie his wrists. His nerves were singing in danger, and prickles of sweat chilled his spine, stuck his shirt to his back. It was hot in the hold, stuffy, and the air tasted stale and dry, like breathing in sandpaper.

His tongue was dry, his head felt like it had been stuffed with wool. Moving his jaw hurt, Koz guessed he probably had a nice dark bruise there.

He wasn't wearing his armour. The realisation left him simmering with further unease.

Something felt wrong. The absence of Pitch, the absence of armour, and the -

The silence.

Blindly, Koz turned his head as if movement could dislodge them from their hiding places. There was nothing. For the first time in years, Kozmotis Pitchiner was alone in his own head.

Loneliness suddenly pushed on him deeply, grey and smothering like lead, and Koz remembered those aching, lost sort of nightmares he'd had, resting in Pitch's arms, an absolute aloneness in a stygian underworld of blank, dirty stone, confused corridors that swooped and dove, dizzingly, without any purpose or coordination, like Pitch, like Koz, they'd lost their way, confused and broken their original meaning until it was lost.

He never, in a thousand years of wondering, would have thought he would miss the Fearlings' whispers when they were gone. But now, faced with the irrepressible, blank silence, so deep and consuming it seemed to swallow everything, his heartbeat, his breathing, until the world was spinning away from him, and panic was thudding in his veins because how could he know he was real, unless they spoke to him? Had he ceased to exist?

The air was too stale in the hold. He was going to suffocate, it was too hot, he would burn. He never thought he'd miss the iciness of the prison planet either.

He tried to yank his arms free, slap his palms against the metal floor, make some noise, but they were restrained firmly and all he could do was gasp for air that was rapidly disappearing, convulsive tremors shaking his body. He was stuck. He was stuck, he was stuck and it was silent and the dark pressing down on him felt like a fist, pushing the air out of his lungs, and there were itches under his skin, like his flesh was expanding, shredding him from the inside out.

He doubled over, pushed his face into the floor and wheezed. The metal was cold.

Cold. He seized on the sensation, shoved his forehead so hard against the floor it made his neck ache, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to count the measure of his breathing.

The pressure against his forehead was steady, solid, and Koz clung to it like a desperate child, concentrating on it to the exclusion of everything else, on the jump of his knotted jaw muscles, the way it made his bruise ache. He breathed in, held it for three measures, breathed out. It was difficult at first, his chest felt as if an iron band were looped around it, keeping him caged, but he managed and gradually, his heartbeat began to level off.

He started to hum, soft and monotonous, the tune that Pitch had sung to him before the supply ship had arrived. His voice sounded shaky and cracked, and it kept wobbling as he sucked in breaths, but the memory brought him back to that moment, pressed together on the too-small couch like they could slide into one another, one of Pitch's skinny legs hooked over his hips, Koz's forehead resting against Pitch's collarbone, Pitch's shirt soft against his face, the scent of him close and comforting in Koz's space. His thin chest had vibrated rhythmically as he'd hummed, something complex-sounding once reduced to a lullaby for the terminally broken.

Steadily, the world returned to him, in stops and starts, like a startled child after a Fearling raid, stumbling out shyly from underneath a cupboard, small pink feet burned by the smoking ash from the fires the desperate defenders had lit, wandering sightlessly past the ragged corpses of friends and family the shadows had consumed the minds out of. Perhaps there'd be soldiers there, putting swords through the skulls of the living dead.

Kozmotis had been that boy once. He'd been the soldier, too, who'd seen that lost little child and wiped his mother's blood off his shining sword before the child could see it.

Sometimes he felt like he'd never broken out of that small cupboard he'd taken refuge in, and everything that had happened since was just one long nightmare. It had been Archaline, his wife, who'd dissuaded him from that notion, because how could he be in a nightmare, when she existed, when she bore him a daughter he loved with all his heart and soul?

I was a fool. It had only been a temporary reprieve until the darkness returned.

He could smell the burnt out lingering buzz of the empty powerpacks, fuel and packets. His breath condensed on the floor, blew back against his face. His shoulders ached. The knots around his wrists ached, too, and chafed his skin raw until Koz felt the trickle of blood against a spasming finger. His belt buckle was digging into his stomach. His hair was limp against his forehead, moved with his breath. Somewhere, there was the thrum of the ship's engines. His knees were starting to hurt from kneeling on the hard floor. The strip of light was beginning to hurt his eyes and mess with his vision.

Boots thudded, someone else approaching the hold. A meaty fist crashed against the door, and Koz cringed against the packing crate, skidding back and pulling his legs to his chest, suddenly wishing Pitch was there very desperately.

Tied up, waking in the dark and feeling very unlike the shining general they thought he was, Koz hunched over his knees and glared through a shock of messy brown hair dyed black by the light at the opening door, squinting as if he was feral.

The stocky figure blocking out the light was immediately familiar, outlined by a halo he seemed gilded with stars, one at his crown illuminating his greying brown hair, catching his dirty blue eyes. It defied to touch his neck, stained ugly black by a ring of bruises at his throat, hands, strangling hands. His eyes were bruised, sleepless, there was an exhaustion present in his stillness.

“General Pitchiner.”

Curled like an animal against a box and feeling very cornered, Koz rasped in a dry, too tight voice, “Captain Dioscuri.”

Pollux's hand raised, and suddenly light glared down from everywhere like a lidless eye. Koz winced and hissed a curse, blinking away spots from behind his eyes.

“Sorry,” said Pollux, not sounding apologetic, and hunkered down in front of him, piercing stare calculating, evaluating Koz's thinner frame, his ragged, messy hair, the hollows of his eyes, the bruise on his jaw and the raggedness of his attire. He did not look the part of a general and did not seem inclined to play it, his spine arched forward like he was trying to hide, the glitter of his eyes behind the mat of shaggy, uncut hair wary and watchful, stubble at least a week or two old. “I suppose it gave you hell too.”

“It?” He missed the inflection, and Pollux's hand came up to rub his throat, remembering the monster that had put the bruises there. He did not reply.

“We couldn't risk you being untied, of course,” said Pollux.

He studied Pitchiner's eyes intently, but they were the same off-putting shade of dark grey they'd always been, not Fearling white. In the light, his skin was clearly human, although all but translucent from lack of sunlight and vitamins, and his teeth were decidedly yellow. He looked terrible, barely a man, muscles wasted and shoulders bowed from exhaustion; the shadows had chewed him up and spat him out with pieces missing.

He withdrew a knife from his belt, and gestured for Kozmotis to approach, ignoring the man's flinch. Wary eyes watched him apprehensively. He moved in a low crouch, close to the ground, and only half-turned to present his back. Pollux cut through the rope quickly, and stowed the knife back in his belt.

“What happened?” Pitchiner asked, and Pollux stared at him with grim accusation.

“It happened. It was very insistent that you leave on this ship. It was very clear that it would know if we didn't take you far from here, and it would always be able to find us.” He shuddered, a violent reaction for the normally stoic captain, rubbing his arm as if he could feel something scratching under his skin. “I can still feel it, Pitchiner. What the hell did you set loose?” he shouted, and Kozmotis cringed away from the loudness of his voice, looking bewildered.

“Pitch...?” Suddenly, a sick hope seemed to dawn over his features. “Pitch? Is he here?”

“You gave it a name?” Pollux, disgusted, and Kozmotis blinked, and then smiled as if Pollux had told him a great joke.

“He can take a little getting used to, I'll admit, but he's just another person underneath the scaremongering.” Kozmotis chuckled. “He's not even very good at being creepy, but don't tell him I said that, he won't stop sulking for hours.” Something soft touched his smile. “Where is he? Don't be frightened of him, he doesn't mean any harm.”

There was an edge beneath his smile, beneath his humour. Koz knew they hadn't taken Pitch aboard, not with Pollux reacting like this, but for the sake of a few moments more he pretended, hoped, because stars Koz didn't know what he'd do, and the ocean of blankness without Pitch lurked like a Fearling in the dark.

“We left it to rot with it's kin,” Pollux said, “It said the further we got away, the less we'd be able to feel...” He shivered again and rubbed his arm like something beneath moved.

“You didn't leave him behind,” Koz whispered, “You didn't leave him alone.”

Pollux gave him a look of pity. “I realise it messed with your mind, it got all of us, General. But we're away from it now, we're almost at the station. We'll resupply there and set course for the Celestial City, the Tsar's going to want to hear about the breech personally.”

“No!” said Kozmotis, roughly, “No! You have to turn around- you have to-” He grabbed at Pollux, hooked his fingers into his shirt and seized him, convulsively trembling, “You have to- You have to get Pitch!”

“We shot out the shuttle as we left,” Pollux said steadily, looking into the madman's eyes, “It can't escape, it's trapped down there with those shadows until the Tsar can bomb the place and destroy it.”

“No,” Kozmotis rasped, “No, no, you don't understand. He's not like that, he isn't, you're treating him like he's a monster and he's not, we're not-”

“As far as I'm concerned,” Pollux had reached the limit of his patience and stood, unpicking Kozmotis' hooked claws from his shirt, “That thing is undoubtedly a monster. You'll understand,” he said, looking at Kozmotis with steely eyes, “I can't let you out of here until you can prove you haven't been compromised by it.”

He hesitated, looking down at the pitiful creature huddled on the floor, and then his hand strayed to his belt, where an innocuous letter rested, scarred with a monster's words. “I'm only delivering this because it showed me what it would do to my brother if I didn't,” he said heavily, a deep frown casting his eyes in shadow, and withdrew from his belt a scrap of paper.

He threw it at the General's feet, then turned and left, locking the hold door as he did so.

Kozmotis picked up the paper, squinting at the familiar messy handwriting, that slid everywhere, like a child's. Pitch. His heart leapt and he quickly unfolded the rough square, curling his legs underneath himself as he devoured the words.

“Kozmotis,

When you read this, I know you will be long gone. Know this is for the best, and they will treat you well – I have ensured that.

I told you once that only one Nightmare King could rise from the prison of fear. I was right. But it needn't be you. I won't – can't – let it be you. Stars know no one deserves this fate of mine. At heart, I'm a selfish creature, I can't bear the thought of your end.

Take the fastest ship you have and flee, far away. Look for Star Pilot Sanderson Mansnoozie, Pookan E. Aster Bunnymund, and a child of light in the service of the Lunanoffs, Nightlight. They will help you fight against me.

I will become a monster, Kozmotis, far worse than anything the Constellations have ever seen. Resistance is futile. We are all puppets to our own fates in the end. I suppose I'm asking you to remember me how I wish I could be, instead of how I was, and how I will be. You are a great man. I am proud to have you as my past, but I won't allow me to become your future. You deserve more.

Take care of her.

Pitch Black.”

Pollux, halfway up the hall, heard the thud as the General threw himself against the door, heard his shout of despair, heard his desperate plea that they turn the ship around, and thought idly that he'd have to put some better shielding in. 

Chapter Text

Lieutenant Io hummed softly as she rapped her knuckles against the partly open hold door, peering into the gloom within. The glint of silver eyes met her, staring wildly out from under a shaggy mat of dark hair, and she smiled.

“Hello, General Pitchiner,” she said quietly, “My name is Lieutenant Io. Would you like some dinner?”

He seemed to be taking a while to reply, selecting his words, perhaps, too used to the solitude of the prison planet to remember the rhythms of quick conversation.

“I'd...like...to be set free,” he rasped. His voice was hoarse, direly in need of water, and Io frowned and reminded herself to have a stern word with Pollux.

The man had already been through so much, he barely needed more maltreatment to add to his list.

“You've been untied,” she responded, a little more sharply than she intended, and swiftly gentled her tone when he flinched. “Let's find some food, and we'll make you presentable. I imagine you'll feel a lot more yourself when we've cleaned you up a bit,” she coaxed brightly, and the curled up ball on the floor uncoiled slowly, unfurled into a man, long and tall and still shapely despite his wasted frame.

Surprisingly, he had no complaint. Perhaps the General was just as eager to see himself restored to something of his former glory as she was. It was ignoble, to see him brought so low.

He emerged, blinking in the bright lightstrips of the hall like a bat, clutching onto the frame until his knuckles whitened. He seemed bemused by his surroundings, but alert, his piercing grey eyes sweeping over every inch of available data. A little shiver ran through her at his cold, calculating expression.

This man had won a war against fear itself, and he had not done it by being tender and merciful.

“Would you send me back?” he asked, quietly despairing and unwilling to hope. He moved stiffly, awkwardly, with the ache of abused muscles. She kept her pace slow in deference. The General was nothing like she had expected.

“No,” she said, “Captain Dioscuri sent a pulse ahead to Alsciaukat. They'll have passed the message on by now, it might reach the Towers by the end of the week, since it's a priority red.”

His heart was sinking, and perhaps she saw the look on his face and felt some kind of pity for him, because she added, “He noted the breach was secure for now, and no immediate action was necessary, you were enroute to rendezvous with the Tsar.”

“Wonderful,” Koz bit out. He'd really hoped to have seen the last of the Tsar's schemes. It had been the one positive about escaping to the prison planet, before Pitch.

He followed her through the maze of the ship's corridors, some idle part of his brain noting the turns they took. She led him down into the galley, which was suspiciously absent of any others. No doubt she'd sent word ahead to have it cleared, lest the crew catch sight of such a... “damaged” General.

I don't fit the aesthetic of Golden General too well presently, Koz thought bitterly, rubbing his stubble. He'd never really fit the role. They'd wanted a peacock with shiny feathers to parade down the aisles of Court, but Koz had never been any good at masks.

Archaline had been the one who'd handled their political relations. Without her, Koz was under no illusions that he'd never have reached the rank of general. Not that he'd particularly wanted it.

Setting a plate of unidentifiable grey mush in front of him, Io slid down to the bench opposite him and grimaced apologetically at the food.

“I know the sort of stuff you've been eating,” she said, “It's best not to start your stomach with anything too... solid for a while.”

Uncomplaining, Koz ate, robotically. He'd long since lost pleasure in eating and such mundane acts; they'd become nothing more than necessary maintenance for his body. He couldn't taste anything of the mush, didn't care to. Seeming disturbed by his blankness, Io compensated by talking, incessantly, listing off each of the crew members before launching into a comprehensive catch up of gossip Koz neither cared about nor understood.

His mind was occupied more with the implications of Dioscuri's pulse. If he could find some way to show that Pitch wasn't the monster they all thought he was... Perhaps the people Pitch had named in his letter would help. He'd said that the star pilot, the Pooka and the Lunanoff servant would help Koz fight Pitch, but Koz didn't want to do that. He refused to believe that Pitch was doomed. If Koz was unable to turn back to the prison, he'd have to try and change minds before Pitch did something stupid, like letting the Fearlings out.

Only one Nightmare King can rise from the prison of fear...

He shuddered, and refocused on Io's bright talk, adding a few questions he barely cared about the answer to, but made her brighten up as if her nameday had come again.

Things had changed since he'd last been active on a ship, but the Molskarr was fairly standard set-up. Io brought him to the crew's light chamber, the cleansing room in which focused beams of light stripped all trace of shadow (and dirt) from a soldier's skin. They had been mandatory in the Fearling war.

She remained in the room as he undressed, keeping up an idle chatter about the crewmates aboard the Molskarr. Koz was mostly tuning her out, and it was only once she stopped speaking that he recognised the absence.

He half-turned, a query on his lips – the chatter was good, affirming, it banished the silence in his brain – and found her looking at him with an expression somewhere between pity and shock. He glanced over at himself in the reflective holoscreen and noticed again the great, raw bitemarks on his neck, tangible signs where a diligent tongue had worked them further to eke blood from the wounds, reddened lines down his torso from scraping claws, the blossoming bruise on his jaw, the thinness of his waist that went rather beyond his naturally trim body shape.

“Cloudy nebulae,” said Io, eventually, “That prison really was hell for you, wasn't it?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Koz muttered, “Wasn't I pleased to serve the people of the Constellations one final time? Give up my life and submit to torture day in and day out? I'm certain that was what went on the morning 'cast when it was announced.”

Io winced. “Not quite,” she said, in a small voice, and Koz sighed bitterly.

“I suppose memory blurs all these great and noble reasons I supposedly had. I seem to remember a whole lot of no choice, but soaring suns know that couldn't be true.”

“The Fearlings have messed with your mind,” said Io firmly, “You'll feel better, once you've been cleansed thoroughly. Once we hit Alsciaukat, I'll escort you to a Shining-”

“I don't need a priest,” Koz snapped, turning up the beams of light to physical discomfort. He'd been without sensation for too long. “Religion never helped me.”

Io's lips pursed, and her eyes stormed, but she said nothing.

He'd evidently offended her, since she didn't speak to him again for a while, and her lips were thin. Koz was in no mood to placate her.

After he'd cleansed himself, and stepped, shuddering, from the powerful beams, she looked him over disinterestedly and went to fetch something from a cupboard.

“I'm sure you remember these,” said Io, handing him an advanced dustscanner, far beyond the rudimentary one he'd utilised at the prison. He smiled at it, remembering cleaning Pitch's hair as the slender dark man leaned back against his knees, mouth parted, eyes closed, cheeks warm with a blush, head moving gently as Koz raked through his jet hair.

“Yes,” he said, shaking himself free of memory.

“Military regulation?” She asked, something of her smile returning as she programmed the scanner.

“When was I anything different?” Koz asked rhetorically, and the clipped expression tightened over her features once more.

Locks of brown hair were vaporised instantly under the intensity of the light scanner she ran over his scalp, trimming it into a uniform length of two inches. Once it was all the same length, he took the scanner from her and burnt all the hair from his body, in the fashion of the Courts, save for scalp and eyebrows.

It was a habit he'd adopted from Archaline, who'd regularly complained about his commoner tendency of growing his hair long. She'd pushed him to simply have his body permanently removed of it, but Koz had always been uncomfortable with the high families' casual body modifications, despite knowing Archaline had undergone treatments herself and emerged perfectly healthy.

Once he was done, he returned the scanner, which was deposited on a shelf and padded after her, nude and unbothered, skin prickling from the intensity of the cleansing he'd subjected it to, the sore broken skin protesting quite viciously.

“I'm going to fetch you something to wear and something to heal that,” Io told him, gesturing for him to stay put in the small cabin she'd led him to. “Stay.”

With a wry twitch of the lips, Koz sat down on the cool grey floor, resting his head against the metal walls. The cabin was identical to the others on the ship, a folded away bed strapped to the wall, a cubicle for waste disposal, a box for personal effects and a box for clothing. It was all done in functional shades of monochrome, and tediously dull.

He hummed to himself, drawing his knees up to his chest and wincing at the pull of a particularly sore bite on his neck. The soft tune was Pitch's last song, and he tried to focus on remembering the moment, Pitch against him and the vibration of his voice, trying to drown out the screaming silence in his head. His skin itched.

He'd just started to shiver when Io returned, a shipsuit folded over one arm and a small handheld medibot. She glanced at him oddly, but gave him the clothes without comment on his pale face and hunched stance.

She spoke again when he was sliding into the shipsuit, settling the stretching blue material over his form until it was comfortable. “Why'd you do it? Defend it so violently.”

“Pitch?” Koz clarified, gaze still turned down to the sleek, shining silver floor, glowing faintly.

“...Yes.” The barest hesitation at his name. “Where did it come from?”

“He came from a rift in time,” said Koz, in all seriousness, pausing in his task to look at her so she could see the sincerity on his face. “I hypothesize he was sent by the Pookan Brotherhood, they are the only ones who have the technology or understanding of how to tamper with time. He had in-depth memories that could not be faked.”

“From the past or future?” Io asked, sceptical, but willing to hear him out.

Koz was silent. Finally, he said, “It was of a time so bleak and dark that no light shone.”

She raised an eyebrow, but Koz just looked down at the letter in her hand.

“That letter,” she said, eventually, “I scanned it.” Unrepentant, she met his stare, and despite the pang of irritation Koz could not blame her – he would not have allowed it entry unchallenged either. “It-”

“-He.” Koz broke in, eyes unwavering, and Io grimaced, corrected herself.

“He wrote very... strongly, to you.”

“That sort of experience tends to bring you closer to your team,” said Koz flatly, “You've done your basic psych evals.”

“Of course, but...” Io looked uncomfortable, fiddled with her short, crewcut hair. “It- he, was a shadow, I mean, it barely looked...human.”

Koz paused again, hands resting flat against his stomach, covered by the light material of the suit. “I've never had an issue with those of different race,” he said, slightly suspicious, and Io looked offended.

“I'm no xenophobe, but everyone hates Fearlings. Why wouldn't we, I mean, look at what it did to our crew-! Nightmares, every night, all of it-”

“Him.”

“Him-! Whatever, it is still a monster, why were you defending him?”

“He may have had power of shadow...but he was nothing like a Fearling. Believe me, I've had enough close encounters with those. He was fully human, and he acted like it. He lived, liked, hated, loved, just like we do. He's as human as I am.”

Io was silent to that. He sensed she was still hesitant, but Koz's staunch defence was at least making her question it. Why would a heartless creature beg so desperately for the General's survival? If what he said was to be believed... then very soon the Constellations would be threatened with another war, barely out of the last.

He's as human as I am.

Io felt a niggle of discomfort. Whatever this... Nightmare King... business entailed, it didn't sound pleasant. And yet the shadow man had sacrificed himself, presumably, to save the General. It didn't seem like something a mindless, heartless, soulless creature like a Fearling would do, let alone they weren't clever enough for such a plot.

“I suppose...” she sighed, “I suppose I can only have your word for it. You still need to be cleansed by a Shining Brow before I'll believe you, but...” She trailed off and tried for a smile.

He smiled back, warily, wearily, something reassuring in the thought of a possible ally. Pitch would need all that Koz could sway for him, if Koz was going to be able to vouch for his humanity enough to stop the Tsar destroying the prison with Pitch trapped on it.

Despite himself, Koz found himself warming to her. She'd been the friendliest person he'd met so far, relatively willing to listen to what he had to say (how much of that was left over worship for his position as Golden General was debatable, but Koz wasn't averse to utilising his advantages). So he did his best to force his reluctant lips into something that looked almost friendly, and the resulting beam almost blinded him.

He fastened the shipsuit and finished lacing his boots. He stood and held out his hand for the two things he'd requested to be held back from being burnt in case of shadow corruption, Pitch's letter and Koz's locket. Both items had undergone thorough blasting in the cleansing chambers before they'd been deemed safe enough to be returned.

Io fiddled with the letter before passing it to him, her eyes skimming over the words curiously. Koz didn't mind all that much, as private as he wished he could keep it, he knew it wasn't plausible. They had to take precautions, after all, he would've done the same if it had been his crew, his ship.

“What I don't understand,” said Io, “He said he wanted you to find these three...people. A Pooka, understandable, they're smart...if well...”

“Pricklier than a bush of rose thorns?”

“Exactly. A knight in the service of the Lunanoffs, they're good at light manipulation, perfect against shadows.”

“Yes, they decimated many shadow legions in the war.”

“But...a star pilot?” Io's voice broke disbelievingly, amused. “All they're good for are pretty lights and brothels, and everyone knows it.” She giggled. “What in the icy trails of comets would you use a star for...? You give them a weapon, they'll try to pleasure each other on it.”

For a moment, Koz blinked, before abruptly grimness lifted and something rusty and ugly broke out of his chest. He realised, even as she stared in shock, that it was a laugh.

Koz snickered, humour bubbling sharp and unexpected. He'd missed this banter with his soldiers. “They're not all like that,” he tried, and Io planted her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows.

“Come talk to me when you find a star with a brain in its head instead of asteroid dust, and I'll change my mind.”

Koz laughed again, revelling in the sound. He couldn't argue with that.

“This Nightlight,” he said, once they'd both calmed down, “I'm assuming they'd be found with the Tsar?”

Io nodded. “I've heard of them,” she said casually, “They're devoted to the Lunanoffs... I doubt your shadow man's harebrained scheme is going to distract them from their job.”

Koz felt his heart lighten slightly. Nightlight had already been identified, now he had only two to go. He'd be able to stop and find Nightlight once they hit the Celestial City, no doubt, and Koz had contacts among the Pooka, old war friends that had served under him, in order to find this Bunnymund. It would be the pilot who would be the hardest to find.

It was like looking for a specific needle in a haystack full of needles. How do you pick a single star out of the sky?

Koz thought about Pitch, remembering the brightness of his eyes, his mercurial moods, his lithe grace. He hoped Pitch was coping, down by himself at the prison.

Wait for me, he begged the silent darkness, please, just wait for me.

Chapter Text

Alsciaukat gleamed dully as they approached; it was a very typical outpost town huddled into a moon of a solitary gas giant, cold, blue and distant like a glacial eye. The shine of the large, translucent hydroponics dome, faintly discoloured green from all the plants within, was lit up by flashing lights that beamed, lonely, into the frigid darkness of space, the far away points of distant star systems the only companionship. It was small, the main bulk of it squirrelled away into the rock, the inhabitants all closely genetically linked and content with a small, rural life in the most isolated sectors of space.

Kozmotis stood on the deck. He leaned against the mainmast unobtrusively. The great sails billowed with a favourable wind, the hum of the ship's thrusters firing to manoeuvre them into perfect position thrumming through the deck beneath his boots. The prow was angled towards the spaceport at a good entry angle, he noted, if it were him he would have shifted a little of the drag to the port side – fold up the starboard wing slightly, add a little extra weight to balance out the ship.

The Molskarr did tend to list to one side, he'd observed, probably a faulty repair since it was a recycled war ship. (During their flight to Alsciaukat, he'd begged the ship's specs off an indulgent Io, feeling as if he were about to go out of his mind with boredom.) Nonetheless, it was a smooth trajectory; Koz wondered who was on navigation; he'd have to congratulate them.

He lightly touched the hilt of the shining dagger at his belt. He'd flatly refused to enter foreign territory unarmed, even if it was simply a rural town, until eventually Dioscuri, with rather more of an approving gleam in his eye than Io seemed happy with, had tossed him the puny dagger. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was still a weapon, and Kozmotis had been a soldier too long to forget it now.

The slim band of Koz's breather, a clever device that worked by effectively creating a bubble around the person who wore it to shield them from the cold and lack of oxygen in space, was around his neck, fitting comfortably. It felt good to wear one again. The prison planet had had oxygen supplied, in order to cut down on any technology which may possibly be corrupted by shadow influence, but Koz had never grown used to not wearing the thin band.

He didn't glance up when the sails began to fold inwards, all controlled by the systems down in the navigation room. Unstepping the mast was next, Koz striding quickly to the other end of the deck as it slid down into several concentric circles, forming a small dome on the deck of the ship. The port and starboard sails did the same. The Molskarr descended, slotting flawlessly into the mooring position with a soft jolt easily absorbed by the dock's shocks.

Analytically, Koz approved. It was a military grade landing.

There was a hiss as the port's gangplank extended, latching onto the side of the Molskarr and cradling the ship like two hands, stabilising it. Two uniformed officials waited anxiously at the other end, flanked by a small contingent of guard droids, four, he counted at a quick guess. Koz felt a twist of dry humour in his stomach. They must have been frightened, to send so many.

Dioscuri strode out from below deck, tailed by Io, his heavy boots thumping on the surface. The crew formed up behind their commanding officers, all four of them. Only six had been required to fly a ship like the Molskarr, and the Matapan space station was really only in place to watch Koz and the prison. The skeleton crew was there to send for help, not even a full unit of soldiers.

Dioscuri gestured sharply to Koz, who obediently fell into line behind him as they walked over the gangplank. It was only proper – Dioscuri, the captain of the ship, outranked him so long as they were on said ship. The man's eyes were shadowed by his scowl, no doubt he was vexed that Koz had yet again escaped to stand above deck instead of remaining in sight. Unrepentantly, Koz met his eye. Dioscuri sniffed dismissively.

“Stars shine upon you, General Pitchiner,” gushed an official, a weedy looking man with an unfortunate crop of limp gingery hair, “We of Alsciaukat are very pleased to welcome you here! The Governor requests your time immediately, we are directed to lead you straight there!” He had the typical burr of accent, roughening his voice and shortening his words. Evidently a native, not courtly trained, then.

Out of the corner of his eye, Koz saw Io purse her lips at the snub to Dioscuri. It was courtesy to greet the captain first, no matter how high ranking the passenger. Dioscuri's face could have been chiselled from stone.

Inwardly, Koz sighed. Business. He did not bother with a smile, but made certain his shoulders were straight and his face impassive. Gravely, he murmured acknowledgement. The official seemed slightly wrong-footed, glancing to his silent companion for help, who seemed equally reluctant to be in his company.

The other official was female, quiet, and when she spoke there was a lilt to her words that was uncomfortably familiar to Koz. This officer was Mesan, just like his wife Archaline had been, though Archaline had taken great care to refine her voice. “Stars shine upon you, Captain Dioscuri, General Pitchiner, Molskarr, my name is Ellaine Dubrask, under-secretary to the Governor.”

She made the circular symbol of greeting for plural companies. Io's ruffled feathers seemed smoothed by the official's unctuous correction, and in silence, the assembled crew, and Koz, made the appropriate gesture of recognition.

“Light speak through you, under-secretary,” responded Dioscuri. “Our ship is free of Fearling pollutant but a full maintenance and purifying check is requested.”

“Acknowledged. Captain Dioscuri is also required by the Governor. He and the crew are to undergo cleansing before being allowed among the populace,” Ellaine stated, drawing up a small screen from the holocomm strapped to her brown wrist and tapping in a short command.

Dioscuri dipped his head in acquiescence, a tight look around his eyes. Koz wondered how he felt about the Shining Brows, the popular priesthood of Light. The female officer gestured, and the crew followed her to the light chambers, leaving Kozmotis alone with the weedy male, who had yet to introduce himself.

To Koz's amusement, Io threw a very unprofessional grimace of apology over her shoulder. Koz had to hide his smile; the plucky lieutenant had grown on him.

Pulling on his best impassive general face, Koz raised a smooth eyebrow, and the man all but tripped over himself to speak. “Ah, I am senior clerk, Antis Poskiani. Please, follow me, I'll lead you to Governor Mederan.”

Those two sentences were the briefest of everything he said afterward, which was pointless extrapolation on Alsciaukat's size, history and facilities. It was tediously boring.

Smothering a sigh of exasperation, Koz followed the babbling official, through the airlock into the main complex. The hallways were white, even, and banded with coloured lines, a red, which Poskiani explained led to food halls, yellow, entertainment, green, living quarters, grey, official and grey hatched with black back to the docks. Periodically, they passed holoscreens projecting idyllic scenes of offworld fauna and flora, even a few that Koz recognised – there, the swaying grasses and green fields of Maherte, all pale blue skies and sun, next a sweeping cityscape – Alpheratz, perhaps, with that distinctive sloping yellow architecture? Koz was grudgingly impressed they'd managed to get a shot of Alpheratz that didn't have some poor beggar chained to the street corner offering to dance for pennies, and another three dead in the street.

“-of course, we don't see many visitors here, save for all the new military guards coming in from the City-” Poskiani chattered, ushering him down the halls and enumerating what meagre amenities available on Alsciaukat.

What a miserable place to live, Koz thought idly, before tuning into what Poskiani was saying and questioning him. “New guards?”

“Yes, yes.” Poskiani seemed startled to have Koz's attention for the first time and blushed deeply. “Our gracious Tsar sent extra ships ahead to watch the prison as soon as he knew you were leaving, General, or I'll be wronged! Blessed be his name. He must have sent the new ships as soon as he knew.”

Koz frowned. “Estimated number? Why haven't we seen them in the sky?”

“Oh, they aren't orbiting Alsciaukat! They went straight on down to the prison, you ought've seen them when you passed that way, maybe you missed each other? They went right down to the prison, see, caused excitement, we don't get many visitors here!”

Koz felt his stomach drop with dread. Hopefully the ships were only orbiting the prison like Poskiani suggested, but Koz hoped Pitch wouldn't panic at the sight of his new observers. Maybe they could focus their comms down on him and Pitch could convince them he wasn't a monster? But then again, he'd not done a very good job with Dioscuri's crew. Koz hoped no one would do anything rash before he had a chance to lay his case before the Tsar.

Poskiani paused before a metal door and entered a quick code. The door slid aside with a mechanical hssh, and Poskiani led him into a foyer, complete with desk and chairs, and a guard droid standing before another door that presumably led to the Governor. Poskiani quickly depressed a button on the desk, warning Governor Mederan of the imminent arrival, and without input the door smoothly opened, revealing an office and the Governor himself, who strode out, brushing aside the affronted Poskiani with a quick gesture.

“Stars shine upon you, General Pitchiner,” cried Governor Mederan, and swept forward to kiss Kozmotis' forehead.

Blinking in shock, Koz had to shake his head once or twice to absorb the sight of the man before him. The Governor was a man of average height, well-fleshed, but not chubby, and androgynous in appearance, with an ordinary work coverall underneath a flowing pair of soft yellow robes printed with suns. His skin was burned permanently orange, as if he had been lying in a light chamber too long, and his eyes, deep and soulfully gold, stared out from around a mess of wrinkles on a too young face. His teeth were white and straight. Put together, it was such a bizarre ensemble that Koz struggled not to laugh.

“Light speak through you,” he said, weakly, and the Governor's eyes watered with pride. He grasped Kozmotis' hand strongly in a papery grasp and pumped it vigorously.

“It is a true honour to meet you, my good man! I have had the fortune of having light bubble from my lips as our Holy Order decrees, and blessed be our gracious rulers, never has there walked a more shining creature than you!” The Governor all but crushed his hand in gladness, and sincerely alarmed now, Koz tried to lean away. “My deepest thanks for all you have done for us, you selfless and true man!”

“I was just doing my duty to the Constellations,” Koz demurred, and the Governor sniffed, deeply touched.

“So modest!”

He was still holding Koz's hand, rather tightly, unwilling to let go.

Awkwardly, Koz tugged, and seeming alarmingly reluctant, the Governor released him, patting Koz's knuckles as he did so. “Come, come, sit, I will find something to wet your throat,” the Governor said excitedly, dashing off in a billow of robes.

Wearily, Koz exhaled and rubbed his forehead. He dropped into the indicated chair, at least glad to take the weight off his feet.

He had not missed the attitude the common folk of the Constellations afforded their 'Golden General'. It had been useful to heroise him in order to keep the morale of the citizens up during the war, crucial when the things they fought could crawl into doubts and uncertainties, but Koz had never been comfortable with it. Tsar Lunar had laughed his concerns off, wrapping a conspiratorial arm around his waist and gesturing out at the city displayed before them. “They see us as gods, my dear Pitchiner, and why shouldn't they? We are the gods among men.”

Kozmotis exhaled heavily. The Lunanoffs had always been dangerously balanced on the precipice of supreme egotism and madness, and took the worshipful reverence the Constellations held them in as their due. Archaline's machinations and the careful propaganda put out had elevated Koz in public eyes, and he couldn't help but feel dishonest about the manipulation.

The Fearling War had cost more than dignity.

He just wanted to go home. Wherever that was. Somewhere quiet, unbothered, bring Pitch with him and show him new technology until Pitch was doing the thing he did when he was overexcited, the little dance he'd sometimes do when he thought Koz wasn't watching, a shimmy of the hips, quick, light steps, vibrant and never able to quite stop moving.

Something wistful quirked his lips. What would constitute a home for a war torn general and a broken shadow puppet? Koz couldn't face the idea of going back to the empty villa on one of Orion's moons, one window still shattered from Archaline's fall and scratches of skimmer paint on the crags of a nearby gorge where perhaps a little girl out playing had been swallowed by the darkness.

Pitch's stories of the wild, rural planet he'd lived on sounded esoteric and alien to Koz's industrial ears, product of a Golden Age of ships and technology, but he couldn't deny the utter isolation and stillness Pitch implied was enticing. Imagine a world where Koz couldn't be reached in parsecs for a quick holocall, where there were no adverts flashing on billboards, or people sending letters or calling out to him in the streets, a world where there was no reminders of dead things, lost things he'd never get back.

Koz had never known nature beyond the occasional wander in a hydroponics dome, and the great, sprawling misty forests Pitch described, sweeping open prairies and rocky mountains so tall they turned the sky white were beyond his imagination. Perhaps we could find your Earth, if it is in its correct cycle for supporting life.

“I will become a monster, Kozmotis, far worse than anything the Constellations have ever seen. Resistance is futile.”

Koz scrubbed his face roughly and shoved the intrusive thoughts aside. Pitch would be fine, Koz would make certain of it, and he would have years to scream at him for the damn self-sacrificing idiocy he'd tried to pull.

“Here,” broke in the Governor, settling a goblet filled with what appeared to be sparkling lightwater in front of him. “I know you must be eager to purify yourself at the temple! I won't keep you long, but our gracious ruler, long may he live, has scheduled a holocall at 18:00, only two hours from now! The most sophisticated comtech has been flown in on expectation of you. But General, I must ask,” All at once, the humour fell from the Governor's face, and he leaned forward seriously, “The prison planet, is it secure?”

“You know it is a matter of war-”

“I am not asking for classified information! I wish to know if you have brought curses upon the heads of my people, General Pitchiner!”

Koz was floored by such an abrupt turnaround, felt the sour prick of guilt in his throat. You have brought curses upon the heads of my people... This could very well start another war, he knew, but Koz was so very well versed in lying to people by now that he simply plastered on a smile and said, “Governor, I commend you for your diligence in protecting Alsciaukat. However I am confident there is nothing for you to be worried about. A minor security issue that we are, of course, taking the utmost caution with because of the volatile nature of the prisoners.”

It came out perfectly, smooth, rich and layered with sincerity. His reassuring General face was flawless – Good Citizen Smile, I Know What I'm Doing Trust Me arch of the eyebrow, held for the perfect time, long enough that his cheeks started to ache slightly.

It was so convincing even Koz hoped to believe it.

The governor swallowed it, of course. With a sniff, he settled back, and Kozmotis rose gracefully to his feet. “I believe you mentioned something about purification?” One of the worst things to do was stick around after he'd had to pull the Reassuring General Face, else people started asking questions and figured out that Kozmotis very rarely knew how to placate them.

“Oh, of course. May light kiss your soul, General Pitchiner, and restore you to enlightenment,” the Governor said sincerely, summoning a nervous looking Poskiani and giving him directions.

“If you'll follow me, General Pitchiner,” said Poskiani, the clerk's nose twitching in nervousness (how was he managing that, honestly), hands twisting into a quick greeting. “That is, I'll bring you to the temple, right away, sir.”

Heaving a sigh, Koz followed him, once again tuning out to his babble.

He really hadn't missed dealing with people.

It was Poskiani's gaze that lingered a little too long when Koz pulled off his shirt, dropping it carelessly to the floor and swiftly moving to unbuckle his belt. The weedy clerk's staring was so obvious that even the priestess looked a little embarrassed for him. Said priestess was young, barely more than a girl, with a rippling length of flaming red hair like a curtain bound back against her head. She looked airy and graceful in her pale daffodil robes, making her already pale complexion paler until she really did seem to radiate an inner light. Her name, she said, in soft dulcet tones evidently practised, was Pyrrha, and she was a priestess of Light.

She busied herself restocking the pots of burning incense and relighting candles as Koz stacked his clothes, military-quick, on a shelf next to coveralls he recognised from the Molskarr, still carrying a tangible aura of singe from the light chambers they'd undoubtedly gone through. Poskiani disrobed beside him, evidently intending to be purified alongside Koz, though he seemed very uncomfortable doing so.

Koz had gone through this ritual so many times it was second nature for him to kneel, naked and patently unashamed, on the cool floor of the small temple, incense blurring the air into a smoky mess that drifted through his mind pleasantly, the taste of smoke acrid on his tongue. It brushed against his bare skin with a faint tingling sensation, and he breathed through a hint of pins and needles jetting through his arms. Candles were the only illumination, Light's temples were dark places, and its supplicants came through the shadow into the brightness of enlightenment, symbolic of the temple's dimness. They cast faint halos on the cold pale floor, illuminating strips of grey that made him think oddly of the bruised blush of Pitch's bare skin.

The muggy atmosphere and thick coils of smoke presently made him feel sleepy, and he was barely aware of Poskiani kneeling beside him, the colour of his hair lit up to a shimmer in the dark, the paleness of his freckled shoulders, slim and marred with old space burns that Koz, in a daze, half-wondered at. Poskiani's eyes were lidded, pupils huge in the darkness, and he stared with a strange vacancy on his weasel-like face, lips slack and breathing slow, sucking in the heavy smoke around them.

The smoke started to shimmer slightly, and Koz felt his throat dry as he inhaled, one breath, two, eyes lidding from the warmth in the room. It was a pleasant atmosphere, soft, warm, sleepy, implying trust without demanding it. The soft rustle of the priestess' robes as she lit the great braziers was the only sound beside Poskiani's breathing beside him, close enough their shoulders were a bare handspan apart, both staring properly at the floor as they centred themselves.

The heat of the brazier turned the room into an inferno, and Koz felt sweat spring up on his back and under his arms, dampen his hair. The combination of the smoke and the heat was doing strange things to his vision, lurid after images staying for too long, flames that flickered and wavered like dancing figures. His body felt like it was falling asleep, but his mind remained aware enough to see the ticking of the great brass pendulum, the stylised suns of the Shining Brows catching and flashing in the light carved upon its surface. He stared at it mindlessly, felt his heart try to slow to that measured ticking inside his ears, crawling into his thoughts. The brass pendulum gleamed all over, as if it too sweated in the fierce heat of the small, low room.

Pyrrha placed a soft hand on each forehead, murmuring soft blessings and sanctifications against the dark. A tingling heat spread from her palm down through Koz's body, and he shuddered as it itched and burned. It licked its way through his flesh like tiny ant bites, swirling like the intoxicating smoke down his lungs and spreading through him, making the edges of his body blur away into the dark surrounding them.

Koz breathed, and the room breathed through him. The glitter of candles became eyes, almost intimate, sensuous in their perusal of this baring ritual, the coils of smoke moved, supple, like the slow twinings of snakes chasing each other in and out of his vision. The room expanded and contracted as his lungs filled and emptied of the pungent air, something raspy tickling the back of his throat, and Koz had the sense that if he inhaled or exhaled too hard, the room would fly apart. It was a delicate thing, as delicate as the creatures the smoke made, dancing between the light of the candles. He could almost hear their tiny pattering feet, children and elves, trapped in forever-fairy-rings around the sentinels standing shining in the pools of half-melted wax.

His body felt thick and heavy, and the priestess' soft chants seemed to swim around them, almost tangible. His awareness faded, and if it hadn't been for the hand on his forehead he was certain he would have fallen. A vast sense of content welled up in him, and he smiled, dazed with an inexpressible joy. Maybe it was the light, kissing his skin wherever it reached with fiery trails that slid dampness against his back and chest, made him gleam like dewdrops had landed on him.

Everything narrowed to a razor-perspective, the little droplet of hot wax running over the lip of a candle, slipping swiftly to the not yet coagulated pool beneath. Poskiani's breathing was loud, stubborn and rasping, the itch of sweat on his skin, the coolness of the hard floor against his knees, kiss of smoke on his flesh.

If you turned the candle upside down, you could make an upside down spiky thing, that would look amazing.

“What is your name?” Softly it came, and Koz's brain struggled to understand. His mouth moved without sound, a slurring groan slipped from his slack lips. “Tell me your name.”

The order was reinforced by the ticking of the pendulum, a sideways click that rolled around in the warm fuzz of his brain until he felt dreamlike, sleepy, a vague phantasm unbound to the itching and sweet mellow heat of his flesh but rising and falling with the tick of the pendulum, without which he'd fly away, away back to the prison planet and dance with Pitch's ghost until they both slept breathless on open wings of stardust and the intricate mellifluous tones of singing nebulae.

“Koz...Kozmotis Pitchiner,” he murmured. His voice sounded strange and far away, like it was echoing in a vast hall constructed of smoke and flickering candlelight in the spaces between ticks and heartbeats.

“Kozmotis Pitchiner, what darknesses do you hide?” The priestess entreated tenderly.

Her red hair shone blearily in the light of the lit braziers behind her, and Koz's skin was flushed from heat. His heart was pounding, and her head was wreathed in fire, her touch on his forehead burned and blistered like she was trying to scar out the unwholesomeness in his brain. He pressed, devoutly, into her touch, supplicant to a peace and warmth he couldn't remember ever feeling, he couldn't remember anything, not when the veins pulsing in her translucent wrist seemed to glow so fittingly, like strings of bruises, of black pearls against skin, the way Pitch's blood would well up, slowly, reluctantly, like thick dark tar, twice as staining, as poisonous.

Confused remembrances of darkness and shadow pushed in on him, and there was so much he couldn't get the words out at once, but somewhere in his thoughts pulsated a slender wicked man, beautiful and dangerous and his marks covered Koz's shoulders, marks that the priestess' free hand traced with amusement. The raised scar tissue was less sensitive than his unmarked skin, but it was as if her touch was a switch and he a live wire, straining and shivering as the electricity of light conducted into him. He wanted to spread his arms wide and embrace the world, because never had anything been more beautiful than a dozen candles and smothering smoke, pillars of light and the teeth of the brazier.

“Kozmotis Pitchiner, you have a lover either very dedicated or gifted with very sharp teeth,” she said. The smoke poured from her lips like the ticking of a clock. She was a goddess of fire.

Golden eyes like the flames of the candle, a body like wavering smoke, dancing between the columns of duty and madness. Pitch, Pitch, he should be here, why wasn't he? He mumbled something incoherent. “Pitch,” it was a slur, thick lips and uncooperative tongue left him clumsy, unable to articulate all the name encompassed, how could a mere sound conjure up the ineffable presence of him, the stalk of his movements, the halfpenny glitter of his eyes, the gleam of teeth hidden by black lips, the monochrome of his features like a half-finished pencil sketch that had wandered off the page before it could be completed, too eager, too intense and vivid to remain captured, paperbound as Kozmotis was, fully inked in colours that left him too gravid to move, whereas Pitch, oh, Pitch as wild and free as mist sweeping across an unconscious eyelid, veins throbbing purplish against sensitive skin, how could a mere name sum up everything and anything Pitch was and could be, his future, the other mouth of the ouroboros stretching to devour them both whole in greedy lust?

“Tell me about Pitch.”

What was there to tell? The same way it was impossible to sum up the infinity of a universe, velvety deep space like the blackness of his coat, the pinpoints of buttonhole stars, accessories to an unfinished masterpiece, there was nothing Koz could say, nothing and his mind was unfettered by the restraints of that weak and lacklustre flesh that so imprisoned his communication, but impatience was an emotion unheard of, for never had such slow peace suffused him, warm like the embrace of a beloved family too long missed.

“...Dark.” Dark, as dusk was, spreading purple wings over the sleeping cup of a planet, dark as turned off lights were in a bedroom, the hiss of breath between the sheets pale white, dark as futures were, impossibly glorious, untested and unbitten, whole and ripe for the taking, but unknown, dark as all beautiful, mysterious things were, dark as shadows in a man's heart that begged to be broken.

“In what way?” How many ways, innumerable. Her voice was sharp, prying, her rippling mane of fire bit his skin with the tightness of heat, and Koz remembered then that as entrancing, as glorious as fire was, playing with it got him burnt.

“Shadow...” He rasped it, it came out rough and raw and broken-sounding, but it was the only word that would slip past his lips to lay flat in the air like a puppet's surrender on stone steps.

“You know that its unhealthy to lie with dark-hearted things, Kozmotis Pitchiner. You want to be a good servant to the light, don't you? What are you?” Her insistent questioning was the skilful plucking of guitar strings, sounding him into a melody of obedience hemmed in by the beat set by the dolorous, swinging pendulum.

“S-soldier?” A weapon, mechanical, functional, forged in the fires of grief and war to swing the rough-hewn sword upon the necks of enemies he was programmed to destroy, a guarded tin soldier of a man, heartless and mindless, bound up in serving his Constellations and serving his Tsar until the blood in him ran cool, a soldier who fought to the last and understood only battles and rage.

“No, you're a servant of the light. What are you?” Her voice, so sweetly compelling, urged him to think, her tender repetition amusement, ethereal incandescence personified.

“Servant...” Yes, he could be that – not a crude weapon but an instrument of light itself, as the priestess whispered through serpent coils of smoke he could taste the forbidden fruit upon his lips, a servant of light devout as all things were to the practitioners of such holy entrancement, his Tsar, birthed and girdled in radiance, the Shining Brows who wore the kiss of divinity upon them like a blessing.

“How often do you attend purification, Kozmotis Pitchiner?” Gently scolding, a mother with the steel of manipulation beneath, and Koz held helpless by the rhythmic tick of the pendulum and the thickness of the smoke, the room expanding, breathing as if it had been set free but so warmly constrained, so gently brought to hover, dreamlike and protected, by the priestess.

Sheepishly, he was forced to utter by the truth that so compelled his tongue, by the flame in her eyes, in the room, and the great pendulum, “When 'm forced...”

“You are a devout servant of the light, Kozmotis Pitchiner. You feel a need to purify yourself regularly. You are a devout servant of the light. You trust in your Shining Brows to deliver you into the Light. This is true.” She chanted, working the words deep inside his brain like a farmer sowing crops, tossing seeds here and there with seemingly no skill at all, yet the seeds would germinate in the fertile crop of the hypnotic smoke, would rise into shining wheat tall and strong, ready for the next dark scythe to cut it blithely down.

“...yes...” His affirmation was weak, but in his mind her words repeated like a geas, thought woven into his thought, synced in the most unbearable and yet whole way; in this manner she worked the unwholesomeness from his mind like a gardener in Eden, snipping away at rosebuds to reveal the thorns of flagellation.

He knelt there, mind spinning in the utterance of galaxies, as the soft burrs of her voice started up again – in stops and starts he heard it, the drone of Poskiani's repetitive answers, the hiss and crack of the brazier, the billows of laughter in the smoke.

On the pendulum ticked, and Koz watched it sway back and forth, the steady rock of a boat riding stellar currents. His focus was drifting again, without anything to solidify it save the ticking of the pendulum, and Koz found the currents of a melody picking through his mind, tunelessly, he hummed it and the smoke kissed him with all the tenderness of bruises pressed into grey flesh, tear-streaked cheeks and the stench of burning flesh.

He would find the shadow that he missed and press his own bruises into narrow wrists, jerk the slender frame, always fighting, pin the snapping teeth, cage him in Koz's strength and Koz's power until Pitch spent his mercurial tempest and calmed to nothing more than a squall lapping the harbour walls he'd entrap him with, his arms like steel bands around him until Pitch rescinded every unknowing cruelty he'd scarred into that damned letter, every “Leave me, it's better if you go,” to be replaced with something far more fitting to the unhealthy dependence hardwired into his blood, the thirsty, “Go, and I'll rip out your throat.”

It always circled back to him! An undeniable frustration thrummed through the hazy relaxation, the fugue state he'd been lulled into. Koz was more than emptiness without Pitch – but, in the moment where the stars breathed through his lungs and his eyes saw the strings of light curled around air vents like grasping hands he knew it did not feel so.

Poskiani was slumped against him now, the prickle of sweat-hot skin like a bed of pins sinking into his shoulder, and soft hands were urging him up, ushering him into a whiteness, a coolness that contracted in his lungs like the rooms he breathed, this cold functionality, compressed like a coffin, like the guardroom. Dazedly, he knew then he'd appeared in that place, how he couldn't fathom only that other forms were sprawled over low benches, staring upwards with great dark eyes like the secrets of the universe were being displayed to them and them alone. He recognised them, the crew of the Molskarr, even Dioscuri, thick and muscular and half-propped against a senseless Io, who kicked her heels and laughed at nothing.

“Secret is...white is an awful shade to paint a room,” Koz muttered, staggered on legs that seemed to wobble and wave like they had a mind of their own to somewhere, barked his shins on a bench and hissing, slid onto it.

Pyrrha's amusement shone out of her like a beacon as she laid them there, the mystified Poskiani slumping against Koz, thin head lolling on his shoulder, and retreated away, but Koz was transfixed by the curl of the smoke into the vents. What straight lines, improbable, had been created, by machine, who had sat there and thought of the design of the vent? Had it come to them in a dream, that grid, eight-nine-maybe-seven across and ten-down, wherein smoke lapped like the rustling underbelly of a snake into its practised haunt?

Slender angles pressed against him, the rough skin of burns and scars from long ago, warm, pale, pale, and Koz thought blearily that someone had bleached Pitch, scrubbed the shadow stains from his skin, and that maybe he'd finally started eating better, because his ribs no longer felt so defined, nor his hip so sharp when Koz's arm encircled him.

“Servant,” someone said, a rumbling, deep baritone, and it was repeated like an echo, spurred through his own throat, “Servant of the light...”

Hair gleamed copper under the intrusive lights, and Koz again was enrapt by the texture, the vibrancy of it, everything was beautiful and fascinating and he felt at one with the world, even if the world was now crawling into his lap, skinny fingers clawing in his hair, and Koz blinked slowly, happily, at the strange, pale, colourless Pitch who looked at him with a face he'd only met a few hours earlier.

The darkness swirled up to meet him, and he knew no more.

Koz woke suddenly, white light glaring into his eyelids, sprawled uncomfortably in an unfamiliar room. He jerked, disorientated, everything strobe lights and flashing unfamiliarity, panicked impulses twanging in his nerves like plucked strings. He gasped rapidly for breath, felt as if his heart would spring out of his chest. He was covered in cold sweat.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” a familiar voice said, bare toes nudging him in the ribs, and he blinked away the after-images to see Io standing over him, naked and still looking faintly distant. She smiled at him. “Up.”

Beside her stood Cater, a crewman Koz recognised, thick-lipped and dark-skinned, with serious dark eyes that seemed to always be mired in patient thought. He reached down a hand rough with calluses to help Koz up, steadying him with an impersonal touch when Koz swayed.

Koz swore inelegantly, Io snorted and agreed.

“Feel like I've been shot through a blender twice,” she muttered as the trio made a slow progression to the light chamber nearby in order to cleanse their bodies of sweat and wake their minds a little more.

Ten minutes later, Cater, Io and Koz re-met, fully dressed and still wincing at the lightstrips as they left the temple block. “Where did everyone else go?” Koz asked, and knew he wasn't quite back in the swing of things yet by the obviousness of the question.

Io read the time on her communit. “Probably left already. It's 17:48.”

Koz cursed again and stepped up his pace. “I have a call with the Tsar at 18:00,” he explained briskly, and Cater and Io nodded in understanding.

Eventually, Io said, “I hope Pollux isn't angry with me for having sex with that priestess.”

“Really?” said Koz, a little incredulous, and Io glanced at him sidelong, raising an eyebrow and catching a slight smirk on her lips.

“You were looking rather pleased about kissing that ginger clerk, don't judge me.”

Koz was confused. He poked in his dim memories and went pale as vague recollections swam uneasily into his mind like reluctant fish. Oh stars, Koz had thought it was Pitch, that was even worse-! “It must've been the smoke,” he said, quickly, everyone knew the purification smoke had... interesting side-effects, “I'm not, that is-” He coughed to hide the flush on his cheeks as Io snickered unrepentantly at his fluster.

“The Light requires strange things of its servants.” Cater said blandly, and Koz stared firmly ahead as he redoubled his pace.

He was almost thankful he had a call with the Tsar to excuse his blatant rush to leave Io's amused company. Nonetheless, it took a while for his flush to fade, long enough that the commcrew looked at him twice as he gestured for them to leave. As promised, the Governor had had a sophisticated communit flown in, the blinking lights indicating it had already been set up.

Koz checked the privacy perimeter and swiftly erected security measures before he depressed the toggle to accept the incoming call. He had to tap in a quick passcode, but then the small, unassuming little holodisc implanted in the unit shone and formed an image of Tsar Lunar Apollo Lunanoff IX, reclined casually in a wooden dining chair with his booted feet propped up on the table beside the communit. He was drinking from a silver goblet, and took his time bothering to respond to Kozmotis' greeting.

Kozmotis waited patiently, well accustomed to the Tsar's mannerisms. The holo flickered at the edges, but still represented a clear image, right down to the fine, intricate needlework of the gold thread in the Tsar's expensive shirt, the ruffled collar, priceless embroidered frock coat tossed carelessly over the chair back, shined brown boots and cream leggings, a belt set with pearls, slender pale hands encrusted with various precious rings with a presumable magical significance, circlet pale against his neatly combed jet black hair, streaked with soft tousled white caused by an abundance of magic rather than age, magic that had paled his hair just as it had his eyes and skin. Finally, he set the goblet down with a click and met Kozmotis with a truly unnerving cold grey stare. His eyes were silver, but not the silver of good linings and contentment, but hard, brutally cold, like polished brooches with pins sharp enough to draw blood.

“My dear General,” the Tsar leaned forward, voice smooth and silky as any perfect courtier, “You are looking...” He paused to allow a quirk of his lips into a smirk as he evaluated the hologram presented to him. His eyebrow arched slightly in aristocratic disappointment. “...Functional.”

“I aim to please, my Tsar,” said Koz with just a hint of disrespectful dryness, and the Tsar's eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Is that so? And here I thought you derived pleasure from troubling my busy, busy day.”

Koz was unable to stop the snort that escaped because of that comment, and the Tsar smiled, taking another sip from his goblet and settling his pale fingers in an arch. “My Tsar, have you slept your way through the palace again?” Koz dared, and the Tsar rewarded his effrontery with another cold courtly smile.

“Beloved Pitchiner, my entire time is taken up with of course worrying about the wellbeing of my citizens, as any good ruler I strive in my every waking moment for their betterment.” The Tsar tilted his hand side to side, a careless gesture, “Naturally, I spend three quarters of my life in a bed.”

Koz found himself smiling. The Tsar was like many others in the courts, backstabbing, unbothered, cold and ruthless, only he happened to be born from a bloodline all but worshipped by the people and supported by centuries of propaganda.

He was also one of Kozmotis' few good friends, and their camaraderie came with an ease born of too many times dragged into the parlour by an annoyed Archaline who interrupted their “little war meetings” as she put them, to throw them in the light chambers for some time to dress, eat and bathe as befitting their station. Once Lunar Apollo had married his wife, Tsarina Selena had also shyly joined Archaline at these moments, hovering awkwardly in the background whenever the Tsar had grumbled or spent a little too long watching Koz dress, an element of his flirtatious nature Koz put up with in good-humour more or less – just because he accepted that the Constellations would be wiped from the universe before Tsar Apollo stopped propositioning anyone who couldn't run away fast enough didn't make it any less exasperating to deal with.

“So, tell me of this prison mess,” the Tsar said with an affectation of boredom, although his piercing stare told he was very much interested in what Koz would say.

Koz quickly summarised Pitch's appearance, leaving nothing save their interlinked past and future out (a fact Koz was still privately struggling with and felt had no relevance, moreso to do with that he couldn't bear to lay it out for the Tsar's perusal so nakedly). He went on to say that Pitch, having claimed supposed foreknowledge, had told him that the prison would collapse, and darkness would be set free to roam the stars once more.

“I see.” To his credit, the Tsar trusted Koz's seemingly implausible story about time travelling shadow men, although not without a few probing questions that prompted him to elaborate on all his theories about the Pookan Brotherhood messing with the time stream. The Tsar had suggested they had broken their rules, in order to save the Constellations from the dire fate that had so closely gripped them during the last Fearling War, and pointed out that Pitch's foreknowledge, such as it were, since it covered only a narrow stretch of a far off apocalyptic future, was unreliable now changes had been made.

With a perceptible aura of irritation, the Tsar had ruminated that it would be impossible to get a straight answer out of the Pookan Brotherhood either way.

“You are aware I sent watchmen ahead to the prison,” said the Tsar, and Kozmotis nodded. “What do you propose?”

“It is entirely possible,” said Koz slowly, “That Pitch has simply assumed my post for the time being, assuming that it is through my failure that the prison is opened as accordance to what foreknowledge he believes he has.” Strategically speaking, talking to Pitch wasn't what the Tsar had asked, and the ruthlessness in the Tsar's eyes made him rush to continue speaking. “In the event that the prison is already opened, the only escape route available is through the L2305 shuttle that was issued to me at the prison.”

The Tsar raised a sardonic eyebrow. “An L2305? Well, my men should have enough time to father children and teach them how to shoot down the craft for themselves by the time it reaches firing distance.”

Koz smiled wryly. “That is assuming that the Fearlings wouldn't have found some way to amplify the control systems, which personally I believe is highly unlikely, as the vessel,” Pitch, Pitch Pitch, not a vessel, “is extremely unskilled in the basic use of technology. I doubt he would know how to fly a shuttle at all, and the Fearlings don't either.”

“Can we simply explode the place?” the Tsar asked, “Should the Fearlings be out of control once the full force arrives.”

“It...would be inadvisable. We've never devised lightbombs strong enough to permanently destroy the Fearlings, hence why we locked them up instead. Keeping the prison intact is vital, although bombs are a last resort, it would likely only scatter them, much weakened, over a wide radius. However, faced with intelligent Fearling organisation, it may be the best choice available,” said Koz.

“You are aware that this... Pitch, will be eliminated.” The Tsar's face was calculating, but sympathy glinted.

“He doesn't have to be. A shadow mage, on the side of the Light! Imagine how much could be learnt, if we could understand shadow tactics directly. You cannot deny the training benefit.”

“But the creature is not safe, Kozmotis.”

“He is controllable, my Tsar. You will have to place faith in me, when I pledge he is as human as I am, and his shadow powers are weak – I could overpower him with ease in my moonstone armour, and I am but one soldier who was already suffering Fearling exposure.”

The Tsar watched him consideringly. “Perhaps, though I cannot base the safety of the Constellations on one man's faith, despite how dear he is to me.”

Koz lowered his head in acceptance of both the oblique threat and quiet statement of support.

“I ought to call the commander of the Guard, have him muster the troops.” The Tsar rolled his eyes in irritation, and his holo flickered as he quickly fired off summons to said commander.

“The Guard?” asked Koz, momentarily puzzled, only for the Tsar to chuckle, eyes wicked like mercury.

“You know we pretend it isn't an army in peacetime, Kozmotis,” the Tsar said, and Koz sighed, rubbed his head.

“I must say, that replacement is utterly useless, I rather look forward to working with you again. What idiot thought he'd be any use?” The Tsar sniped, apparently rather incensed, and Koz hid a smile.

“I picked my replacement, thank you. Really, my Tsar? I thought he'd appeal,” Koz commented blandly, only to be pinned with a sharp look.

Rutherford, the replacement, was very good at his job, if uncreative, and attractive in the way statues were – aesthetically pleasing and of great value so long as one did not expect to find an interesting companion in one.

“Oh, he's good in bed, but an absolute bore of a conversationalist, Kozmotis, honestly.” Koz was saved from having to respond from that little snippet and quickly hiding his mirth as the Tsar spoke to someone out of sight in his sharply dismissive tone. “Ah, Rutherford, I require you to use your brain for once, don't get panicked, now.”

“Yes, my Tsar,” the gravelly voice of Rutherford responded, without tone or inflection.

Koz quickly dictated his ideas on the force, Rutherford mildly adjusting his suggestions to fit current statistics and the Tsar, looking more bored by each passing minute, interjecting with the odd, rarely helpful comment.

The size and power of the force was swiftly debated, and the Tsar concluded that Koz would go ahead with the Molskarr and rendezvous with the force in Alpheratz, ideal for its central position, where planning would be undergone in further detail as they proceeded to the prison planet. It was a time-sensitive case, so more haste was taken with the approach than usual in the undertaking of a mission, but Koz was only thankful that the Tsar had evidently taken his urgency to heart.

“I will see you soon, my General,” the Tsar said as he rang off, “Do try and tidy yourself up a bit. I wouldn't let my hounds look so much of an embarrassment.”

Koz shook his head. “Yes, my Tsar,” he said, and ended the call.

He sat there for a moment in the chair, head resting in his hands and rubbing his temples to soothe the ache that still lingered from whatever bowlegged incense had been passed out during the purification. Then he sighed, and rose to his feet.

He would have to tell Dioscuri they were heading out immediately, and this time, to the infamous trading city of Alpheratz, the place where dreams not only came true, but knelt in chains in before him and pleaded him to give them a coin so they could persuade their master not to beat them for a night.

He was sure Dioscuri would be ecstatic. 

Chapter Text

Koz sighed, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. He squinted through exhaustion-blurred eyes down at the holoscreen, barely able to perceive the glowing letters in his state.

He was in his quarters in the Molskarr as they sailed towards Alpheratz at full speed. The small metal room was claustrophobic, but Koz liked the hints of panic fraying his nerves. He'd programmed his communit to play music that drove away the cursed silence reverberating in his head, and if Koz let himself huddle on the hard, cold floor and looked only at the white, he could take himself back to the guardroom and pretend Pitch was nearby. It was a pathetic coping method - look what the General had been reduced to - but it was all he had, and there was no one there to judge him for it, anyway. He pillowed his head on his hand, shaking off his tiredness as best as he could, and read back through the letter.

He was drafting a letter to be sent to M. Zinna Aracorn of the Pookan Brotherhood, a Pooka of his acquaintance during the war, who had served with him closely as Koz's leading commander of the Pookan unit assigned to Koz's cohort before Koz had been made General of the Army. Once he'd attained the rank, Zinna had been promoted as his ambassador general of his people, working in close tandem with Kozmotis. They'd been as close to friends as it was likely possible between a human and a Pooka, Zinna, stoic, reserved and logical to a fault, had appreciated Koz's strategic mind and Koz found his dryer-than-bone wit hilarious.

Koz hoped that Zinna would be able to put him in touch with the E. Aster Bunnymund that Pitch had mentioned in his letter. A quick bit of research had left him with sinking prospects; the Bunnymunds were a clan devoted to science and terraforming, there were no warriors amongst their number. It was unlikely one of the famed recluses of the Brotherhood would be willing to interact, let alone aid, a measly human, even if he was General and granted the exceedingly rare opportunity of visiting a Pookan Warren (as their homeplanets were named) once.

The letter was dry, sparse and exactingly formal, the sort of letter that gave enormous headaches to write. Koz had redrafted it three times; he wanted to send it off as soon as he could, but he had to make sure it was suitable enough not to be immediately tossed aside by the Brotherhood Board of Interaction. He sighed so gustily the hologram projection of his letter wavered.

The soft knock on the door made him jump, hard, and Koz cursed as he hit his head on the protruding bar of the folded up bed. Hunched on the floor as he was, his long legs splayed out over the floor and holo in his lap, the position was uncomfortable in a way that suddenly made itself known – his coccyx ached something fierce, his spine throbbed dully, his head felt bruised and he had a crick in his neck.

I'm getting old, Koz thought dully.

"General Pitchiner?" The low, rumbling baritone was instantly familiar.

"Cater?" A little self-consciously, Koz thumbed his communit to turn the softly playing music off. It was the repetitive, simple tune he'd watched the dance with for Pitch, twofold pleasant memories, Pitch's captivation by the vidscreen, obvious by the way he held tautly still as if the slightest movement would cause it to be ripped away, and Archaline in his arms, dark eyes glittering with amusement, a chilly ruby smirk. It was too private to share.

"Yes, sir. May I enter?" Cater rumbled respectfully from outside.

"Of course."

The door swished open, and the hulking frame of Cater stood silhouetted in the light. He was broad across the shoulders, with deep, thoughtful eyes sunken into his head, the shipsuit he wore straining over his barrel chest. Nonetheless, there was a profound gentleness in his aura, a quiet, warm respect that inspired trust without demanding it. His calm, liquid eyes always seemed to know more than he let on, and though he was told many secrets, he revealed none. Despite his large size, he had the ability to fade into the surroundings, unremarkable and unnoticed.

He stooped to enter, although the doorway was well clear of his height, and once he was in, he lowered himself with slow grace into a crouch, onto the same level of Koz. Wondering if the slight threat he had felt over being loomed over by Cater's superior height whilst he was sat on the floor was quite so obvious on his face, Koz afforded him the same respect and sat up, futilely trying to brush off his rumpled shipsuit.

"You look like a black hole chewed you up and spat you out, if you don't mind me saying so, sir," Cater observed. His accent was rougher than before, something with the polished, slick delivery of Cancii merchants, vaguely greasy to the ear. Was it deliberately emphasised slightly in order to dumb himself, Koz wondered. Cater was a shrewd man, no doubt he'd noticed the accent clinging to Koz's own speech and allowed his own to creep in to make Koz feel more at ease.

Koz's brows creased slightly. He didn't so much like the implication that Cater could read him with such ease. Koz snorted, rendered irritable by his discomfort. "Io sent you, then?"

Cater's warm eyes blinked slowly. "No," he said, in a measured tone which made Koz feel unaccountably bad for his pettiness, "Lieutenant Bova didn't send me to your room. I've not seen you round for dinner."

Koz rubbed his neck, embarrassed by Cater's gentle concern. "I had to get this finished." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the letter, saving it and clicking it off. Cater didn't pry, but his steady silence prompted Koz to talk, and so he did. "It's a letter," he stated, obviously, "uh, to the Brotherhood. Pitch - the other one at the prison - he, he left me to find some people for him. But I don't really know what I'm doing," he confessed, "And I'm not sure they'd help too much."

His eyes itched and burned with tiredness, and he slumped against the wall, feeling as if the energy had been sucked out of him. Cater's eyes followed the movement with kind worry.

"He must have had a reason," said Cater calmly.

"Well, he said he was going to be overtaken by the Fearlings, but I won't let that happen. These three are supposedly the best people to fight against him, but I don't know - look..." he dug out the prized letter, not really sure why he was trusting Cater so but knowing that the implicit support offered was direly wanted, "see..." He pointed out the relevant section, regretting showing the letter almost instantly as Cater's eyes scanned the personal words. He wanted to grab all of Pitch and keep it to himself, not allow Cater's warm eyes to read it. But Cater was a trustworthy man, Koz was sure Pitch wouldn't mind.

"I sent a pulse ahead to the Tsar asking him to bring this Nightlight person," added Koz, "and this letter is to a friend of mine in the Brotherhood, I'm hoping they'll help me find Bunnymund."

He had spent a lot of time in talks with the Tsar, refining military matters and being debriefed about the state of the cities around the Constellations. All was peaceful, with a few minor spats here and there, nothing new. Koz had spoken of his need to find the people named in Pitch's letter, and the Tsar, while greatly displeased – they both knew that Lunar Apollo needed Kozmotis' ingenuity to fight the Fearlings – knew there was little he could do to oppose it.

"I suppose it's a matter of fate, am I right?" the Tsar had sighed wearily, and Koz had nodded, eager to grab onto any excuse. Tsar Lunanoff, a powerful Mage and sensitive to magical forces beyond his control, knew well the powers of belief and responsibilities of fate. To a Golden Age mind, such driving forces were accepted and almost commonplace. Aside from a cross remonstrance about allowing his path to be caught up in Pitch's, the Tsar had reluctantly done nothing but accept it and offer aid to speed the quest.

"And Sanderson Mansnoozie?" asked Cater.

Koz winced. "I'm not too sure I'll bother... I mean, they're a star, they're probably... busy."

He shrugged, offering a commiserating smile to Cater, but to his mild surprise the large man remained unmoved, in fact a heaviness was settling over his saturnine face, carving grooves. His eyes seemed to shutter, turn cold and hard like flinty carnelian.

Feeling absurdly attacked by the silence, Koz justified, "Well - you know, they're...well, they don't really do anything useful, do they? Of course, spreading dreams – but that's all they really care about, isn't it?" The words came out slightly desperate – Koz found himself valuing Cater's opinion, and the quiet sailor's refusal to back him up left him floundering in confusion.

Cater stirred. "You should not underestimate those who wield the power of your deepest dreams." His tone was steeped with warning, but Koz was oblivious to it.

"But they won't attack- the Charter stops them. They're not allowed to use their powers without consent and as part of a registered service with the human authorities, like the Guild of Pilots. Besides, they're no soldiers, if you get what I mean, all you'd have to do would be to wish them and they wouldn't do anything. They're more the..." Koz trailed off, looking for a suitably polite term, "...sleeping type," he improvised, adding a smile to show he hadn't meant offence. Everyone knew it.

"You mean the fucking type." Cater's thick brows had pulled so low over his eyes they were shadowed, and he crossed his burly arms over his chest.

"Well..." Koz hedged. "I'm no xenophobe, but-"

"No," Cater held up a hand, stopping Koz's words in his throat. Surprised, Koz stared at him. He wasn't accustomed to being cut off, his word as the General was usually highly respected. He didn't realise how much it rankled him to not be afforded the accustomed respect until he did not have it. "Tell me, Pitchiner, when was the last time you spoke to a star?"

"Uh-" It wasn't like he went out of his way to avoid them, was it? They just didn't move in the same circles.

Memories of the many stars he'd seen or heard of in brothels were coming to him, sailors bragging about their nights in the arms of the wish-granters. It was hardly offensive if it was true, and it was, surely! Surely...? Koz didn't find himself so sure, and felt an embarrassed flush come over him. He'd not stopped to consider the built-in opinion before, but Cater's provocation was forcing him to evaluate and realise that perhaps it held less water than he'd realised.

"You haven't in a long time, have you? So where have you learnt all this so called information about them? From word of mouth, by other prejudiced orders within an institution that has taught you to do what you're told and not think of your own will – granted, you're General now, but before that, you were just a soldier, weren't you? It isn't your fault that you know nothing, but it is your fault if you choose to continue to live in and perpetuate ignorance." He paused to study Koz's face.

A reddish flush was blooming on the man's high cheekbones, blossoming in the gaunt hollows under his eyes. His grey eyes looked surly and uncomfortable, and he fidgeted in the shipsuit, too tight to allow him refuge in bagginess. He fiddled with the holounit, messy brown hair tumbling against his sallow cheeks. He looked wasted, ashamed, and Cater judged it as much as he was going to get from him.

He sighed and laboured to his feet. "Come on," he said, warmly enough that Koz glanced up, looking surprised to see himself still offered the hand of friendship despite the offensive blunder, "I think the others planned a game of Ringnaut tonight."

Ringnaut was a tremendously complex game involving a series of rules and a strategic amount of cards, all of which helped the player move the token towards the centre of a holo-labyrinth. It was a difficult game of mathematical precision and strategic planning, and Koz was excellent at it.

He won the first game easily, earning the other crewmembers' admiring respect. There were only the five of them at the table, Cater, Koz, Connor Meterios, Serah Aska and Alice Fochik; Io and Dioscuri were apparently in the bridge keeping the ship on course. A snickering Aska had winked and nudged enough for Koz to understand that the captain and his lieutenant were probably not paying the strictest attention to the ship's controls.

He grinned and let himself go, a bit. They were in a relatively calm sector of space, the helm systems were well equipped to deal with autopiloting the ship, and it had been far too long since Koz had had fun.

Alice Fochik was a pretty slender thing, finely textured skin and pleasing oval eyes. She'd spent most of the night pressed against Koz's arm, giggling at his jokes as her cheeks flushed rosy from more than the warmth in the room. Koz enjoyed the attention; she was pretty, and it was harmless enough, even if it did earn him a few sharp glares from Meterios, who made a point of draping his arm over Fochik's petite shoulders when he had the chance, tugging her away from Koz. Koz was more amused than threatened, though he found the display vaguely annoying. It wasn't as if he were seducing her, only enjoying her company, and if he happened to enjoy the sight too – well, Koz was still a man and he'd spent a long time with only Fearlings for company.

One of Aska's bawdy jokes had the riotous table in fits again, the good spirits loosened by a spare glass or so. The flushed engineer was lively, her hair cropped short in the naval fashion and bright brown eyes glittering with mischief. Meterios was his least favourite person of the crew, arrogant and self-assured, with a handsomeness to his startlingly blue eyes and carefully swept back blond hair that spoke of his confidence. Nevertheless, he knew his stuff, the man was an accomplished pilot. He had been the one to land the Molskarr at Alsciaukat.

Cater didn't speak much, interjecting the odd rumbling comment that punctuated the fluidity of the conversation like bass notes in a discordant song. Koz allowed himself to get mildly drunk on the bowlegged mead that Aska had swept up at Alsciaukat, until the edges of his world buzzed pleasantly and the screams in his mind died off. Normally, Koz was a surly drunk, but the heated glow of companionship and Alice's summery eyes and manner was enough to turn his attitude around.

Aska's cheeks were permanently lit red, flushed from drunkenness, and she jokingly punched Meterios' arm and sent him to the floor groaning like a child, where he passed out with a soft snore. Cater remained at the table with Aska, exchanging increasingly lewd stories until they were helpless with laughter, Cater's booming thunder and Aska's rough drawl.

Koz was evidently drunk enough that his good thought was impaired, for when Alice linked her lily-white arms around his neck and pulled him into her room, he went eagerly enough, with no thought for the morning's regrets.

Tsar Lunar Apollo Lunanoff waited impatiently at the dock, shifting from foot to foot and glaring at the low, smoky sky. He'd elected to wait for the Molskarr here instead of up in the palace in relative comfort; Lunar Apollo admitted to being eager to see Kozmotis Pitchiner again, and reassure himself that his favoured general was well. Not to mention his rooms at the palace were tedious, and the Tsar knew himself well enough to realise that if he decided to visit one of the many, many establishments – perhaps pay a star to keep him company for the night – he'd neglect his duty to meet with Pitchiner.

Look at me, being honourable, he thought wryly, Pitchiner might even be pleased. Stars knew the man was worryingly obsessed with fulfilling his job to the utmost – useful in an underling, honestly, but the Tsar often wondered if Pitchiner knew how to have fun... at all.

The great trading city of Alpheratz was a wonderful place, in the Tsar's opinion. Of course, the higher levels, were fresh, clean air circulated were beautiful, one of the wonders of the Constellations, sat upon a dense network of hollow tubes, in which were planted the most fragrant and glorious of gardens. Skimmers buzzed between the high rise palaces like darting silver fish, and the palace of the governor crowned the city like a milky cupola, offering a wide view over the horizon of the city. But all of that was nothing more than a veneer, a lie, for the ugly stinking truth that lay in the lower levels of the city.

If he looked down, beyond the gleaming shells of the skimmers, the fine walls of the palaces, he could see nothing but a roiling mat of dense smog concealing the lower grounds of Alpheratz from view.

The scum lived at the bottom, near ground floor, in the sewers and warrens, living short lives poisoned by the thick fumes. The rotten stench was so powerful it was rumoured it could kill a man without a face mask, and all shady business of a thriving trading city, the lies and shit and stealing and whoring and gambling went on down there, the authorities didn't care sufficiently to send men into the stench-ridden, disease-plagued, heavily smoky corridors of ash and soot that crouched beneath their gleaming beauties. Alpheratz was a glorious city built on the backs of the decay and rot, and the Tsar loved the dichotomy of it, the corruption that seethed beneath the surface like a boil, swelling and ready to burst.

He turned his pale eyes back to the task at hand, scanning the enormous docks for any sign of the Molskarr that bore his General. Alpheratz was a trading city, and the docks were massive, separated into type, boasting huge wharves and moorings that extended far into the blackness of space, so far that skimmers had to be sent out to collect crews miles from the actual planet. Great harbour barriers surrounded the city, through which the exits were huge shipping gates, lifted to allow in influxes of new trade. Guards (supposedly) stopped each ship at the gate to ask for licensing and querying their purpose in Alpheratz.

The docks' vastness made it difficult to distinguish any individual ship, and the Tsar found his attention wandering easily. He was transfixed by the sight of a rather pretty star making their way down one of the boardwalks, harassed and grabbed by every human they passed, until they made it to the end and leapt clean off, jetting straight upwards in a spiral of glittering coral pink, heading straight for the harbour gates and then out into the depths of space, to catch the next shooting star and bring dreams to wishers.

He smiled privately to himself. Ah, star pilots. Surprisingly useful tools, if you give them the chance to really show their mettle. And what a bold little star, too, to make their unaccompanied way through the throng of humans in order to leave. They evidently didn't fear the dusthunters – bandits famous for the capture and selling of stars as slaves – in that crowd, though such trade was rife in Alpheratz.

The Tsar, while privately aware and patron of most of the unlawful and vile acts of his people, was of course politically and publicly firmly against it. The legislation dictated that any star registered by the Guild of Pilots was immune to having their duty tampered with or "obstructed", such as by bandits. Most dusthunter establishments simply claimed the stars they kept were chained for their own protection from unscrupulous humans, did not belong to any guild, and were being 'safeguarded' by the oh-so kindly humans, since stars, as non-humans, were unfamiliar with human society.

The Tsar hid a wicked smirk behind his pallid hand. As if anyone truly believed it when they trotted out all those lies... but the stars were usually beaten into compliance by the time any half-hearted activist decided to ask questions.

It wasn't like Tsar Lunanoff supported slavery. He didn't. It was a horrible and inhumane practice, and he knew that the stars were a lovely people, especially once he got them into bed. But while the Constellations disregarded stars, Tsar Lunanoff had a very valuable subservience in a race powerful enough to sweep the Constellations of any humans they pleased if they so wanted. The stars were simply too dangerous to not be bound by Dimitri's Charter, and the disrespect afforded them by the humans and general attitude that they were useless stopped people from fearing the power the stars had over them too much, (honestly, they allowed the stars to interfere with their conscious minds nightly and didn't stop to wonder if perhaps the creatures could abuse their powers) and left the stars in a nicely controllable position towards the Tsar.

Of course, there were always exceptions, but those were useful in their own right. The Tsar grinned again. The Lunanoffs could always find uses for the outliers.

The Pookan Brotherhood, who regarded humans with contempt, were the reason the Tsar was so wary of keeping racial relations – there was an immense power difference between the Constellations' forces and that of the Pookan Brotherhood. Time-travelling mages with the power to shapeshift into forms so massively muscular they were practically unstoppable, gifted with a natural affinity for earth and technology so advanced that humans looked like stupid circus monkeys beside them, no, the meek armies of humanfolk barely stood a chance, even when they were led by a strategic genius such as Pitchiner.

But with the star pilots under the Tsar's thumb, bound by Dimitri's Charter, even the Brotherhood was wise enough to keep it even. If war ever broke out, a few simple wishes was all that it would take and the Tsar would have a race of super-soldiers, virtually indestructible, inorganic and possessed of incredible hallucinogenic powers. The Fearlings they produced at their deaths was barely a secondary matter. It was a political mess, a complex chess board set up with pieces that reeked with filth. Such was all courts.

"My Tsar." The pilot of the skimmer, one in the Lunanoff employ, discreetly pointed his attention to the approaching crew, who had disembarked from their own skimmer to meet the net of bodyguards surrounding the Tsar. There were only four guards openly with him, a few more stationed in convenient places to tail him and one or two in sniping positions, but in his four, two were also highly trained mages. The Tsar's own grasp of magic wasn't to be sniffed at, either.

Anything could happen in Alpheratz, after all.

The Tsar's cold eyes flicked dismissively over the crew of the Molskarr, recognising them all from the reports he had been delivered. He focused his attention on Pitchiner, a frown creasing his impassive face as he surveyed his General. The man was still not back to his prime after the prison ordeal, and the Tsar noted that he'd have to have the cooks increase his nutrients and impose some forced exercise time on him. He was looking better than the holocall at Alsciaukat, but the General was the Tsar's best weapon, and what sort of person allowed their weapon to become blunt and useless?

They put him in a coverall, how dreadfully unflattering. The baggy coverall hid all of Pitchiner's best features, his trim waist and long legs, for one, and was such an unappealing shade of navy that it made his olive skin looked washed out and gaunt. The Tsar shuddered delicately. Clothes were a priority. His General could not go around looking like such a disgrace. Why, it was painful to the eyes.

The crew all dropped to their knees the moment they were before him, and the Tsar let them sit there for a moment boredly, before abruptly he pushed off the side of the skimmer he had been leaning against and paced around them in a circle, his guards moving to cover him. He exchanged meaningless courtesies with the scraping crew and then dismissed all but Pitchiner, a flick of the wrist instructing him to remain kneeling. The crew would be transported to the palace, where they would be put up in rooms by the Governor. It was a rich promise, the Tsar thought.

With a subtle sigh of exasperation, Pitchiner did as he was ordered, eyes properly downcast as Lunar Apollo approached. "You look hideous, Pitchiner. I thought I ordered you to clean yourself up before you arrived?" said the Tsar, making his displeasure known.

"My apologies, my Tsar." Closer now, the Tsar could see that most of the haggardness in Pitchiner's face was due to deep bags beneath his eyes, which were bleary and bloodshot. In fact, it looked rather like Pitchiner was suffering from an awful hangover. Privately, the Tsar broke into a smile. Maybe there was hope for Pitchiner's (very deeply buried) inner fun?

I hope he didn't spend the night getting drunk alone like some miserable old sod. It was exactly the sort of thing Pitchiner would do. With no respect for the man's personal space, the Tsar gripped his chin and forced his head up, Pitchiner's eyes sliding obediently away from his to remain downcast. The action caused a spike of irritation in the Tsar.

You learnt this game too well, Kozmotis. Still, the Tsar was superior. He'd make Pitchiner lose his courtesy – Lunar Apollo was a master at making people feel uncomfortable.

"You always did look good on your knees, my general, I'd almost forgotten. Perhaps you could remind me... later?" said the Tsar in a friendly manner. He slowly licked his lips, and Pitchiner jerked as his cheeks seared red and his grey eyes almost popped. The guards around them did a remarkably good impression of people who were not eavesdropping.

It really was too easy with Pitchiner, ridiculously so. The Tsar laughed and backed off, letting the flustered soldier get to his feet.

"Come along, Kozmotis, I've someone you wanted to meet," the Tsar called over his shoulder as he leapt up into the skimmer.

Pitchiner's blush still hadn't faded by the time the skimmer set moving, and the Tsar smirked at the sight, rather smug. Kozmotis glared, but seemed to compose himself. They sat opposite each other in the skimmer, and the Tsar entertained himself briefly with the possibilities of such small space while he waited for Pitchiner to speak. The Tsar was well aware that Pitchiner's sense of honour and his refusal to believe he would enjoy the company of men and women equally (a very old argument between the old friends) would prevent anything such as he imagined from happening, but well, he could dream, and if he was going to be saddled with arguably the most time-consuming and tedious job the Constellations offered, he was going to vicariously enjoy his privileges.

Not that the sight of Pitchiner in a dreadful coverall was much of one.

"You brought Nightlight?" asked Kozmotis eagerly, and the Tsar nodded.

"He already agreed to help you, when I explained your circumstances," said the Tsar. Kozmotis smiled, a genuine, warm smile.

"Thank you, my Tsar," he murmured, making a gesture of gratitude, and the Tsar offered him a chilly smile of approval. His eyes gleamed wickedly as he leaned forward, one pale hand sliding possessively onto his weapon's knee. Pitchiner only watched him with a tired, but wary look.

"So, which one did you end up sleeping with?" The Tsar purred, and it was immediately worth it for the stunned and horrified look on Kozmotis' face, "You're still in denial, so it was one of the girls – that engineer? Seems like she'd be assertive enough for you." He winked to leave no doubt as to what he meant.

"My Tsar!" shrieked Koz, as prudish as ever and so delightfully embarrassed.

I just can't help it, he's too hilarious. The Tsar felt even a little bad for pushing his general out of his comfort zone, but his reactions were too humorous to resist.

"Oh, Kozmotis, please, don't insult me. I was in and out of cathouses before you'd even stopped blushing at holding hands," the Tsar said dismissively, and Pitchiner looked like he wanted to fall out of the skimmer.

Kozmotis was quite red now, and irritably he snapped, "Can we discuss the thousands of people that might die if another Fearling war breaks out, and not your opinion on my sex life?"

The Tsar whistled. "You're still calling it a life?"

At Pitchiner's venomous glare, he held up his hands and admitted surrender, laughing so hard he almost thought he'd break something. He hugged his stomach, shaking, small hiccups of laughter tearing their way from his reluctant throat without his permission. He wiped away a tear that shone faintly with its own soft radiance, ignoring Pitchiner's widened eyes at another sign of the magic that suffused Lunanoff bodies.

"Very well," the Tsar finally chuckled, sucking in a few deep breaths of air, "Plans."

"I'd like to meet Nightlight," said Pitchiner, "I've sent a letter on to the Brotherhood using your code," He smiled apologetically at the Tsar, who waved it off absently, "And then I have to find some way to track down that star..." He sighed, seeming overwrought already, and rubbed his temples.

"Well, why don't you just ask a star where to find this one?" the Tsar suggested, reclining back against his seat and crossing his legs. They'd reach the palace soon.

"But where?" sighed Pitchiner heavily. "They keep away from us, the Guild's registry of pilots is always hidden no matter which city you go to, save the capital."

In most prominent cities, the Guild of Pilots had an office that stars passed through on their rounds, signing off to a registrar to be certain they were still accounted for and were keeping to the Charter. To aid with this, every star was issued an identification second name, which was often geographically based on whichever dusty rock they'd come from, and was shared with a few others, and the list further narrowed down by recording the colour of the glow emitted from their sand, which was unique to every star. Every qualified pilot was registered, but the guild was so rarely enforced that few bothered to check stars anymore. These offices were carefully hidden to stop dusthunters from busting them and taking the occupants captive.

"You're in Alpheratz, my dear Kozmotis," said the Tsar expansively, gesturing around out of the skimmer window. "There are stars all around you. You simply have to look... down." He pointed down at the barrier of poisonous smog which rolled like a great sea between the buildings.

"My Tsar...?" Kozmotis affected to not understand, so the Tsar leaned forward again and said, "Any star can find another, like a great transmission network – it's how they keep in contact through space. And there are thousands of stars here Kozmotis, chained to the walls in as many brothels as you can count. Take one and get it to tell you where the others are."

Pitchiner's mouth dropped open. "My Tsar, you're a genius!"

"I try," said the Tsar with false-modesty, shrugging his shoulders. "I can even point you to the locations of a few establishments – known through word of mouth, of course." He had to smirk at the patently disbelieving look Pitchiner shot him, but then grew serious, "Obviously, I am fully unaware of their presence in the city." He held Pitchiner's eyes to cement the message. The Tsar would not allow himself to be mixed up in any of the fall-out that may occur. Any trouble that Pitchiner caused would be his to deal with.

Pitchiner nodded deeply. He paused. "But... if the workers were willing to tell us where their kin are..." The dusthunters would have already emptied the guilds of any stars and taken the registry lists for themselves.

The Tsar shrugged airily. "I never said they'd be willing to tell you. But you're a soldier, Pitchiner, I'm sure you have ways of making someone do what you want."

There was a weighted pause.

"...Understood, my Tsar."

Chapter Text

The Tsar was paler than normal by the time the skimmer slipped into a smooth landing inside the palace's hangar. His usual skin tone was pallid, but now he looked downright sickly, the translucence of his skin pronouncing the hollows of his cheeks and beneath his eyes. As the ride went on, more and more of the wit and sarcasm he used to keep the conversation flowing dropped away until he was silent entirely, leaning back surreptitiously into his seat and anxiously twisting a ring around a finger damp with sweat.

Koz watched this transformation helplessly. He knew that the Tsar did not travel well; he never had, and suffered from severe sickness on the smallest jaunts from his beloved Towers. If it hadn't been for one other clue, Koz would have dismissed the symptoms completely as yet another indication of the Tsar's unsuitability to space travel.

If it hadn't been for the fact that his dark, carefully combed black hair, was slowly turning white at the roots, Koz would have had no cause for concern at all. Most people did not have colour-changing hair, not even the Pooka. It was probably some facet of his Magery, all Lunanoffs were born with very pale hair and bodies that tended to darken.

But the Tsar was prickly when sick, Koz knew from experience that he did not take well to the slightest insinuation that his impressive fortifications were being lain low by something so human as illness.

For all the reverence most people held the Lunanoffs in, Koz sometimes wondered if Lunar Apollo remembered he was human at all.

Maybe he isn't, not truly. Koz shook the intrusive thought off. Now was not the time for fearful wonderings.

“My Tsar, we are nearly there,” Koz said in a carefully neutral voice. Lunar Apollo stared blankly at him, his pale eyes struggling to focus. His pupils suddenly contracted to bare pinpricks, and a faint glow lit up his skin.

He sagged, unhealthy greyish white, and scrabbled a hand to his chest, as if his beating heart pained him. His translucent hand grabbed weakly at the skimmer door for support and slid off.

“My Tsar!” Koz shot to his feet and supported his Tsar before he could fall to the floor. Lunar Apollo shivered weakly against Koz, his hair paling at an alarming rate. One inky strand turned silver, then another, and another.

The Tsar cursed, casting a bleary, yet baleful, eye out of the dimmed window of the skimmer. He hissed something incomprehensible under his breath, and seemed to centre himself, cracking down harshly on the weakness he was showing. Laboriously, his spine stiffened and his shoulders squared. His face fell back into the smooth mask he normally wore.

The change was almost frightening – it was as if at once the Tsar had banished any weakness, fortifying himself with a skill of acting so superb it was terrible to watch. If only his hair and skin weren't so pale, and his mouth downturned with the faintest grim line, it would be believable even to Koz who had just seen him fall apart. Lunar Apollo's fingers curled in a proprietary manner over Koz's arm, and he turned a faint smile upon his general.

“I require your assistance,” he said, as if he had not just toppled over.

“My Tsar-!?” Koz's fear was undeterred. The last thing the Constellations needed was instability on the throne – the Tsarina was barely more than a girl, and her son still a baby. They needed Lunar Apollo, and Koz didn't want to lose a friend either.

“Oh, don't be bothersome, Kozmotis,” said the Tsar airily. “I may not be a woman, but I've certainly had my fair share of moonsickness.”

While Kozmotis puzzled over that bizarre remark, the Tsar tapped politely on the door of the skimmer, which was immediately opened by a scraping footman. Leaning decorously on Koz's arm as elegantly as any lady of the high courts, the Tsar stepped down from the skimmer, greeting the important-looking retinue with a gracious nod, perfectly courteous, perfectly dismissive, perfectly, flawlessly royal. There was not a discernible sign that he had suffered at all, not even on the polite way he held to his escort.

Said retinue hurried to bow and prostrate themselves before the royal Tsar, who surveyed them with his customary cold arrogance, despite the face that he was still holding rather tightly onto Koz, who supported him as discreetly as he could. The Tsar exchanged courtesies with the other officials, introducing Koz, who grumbled his replies curtly, keeping his chin high and forehead smooth, as Archaline had once taught him.

Well, all the assembled bowed, save for one dreamy looking boy, ageless in appearance, with milk-smooth skin and eyes like captured starlight. There was a happy little smile on the boy's face as he stared off at the ceiling somewhere, air-headed and perfectly content. He was attired in expensive looking dark armour emblazoned with the Lunanoff crest and carried a wicked lance nonchalantly, as if it was not a deadly weapon. Without being told, Koz knew that this was Nightlight. He shared the same slant of features as the Tsar, and coupled with their pale hair and faintly shining skin, they could almost be father and son.

“Nightlight,” said the Tsar, with just a hint of sharpness in his voice, attracting the airy boy's attention.

With a jump, Nightlight blinked and beamed wonderfully at the Tsar. Suddenly, his simple features fell in concern upon noticing some sign unbeknownst to Koz, and immediately the boy hurried close and linked his arm around his Tsar's waist. Nightlight looked steadily at Koz, pale gaze oddly unnerving in its seriousness.

“Hello,” said Koz awkwardly, and like the break of dawn, Nightlight smiled beautifully, his free hand brushing marble smooth and cool fingers over Koz's forehead, drawing a line from his hairline down to the tip of his nose. Koz blinked, startled, and Nightlight laughed soundlessly, eyes glittering with ethereal amusement.

“This is Nightlight, my General,” said the Tsar, casually ignoring the Governor of Alpheratz, who was beginning to fidget the longer the Tsar made him wait. Koz was perfectly content to let Lunar Apollo play his little games with the mind of the Alpherati Governor.

“Stars shine upon you, Nightlight.” Koz twisted his hand over his sternum. The Tsar was still holding onto him, so with a degree of gracelessness, Koz left his arm tucked to the Tsar's side.

Lunar Apollo gave them both pleased looks, as if he was extremely content to find himself between them, and tilted his face towards Nightlight, who obligingly tipped his head in order to hear the softly murmured words. Nightlight nodded to whatever the Tsar said, smiling faintly and eyeing Koz cheekily.

Koz frowned a little, knowing somehow that he was being discussed, but unable to translate the conversation. The Tsar stroked Koz's forearm, squeezing appreciatively. “Thank you, my General,” he murmured, then his hand slipped from Koz's forearm.

Lunar Apollo kissed the boy's forehead like Nightlight was his son, and without further ado, he let Nightlight lead him away, back straight and firm. As they walked, Nightlight glanced over his shoulder and smiled cheerily at Koz, who jerked his hand in an approximation of a wave, feeling nonplussed.

How bizarre.

The matter of the Tsar's sickness slipped quickly from his mind upon reaching the quarters allocated for him by the Governor of Alpheratz, Lord Tabor. Koz had had dealings with him in high courts and found him a most unpleasant and greasy fellow, palms sliding with the gold coins shining with his people's blood. Nonetheless, he was rich, extremely so, and his wealth was displayed in the guest rooms.

The whole thing reeked of opulence done to extravagance. Gilt glittered in every reflective surface, and rich tapestries depicting various bloody battles of Alpheratz's history. To his horrified mortification, Koz even noticed a figure that was most clearly himself, standing valiantly, garbed in a vibrant gold thread that seemed to glow within the tapestry, sword aloft, against a tide of darkness. He brushed his fingers tentatively against the material and sucked in a surprised breath. It was real.

Tapestries were rare among the Constellations. Wool and thread required vast quantities of space to manufacture in a civilisation of city-planets that needed worlds allotted for farming, and so were expensive. Only the richest and most decadent could afford both the rare labour and the raw material.

The carpet was thick and deep sombre red. Looking at it, Koz had the insanely childish urge to throw off his boots and dig his toes into the luxurious softness. He cleared his throat, feeling guilty even without an audience.

Never had Koz been more aware of his background aboard the mining ship as he wandered around the fancy rooms. Everywhere he turned, there was finely made dark furniture, so heavily carved (and made of real wood!) it seemed to suck in light. The room was ornate to a fault, heavy and dark, laden with sin in a clumsily overdone style that in its sheer expensiveness was pulled off. Last of all, there were the windows, great, paned affairs, which led out into a small private grove, which was shielded by thick plexiglass. Koz assumed he must be standing within one of the garden tubes he'd observed sprouting from the high-rise manors like spider legs.

It was the minuscule garden that captivated Koz the most. He could count on one hand the amount of times he'd seen real, living plants up close; at his villa, neither he nor Archaline being particularly nurturing souls, there had been neat, hologram projections in tidy rows around the gravel beds. He lingered by them, crouching down to examine their delicate leaves, poking and prodding the soils and delighting in the texture. Nothing was more indicative of Tabor's respect for his high rank than a garden.

Even the air felt fresher in his lungs. He sat down beside one odd-looking flower he couldn't name, cupping the whisper-fine petals in his hand and marvelling at the tiny organism. A murmur of dampness against his palm had him grinning like a fool.

Was this what Pitch had meant? Koz could barely imagine thousands and thousands of these small gardens pushed together. And the freedom to wander around them all, without having to pay through the nose-! He couldn't wrap his head around it. They just left nature free?

Scuttling out from underneath a leaf, a small creature gave Koz the shock of his life. He jumped and at once barked a command for it to identify itself. The creature ignored him. It was an odd specimen, small as his thumbnail and black all over save for the orange bands on its carapace. It had six small legs with two larger poking from its head. Koz cycled through the variety of languages he'd been taught, but the creature answered to none of them. It continued advancing, waving its legs at him in a menacing manner.

Evidently the creature was ignorant of all the ways Koz knew how to communicate. It did not express the habits of a sentient creature, and was beginning to rather alarm him, so military instincts kicked in as he immediately crushed it under his boot. He went into a crouch and studied the hostile curiously.

An orange ooze was seeping from the carcass, and Koz programmed his comm for a quick life scan. The strange indigenous creature, which Koz assumed had not been sentient, danger unknown, was dead, no pulse registered.

Koz poked it.

Nothing happened. An identification flashed, giving him the information in the Alpherati dialect first.

'Kel'oshki, the poison beetle,', his comm read, 'common to the city Alpheratz, where it has bred from the fumes of the undercity. The beetle's blood is deadly poisonous, hence the name, and able to kill a human male of average statistics in under two minutes.' The scroll continued on, but Koz lost interest quickly.

Were these the sort of things that occurred in gardens? Earth sounds like a dangerous place, thought Koz wisely, and straightened.

The brush with danger had reminded him of his duty, and he left the garden, surreptitiously kicking free any trace of soil contaminant on his attire, which was no longer the oh-so-offensive shipsuit he'd worn aboard the Molskarr but something a little more discreet for venturing into Alpheratz. He'd queried the whereabouts of the crew during the short skimmer ride, to be provided with room numbers. Generously, Tabor had appointed them rooms within the same corridor, upon not-so-delicate request by the Tsar. Koz smirked to himself. Friendship with the Tsar certainly had its benefits.

Koz was a smart soldier, and as any soldier knew, going practically unarmed and unaccompanied into foreign, probably hostile territory with the addition of mind-altering powers being thrown about with nary a care, well, it wasn't advisable.

That wasn't to say Koz hadn't done it before – but that was a story for another time and a drunker audience.

Koz planned to ask Cater to accompany him into the belly of the beast underneath Alpheratz. The man had shown that he had more of a passing information about stars, and was a strong and able character, easily able to back Koz up in a fight should it come to that.

Koz was also to be monitored by a close skimmer pilot in the employ of the Tsar, should he need to get away quickly, and had acquired new, disguising clothes just for the occasion, complete with many different weapons stashed inside, including his favoured short sword, beneath the long cloak.

He rapped sharply on the door that belonged to Cater, waiting impatiently for the man to emerge. When the door did open, revealing a blinking and somewhat bemused dark head, Koz summarised his quest in a swift, concise manner.

He was eager to be gone, to get his information, and get out. The cathouses had never been his area of comfort, and the captive stars more worried than seduced him. Too long being the confidant of highly sensitive information, Koz thought dryly.

Cater looked steadily at him. “You want to go into a brothel to ask a star to find this Mansnoozie of yours,” he stated in his low, rumbling voice, somehow managing to make the blandly delivered statement incredulous.

“Yes,” said Kozmotis, raising his chin to meet Cater's stare with his own steady grey eyes.

Cater shook his head slowly, in disbelief. “They will not tell you,” he warned. His face was lined deeply with concern, but a single look at Koz told Cater that he would not be dissuaded. Cater passed a hand over his face with a reluctant sigh, and acquiesced. Koz could tell the moment his broad shoulders slumped that Cater had agreed to his plan.

“You are a madman, General Pitchiner,” said Cater.

He grinned broadly. Koz valued this man's opinion, counted him as a friend – and how good it was to be able to use that word again – and he hoped to include him on further adventures. Cater was trustworthy, if his demeanour hadn't proved that, the extensive profiling Koz had requested on all his crewmates did. Cater was a man of mystery, kept his and everyone else's secrets well.

“But you'll follow,” said Koz charmingly. He glanced over Cater's clothing. “Do you have anything a little more...?”

“Do not worry, Pitchiner. I know these places.” He disappeared back inside his room, idly peeling off the doublet he was wearing and hanging it carefully inside a walnut wardrobe. Koz leaned against the door, arms folded as he stared into the hallway.

It didn't take long for Cater to change, and when he reappeared Koz blinked at the transformation. Cater slipped so seamlessly into the role of a peasant that it was clear, just like Koz, that he'd spent a substantial amount of time as one. A grim smile quirked on Cater's thick lips at Koz's blatant surprise, and Koz found himself flushing and clearing his throat in embarrassment.

Awkwardly, he jerked his chin in approval and smartly turned on his heel, automatically falling into a sharp military step. Cater followed him, twitching with amusement, and once Koz realised what he was doing, he stopped instantly, feeling his cheeks warm. Cater cleared his throat, evidently struggling not to laugh, and Koz glared at him out of the corner of his eye.

This time making a concerted effort to walk normally, they proceeded to the hangar, where a beat-up skimmer was waiting for them, the pilot leaning casually against the side of the vehicle. The pilot was androgynous and forgettable, dressed in dark clothing with a face-mask. They tossed Cater and Koz a face mask each, who slipped them over their noses, despite the breathers they both still wore around their necks.

Cater and Koz crammed awkwardly into the skimmer, bumping knees generously. It was rather spacious, actually, albeit with ripped seats, the stuffing falling out, entirely unlike the smooth, luxuriously appointed one the Tsar had used to bring them to Tabor's palace. At a guess, Koz estimated four people could fit inside. There were tinted windows, outside of which Koz could see the dingy grey walls blurring past them as the skimmer smoothly lifted off and plummeted towards the haze of smoke.

It dropped like a stone, thrusters off, allowing the lighter gravity of the planet to do as much work as it could. Swiftly, they were immersed in the sea of smoky fog, and lights appeared only dim, damp halos in the cloying darkness. Windows that gaped like empty eyes stared watchfully as the outsiders hurtled past, and there were flashes of furtive movement in the shadows, abortive criminals scuttling back into their lairs with fright clawing at their bellies.

It was filthy, rotten and vile, charred through to the core, and as Koz peered nervously out of the window he couldn't help but think it was a place that screamed Pitch, the carnival of the broken, the dirty, the depraved, a night circus of horrors and decadent indulgences sold for a coin, two, three, watch the purse now, or the strings will be cut. Or a throat, perhaps. A thrill of risk, a crawl of disgust, a throb of anonymity, a fire of pleasure – here in the belly of the beast, the rotting fangs closed shut around the bleeding necks of the rich, their gold sliding from their ornamental palaces through the cracks in the pale pastel walls, (paint it pink to cover the blood stain, dear), that blood-gold spinning down the repugnant gullet into the stinking, smoke-stacked colonies of rats and plague. A place to live, a place to forget about living.

Corpses lay abandoned in rooms that peeled with damp and blew dancing ghost smoke figures. The dead did not die here, here they lived, decomposing faces sliding alight in a grin from far enough, their stench hidden in the malevolent miasma that choked and consumed all unfortunate enough to descend this low. Even in the sheltered skimmer, Koz felt his eyes water and his throat rasp dryly – hoarse, asthmatic coughs rattled through the glassless windows, chasing them like rheumatic seabirds diving for a kill in oil-spilt waters.

Lights screamed epileptic madness out into the voiceless smog, indifferent to the frantic whiling of wasted lives, flashing and discordant in an cacophony of chaos. Various signs blurred past, neon sins promising false escape. The one they eventually came to was no better or worse than the others.

Koz felt ill as they stopped, outside a dingy establishment with a star nailed to its entrance, tied up in a cage and tormented by a crowd of jeering patrons, who shoved sharpened sticks through the bars, making the little creature cry out and squirm. It did not bleed, and its mouth was gagged by some vicious looking lead muzzle that leaked poison into the poor creature's face, charring their almost colourless sand black and swelling painfully, the original colour long since lost underneath layers of come, blood, dirt and grime. Its small hands and feet were tied at the four corners of the cage, rendering it largely immobile, by more of the thick lead chains, and Koz felt nausea threaten to overcome him at the sight of the thick, brutish burns and scars on the gritty hide. The patrons clustered around it, some openly taking advantage of the club's free entertainment instead of the cleaner, hireable stars inside, painting it like it was an animal and cheering when they could make it scream, an action that only forced the gag to cut harshly into their mutilated flesh.

Cater beside him went stiff at the sight, dark eyes lit with rage. Koz placed a hand on his arm, feeling the muscles tense and knot underneath his palm as Cater fought to control himself. Koz could hear Cater's teeth grinding as the star jerked and sobbed dryly once more.

“Why doesn't it just disconnect its nervous system?” Koz whispered sympathetically. “I thought they could do that?”

Cater's fists were clenched so tightly Koz wondered if he'd break the skin. “Fear,” the tall crewman spat, and then all but marched into the club, patrons quailing from the aggressiveness radiating from his dangerous, coiled frame. Feeling rather meek, Koz trailed in his wake.

What could make them so afraid that they'll submit to even that torture? Koz thought, blinking and coughing in the dense smoke of the room.

It was a stinking Eden of licentious debasement. Fumes hung low and gravid to the floor, concealing it, gum pasted and grey, from view. Figures moved in the dark, waitresses in low slung dresses with bruised thighs, bearing platters of alcohol. A dingy bar with greasy bottles so unwashed even the light seemed to shudder away from them. Patrons, glum and secretive, made merry, tossing chipped dice onto cheap tables that staggered and groaned under their weight. But all of this was secondary, taken in on a glance, and then immediately dismissed.

There were stars.

Long poles anchored firmly into ground and ceiling, and to these they were chained by more of those dark, ugly lead collars, were the most visionary, beautiful creatures Kozmotis Pitchiner had ever seen. His steps slowed, and he stopped entirely, rooted in place and mind crawling to daze of fumes and wonder. They seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly, ethereal light, catching in their glittering hair, their voluptuous bodies shifting and blazing with entrancing fires that flickered and wavered, beckoning, daring, come closer, why don't you come closer? Beauty so irresistible it was painful to look at – Koz's eyes could not watch them all and his heart ached with the force of his need. Because it was that – a need, eclipsing the desire for air, for sustenance, nothing more than shallow wants in the face of this impossible vision, these incredible, insurmountably glorious creatures.

His blood turned to fire and his mouth went dry. It wasn't something as base, as human as attractiveness – no, the eerie wonder of these creatures was beyond it. Koz could not fathom the filthy creature outside the club in the same category as these illusory beings, angels wreathed in light and fire, devout servants worshipped at the altars of their bodies, were led tripping and stumbling into alcoves shielded by heavy curtains, their credit disappearing into the club's coffers as they lingered, to share one last heavenly kiss, mesmeric eyes drawing in deeply in the shadows, blossom-soft lips that lingered in the shapes of damnation – it was easy to lose a mind here, easier still to lose a life – at once, Koz had fallen in love and had his heart broken by every illusive, sirenic being, beyond flesh, beyond organic matter, ascended into iridescence, fragments of dreamspun dust woven into form.

Dimly, Koz became aware that a voice, low and urgent, was calling into his ear, a rough grip shaking him. He ignored it, transfixed, until abruptly a dark hand clapped over his eyes, and instinctively he struggled as he was turned around, away from the captivating sight of the dancing, calling stars.

“Snap out of it, Pitchiner-”

He hissed and twisted in the unfriendly grip, elbows jerking to catch the man in the ribs. He was muscled with little effort into a wall and his face slammed hard enough against it that lights danced in front of his eyes. Dazed, he had no choice but to listen, when a solid chest pinned him roughly to the wall and his hands were reduced to limply plucking rags.

“Kozmotis, Pitchiner, listen to me, snap out of it – they're entrancing you, it's their job-” The voice was familiar, low and deep and oddly greasy sounding – Cater.

“Cater?” he questions, feeling confused and adrift, and Cater's voice changed, encouraging still.

“Open your eyes now,” Cater urged, and Koz, without the mind to think of refusing, did as he was told.

He flinched back in horrified disgust. They were right in front of the caged star outside the club, the little creature's maddened, fearful eyes rolling towards them in utmost terror. It cringed and snapped, and this close Koz could smell the stench emanating from it, wild and hissing and utterly broken. The half-tangled, half-shorn scraps of its hair fell over its face as it rocked, low, animal groans gurgled from a toothless, poisoned mouth, scraps of mangled flesh hanging in strips from around the material of the gag. Its eyes darted, feverish, and it whimpered, soundless in the hell in which it had been trapped.

Koz tried to turn his face away, but Cater's grip on his chin was iron, and his voice, rumbling through his chest harder than steel. “Look at it. Look at it. This is what they are. This is what they've become. Not whatever they were showing you in there. Keep your head.”

Cater kept him there, watching as the little star was tormented, thrashing in its tiny cage and whining in shrill pain as sharpened sticks jabbed cruelly into already abused flesh, tearing wider the jagged holes from ill-healed scars. There was nothing of sanity left there. Was this what it was kept out for? To remind people how ruthlessly subjugated they were?

“I've had enough,” Koz growled finally. “It won't happen again.”

Cautiously, Cater released him, peering intently into Koz's eyes to check their dilation. Judging him in control enough, he led the way back into the club.

On guard this time, it took Koz only a few moments to blink off the stars' seductive veneer. What he saw beneath sickened just as much as it didn't surprise him. Just like the one outside, these too were hideously abused, poison sinking into their bodies from their restraints, dim and dirty with filth. Their podiums were embedded in seas of vomit and other bodily fluids, the chains tight enough to keep them anchored there. Upon payment, the chains would loosen, and a star could be pushed into one of the alcoves, many of which were uncurtained, the acts within fully visible. Their eyes were dead and dull with abject misery, their shines bleak, their smiles patently fake.

How can anyone stand by and let this happen? Why are they forced to do this?

Cater pointed to a star who shone deep, pulsating indigo and was also free. A few patrons clustered around the podium, calling out and flirting with the creature, who skilfully shapeshifted to their suggestions, laughing and giggling coquettishly.

“Distract them,” said Koz in a quiet aside to Cater, who nodded gravely and moved off to engage the patrons in a hearty conversation, gesticulating wildly, while Koz approached the star.

Their teasing smile widened upon seeing Koz, and for a moment he struggled against a rush of desire. They were so beautiful, their form shifting into something soft and warm and perfect, and his mouth watered with hunger. He was stumbling closer, having forgotten how to use his legs, and gentle hands were sliding along his arms, cupping his shoulders and dipping beneath his cloak, a soft, enchanting giggle holding him spellbound when the creature's clever fingers found the hilt of his sword.

“Ooh, someone's naughty,” the star breathed, “planning to recruit tonight, soldier?”

“How'd...How did you know I'm a soldier...?” Koz rasped, feeling proud of himself for stringing together a coherent sentence.

“It's all in your heart,” the star murmured. They curled fingers in his hair and pulled, hard enough to make Koz gasp in surprise, to look up into their face. “You've been so lonely, lover, won't you let me ease your pain...?” Suddenly something crawled across their face, grains shifting and rearranging, and Koz's heart leapt into his throat and simultaneously fell into rocks in his stomach as the grains reconstructed a perfect face straight out of the deepest, darkest wishes of Koz's heart.

His dead wife looked back, full lips curved up in that oh-so familiar little smirk, eyebrow quirked. He drank in the sight of her greedily, even through a heliotrope filter she was gorgeous to him, every curve of her beloved body familiar. Again and again his eyes returned to her face, perfect down to the last detail, just as she appeared in his mind, but with one fatal difference – her skull, whole as if it had never shattered on the cold marble.

“Archaline,” he whispered, reaching up incredulously to cup her cheek, only for her to pull away with a familiar rich chuckle that had shivers running down his spine.

“Ah, ah, ah, little soldier,” she murmured, flicking his chin lightly. “If you want to touch, you have to pay.”

Confused, he blinked at her, searching her face again. Lavender eyes met his, framed by thick, curling lashes, and Koz was jerked from his enchantment by the dead, cold look inside, completely detached from the star's giggly, flirty act. They were bitter, cold, edged by fear and hatred.

He pulled away abruptly, clearing his throat. He glanced away, absurdly feeling tears sting his eyes. He felt unsettled – twice now, in the span of a few minutes, he'd entirely lost control to these creatures and not even noticed he was doing it. He thought about the star caged outside, and hardened himself.

“I'm not here for that,” he said firmly. “I've come to ask you a question.”
Laconically, the star assumed a form equally familiar to him, a busty crewmate named Shirona he'd been incredibly taken with in his younger years, before she'd been lost to the Fearlings. The star made a show of exploring the new body, amusement glittering on their scintillating face at the obvious evidence that Koz was not quite so unaffected as he'd like to believe.

“Of course. You have to pay for that too,” said the star, pointing down at the credit-counter on the podium. “Pay for me, and I'll do whatever you want.” At the end, the star's voice changed, into a familiar deep, rich voice that Koz had last heard in the empty halls of a prison planet. His ears burned furiously.

“Stop it,” he ordered, flushed with embarrassment, as the star flicked Pitch's long tongue out of their mouth.

“Make me, General,” the star that looked like Pitch purred. Luxuriously, they stretched, hooking long, slender legs around the pole and twisting to hang upside down. Stomach muscles Koz was ninety percent certain that the actual, skinny Pitch didn't have rippled enticingly.

Koz wasn't even attracted to Pitch, he thought to himself, it was probably better that the star stayed like that anyway. Because Koz wasn't attracted to Pitch. He folded his arms and shifted his weight, glaring at the star, who seemed almost on the brink of laughter. Or perhaps it was just copying Pitch's maniacal glint. Koz wasn't sure.

“Of course you aren't,” said the star, reassuringly, and Koz blinked in confusion. The condescending attitude irritated him, and Pitch's face had reminded him of his quest. He glowered at the star, straightening just enough that his posture became immediately threatening, his eyes becoming hard.

The star reacted to this change of behaviour exactly as Koz thought they would – at once, they cast off Pitch's form and became the more neutral, yet still seductive form they'd assumed when Koz had first approached them, shrinking meekly against their chains. They trembled slightly.

“I need you to tell me something,” said Koz firmly, and the star quivered. They pointed silently at the credit unit. Koz ignored the action and the star shook miserably, no doubt anticipating a beating. “I said-”

“I heard you, master sir,” the star said quickly, eyes still downcast. “Please, master, I'm not allowed to do anything unless you pay, sir.” They stared up with beseeching eyes. “Please sir. Otherwise my master will be angry with me, sir, and then-” The star broke off and looked at their chains, a shudder of terror shaking each grain, causing a curious rippling effect that momentarily blurred the details of their form.

Raising his eyes to the sky for patience, Koz muttered a curse and stuck his comm into the credit unit, tapping out the appropriate amount and watching it leech from his account. Once the payment had been made, the chains around the star's neck suddenly fell looser, allowing them to scoot back into the alcove if they wished. They rose up again, kissing Koz's knee, small hands kneading the flesh of his calf, the touch signifying their obedience.

“Anything sir wishes,” the star murmured.

Koz remained looming over them, though he did shake his leg free, not trusting himself with their touch. They cringed back against the pole, almost tripping over the long chains in their haste. Koz hardened his heart to the piteous action. This approach had worked so far. All Koz needed was to get his information and then leave. If he knew how to find the Guild of Pilots in Alpheratz, he could use their lists to track down Mansnoozie, far more reliable information.

“I need you to tell me how to find the Guild in Alpheratz.” The statement hung in the air, and the star froze.

A minute ticked by, the silence stretching out longer and longer as the star remained motionless, hunched at the bottom of the podium as if they wanted to disappear. The silence grated on Koz's nerves, and he felt anger stir at him.

“Well?” Koz prompted roughly.
“What guild?” tried the star. “I don't know any-” Their words cut off into a shriek of terror when Koz fisted his hand in their hair, dragging their head up.

“Don't lie to me,” Koz snarled, and the star shook. “Tell me where they are!”

Their eyes shone, but they both knew the star was incapable of tears. There was determination there, too, an iron core that refused to break. “No.” The refusal was tinged with a hint of the star's truevoice, ringing and clamouring in Koz's ears, driving him physically back a step. His eardrums burst from the pressure and his head swam.

Koz was barely aware that he was staggering back into someone, and shouts erupted all around him. Cater grabbed his arm, steadying him. He blinked dazedly at the indigo star, who quailed back against the podium, eyes wide with true fear – the star knew that even the slightest hint of what they had done was enough to have them executed, or at least, beaten until they could no longer remember anything but agony.

People were shouting, pushing angrily. A full out brawl threatened to explode, and Cater pulled Koz back into the small sphere of space around the indigo star's podium, slapping his cheeks, trying to get the man to respond. Koz's head was ringing. He felt faint.

A man was shoving his way through the crowd, the owner, probably, he had a tag that read manager in shaky, misspelt Constellar. His shouts were so loud they deafened Koz, who stumbled and would have fallen if it wasn't for Cater's supportive grip.

The manager was so close he was spraying Koz's face with flecks of spittle, but Koz couldn't hear a word he was saying. His hearing faded in and out, focusing in strange places – the background yells of the crowd, screaming in fear though for what reason Koz didn't know, crying a word that sounded vaguely familiar -

“Kel'oshki! KEL'OSHKI!”

There was a glint, a glitter, and Koz, well-trained and experienced after years of protecting his Tsar, saw the blade before it hit home. Acting on instinct, he pushed the manager aside, just as a blade buried itself into the wood less than an inch from his head.

“Kel'oshki,” the manager gasped, eyes widening and face paling to the colour of sour milk. He grabbed Koz's arms, but before he could say anything further, there was a flicker of movement, and a shadow appeared behind him.

The blades drew swiftly across the man's throat, a thin red line appearing like a gruesome smile. The manager choked and coughed on his own blood, collapsing forward onto a startled, shocked senseless Koz.

Kel'oshki plunged the blade into the manager's back one last time for good measure, and then, passing so close to Koz that he felt a whisper of fabric against his cheek, the assassin flipped over his head and vanished into the rafters. In an instant, they were gone.

Everything was silent, breathless, still with disbelief.

Then abruptly, the world went to hell.

Chapter Text

Half a breath of absolute stillness.

A few rich ticks of the clock seemed to pass - unseen, unnoticed, unheard. A tinny noise shrieked in their ears. Made one in the seizure of paralysis, the eyes of the grungy, smoky club stared towards the tumbling main act of the hideous play. The dying man gaped wetly and bowed to the crowd.

This actor would not stand again.

The sad little thump the body made as it hit the floor rang out like a death knell, and something stirred faintly in the closed breath of the masked, hooded crowd. Dark eyes, gleaming in the gloom, flicked up, pinned Koz with the terrified, snap-judgement of humanity.

The dead man had folded in on himself, suddenly reduced in death. His slack jaw still bore stamps of shock. Blood was trailing redly out of his gaping-smile neck, soaked Koz's fine white shirt wet and sticky. It clung to him, outlining the shape of the small dagger he'd hidden on his hip.

The previously milling patrons were one herd, a conglomerate mass of unseen faces underneath dark hoods, and every cloaked eye was staring right at Koz's famous face. Recognition sparked; fear followed. They knew this man.

Ignored, the chained slaves shrank back against the poles, making themselves small and cringing. They covered their ears with their hands and hunched down low, like they expected a whipping, even the metallic clanking of the brutish, ugly chains somehow hushed. The sour stench of their fear seemed to shimmer in the smoke, inhaled close and tight in Koz's throat.

Kel'oshki's dagger was still vibrating in the wall by Koz's head. A wisp of his dark hair had been pinned to the rough, splintery wood, perfectly bisected by the sharp blade. Koz stared at it in wonder. An old shipping tattoo marked the wall as a previous packing crate, and irrelevantly, Koz wondered if all the walls were built thus, out of discarded crates. He almost wanted to look, but he felt even the slightest twitch would break the spell.

The assassin was long gone, but their touch lingered, holding the room spellbound with dismay. The moment stretched on, and on, until Koz's eyes began to itch and burn from staring. His muscles trembled and something much like horror screamed the shape of the dead man into his mind.

The moment swelled inwards, bulging under the weight of its own enormity – and then, all at once, it shattered.

Cater roared to life like a bear painted in shades of violence and rage. In the most physical display Koz had ever seen him perform, the usually calm man seized the thick, oily chain that wrapped around the neck of the indigo star, finding the weak point with practised ease. Had he done this before? His muscles bunched and strained, and sweat beaded on his brow as he heaved.

And then he snapped it over his knee like a toy.

“You're free!” Cater shouted to the shocked star, and then with impossible tenderness lifted the shaking creature off the podium and swung them to Koz, who quickly stepped in front of them protectively and drew his sword.

“I'll protect you,” he said confidently, and the shivering creature could do nothing but clutch at the hem of his trousers, round terrified eyes awaiting orders.

Everything happened at once. Suddenly people were shouting and screaming, small blades flying everywhere and the avaricious and swift-witted making for the coffers. The bartender threw glasses at their heads, hitting some and knocking them out. He was grabbing for the bags of money. Someone screamed.

One hooded man gripped the star nearby, soft rose pink and too terrified to protest. The man's gloved hands fumbled for the chain, thus, he was distracted when Cater crushed his skull like an egg between his massive hands, uncaring of the dead body as he immediately freed the pink star, shoving them towards Koz.

“Hey!” some anonymous voice cried, distinct against the backdrop of incoherent yelling, “Get the livestock!”

A fist hurtled towards Koz, evidently hoping to knock the stunned soldier out and take his prize, the two silent and frightened stars cowering at his feet, a richer reward than anything else in the stinking, rundown club. No one wanted to take on Cater, who was throwing people aside like so many worthless scraps as he broke free each of the senseless stars. The man was methodical, not pausing to examine the damage he caused and seeming completely ignorant of the blood and brains that wetted his hands, soaked his conscience.

Koz hacked at his attacker, instinctively leaning back dispassionately when the blood spouted. His body felt alive again – here there were enemies, people for him to kill, as he had been born, trained to do. His sword sang out death tolls for anyone who dared confront him, but not many did, preferring to throw knives at him from the cover of the generous smoke. They knew well his fearsome reputation on the battlefield.

Frustration curdled in his gut. Why couldn't they stand still long enough for him to kill them?

No one fought properly in these close quarters. Kozmotis, trained with sword and shield but thrust into a cloak and dagger world, was largely useless. His eyes strained in the gloom, and he was like a stone in the rush of the people moving around them, herding the stars that Cater freed behind him as he tried to cover them all. Cater was holding the last in his arms, grimly shoving towards Koz and yelling for him to go already.

The shouts were ringing in his ears, making him dizzy, and he could barely breathe in the chaos. Weapons spun out of the darkness from every corner and Koz barely missed dismemberment more times than he could count. The stars, three of them along with Cater's fourth, were more useless than helpful, clustering around his feet and nearly making him trip, needing to be pulled along they were so senseless in their terror. They shimmered dully, like broken beacons, and their distress was a low throbbing ache somewhere in his brain, causing a headache to pulse as their silent voices rose.

At least they didn't hesitate to follow orders, obedience had been so firmly beaten into them it was unthinkable for them to seize the opportunity to run away. Not that they would have got far.

A sneering person stepped in front of him – Koz thought she was female, didn't stop to check as he ran her through. She choked on his blade as he twisted it, the gristly noise bringing a satisfied snarl to his face as warm wet blood splashed over his hands, making his grip on the pommel slick. He could see her face beneath the hood, long and thin, yellow-addict eyes and crumbling teeth, the bitter stench of ritual incense staining her skin yellow.

He threw her aside and wrenched his sword out of her wrecked chest cavity, baring a bloody grin at the next person who stood before him, a young man, perhaps eighteen with the first scrapes of a beard on his jaw, hood limp around his neck, piss soaking his pants and frozen with fear. When he didn't move fast enough for Koz's liking, he gutted him too, an oblique slash across the throat that had the boy gagging as he crumpled to the ground. Koz stepped over him and yanked on one of the stars' hair, ushering them outside into the low dense smog.

The peach star, stumbling over the doorway, was swiftly righted by Koz's boot, clutching onto their fellows, who supported them with the numbness of creatures too abused to react. Their collars and the shreds of the chains shrieked and scraped together as they moved, giving away their position where otherwise their bare feet were soundless.

It was almost jet black outside, the cathedral of murk stinging everyone's eyes and making them stream painfully, shrine to the diseased. Koz hacked a cough, his throat tissues so abraded that each breath was like inhaling fire. He limply grabbed for the breathing mask around his neck, oxygen deprivation making him woozy and causing blackness to seep into the edges of his vision. He swayed, numb fingers grappling with the edges of the mask, unable to grasp it.

Someone leapt at him, a fierce expression of hatred contorting their face, and Koz moved too slowly to avoid a slash on his left shoulder. He shouted, the fiery pain lighting up his nerves. On autopilot, his right arm swung, ripping the blade through his attacker's outstretched bicep. They screamed pitifully, and Koz finished them with a dispassionate stab, the adrenalin fuelling his veins as he managed to snap the mask over his face.

Cater appeared out of the indistinct and monochromatic shadows, cradling a slate-grey star that he dumped at Koz's feet. Koz whirled into an attack position and Cater startled back, hands quickly rising. After a moment, Koz recognised him.

He could barely think. It was too long since he'd last been in battle. He could have slaughtered everyone remaining in the club - almost, it would be a good idea, they were all filthy bastards come to abuse the stars, weren't they? And didn't Koz have to protect the safety of his mission?

He lifted his sword, but before he could head off into the dark towards another stumbling figure Cater grabbed his arm, hauling him back.

“What are you doing?” he shouted to Koz. “We have to get them out!”

Fuck them! With effort, Koz shook his head. They had to get the stars free – his oxygen-depraved, blood-addled mind seized on a slender figure in his memory, and he reaffirmed his purpose. Yes, they had to get the stars away, so Koz could find out Mansnoozie's location.

“Skimmer,” he grunted shortly, and something like relief dawned on Cater's face. Koz wondered if he was afraid Koz would remain behind.

Side by side, they marched through the gloom, cutting aside the swarm of those who tried to stop them. A shape loomed out of the mist, inside of which a twisted figure curled up in miserable insanity. A repugnant stench had them both gagging, a compound of all the most filthy human fluids, dried in layers over one broken down animal's body. It was the star in the cage. If the pathetic animal they saw could be compared to a star, even broken and tame as these were, it was so dehumanised that it was barely worthy the space it occupied.

Koz tried to continue, face twisted into a grimace of disgusted pity, but Cater, determination wrought in his face, ran to the cage and began hunting for the lock, his big hands frantic with urgency. They could barely see a handspan in front of themselves in the deep dark smoke, acrid fumes that burnt their exposed skin. The creature quivered away from him, gangrenous blisters of black oozing dark oil that stank like fetid meat and fear bursting around its manacles.

“We don't have the time!” Koz shouted to him, muffled by his hood and mask. “We can't save that one!”

“I'm not leaving anyone behind!” Cater stated stoutly, and Koz swore angrily, searching the shifting darkness for any sight of the skimmer.

“You comet-chasing-” Koz's snarl was cut off by a blade coming towards his head, and he blocked, the clash of their blades loud, the vibration travelling up his arm.

While Koz was occupied, Cater managed to open the cage and pull out the shaking, insane creature inside, lifting it gently into his arms. He smiled tenderly, showing no revulsion at all at the filth and disease caked onto the creature, which did nothing but shake.

A flash of lights in the dark – the skimmer's headbeams, showing its location. Grabbing their assorted burdens, Koz and Cater ran towards it. Their headlong rush was impeded by fallen bodies, soft and disturbingly giving under their bodies, or the stumbling, confused and screaming people still alive. Koz either pushed them aside or cut them down like so much chaff in his path.

The skimmer's beams were a signal to all, and the former patrons began to desperately converge on the hope for salvation. The silvery hull was almost obscured by scratching, clawing hands, pounding meaty fists on the reinforced plexiglass windows. The pilot was crouching in his cockpit, visored eyes scanning for his passengers. A visible relief came over him when he spotted Koz and Cater, the stars clinging to Cater's broad shoulders, another holding Koz's hand like a child, tripping at his long strides.

“Get in!” Koz shouted to Cater over the raucous din, shoving the indigo star at Cater, who nearly stumbled as the desperate star grabbed on to his arm. “I'll hold them off!”

Cater held his eyes for a moment, and Koz looked at him and saw fear on the big man's face. Cater's dark brown eyes were revolted, he wore the blood of those he had killed with repugnance, sickness present in his pallid skin and drained face. He was a man held captive by the shock of his own deeds, unable to recognise anything in his self-absorbed horror.

With a pang of irritation, Koz remembered Cater was no soldier, had no cause to be regularly killing people as Koz had, becoming inured to death after these long years. The man was going to be useless.

Koz punched him in the face, and Cater staggered, the abrupt pain breaking him briefly out of his trance. Wide eyes found his, and he sneered with all the cold rage of a successful war general.

Koz's knuckles ached, but he grabbed Cater's shoulder with bone-breaking force and yelled in his face, spraying his face with flecks of spittle, “Snap out of it, man! You have time to feel sorry later. Get moving!” The strident order in his tone had Cater almost instinctively snapping to attention, and with a gulp Cater hoisted the stars up and began wading through the crowd.

Diving into the fray, Koz lost himself in a frenzy of movement, frenetic as he hacked and slashed, body swaying into movements he'd practised into instinct. His strokes were swift and sure, his mind cold and calculating; he allowed no sentiment to colour the businesslike pleasure of battle. The panicked, fleshy mob stood no chance against a soldier of his calibre and training, and they fell like cattle to his sword, their screams white noise to his ears. Koz's mind seemed to fade into the intensity of the moment – no longer General, no longer Kozmotis Pitchiner, now nothing more than an attachment of his sword, a tool of death.

He had been forged for this. The howls of those he killed were like songs of praise, a rightness slotting into his heart that was too savage for the civilian box they'd tried to force him into after the war. He was nothing without this. His mind dissolving, all the pain just going away, the loves and hurts of Kozmotis Pitchiner eclipsed by the base, animal need of kill or be killed.

The fragrant, coppery taste of blood was in his mouth, smeared over his cheeks and lips like warpaint, the alloys floor slick with ruby sap under his practised feet, leaping over collapsing bodies, hewn down before they could turn around. They swarmed him, some trying to hit out and fight back with improvised weapons, a splintery, too heavy beam that left the person staggering at the weight – he ducked, thrust up, and kicked the body backwards into another wielding some sort of dual daggers.

His back hit the edge of the skimmer before he knew it. Seizing hold with hands slippery with blood, he lashed out with his boots, catching one man under the jaw. The man crashed to the floor, the force of Koz's kick snapping his neck back.

Still, there were more. Muttering a breathless curse, Koz flipped up onto the roof of the skimmer and surveyed the mob with despair. He was logical enough to realise there were far too many for him to kill.

The skimmer jerked underneath him, and Koz reacted quickly, grabbing on as the skimmer's engines suddenly fired, and it shot away from the club. Koz's bloodstained sword was impeding his hold, so he threw it, wincing at the necessity. His cloak was ripped back by the wind, and streaming fumes ran directly into his face. Coughing and choking, he flattened himself as best as he could against the skimmer, gripping onto the rails white-knuckled and resisting the wind that threatened to pull him off at the slightest opportunity.

He could see nothing, smell nor hear, nothing but the thrumming power of the skimmer underneath him, vibrating through his gut. He coughed wetly against the silver metal, the wind tearing the breath from him before he could inhale. Gasping for breath that could not come, he laid his cheek against the cool metal, shivering as the wind snatched the moisture from his lips.

Suddenly, there was a hard, metallic thud, and Koz almost slipped off the skimmer, were it not for an edge of his cloak being pinned to the skimmer's roof. Eyes streaming, he tried to peer into the dizzying murk of flashing windows, caught sight of an incredibly fast figure running along a roof directly adjacent to them. Just before the skimmer shot between the gap of the two buildings, the figure flipped over the skimmer, something bright flashing in their hands. There was another thud.

Koz's shout was lost to the wind as he saw a familiar brilliant dagger pinning the edge of his cloak to the roof. Kel'oshki! He couldn't turn his head in time to catch where the assassin went.

They're trying to kill me! Koz thought wildly. He was a sitting duck on top of the skimmer, and somehow Kel'oshki was keeping up, daggers whirling out of dark corners like hornets, narrowly missing Koz's body each time. Suns and stars, how are they keeping pace?!

The skimmer ducked and swerved, and Koz was too occupied with staying on to try and see where Kel'oshki went. In rapid succession, three more thuds hit the skimmer, and Koz's cloak ballooned around him, the edges pinned firmly to the skimmer, almost like a safety net. Koz would have found the irony amusing if he'd had the breath to think of anything other than holding on for dear life.

The skimmer plunged into clearer sky, dodging other skimmers with terrifying ease and taking a helter-skelter route around the connecting tubes of gardens that Koz thought was most highly against the rules. The screeching sirens of guards on their tail deafened him with their wail, cutting through the traffic and hunting down the rogue skimmer.

The pilot was adept, manoeuvring through the traffic and heading on a beeline to the milky white dome of Tabor's palace, where the harbour doors were slowly opening. They flashed past a white-faced sentry, who grabbed frantically at his comm, and Koz almost groaned at the thought of how furious the Tsar was going to be with his recklessness.

The skimmer didn't slow down as it sped into the hangar, having to turn three dizzying circles before it could last slow down enough to come in for a harried landing. Gasping, Koz lay limply on the roof, watching through hazy eyes as the doors burst open and guards rushed in, surrounding the incensed form of the Alpherati governor himself, accompanied by the Tsar.

Tsar Lunar was incandescent, literally aglow as he strode towards the skimmer, and the guards parted like so many scuttling ants beneath his boots. Those who didn't move were flung aside by a wave of light so powerful it cut grooves into the flesh of those who were touched by it. Tsar Lunar's hair shone perfect, bright white, all of it, and his pale eyes were like suns in his face. It hurt to look at him, the full majestic power of the Lunanoffs suffusing his skin, and the stunned guards fell to their knees in reverence, some whispering prayers.

“General!” His voice echoed unnaturally loud through the empty hangar, and his fierce bright eyes were pinned on Koz, who still clutched faintly to the roof of the skimmer as if it still rocked beneath him.

The doors opened with a faint shh, and Cater stumbled out, oblivious to the Tsar as he fell to all fours, shuddering and shaking. He retched, hacking up bile. The stars hovered nervously around him, clustering close together but evidently unwilling to leave Cater's side. Koz idly wondered what he could have possibly done to make them seem to trust him in such a short time.

“General!” The Tsar had reached the skimmer, and slammed his palm down on the nose. The plexiglass cracked, spiderwebbing up to the roof, but the vibration was enough to jar Koz from his daze.

Jelly-legged, he slid awkwardly down the side and found his feet, swaying. The Tsar's eyes darted over him, something appalled and at once thirsty on his face at the sight of him, covered in blood. Koz's boots squelched.

The Alpherati governor was moving towards them, his loud voice demanding explanations, but everyone ignored him completely. The Tsar gripped Koz's elbow, and Koz shuddered as an electric tingle worked through his body from his touch. All at once, he found his tiredness and confusion ebbing away, and he was able to stand straight and lift his chin.

The Tsar smiled thin-lipped approval. His fingers squeezed Koz's arm again, and all the blood sizzled and burnt as a pale light lapped over his body. The intrusive process seemed to take seconds, but once it was open, Koz was almost slackjawed with shock, staring at Lunar Apollo. It was a rare occasion when Apollo decided to use his magic, but when he did, the results were always beyond what any mortal man could achieve.

Nonetheless, the brief spells seemed to have calmed the Tsar, as the glow was gone from his skin, though his eyes remained bright and his hair pale. He looked white, and Koz quickly realised from surprise. The Tsar was staring at the daggers embedded in the skimmer roof.

“Kel'oshki,” he muttered, and Koz blinked.

“You know them?” he found himself demanding, and the Tsar gave him the sort of look that questioned why Koz had ever become General.

“I am the Tsar, and a courtier – of course I know a famed assassin. What in the seven heavens did you do to get them to protect you?”

“Protect me?” Koz scoffed. “They tried to kill me!” He pointed to the daggers. “After killing someone else at the... place we were visiting.” He cast a sidelong look at the Alpherati governor's cronies, very obviously eavesdropping.

“If they had wanted to kill you, they would have killed you,” said the Tsar, seriously. His lips pursed. “I will have to reward them for this.” He looked angry and bitter at the notion.

Cater hacked again, the noise distracting them both. The nobles glanced down, and the Tsar's lips twitched sardonically as he observed the freed stars standing protectively over Cater. “I said one,” he said dryly, glancing back up at Koz. “There are five there.”

“It got complicated,” said Koz, with a straight face, and the Tsar sighed.

“You never do anything by halves, do you?”

Chapter Text

A lavish dinner honoured by both the presence of the esteemed and holy Tsar Lunanoff and his famed Golden General was the only way to soothe Tabor's ruffled feathers. The slick Governor of poisoned Alpheratz was rubbing his hands in glee at the thought of subjecting such important personage to the rigours of his prying courtiers, the spymasters that would analyse everything from how they ate to who they spoke to in order to prise some important scrap of information to level Tabor above his peers.

Alpheratz was a large trading centre, but its actual borders were rather small, unlike the other city-states in the nearby region that made up the Cancer Constellation. The Tsar's visit had already elevated Tabor's position in the Cancii court, but information, claiming personal friendship with either one of the hallowed celebrities, was something far more.

All Courts worked off illusions of power, the Tsar had once confided to Koz. It was not who had the biggest army – it was who had the money and presence enough to make it look like they had the biggest army, the wealthiest people, the grandest palace and noblest Court. Infighting was at an all time low since the Great Fearling War, people were tired of fighting, still rebuilding, and desperate wartime alliances still held.

For now.

The Tsar's hand strong and firm on his shoulder, Koz had, with his greatest impassive face, solemnly accepted the invitation, backed into a corner by Apollo's steely glare. It would have been rude to ignore his host for the entire duration of the visit, thought Koz gloomily, but that didn't mean he was looking forward to it any more. At least Apollo had manage to spin the tale, adding just the right amount of flirtatiousness that it cast Koz's adventure to retrieve the stars in a whole new light.

“I'm sure you will be busy tonight, my dear Kozmotis,” chuckled Apollo, leaning unsubtly into Koz and slinging a companionable arm around his waist.

The gesture was both possessive and indicative of close attachment, something with neither eagle-eyed Tabor nor his courtiers missed, crowding like a gaggle of geese at the hems of his robes. It was no secret that the Lunanoffs were rumoured to be rather close to the Pitchiner family – and Tsar Apollo did have a reputation for being more than free with anyone who would take him. And who wouldn't? He was the royal and blessed Tsar. To touch him and be in his presence equated to worship Light itself.

“I know I was. Ever such a shame that the guardians of this delightful group were less than enthusiastic to pay their taxes.” Apollo winked at Tabor, who grinned slyly back at him.

“Oh, my Tsar, forgive me the impudence but I do most agree with you.” Tabor's voice was oily, and his manner even more so, he bowed to Apollo every time he dared speak. The man's small beady eyes flicked away from holding his stare, and he scraped nervously before the holy brilliance of the power Apollo wielded. “I do have several servants of the same ilk,” a beringed hand gestured dismissively towards the cowed stars, “trained in the art of their race, if you would like a creature a little more... refined.”

Not that Koz blamed him, having literally just witnessed firsthand the most meagre sign of what Apollo Lunanoff was capable of, and having lost a dozen guards to it, collapsed on the floor with smoke still curling up from their helmets and from the cracks in their armour. They were alive, at least. Probably.

“The animals are of my selection,” said Apollo smoothly, and immediately Tabor backed down, murmuring apologies and deferring to the Tsar's better judgement. “My General and I happened to visit an establishment where they worked beforehand, and I admit, I found myself rather charmed.” He kicked the star closest to him, the slate-grey, who instantly grovelled and prostrated itself. “Look at that.”

“Obedience is, I find,” Koz interjected, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that he knew made his shirt strain over his shoulders, “a rare and respected quality.”

Cater, on his knees, had the good sense to remain quiet, but his dark eyes bored holes into Koz's boots, and Koz winced to think of the scathing responses he'd earn from the man later. But for now, he was playing the good servant, unimportant and unnoticed in political games. Koz wondered if he knew how important it was that Koz's mission be kept secret and thus protected.

If the people learned that there was someone who equated as a living Fearling, there would be riots in the streets. If the politicians learned that there was someone who meant enough to the General to drive him desperately searching for even the most disreputable of people on the shaky evidence of a single letter, there would be kidnappings, threats and courtly disasters.

Kozmotis could not afford to put his Tsar in that position.

He didn't know if Apollo would cut him loose the moment he became too dangerous to keep. He hoped not. But he didn't know.

Right now, the Tsar's colourless eyes were lingering on his musculature, something hungry enough in the line of his pale lips that Koz had no doubt that he had a while yet to go before Apollo would lose his fascination with him.

“I'm sure you would appreciate some time to,” a pallid tongue flicked out over Apollo's lips, “freshen up, Kozmotis. A servant will be sent to collect you at the time of the dinner.” His eyebrow rose at Tabor, who quickly muttered affirmation. Dismissively, Apollo jerked his chin, and Koz bowed low, twisting his hand respectfully over his sternum, taking it as a cue to leave.

“Come.” He looked at Cater, who caught the hands of two of the stars. Like a morose chain of lost, raped ducklings, they tripped after him obediently, shining little eyes cast down to the ground like they could see no reason to look up. Koz's heart thumped behind his ribs, feeling the stares of the courtiers as they left. Only once they were safely back in the corridor that housed the Molskarr's crew did he relax enough to step beside Cater and murmur an apology for his actions.

“It's a sick system, Kozmotis,” said Cater gravely. He looked down at the heartbreakingly obedient stars and sighed heavily. His voice sounded rough, and his eyes still haunted.

“You've never killed anyone before then, have you?” Koz asked him quietly.

Cater laughed a little brokenly, rubbed his forehead with a bloody hand and suddenly winced when he realised he'd smeared it in his hair. “That obvious?” He shook his head. His broad shoulders trembled. “I – there was no way they'd have let them free.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“You did well.” Koz felt slightly uncomfortable, he'd not had to do this in so long it felt like he'd forgotten how. He felt a hint of military stiffness creep back into his posture, and consciously forced himself to relax. The last thing Cater needed was for Koz to go cold. “We have to take care of them now. They trust you. You saved them.” He shook his head. “Those people you killed are just casualties in a war that will never end. It was no one's fault, simply a circumstance of fate.”

“A circumstance of fate,” repeated Cater softly. “The Light works in mysterious ways, General Pitchiner, and requires strange things of its servants.”

What does he mean by that?

“I suppose it does,” Koz said, a little uneasily.

“Cater! Oh, Kozmotis!” Io rushed out of one of the doors, a hand held to her mouth in shock at the state of them both. Privately, Koz thanked the Tsar again for having cleansed the blood from his body, though it did not hide the rents in his clothing. Alice Fochik followed her, eyes suspiciously red as if she'd been crying. She coloured when she saw Koz, and glanced away, expression tight.

What's her issue? Koz thought. He hoped she wasn't upset with him. He was on rocky enough ground with the Tsar for his indiscretion.

“What happened?” Io tugged Koz's ripped shirt, her expression shocked and worried. “You're both well?”

“Yes, Lieutenant Bova, we're both fine,” said Cater calmingly, but the expression was thrown by the shakiness still in his voice.

Io threw her arms around Koz, squeezing him tightly. Koz blinked at her in shock. The short woman had a surprisingly strong grip, her cropped hair ticklish against another rent. “I'm very glad you're both well.” She pulled back and cupped a cheek each, uncaring of the blood on Cater's face. “I would have had to go on a hunt if either of you had been harmed.” Io's thin brows pulled down in an expression dangerous enough that Koz facetiously pitied the maddened club patrons had they met her.

“How did you know we were leaving...?” Koz questioned.

“Cater left a note,” a baritone rumbled, and Koz turned to see Dioscuri standing in one of the doorways, arms folded across his barrel chest. “We knew you'd left on something undercover and important. I'm assuming those,” he jerked his mashed jaw at the stars, “are the result of that.”

“Yes,” said Koz. “I need them to find someone for me.”

“Not now, surely,” Fochik chided, beating Io to it, “Look at them. Come on, we'll clean you up.”

The stars clung to Cater closely. They didn't seem to want to do anything of their own initiative.

“What's your name?” Io asked the indigo star kindly, and they stared through her, gaze blank.

“She asked you a question,” Dioscuri reinforced from the doorway, and the star flinched.

They worked their mouth a moment, and said, in a very timid human voice that nonetheless rang subtly with echoes of their true one, hidden in the channels of mental pathways, “Slut.”

Io drew back, slightly offended, and Dioscuri scowled thunderously. The star, panicking at the negativity aimed towards them, began muttering frantically. “Bitch, whore, dustbag, dreamless, garbage, slave -”

“Stop,” said Cater quietly. “Is that what you think your name is?”

Dioscuri went still, and Koz's heart fell when the star looked at the ground and didn't respond. The peach star beside the indigo grabbed onto their hand and huddled into them. The others clustered around the one who had spoken, their shines fluctuating as they brushed into one another, and then settling back to the dim, barely-there faintness of before.

Cater scrubbed his face again, grimaced again. “It's filthy what humans can do to other people,” he rumbled, and a shocked Alice Fochik nodded silently.

“Where's Meterios?” Koz asked. “I would appreciate it if you could look after these five whilst I attend dinner with the lords.” He made a face, and Dioscuri glanced at him with sympathy enough that Koz surmised they'd already had the pleasure of the Governor's company, no doubt being grilled on Koz's activities.

“Out,” said Fochik, sourly. Her lips twisted in a grimace, and she rubbed her wrists like they pained her. “He stood in front of someone stronger than him and paid the price.” She looked down, and the movement shifted her hair around her neck, and Koz caught sight of a blistering bitemark on her shoulder. She crossed her arms over her stomach and avoided his eyes. “He won't be back for a little while.”

Suspicion darkened Koz's eyes. He watched her intently, ignoring Cater and Io's rapid discussion on what to do with the stars. When the two made to usher the stars into Io and Dioscuri's room, Koz stepped in front of her before Fochik could follow.

“What happened to you?” he asked lowly. “Are- are you well, Alice?”

Her sweet lips twisted in torn misery. “You didn't tell me he'd come after me,” she whispered.

“What? Who?” He touched her cheek gently, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Meterios-”

“Not Connor!” Frustration made her bold, made the movement shaky as she yanked down her cuff, down to the elbow. A reddish handprint remained there, a wisp of smoke escaping just like it had done with the guards' helmets. “He was like fire,” she murmured, and something reverent steeped into her tone, “He was like fire, and he burnt me from inside out.”

“Apollo?”

Fochik glanced up dully. “He was most interested in you, Kozmotis.” She shivered. “I think he brought me to the Light itself.”

“I – I didn't know,” said Koz softly, “I didn't know, I'm so sorry. He didn't... he didn't force you?”

She chuckled, but the sound was void of humour. “Who would refuse a Tsar? I was only doing my duty as a servant of the light.”

She pushed past him, and went to join the others with the stars, leaving Koz standing awkwardly in the hallway, frustration burning in his gut along with the jagged feeling that a great wrong had been committed, though what he could not fathom.

“I am a servant of the light,” he repeated. “I am a servant of the light.”

The phrase echoed through his mind, and cast an uneasy pall over him for hours more.

The dining hall was rich, magnificent, and indescribable. Koz thanked his friendship with the Tsar deeply, it was only the memory of grander palaces he had visited along with Apollo and their families that stayed his instinctive gape. Firmly, he reminded himself to be reserved, courtly, cold, but it was difficult when the grand hall was a splendour of wealth. Marbles of all colours patterned the floors, and the roof was edged in golden gilt, tracing intricately worked pictures of beauty. Statues curved from the pillars, bodies of all types labouring to uphold the lavish ceiling.

Stars moved silently around the massive trestle tables, carrying platters that shone with a soft silvery gleam, and these were no beaten Alpherati whores, but gowned in only the most silkiest of silks, the rosiest of gems, the goldest of gold, until their every steps were accompanied by a soft jangling from their jewellery. They were a vision, a delight, adopting as many forms as one could ever wish for – a plump breasted woman with svelte hips, a slender man with pronounced collarbones, a chubby fellow with soft cheeks, a thin woman with a wicked smile, tall or short, male or female or neither and both, every possible imaginable form, gorgeous and glimmering and winsome.

No humans waited on them here, the servants would be just another example of Tabor's massive grandeur. The food, rich and sumptuous, sat uneasily in Koz's belly, the too-vibrant flavours, down to the enormous boar that had been brought in, bigger than three men with great, sweeping tusks worth more than most ships Koz had piloted. Too-used to bland prison fare, Koz had to avoid the overflowing stuffed mushrooms, the gateaus that groaned under their own weight, whipped cream and confectionery delights, sugar mice that danced on the tables between sailing gravy-boats and fat, golden potatoes, fares and foods to dazzle the senses and bewitch the mind.

And the guests! Each one was perfectly coiffed, androgynous-looking in their great, dazzling gowns, brilliant rainbows of fabric that made Koz's eyes hurt to see. Gems gleamed and winked from their places at powdered throats, hairless brows lifted in sly inquisitiveness, painted lips gestured closer. Dazzling rings and jewels garbed these fantastic, dreamlike people, people that were barely people but rather porcelain masks glistening with wealth and hedonistic amusement. Their voices lilted with the soft, low sighs of Higher Constellar, each taking whole minutes to speak one sentence, and unaccustomed to hearing it again after so long, Koz had to strain to catch words in the dazed, flutelike quality of their voices. A thousand names that he promptly forgot, more invitations to dine at estates than years he had left.

For Koz, a common-born man, he was uncomfortably aware how little he fitted in this world. He was wearing clothes he was told flattered him, a shining coat, tall boots that wrapped around his thighs, modest apparel that had the snap of military in them, down to the gem-encrusted hilt of the not-so ceremonial sword he had belted to his waist.

Apollo moved among them like a hunting panther, dressed plainly in clothes that were nonetheless resplendent, pale skin brushed with something that made him shimmer under the lights, carefully applied make-up bringing careful colour to his cheeks and making his eyes appear grey rather than white, streaks of black artificially tousled through his hair. It made him look human without taking away from his ethereal qualities – no doubt an effect that was exactly what he intended.

Koz ended up seated next to an esteemed Pooka for the first course, a sniffing, nose-twitching scholar by the name of A. F. Aracorn, who nibbled on fresh greens and uttered several loud “Hmphs!” whenever he heard Koz speak.

Upon Koz's remark that the Pooka was far from the Warrens, Aracorn had pinned him with an unexpectedly sharp brown glare and snapped, “Pitchiner! Hmph! I have heard of you. But you shan't win me over. I bow to no ape. Hmph! As it should be.”

He did not speak to Koz again, and Koz was glad at the seat-change of the second course, which placed him next to a noble of the most beautiful looks. Koz was still trying to figure out their sex when they were moved again, with the noble's lipstick smeared on his collar. Discreetly, he tried his level best to remove it.

The dinner lasted from early afternoon well into the night, and noon had come again before the last morsel consumed. Regular breaks were staged, of course, during which the host put on entertainment; singing girls that accompanied stars dancing, a talented orchestra, a nervous young moonmage who dazzled them all with astonishing displays of light-magic. Well, all of them save Apollo, who watched with a faint, indulgent and vaguely patronising little smile. The flustered moonmage all but prostrated themselves before the Tsar at the end, who dismissed them with an uninterested flick of his hand. Garishly-garbed jesters told jokes, and knights fought in a daring display of combat that had Koz cheering raucously along with the rest of them.

Between all of this, there was the food, and of course, the most important part of any meal. The talk.

Every seat placement was result of months of careful political manoeuvring, and each guest utilised it to the fullest. Deals were made or broken, alliances bolstered and businesses amalgamated. Everyone was eager to beg a snatch of information off Koz, why he had left his post, what was going on at the prison. Dutifully, Koz repeated the story the Tsar had forced down his throat, smiling blandly until his cheeks hurt and joking 'Classified' if they pried.

Nonetheless, the conversations went two ways, and despite his lack of interest, Koz couldn't help but pick up on the dark tones around him. Insurgents were moving in the shadowed streets, as yet nameless and faceless, but mutterings in the dark and royalist trade ships going missing. Piracy was on a steady, though small, incline, of strange and lawless people who refused the Light and its holy avatars, the Lunanoffs.

The restless talk disturbed Koz more than he dared admit, and he glanced sidelong at Apollo, pale cheeks faintly flushed from wine, raising his goblet to Koz with a ruby smirk playing around his lips. Defensiveness rushed up, and Koz interrupted the conversation. Immediately, the topic changed – no one dared speak ill or mention any deceit to the Tsar with his most loyal guard-dog listening in.

Speaking of guard-dogs, Koz saw more than a few of the plainly dressed, grey-attired 'servants', secretely highly trained bodyguards fiercely devoted to the Tsar, moving amid the guests, and he wondered at their brazenness. Why had Apollo ordered them to abandon their discretion? Was he attempting to show signs of strength, or was he really just worried at the unsettling conversation of an anti-royalist movement?

Whatever the reason, Koz also noticed the young boy Nightlight, smiling airily up at the ceiling and half a pace behind his Tsar at all times. The Tsar was not without protection – nor was he as helpless as he would have anyone believe, Koz had seen the incredible feats Lunanoff magic was capable of, and he never wanted to again, if he could help it. Awesome, magnificent, and majestic, but terribly destructive, greedy, and lustful.

He poked his food around his plate. Were people really rebelling against the Tsar? But why? They were all loyal servants of the light, weren't they? And if stars were raped and children murdered – well, the Light required strange things of its servants, after all.

His rooms weren't far from the dining halls, and the Tsar barely noticed the guards ringed around him discreetly as he walked, trying to lose himself in the movement. Nightlight tripped after him, his lance tapping irregularly against the floor.

Losing myself, running away, it's all I ever do. How long can an addiction be called escapism before it controls a life? How long can a spineless ruler rule without a solid throne?

He shut them out with the door, snarled at Nightlight to leave. Unaffected, the glowing boy touched his cheek tenderly, eyes worried, before he bowed out.

Alone, Tsar Lunanoff grabbed at his hair and leaned against the wall, staring into the mirror like a hollow man. A gaunt face glared back, colourless and thin, the shine of his curse stamped into every part of the human that was bleached from his skin. All the make-up in the world couldn't hide the inhumanity brooding beneath his flesh, running in his veins, pounding in his heart. He gagged, felt sickness crow in his clenching stomach. He thought about his wife's smile when the guardsmen executed criminals, how her eyes lingered in delight at the blood, thought about the baby that carried both their inheritances, already with pale, pale eyes that seemed to shine with something a little more, a little unnatural, and sobbed a bitter laugh.

He clawed at his face, smearing cracks in the mask he'd painted on, and a hint of shine lit up from behind his fingertips. Moon-mad, they call you, he thought numbly, infected. If only that timid moonmage knew what they were messing with. If only they knew how it would drive them mad.

Apollo panted harshly, his hands gripping the desk so hard the wood creaked, smoke curling up from between his fingertips as the fire inside teased over the lacquer. He grunted, resting his head against the cold glass, trying to absorb the cold as he held back the ache of a hurricane inside flesh.

It's getting worse.

Nightlight wasn't able to absorb enough of his excess power anymore. The ravaging magic that lay under his skin was no longer quiescent, tamed by the slow rotations of the planets. Thrown out of balance, it simmered and raged like tongues of fire that lashed harder with each attempt to hold it back. It was poisoning his mind, taking his reason. His emotions warped, took precedence over any logical thought, whispered paranoia into his ears.

He opened his eyes and looked at himself, noticing anew how his previously dark hair had turned, strand by strand, to the purest bleached white, shimmering with excess magic. It was altering him, leeching away all the colour and human inside him and replacing it with the greedy desire to consume.

It would be a lie to say he was losing himself – no, this was revealing what ugly truth he really was.

Amid all this white, the spot of black should have been instantly visible.

However, it was not until Kel'oshki spoke that the Tsar realised they were there, and wheeled around, a shout to his lips and magic thrumming at his fingertips.

“Lunanoff.” They lounged on the windowsill, idly polishing a dagger. The masked face tilted up in blatant amusement at the Tsar's instinctive reaction. “Did you just think of fighting me? Go on, I need a laugh.”

“You.” Palming his face, Apollo forced himself to relax, breathing out the tension and stress building up in his body. “Just you.” He centred himself. “What do you want?”

Kel'oshki's eyes glittered under the banded mask. Their voice was controlled and soft, a pleasure to listen to, if they hadn't happened to be a callous assassin.

“I want a star.”

Apollo blinked, then scoffed. “A star? I didn't realise that whores were something you were interested in, Kel'oshki. Especially stars.” There was no reaction, Kel'oshki continued to buff their dagger, eyeing the razor edge with a displeased-seeming eye. It was difficult to tell. “Perhaps we're not so different after all,” Apollo muttered sarcastically.

Kel'oshki rubbed the dagger and examined it critically. “Everyone is interested in the stars. It's simply how far they go to hide it.”

Leaning one hip against the desk, Apollo crossed his arms. Kel'oshki's upfront request left him feeling somewhat as if he had some idea, some advantage to use against the mysterious assassin. “Why did you protect Pitchiner?” he demanded sharply.

Kel'oshki didn't respond, until at last Apollo admitted defeat. “What is it to me if you take one of the whores? Now, tell me.” It was no use playing this game with Kel'oshki. It never was.

“I might as well wait until you pay me to kill him.” Kel'oshki shrugged off-handedly, replaced the dagger and drew out a new one. This one still had faint stains of blood on it.

“What?” A sick feeling swooped in Apollo's stomach. “Why would I do that? The people would revolt – they'd think another Fearling War was coming. My support is shaky enough, I need him to keep them on my side. He won't turn against me,” he stated confidently.

Won't he? Won't he? The poison under his skin whispered, and Apollo shook his head firmly. “He cannot.”

“You're losing it, Lunanoff,” Kel'oshki crooned mockingly. “The further you are from that palace of yours, the worse it gets, isn't it? Feels like you're being eaten alive by your own mind, doesn't it? And yet, you had to come out here to protect your general, your only hope to ending those Fearlings for good. But soon enough, you'll be the biggest threat he'll face.” Kel'oshki chuckled dryly. “That poor soldier won't even see it coming, will he? Call me again when your blood is demanding that he dies.”

“I won't,” Apollo said staunchly. “He is my friend.”

Kel'oshki snorted disbelievingly, then swung their legs over the sill. “We'll see,” they teased. Quick as a flash, the daggers were stowed safely in their clothing, and Kel'oshki dropped off the window ledge. They were gone as quickly as they had appeared, one last retort hanging in the air.

“After all, we aren't so different, are we, Lunanoff?”

Chapter Text

The human's hands were gentle and non-intrusive. He asked permission before he touched, and when he did, even that was soft and apologetic. They did not know what to make of this treatment, requests that sounded familiar, “spread your legs, lift your arms, tilt your head, close your eyes, open your mouth,” but results that were so very different than what they expected from humans. Not once did his hands linger, squeezing or groping or caressing, but performed the careful act of washing with unconscious and steady respect.

His hands, strong and dark and broad, moved with a flexibility and care that left them flinching, fearful and expecting hits and slaps when they were too slow to comply with casual commands couched in tender tones. The human was patient, though, and waited for a hint of relaxation before moving forward again. He held a cloth dipped in something warm and frothy, water bubbling with some sort of cleaner that soothed the grains of their sand, and fine, soft bandages that he wrapped firmly around their oozing sores, the corruption that had sunk into their sand from the lead and darkness infused chains.

He washed them one at a time, his steady focus unwavering and somehow spreading, soft and trustworthy and reassuring, through the dim, steamy bathroom he'd led them all to, scared and silent and still all chained.

Another two humans had showed up in the beginning, but the strong, dark human had dismissed them to wait outside, leaving himself alone with all five of the stars in the bathroom. Too terrified to realise the deliberate tactic that had outnumbered him to them, they watched him with wide, dark eyes, fearing all he could do.

He had picked up an object instead, a small, mechanical buzzer had frightened them all when he had first brought it near them, sent them cringing into the walls and clutching each other, all aside from the mad one.

The maddest one, the star that had been inside the cage, shivered on the floor of the room without moving, her glassy reddish eyes staring into nowhere. She was advanced with disease, the lead-poisoning sinking through her entire body and transforming her to gangrenous white beneath the filth. The pallor of coming death hung around her, and all the other stars knew it, kept careful distance. Even the soft peach-shining star, who had danced with the cage-star before she had been put in the cage to rot, to lose her mind, did not approach her, though something in her broken heart ached for a once-friend. None of them were foolish enough to risk catching a hideous, slow death.

Nonetheless, it was this star who did not have the sense to cringe away when the human tentatively came near to her, and the saner stars watched, fearing their sibling-in-bond's torture before their eyes. The human did not fuck her, or hit her, or hurt her, but instead unlocked the chains and put them aside. With a gentle guiding touch, he brought her to the big pool in the centre of the room and began to wipe the filth from her body, with extreme care not to irritate her numerous wounds.

Shocked, the other stars watched, and feared trickery.

Once the maddest star was clean, he lifted her to her feet, speaking in low, rumbling tones that they struggled to understand, but knew somehow was supposed to be soothing. She stumbled, but he supported her until she stood, firm by herself, and then he patted away the dampness clinging to her diseased sand, showing no fear of her death-touch. He brought down another swath of the fabric he had used to pat away the dampness and wrapped the diseased star in it, tying a knot at her right shoulder so that it covered her.

The diseased star started to cry.

Her tears were blush-red, the original colour of her vibrant shine. The other stars shrank back, recognising the last phase of this disease – what colour she had left was bleeding away, soon she would utterly colourless, and her sand would turn dust that would blow away into the solar winds, and the last of her energy would dissipate into the universe.

But the human did not move away. Instead he rubbed, with slow circles, her tears back into her cheeks, making the red sink back into her face. He was crying too, not his colour like a star, but water that splashed off his cheeks, and sadness hung around him like a grave.

He lifted her into his strong arms and placed in a soft, warmed nest of towels, covering every inch of her diseased white skin until true darkness blessed her eyes. The diseased star, warm and surrounded by close darkness, sighed. It was close enough to pretend the dim memories of a once-life were returning to her, when she had been grand and noble and shining, sailing the darkness of space, when she had been something beautiful, something loved and honoured and trusted, when she had been a shooting star pilot named Carmine, a faded memory so long gone that it was snapshots from another life. She closed her eyes, pressed her face into the towels. Her fevered mind drifted, touching on old, worn memories that did not feel like pain, or hurts, and she sobbed, dryly, with emotions she no longer understood.

All she knew was that it did not hurt, so she must be dead.

The other stars, confused, looked to the indigo to decide for them, who had spoken up before. But their companion was as lost as they were, leaning away from the human. It was the peach star who, very shyly, pulled at the clanking chain attached to her neck, and who didn't move away when the human came close.

He repeated the process with each of them, thorough and gentle. He spoke to them as he did so, trying to convince them to speak, trying to convince them they were safe. None of them spoke, too many years of silence beaten into them to risk it now. They were tentative, on their best behaviour, certain that at any moment the faux-kindness would switch into brutal agony and humiliation.

When each of them was clean, and dressed in a towel-toga, the human led them to a pile of cushions and blankets on the floor. Instantly, their shy confidence deserted them.

It was not a bed, and the human had probably made certain of that in an attempt to put them at ease. But they had not served in beds, they had been fucked and raped on every variation of cheap cushioning there was available. They clustered together, fearful with betrayal. The indigo star touched the human's thigh when he gestured them for sleep there, intentionally seductive, and the currents of their thoughts whispered in the air.

He has not hurt us, we must repay?

The slate-grey star, taking the indigo's example, began to kiss the human's bicep, soft hands reaching to caress his chest. The other stars glanced at each other, rosy-pink and soft-peach, and thought quietly to themselves that they were sure they wouldn't mind serving this human. He could only be as worse as the humans back in the club.

To their surprise, the human's cheeks coloured at their advances, but he frowned unhappily. Soft human faces were difficult to understand, but his meaning quickly became clear. Gently, but firmly, he brushed them off and stood up, backing away. Confused, the stars sat on the pile of cushions, and watched him leave with desolate eyes.

They did not want to be left alone. What if the other humans came back? The scary human that had been with the nice human at the club, with the sword and the blood and the darkness inside? The master that had whipped them with lead-whips?

He paused, evidently seeing their distress, and his soft face twisted again. Then he walked back in and sat down in one of the big armchairs by the fire. He arranged a blanket over his lap and sat there, watching them.

The indigo star stared at him suspiciously, gesturing sharply to their fellows. They collapsed in little heaps, some part nudging or brushing or intertwining with the others, except the diseased star, left in her coverings. Only the indigo star, evidently the leader, remained upright, keeping watch with sharp eyes.

The human blinked at them.

The brave indigo star blinked back.

The human turned his head to the left.

So did the indigo star.

His face crinkled up and split in two, and they could see his white teeth bare in a smile.

The indigo star tilted their head and copied the expression, and the human made a noise with no meanness in it at all, a soft chuckle that made his shoulders shake.

The human was not very good at this game, but, struck by whimsy, the indigo star copied the action soundlessly.

The human spoke, and the indigo star lifted their head to listen to the words. “I knew there was a smile in there somewhere,” said the human, sounding very pleased with itself, and the indigo star snorted.

Humans. Absurd creatures.

Kel'oshki moved swiftly, silently, scaling the walls of the palace with ease. They dropped with a barely audible thump onto one of the gardening tubes that sprouted from the walls of the Governor's palace, crouching and scanning the busy skimmer traffic overhead.

Mostly official-looking ones, a few smuggler carts they recognised. It was night, as night as Alpheratz ever got, with the brilliant lights on every corner and deep plumes of smog hanging in a perpetual twilight. This sort of dramatic scene positively bred people of Kel'oshki's ilk, thieves, liars, murderers and cheats. Humanity rolling in its own filth beckoned to the perverse.

They had passed the open maw of the hangar, and seen thousands of sleek skimmers hidden inside, emblazoned with the different markings of Alpheratz's elite. The music from the ball was audible from all the way inside, and Kel'oshki had seized the chance to acquire their prize without confrontation from Pitchiner, while the occupants of the palace were all consumed with the dinner.

Eagerness burned low in their heart. They had looked forward to this day for a long time – but no, Kel'oshki scolded themselves, they must not get their hopes up.

They leapt lightly from tube to tube, a soft thump and a flash of dark clothing the only mark of their presence. The lush gardens inside the tubes were deserted, the nodding flowerheads closed. Kel'oshki made their way with unerring ease, dropping onto one last tube and peering into the thick, translucent plexiglass tubing.

Empty.

Their clever touch searched for the service hatch, drawing one of their flashing daggers. They worked the hatch open with the quick efficiency of one who had done so many times before, and popped it open. Soundlessly, they slid inside and landed on the dirt with a muffled noise. They crouched there for a moment, listening hard, but when there was no alarm, they stole up to the wide doors that opened into Kozmotis Pitchiner's suite.

Careful not to touch anything, Kel'oshki crept through the darkened rooms, the masked head turning this way and that to check each door. A palpable amusement seemed to emanate from the dark figure at the fine, dark rooms, barren of any personal effects, save for a letter, folded on the desk and pressed carefully between a pane of glass. Curiously, Kel'oshki paused and eyed the letter.

They glanced at the door, but the urge to snoop was too strong.

Using the blade of their dagger, they worked open the case and gently took hold of the letter, skimming the words quickly. Behind the mask, Kel'oshki's eyes widened. They reread the letter. A hidden mouth quirked into a grin of pure delight and twisted cunning.

For a moment, Kel'oshki lingered, memorising the words and running their gloved digit along the words with the utmost care. They had come for a star, but had found far greater a prize left so carelessly out on Pitchiner's desk.

But patience. Business first.

With professional ease, Kel'oshki replaced the letter exactly as they had found it, then, with an added lightness to their silent footsteps, they slipped out of the room. They would have time to revel in the new information later – but first, to finish the mission.

Pitchiner had left his door unlocked, easy enough to open from the inside. Kel'oshki peered into the brightly lit hallway with a wince. Nowhere to hide here. They pressed their back against the wall and sidled towards the rooms a few doors down, avoiding all the doorways and listening for hard for any movement. It was clear, save for a woman weeping in one of them, alone.

The last door was locked, but it was no match for Kel'oshki. Inside, the brightened glows of the sleeping stars was instantly visible, though the assassin's sharp eyes caught the sight of the man slumped over in the armchair beside the dying embers of the fire. If Kel'oshki's information was correct, this was Cater, a man mysterious in his apparent lack of a past, and names, save from a few jobs in the Cancii region in the last twenty years before he'd signed on to the Molskarr supply crew. Fast asleep, and no threat, but just to make sure...

Kel'oshki removed from a pouch around their belt a small tube of darts. Holding the dangerous darts carefully in a gloved touch, they aimed and threw, silent, swift, and sure.

The dart buried itself into the sleeping man's arm. There was no visible change. Kel'oshki waited for a minute to make certain it had taken effect, then cautiously approached.

They shook the man's shoulder, but his head lolled, body lax and limp. They nodded, pleased, then turned to face the stars.

They had startled awake, no doubt when Kel'oshki had shot the man with a dart, and now watched them with wide, frightened eyes.

Sarcastically, Kel'oshki gave them a little wave.

They did nothing but cringe away and shake, though Kel'oshki perceived the indigo's eyes flickering worriedly to Cater's limp form. How sweet.

“Oh, don't worry,” said Kel'oshki, crouching down right in front of them, “It isn't permanent. The paralysis has an effect for about six to eight hours.” Kel'oshki sat down obnoxiously, ignoring the bristling star. “So I'd say we have a little time to get to know each other.”

There was no response. Not even from the indigo, who seemed to have a little more spine than the rest of the sorry lot. Kel'oshki waited for about ten minutes, then broke the silence again.

“Well, this is awkward,” they drawled. “I'm known as Kel'oshki, the poison beetle. What about you? What's your names? You don't talk? Why? Did a big bad scary human tell you not to? Or are you just upset because your name isn't as good as mine? In which case, it's reasonable.”

The stars glanced at one another, not knowing what to make of the derogatory assassin.

“Honestly, I have seen infants that look less pathetic than you right now,” continued Kel'oshki in a conversational tone.

They still made no response, though the rosy-pink star pulled her knees to her chest, looking timid. The peach star next to her put their arm around her shoulders supportively.

“You two are friends, then? That's sweet. Maybe I should kill one of you while the other watches.”

The slate-grey star scowled at Kel'oshki for that, vitriol glaring from their cold eyes. Deliberately, they leaned against the other two.

“You don't like that, do you? I never enjoyed losing the people I cared for either. No fun, is it?” Kel'oshki leaned forward. “You know what else is not fun? Being given a chance and then squandering it because you were too much of a coward to open your mouth and speak for yourself.”

They quailed at Kel'oshki's harsh, pointed tone, averting their eyes and hunching to make themselves smaller.

“When I was young,” said Kel'oshki, reflectively, “Pilots were things to be respected. We used to watch you all, streaking across the skies like beacons of light and hope. I wondered about the things you'd seen, the places you'd gone. And then the dreams would come, falling in little twinkling grains to kiss our eyes and cheeks, and we'd see such visions, fantastic, wondrous things beyond our imaginations.”

The stars listened to Kel'oshki, silent and expressionless, though a light was beginning to come back into their dim eyes as Kel'oshki's soft words brought back their own memories. Shooting through the sky, riding a bucking and wild star, dreams falling in fine haze through their fingertips, suffused with happiness and joy.

“We would... we would watch for you,” continued Kel'oshki, “and we would count you as you passed. One, two, three...” Their voice broke and Kel'oshki bowed their head, struggling to master themselves, overwhelmed by a distant memory of another self that had worn no mask.

The stars watched, silent as ever.

Finally, Kel'oshki spoke again, soft voice now harder than iron. “And look how far you've fallen. Plaything of men, toy-slave of humanity. You would let yourselves be nothing more than objects? Don't you remember who you used to be? What you used to be? You inspired, you brought hope and happiness and wonder and light... even when we thought there was none to be found. But now look at yourselves. Cringing away from anything that moves. Refusing to talk for fear of breaking your precious master's rules. But your master is dead, now, and you have a chance, if only you weren't so spineless. So I'll ask you again, what is your name?”

There was no response, and Kel'oshki's shoulders slumped, bitterly cold. They rose to their feet and turned away, frustrated and furious. “I should have left you to rot,” they muttered.

Before they could take another step, however, a soft voice, so very soft that it was almost inaudible, whispered, “...I was Koyla. Koyla, ident Antritha, shade #2E0854.”

Kel'oshki froze, and beneath the mask, that hidden mouth curled up in a wicked smile once more. Stiffly, they turned their head to catch the sight of the indigo star, staring down at their knees and trembling in terror, evidently the one who had spoken, as the other stars were gaping at them like they had announced full-out rebellion.

Perhaps they had.

Koyla slowly looked up and into the eyeslits of Kel'oshki's mask, their shaky voice hoarse and rough, “I remember what I used to be. But I am not that anymore. How could I ever return to giving dreams when I am so...” Koyla trailed off. Koyla could not imagine a world where they sang to the stars as they used to, the way every star was born to, transmitting long waves of communication that stretched in long and unbroken links over every corner of the galaxy, wherever there was a star to continue the network. Star pilots used this to keep in contact with their fellows, a curious method of echolocation they referred to as singing. A star who did not sing was no star.

There was a brief pause, and then the slate-grey cleared their throat and spoke up, something bitter clinging to every word. “I was Elba, ident Carina, shade #778899. What I am now, the humans have made me.”

The peach and rose-pink glanced at each other, and the rose-pink timidly nudged her friend to go first. The peach coughed a little and pressed their fingertips to their throat, then rasped, “Riore, ident Smith, shade #FFE4B5.” Their shy friend muttered very softly that she was “Antigra, ident Smith, shade #FF66CC.”

“Excellent,” beamed Kel'oshki. “I knew you would see reason. And I didn't even have to kill anyone.” They sounded pleased with themselves and sat back down unceremoniously. They gestured to Carmine, wrapped up in the towels as a shivering lump. “And that one?”

Riore fiddled with the blankets sadly and shook their head. “Carmine has not sung for a long time. She no longer has the will to shine. She will go dancing soon.”

The other stars shook their heads, glows dimming faintly in sorrow, the meaning of the statement rendered clear by their actions. Having lost the will to live, the diseased star would quickly die. Kel'oshki sighed gustily. “It is a shame. But nonetheless, you realise that you have a chance, now, don't you?” They pressed forward. Koyla met their stare with flat suspicion. “The humans that rescued you. You have their hearts, use them, use Pitchiner. He will be of use to you, but in return, you must do something for him.”

Riore sniffed and put their head into their hands. Antigra brushed their shoulder tenderly. “It will be well,” she said softly. “Are we not used to giving men what they want of us?”

“No, no,” Kel'oshki said, waving their resigned comments away. They pinned the indigo Koyla with a sharp stare. “You know. Give him what he wants, he will support you. He has the eye of the Tsar, he is your only chance to begin anew... And to help others in the same situation.” Koyla nodded briskly, understanding Kel'oshki's words even as their eyes narrowed at the scope of what Kel'oshki suggested.

Elba tugged on Koyla's arm in disbelief. “You're not going to work with the humans, are you?” they snapped. “You cannot trust the meatskins.”

“It is our only choice,” said Koyla harshly, their eyes on Kel'oshki, who nodded ever so slightly in approval. “We can use them – and they're our only chance. The humans are the only ones with power in this world.”

“But stars can't fight humans,” whispered Antigra timidly. “Dimitri's Charter-” She referred to the famous list of rules that bound all star and human interaction, which contained many skewed heavily in the humans' favour, and was named after the 'discoverer' of the star people.

Koyla smiled, a little coldly, though Kel'oshki noticed Koyla's eyes lifting over Kel'oshki's shoulder to the slumbering Cater, still with a touch of worry. Elba, however, was nodding along with a fierce sort of expression. The humans would not find any champion in that bitter grey star. “We don't have to fight them. It will be well. I will see you all safely to the Guild here.” Koyla tilted their head towards Kel'oshki. “I suppose you wish me to show the human Pitchiner,” carefully, they sounded out the unfamiliar name, “there also.”

Kel'oshki smiled again beneath the mask, nodded, and then rose. “Pitchiner has someone he needs to find.”

Business done, they looked down at the stars, debating. They stepped towards Carmine and lifted her gently into their arms.

“Where are you taking her?” asked Riore in resigned concern, and Kel'oshki's mask dipped.

“You of all creatures should know there is a sacrifice for every restraint in the world. The end that awaits her is far kinder than the one she would have succumbed to.”

There was a pause. Koyla nodded, and turned away as Kel'oshki left, as silently as they had come. Only Riore watched as the shadow of the assassin disappeared into the Alpherati night, their former friend held so delicately in Kel'oshki's arms.

Quietly, Riore hoped that Carmine's spirit would find its way back to the young, sweet dreamers she had once loved so much.

Koz was woken by the sunlight streaming in through the window. He winced and groaned as his head immediately erupted in splitting pain, fumbling blindly for the pillow and pulling it over his eyes. Even the pressure of the pillow hurt.

In hindsight, that much wine was not a good idea. At least he hadn't slept with anyone this time, though how many government secrets had been won out of him didn't bear thinking. Probably hadn't slept with anyone. Dimly, he poked back through his shady memory. Ah – no, there had been that one time – and then, behind the curtain with – and also – oh dear. Well, at least he was waking up alone. That was always a bonus, if he could avoid the awkward small talk the next morning.

Koz groaned again and cursed drinking explosively. This was it. He was just going to stop drinking from now on. Whenever he got drunk, he slept with too many random people. Drunk Koz couldn't be trusted. His only relief was that the Tsar didn't appear somewhere in his memories of that night, though disturbingly, more than a few men did. Evidently, drunk Koz also hadn't got the memo that Koz wasn't attracted to men.

Kozmotis was very much done and it was only... mid-afternoon, by the look of the communit blinking with mild amusement on his bedside table. He squinted at it.

Shit, the stars, I was supposed to – fuck.

Koz groaned, wincing and feeling like at least one of his eyes were swollen shut.

“Morning sunshine,” said a dry voice, and Koz whined self-pityingly as the noise seemed to pound like warhammers inside his skull. “Oi, don't ignore me, you rude man.”
He was dying. Koz was fairly certain he was dying.

“Up, up, up,” singsonged the cheery voice, and Koz peered hatefully under the edge of the pillow to see an unrepentant Io holding a bucket of water.
“Nooo,” he managed to groan, and she snickered.

“Oh yes, I've been trying to wake you for an hour. Up in the next five or this is on your head.” Io walked away, balancing the bucket on her hip. “Yeesh, I baby you too much. My sons were never so lazy as you.”
Koz sighed, and felt very sorry for himself indeed. He kicked off the coverings and limped to the shower.

Questions could wait until he felt human again.

A few hours and some gentle mockery from Io later, a very grumpy Kozmotis Pitchiner was dressed, fed, watered, and informed that his quarry were taking a walk in the sunny gardens. He had complained wholeheartedly to Io, who had watched him with far too much amusement and far too little sympathy, as she pointed out how bright the sun was outside in the manufactured gardens. Why, of all days, did the stars and Cater decide they needed a relaxing walk in the gardens on the one day that Koz wanted to curl up in a dark hole and die?

I miss Pitch, he thought stormily as he strode to the gardens, glaring at anyone who dared stand in his way. Pitch wouldn't make me go in the sun when I didn't want to.

The gardens, at least, were cool and relatively quiet. There was the sound of soft birdsong and the movement of water – whether it was through a speaker or not, Koz couldn't say. They all sounded very alien to him. The lush greenery added a peculiar wetness to the air that Koz was entirely unused to, and he had to spend a few moments breathing it in to decide whether he liked it or not. It tasted oddly... fresh, entirely unlike the pollution he could see pressing up against the great hollow tube's walls.

The great central gardens of the palace were housed in one great fat tube that curled sluggishly around the palace like a ring of grey, sluggish worms joined tail-to-mouth. Faint dark shapes of passing skimmers were dimly visible. The tube was kilometres wide, and filled with a network of bright greenery and explosions of colourful flowers, interspersed with regular benches and what appeared to be water features.

Koz saw one that reminded him of the old fountain back at the Orion villa, the one of a star raising a drinking-horn to its lips, the water pelting down over its face. The one here depicted two stars breaking from a passionate kiss, water gushing from their mouths. At least, Koz assumed they were stars, from the collars they wore that chained them together, long tangled hair and softly beautiful features, classical attributes of stars. There were statues both lewd and artful, all impeccably carved and despite himself, Koz found his steps slowing to examine them.

He set off down a path, peering in wonder as gravel and soil crunched under his boots. He was a little jumpy, hand flying to his swordless belt every time a leaf rustled in a produced wind, head constantly turning this way and that. The air made his head feel dizzy and strange, and each step was awkward, flinching at the unexpected noises. It was so unlike the sophisticated click of boots on smooth, clean space decks. The gardens threw off noise as well. Nothing echoed as it should in this green-shrouded, uncomfortable place, voices muffled by the dense hanging vines hanging like a curtain.

Therefore, it was quite reasonable that Koz quickly began to panic that he would be lost in this mysterious green murk forever. He hummed to himself, trying to slow his racing heart rate, but his eyes flickered nervously to the branches webbing overhead, gauging if they would crash down. He couldn't track his position either, and feared turning around in case he ended up wandering in circles in the centre of the gardens.

Pitch lived with this all the time?!

Koz noticed soft voices, and moved towards them, hoping that it would be Cater, or at least, someone who knew where he was. As soon as he saw who it was, however, he cursed and ducked behind a handy tree.

He did not want to be hit on when he still felt like death.

It was Apollo and someone with dark leathery grey skin – immediately, Koz thought of Pitch, but this person's hair was long and dark, voluminous, reaching down to her waist and braided with multicoloured ribbons and bells that made her jangle softly as she walked. She had a kind sort of face, if unattractive, but cold and empty eyes, and a smile that seemed a little false, as if some great sadness hid inside that could never be covered completely. There was hunger etched in the crowsfeet in the corners of her dark eyes, the whites eclipsed by the same faintly shining silver that flecked her irises, premature ageing, he thought. Moonmages always had a shorter lifespan – the magic inside destroyed them. Everyone knew moonmagic was toxic. She wore a simple dress of pale grey belted with a length of dyed black rope. She was the moonmage that had entertained them at the feast yesterday, and she walked beside Apollo with that faint little half-smile on her downturned, weary lips.

The Tsar, by contrast, was everything the moonmage could never be. Bright and brilliant, he shone with the youthful effulgence of a star, though to Koz's surprise, he had regained quite a bit of his colour. Perhaps his moonsickness was declining, but more likely, the presence of the moonmage was sapping the strength of his magic. His hair was tousled with streaks of black again, leaving him striped like a badger, and his eyes had returned to a less off-putting shade of hard dark grey. His cheeks were coloured faintly, like a blush, and he wore his most flattering clothes, drawing his attractiveness around him like battle-armour for an uncomfortable conversation.

Koz squinted. Was this what it looked like...?

Apollo shimmered and shone when the moonmage turned her tired little smile on him, and he ducked his head, saying something quietly that Koz didn't catch. She laid her hand on his arm, and said with a low, strong sort of voice, raspy and rolling like a priestess, “It is no shame to struggle in bearing this burden. Magecraft of this sort is the most volatile and corrosive. You would not be human if you did not suffer.”

The Tsar's whole body began to radiate a soft light when she touched him, and he apologised, quick and embarrassed in a way Koz had never seen in his Tsar. Had she poisoned him? He was clearly not at ease. “I can teach you, if you like, Alysea,” he said, with a touch of eagerness, and the moonmage Alysea raised an eyebrow and inquired something dryly that made, to Koz's absolute shock, Apollo, Apollo, look both abashed and somewhat embarrassed.

Is he still drunk?

“I – I did not – though of course-” He drew a breath and mastered himself, seductiveness falling easily onto his face like a familiar mask. Whatever he said evidently irritated her quite a bit, for without the slightest bit of hesitance, she slapped him across the face and continued walking.

Koz waited for him to set her on fire with a wave of his hand, but Apollo did no such thing.

After a moment of staring at her in utter shock, thrown off, Apollo touched his cheek and then hurried to catch up, eyes passing blindly over Koz in his not-so discreet hiding place and then moving on.

For some reason, the interaction made Koz feel uneasy as he slipped back onto the path. Perhaps Apollo had finally found someone he respected enough not to dismiss them into the two categories he usually sorted people in, people to fuck and people not to fuck. Koz had never really understood how Apollo's mind worked, and he had never seen the Tsar look so... vulnerable, so unprepared for ordinary conversation. He tried to think of how many times he'd talked to Apollo without it being some sort of elaborate come-on, and couldn't. He thought about what they had been discussing.

Magic. Every Lunanoff was born with it. Even Apollo's young and shy wife, Selena, had magic, and so did his infant son. Magic, and the madness that went along with it.

The moonmages were caught halfway between, not as inherently great or pure as the Lunanoffs were – no, ordinary humans who had to train to access the magic they could use for themselves. They were usually derided as insane. Perhaps Apollo had found someone to understand what it was like living with magic under the skin in the moonmage. Perhaps it was a subject difficult enough to talk about that it stripped even Apollo of his confidence.

Koz shook his head. He was getting far too philosophical. Apollo probably just wanted to have sex with her and was annoyed she was playing hard to get. Anyway, Koz had never cared what, or who, Apollo did in his spare time.

Nonetheless, as he kept walking, his thoughts returned to Apollo's wife, Selena Lunanoff, waiting obediently at home for her husband to return to their infant son, and he sighed, feeling pity for her. She was only six or seven years older than his own daughter had been, though in many cases far more timid than Seraphina ever was. When Apollo and Koz had been planning the war, Selena would be hovering awkwardly in the background as Koz's wife Archaline moved around and between the two men, trailing after Koz's wife like a lost dog that did not quite know what to do when it was not given a command.

He had never agreed with Apollo blatantly cheating on his wife, disrespecting her name, and complaining about her publicly – seemingly without caring that Selena may be present at the time, but it wasn't his place to chide Apollo for it. Either way, Selena had only shied away in fear whenever Koz had ever attempted to talk to her, and eventually, Archaline had told him to stop trying.

Koz sighed again, fallen to melancholy. He missed his wife and daughter terribly, and he wondered what Pitch was doing. Was he looking after himself, all alone on the prison planet? He wondered if Archaline would have liked Pitch. He thought Sera would have.

Oh, my precious girl, how I miss you.

He wandered for a while longer, hopelessly lost and following random voices whenever he could. The atmosphere of the garden, whilst unfamiliar and therefore terrifying, was somehow soothing. If Koz was concentrating on cataloguing the environment for threats, he didn't have to think too deeply about what Pitch might be facing, without anyone to buffer him from the warped poison of the Fearlings' influence.

It was in this way that he eventually found Cater, however, purely by stumbling across him. If Koz had been more aware, he might have wondered if the stars had been quietly calling him all the while, for they certainly didn't seem surprised to see him turn up, but Koz had never been that sort of man, so he assumed it was coincidence quite happily.

They were all sat by a small, tinkling pool, created by one of the more tasteful water features in the garden, this time of a stylised woman, Koz believed she was supposed to be Tsarina Lunar Andromeda Lunanoff II, by the basket of mirrors she carried, and poured a never ending stream of water from an ornate stone goblet into a clear pool shaped like an eye.

The stars shone brightly, healthily, and seemed quite at ease around Cater, though there was still a telltale flinch whenever he moved too quickly and an oppressive silence in their refusal to speak.

The indigo star Koz had questioned sat beside him, subtly copying his actions in a way that made Cater smile whenever he noticed. Every star was clean, and dressed in a clean white towel. Koz would have to ask for some clothes for them later. However, Koz noticed something quickly; one was missing.

“Hello,” he called as he approached. “Stars shine!”

Cater responded with the correct reply and then urged the stars to greet Koz. They all glanced at each other nervously, save for the indigo star who stepped forward and said in a perfectly serviceable human voice that nonetheless reminded Koz of his headache, “I am Koyla.” They pointed to each star in turn, the peach, the soft pink, the slate grey. “Riore, Antigra, Elba. You are Kozmotis Pitchiner.”
Koz nodded, startled. “Yes, that's me.”

“We have a deal to strike,” said Koyla in a businesslike tone, though their nose crinkled slightly with dislike when Koz stepped closer and glanced at Cater in confusion. Cater just shrugged, but with a bright smile that suggested he was very happy about the stars' mysterious confidence.

“You'll take me to the Guild of Pilots here in Alpheratz?” Koz crouched down to be on Koyla's level. Elba regarded him with a look of deep disgust. The other two just looked rather timid.

“On one condition. You give your word you escort my companions there also, and leave us there safely. If you spill its whereabouts, I will personally find your dreams and rip them out of your head,” Koyla said flatly. Koz's head ached in splintering pain, but he nodded anyway.

“I give my word.” He paused. “What happened to your other friend?” He asked carefully.

The peach star, Riore, kicked their feet sadly and nudged Koyla, who said quietly, “She has gone to dance.”

What? Cater shrugged, just as mystified as he was.

“If someone took her,” said Koz, staring at Koyla steadily, “I will personally get her back.”

“We both will,” said Cater supportively.

Koyla met his gaze, something considering in their eyes. “You are a curious human.”

“A meatskin that thinks it sings is still tone-deaf,” Elba muttered, and for some reason beyond Cater and Koz, all the stars burst out in silent laughter.

Chapter Text

Koz couldn't help the spring in his step as they traversed the labyrinthine, decorated halls of Tabor's palace towards the skimmer hangar. He felt so buoyant he fancied he could almost fly on his own, and there was a relief in the harshness of his face, a subtle grin. This sort of happiness was so unexpected and unfamiliar to him that it was tinged with wariness; with every light heartbeat, he waited for the falling guillotine that would cut it short.

Finally, progress was being made.

In the long days – a few weeks, maybe, Koz had lost track of the exact time – since he'd begun his quest to find the people Pitch mentioned in his letter, Koz had become aware of a sense of desperation. The pervasive feeling that he was wasting time Pitch didn't have itched on his nerves, and Koz was well aware of the enormity of the task he'd undertaken.

Stars were prolific creatures spread all over the galaxies in a variety of professions, be it healthcare assistants private or public, wishing star pilots, servants for rich lords and ladies, shape-shifting ornaments, any manner of companion, craftsmen's aides, the list went on, that if they weren't in some underground fighting or sex ring. The Pooka notoriously secretive; no human ever knew all of their private haunts, and many were so busy they'd never pause to so much as sniff in a human's direction.

Koz had despaired of ever finding the star Sandy and the Pooka Bunnymund Pitch mentioned in time. But now, he felt like he had a chance.

A slim one that was most likely a lie, but it was a chance.

The cleverly hidden lightstrips in the walls gave the impression that sun was pouring through lurid stained glass mosaics that tinted the colourful shadows on the white marble floors. Patterns of crimson and deep blue played over the hollows of Koz's face, the dips of his cheeks, his sunken, tired eyesockets, made him into a vibrant puppet of a thing, muscles oiled and smooth under well-fitting clothes, dyed brilliant colours picked from the fabric of the stories the glass told. He was refined the way the court wanted him to be, wearing all the right clothes with all the right words from his lips and promises of religious devotion sealed in a ticking pendulum, but the searing excitement in his grey eyes offered nothing short of rebellion.

Cater towered beside him, a stolid rook to his prancing knight, his manner of dress deep and richly coloured, yet unobtrusive, just as he was. Around his ankles the pawns clustered, the languid glitter of their skins disrupting the royal colours of the glass-tinted light and casting strange, crazy combinations over the white marble canvas.

The obviously feminine, yet gaunt from overwork in a way that left her with a peculiarly shaped body, but characteristically delicate Antigra held Cater's large hand, her other grasping her peach-skinned friend Riore's, also feminine in appearance, but where Antigra strove for soft curves, Riore shaped their body into tall, straight angles. Riore bore Antigra's attachment with a gentle sort of experience, making them a bizarre daisy chain linking back to Cater.

Koyla, genderless, with longer indigo hair and large, pleasing dark eyes, walked independently at Cater's other side, but glanced frequently up at him, as if to reassure themselves that he was still there. It gave Koyla's supposed confidence a fabricated effect. Slightly behind Koyla, the steely grey Elba, purposefully alien in a way that jarred every human sense, slunk, stormy eyes lowered sulkily and boring holes into either of the two hated humans.

Koz had a habit of striding, using his long legs to the fullest, and the stars had to scurry to keep up, which only earned him more reproachful looks. Koz couldn't bring himself to care, though, not when he was getting closer to his goal with every step. He could envision how it would go perfectly – they would reach the Guild, and examine the long lists that had pilots' last check ins. Sandy would be on there, and they'd find his base, travel there, and having received word, Sandy would arrive and agree to help.

Never did it occur to his hopeful mind that Sandy, a member of an oppressed race with good reason to hate and fear Koz's kind, could be difficult to convince.

The hall was beginning to widen, the colouring and décor subtly muting and becoming sleek with greys and blues, signifying that they were reaching the hangar. If he hadn't been so absorbed in his uncharacteristic hope, Koz might have marvelled at how skilfully it was done, carefully blending colours together, so that, when they finally entered the sweeping hangar with the translucent closed plexiglass gates, it was the culmination of an artistic journey rather than a destination done at speed.

The hangar was filled with a variety of craft. There were no big ships here; these were the smaller skimmers, light flitters for travelling around the city's spires above the murk of smoke pollution. Some were obviously owned by visiting, important families, because they had crests emblazoned on their roofs, some were the palace's, and others were unmarked, for those discreet calls to the undercity, such as the one Tsar Apollo had requisitioned for their last jaunt.

Pointing one such unmarked one out, Koz was distracted by his wristcomm chirping. He waved Cater on ahead idly and pulled up the notification – it was a letter, forwarded from Apollo's private line. His heart skipped as he recognised the point of origin.

It was a response to the letter he had written to Zinna, the Pooka he had served closely with during the war. The letter was short and to the point:

Addressed to K. Pitchiner. Your request for an audience with E. A. Bunnymund and M. Z. Aracorn has been granted. Present yourself to Horsehead Nebula, Sector 189A, M-Type Colonised Planet – here, a word in stylistic Pookan he couldn't read – Space Station in 504 hours. Origin point of response: Brotherhood Board of Interaction – Horsehead Nebula Division, Subsector 189A.

Instantly, his hopes were crushed. A quick bit of mathematics in his head told him that 504 hours was exactly three weeks from the time the response had been sent, and the Horsehead Nebula was very far away, two weeks of hyperspace on their fastest ship available. He didn't know the name of the planet, but if the Pooka had calculated that he would need another week to find it, it was clearly far in the Horsehead.

Angrily swiping the holo-letter away, Koz clenched his fists and stared at the ground. His earlier hangover made itself known in the throbbing of his temples, or perhaps it was just the rage and disappointment that roiled in him like a bitter tidal wave. Three weeks?

It was an even crueller turn of events because of his brief moment of confident lightheartedness. Koz had been a fool to think his cynical fate would allow him a moment's reprieve. A bitter, ashy taste clung to the roof of his mouth, and his throat felt tight, prickling with rage.

It was like the entire universe was moving against him and Pitch. I'm just trying to do the right thing and keep him safe, and everywhere I turn, there's more opposition.

There was no guarantee that Pitch could wait that long. Every delay felt like another crack in the fragile hourglass whittling away at Pitch's already meagre resistance to the Fearlings. For all Koz knew, Sandy was on the other side of the Galaxy to the Horsehead, and it would take months – even years! – for Koz to collect them all, and bring them back to force Pitch to give up his stupid plan.

Not that Koz even knew what it was that Pitch had planned to do. The anxiety of the unsurety was driving him insane. He didn't know if Pitch would even be alive when he returned – if he returned. Whether Koz could stop him from becoming the threats Pitch warned against his letter, phrases scrawled messily that repeated in his mind when he tried to sleep at night.

“I will become a monster, Kozmotis, far worse than anything the Constellations have ever seen. Resistance is futile.”

What was a Nightmare King to a Golden General, if not a sign of the end? All ages must end, Pitch had said once. Was this what he meant? Himself, come to tear down the Golden Age at the height of its glory? Koz wouldn't believe that now. Pitch had been sent back in time to stop the Golden Age from ending. Koz would just have to work to make sure he didn't fail this second opportunity.

“We have the skimmer.” Cater's calm voice interrupted his thoughts, and Koz barely restrained himself from snapping a short reply back at him.

He stalked towards it instead, but before he could get in, Koyla stepped in front of him, visibly steeling themselves at the sight of Koz's intimidating rage. Elba backed Koyla up, not afraid to glare at Koz with all the venom they could muster.

“I need insurance that you take others,” Koyla said sharply. “I take you there as promised, there is nothing to say that you take the others once you have what you want.”

“Oh, come on!” snarled Koz. “Is my word not good enough for you? What would I gain from cheating you?”

“Three more servants,” said Koyla stiffly, but their indigo eyes were sliding away from Koz and abruptly, Koz remembered the cowering Koyla against the pole they had been chained to in the club. The day in Cater's company had mysteriously given Koyla the confidence to be spokesperson for the stars – but those cowardly habits had been ingrained for years.

Cater looked at him steadily, his silence implying Koz's decision, but meaning the exact opposite. Koz had never resented Cater's calm, reasonable, infuriatingly untouchable manner more. Cater crossed his burly arms over his chest.

Koz inhaled and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he snapped, “What do you want?”

Elba pointed at the golden locket around Koz's neck. “That,” the star ordered, their voice shaky and evidently unpractised. “I knowing you returning for that.”

Koz reacted violently, stepping back as his brows drew together in a thunderous scowl. “No!” He immediately said, hand flying to clutch the precious locket. He had barely taken it off since his now dead daughter had given it to him, and he wasn't about to leave it in the hands of a star that quite clearly despised him.

Antigra stepped forward and pulled eagerly at Koz's trousers. Her pink eyes were very soft and understanding, and she offered a supportive, but imploring smile. Trust me, it asked.

Koz thought about how easy it had been for Koyla to entrance him at the club and shook her off – not as hard as he would have done a few days ago.

“Kozmotis,” said Cater softly.

“No!” Koz repeated stubbornly. It was the last thing he had of Seraphina, and they would have to prise it off his corpse if they wanted it.

“Kozmotis, please,” said Cater. “Humour them. I know they will keep it safe.” He looked down at the stars, and even Elba seemed slightly mollified by his vouching for them.

Koz clutched it so hard that he could feel the metal ridging painfully into his skin. Nausea churned low in his gut as he pulled the fine gold chain taut. He remembered with perfect clarity when she had given it to him.

It had been in the hallway in front of the great doors to their villa on the isolated moon in Orion. He remembered strange, random details, like her breath smelled of the strawberries she'd just finished eating when she kissed his cheek and left a sticky print that had chilled when he'd walked outside. She wore a dyed green shift, plain but for a belt around her skinny hips – Koz had taught her how to make that belt by splicing rope fibres together – and she fiddled with the loose end of slack. Her feet were bare, brown and tanned on the rug, the stiff carpet pushing up between her toes, and she hadn't brushed her hair yet, it was tangled and mussed and lay on the wrong sides of her head, locks flopping over her bright silver eyes, an unusual hereditary trait that came straight from Koz.

She had always had his eyes, though she took most of her shape and colouring from her earthen-skinned mother, and his proud nose, his cheekbones. Every thought that had crossed his mind then was immortalised softly in his memory – he'd thought then how she'd once come to him, crying because the other girls when they'd lived in the Celestial City had insulted her long face and called her “Horseface 'Phina”, and while he'd reassured her at the time, Koz had always had a fondness for horses ever since.

He remembered her voice, lilting in that peculiar girlish mix of boldness and shyness, “Promise you'll come back?” The locket dangling from her little hand, the chain looped over her knuckles, the way it had caught momentarily on his hair when she dropped it around his neck, the clank it made when he tucked it safely inside his breastplate, just above his gambeson so that it wouldn't be accidentally driven into his chest if he was hit there. The chill of the metal chain on his bare neck.

“On my soul,” Koz had said, and hadn't he had kept his promise? He'd come back, but Sera hadn't been there when he had. His wife Archaline's shattered skull, the malevolent grins of the Dream Pirates, and the winking of the fourth-story window's glass were the only smiles to greet him then.

The memories bubbled in his mind now, and he glanced between the expectant face of Cater to the gloating expression of Elba's, Koyla's discomfort, Antigra's gentle smile and Riore's tilted head, the mournful cast on the peach face that suggested Riore understood loss all too well. The pressure weighed on him, and he found himself thinking of Pitch, the way he always did when his thoughts strayed.

Pitch had learned how to write quickly, but he had a tendency to furrow his hairless brows and stick his long tongue out just the slightest when he concentrated. He'd swipe the dark purple muscle over his lips as he worked, making his thin lips glisten faintly with saliva, trap it carefully between his sharp teeth. Koz imagined him doing that as he painstakingly wrote his last letter, and his stomach clenched again.

It had been important to Pitch that Koz find these people, Sandy included. He wouldn't send Koz on a wild goose chase for no reason.

Hesitantly, Koz lifted the chain over his head. He held the locket in his hand for a while, staring at the familiar metal, then dropped it abruptly into Antigra's hand. The pink star looked a little surprised, but then beamed at him.

“Take... take care of it,” Koz said, feeling something in his throat swell, and without a further word he pushed past them to climb into the cockpit of the skimmer.

He didn't even look at Koyla gingerly sitting beside him, or Cater resigning himself to spending the ride in the back. The three stars stood back as Koz kicked the skimmer engine into gear, taking off at a violent speed and shooting out into the city.

His teeth were grinding, and Koz felt the nakedness around his neck where his locket was supposed to be. His skin crawled. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

“Where to?” he asked in a hard voice, and Koyla shifted meekly. They were scanning the roiling cloud of fumes that hid the undercity, a frown on their face, tangled locks of glittering dark purple hair brushing in front of their face as they turned their head.

“They are hiding,” Koyla informed him. “Their voices are faint. There.” Koyla pointed down with a small hand, and Koz dipped the skimmer into a swift dive. A flash of darkness on a nearby building made him startle, orange knives flashing through his mind, and the skimmer jerked.

Cater swore in the back, and Koz grinned without humour. The last time they'd got this close to the undercity, Koz had been on the roof.

They plunged through the dark, smoky ocean into the dingy undercity. The skimmer's head-beams provided enough light to illuminate the edges of buildings bare seconds before they crashed into them, and Koz had to rely on every hint of skill and quick reactions to stop them from ploughing straight into the foundations of some lofty lord's manor.

Koyla's quietly muttered directions weren't very clear, and sometimes Koz had to reverse and take roundabout, time-wasting routes. Each misspoken direction left Koyla tensing further against the other side of the cab, as if they expected Koz to snap and beat them at their next sentence. The silence in the cab was thick and absolute; Koyla was quite clearly aware of Koz's resentment. Perhaps if Koz had been a kinder man, he might have paused to reassure Koyla, or smiled, or spoke at least once, but that dark, cruel part of him that so easily overrode what softness was left in a mechanical soldier that had had any love and sweetness devoured whole by darkness, or shattered on the cold, hard marble of reality, took Koyla's fear as payment for the unnatural absence of Koz's locket.

Besides, he was well-used to seeing people cringe and shake away from him in his presence, even if these people weren't usually indigo and glittering.

However, as they drew closer to the mysterious location of the Guild's base in Alpheratz, Koyla's directions gained confidence. They were turning their head this way and that, eyes scanning the smoke-wreathed and dilapidated buildings with the remote gaze of one who was listening to a channel beyond human hearing. Every so often, their mouth opened and no sound came out, but Koz could feel a deep vibration in his bones, a pounding ache in his head. He had to blink away tears occasionally before the migraine could disrupt his vision.

The skimmer's controls were fine to the touch, responding to his lightest command. The thrum of the engine through his boots was pleasant, and Koz marvelled privately at the manoeuvrability of the light craft. It had been too long since he was last on a skimmer like this, not since he was a young soldier, at any rate. These days Koz was accustomed to spending his time on the heavy, sluggish war galleys, not the flitter-craft of his youth.

It was a poor appeasement for his locket's absence.

Finally, Koyla shook their head and said quietly, “I do not think you take us further.”

Koz nodded shortly, the only acknowledgement he'd made so far, and nimbly landed the skimmer. He touched the breather-band around his neck quickly, ensuring it was there. It would be a death-sentence to go out in that thick fog without it. For added protection, he slung a gas mask around his neck, and thumped the partition to tell Cater they'd arrived.

They emerged in the acrid gloom, and Koz immediately pulled the mask over his face, wincing as it stung his eyes. He'd forgotten how the smoke burned. By the amused glance the already masked Cater gave him, he was the only one. Koz frowned at him, but Cater didn't bother to look repentant.

They were standing on one of the precarious walkways strung between the rickety buildings. Everything was in shades of brown and dingy grey, murk coalescing into almost shapes. Rats scratched somewhere, and rough, abandoned packing crates from the docks stared like the soulless, blank eyes of a tired whore. Kel'oshki beetles scurried over Koz's boots, and there was the foul, sweet stench of a rotting body somewhere near. He grimaced.

Koyla walked ahead, their glow a beacon in the dark, casting twisting purple shadows over the decaying wood, stone, and plastic. Koz and Cater glanced helplessly at each other, and then followed, both holding their breath as best as they could. Koyla did not walk like a human, but stepped, each placement of a soft, bare foot almost sending them bouncing, like a man walking on the moon. It made an airy, graceful, and utterly soundless method of travel that left not even the slightest print on the dust that choked everything.

The going was slow, and often the misshapen and haphazard construction shifted and groaned under their weight. The world was dead silent, brushed through with fog, apart from the occasional skitter of the beetles, their hard shells clacking as they scuttled and swarmed. It felt like an apocalyptic world.

Plastic creaked rustily in the omnipresent gloom, a stir of a stifled wind brushed sweat-sticky hair from Koz's forehead. It rustled unaffectedly over Cater's shaven scalp, but dusted them both with a thick, grimy layer of soot and sweat-stained air.

Koz, ducking under a protruding beam that hung over the path, splinters trailing down like accusing fingers, saw his skin dyed grey, unhealthy and polluted. His stomach lurched uncomfortably and he hurried after Koyla, before the silent-footed star could drift too far ahead. No locket and grey skin.

Why am I looking for you when I know that you're inside me, waiting to come out?

Several times Koyla had stopped, head turning this way and that, tuning back into a lost frequency, before moving on. When Koyla stopped in front the twisted gape of an old sewer chute, Koz expected them to continue moving. Instead, Koyla dropped lightly to their feet on the floor and nervously fiddled with the towel that remained their only covering, as grey as all their clothes by now.

“That's a sewer,” said Koz, in disgust, glancing between the fidgeting Koyla and the ramshackle entrance. His irritation coloured his voice, made it snappish, and Koyla shrank back against the dirty wall, flinching when Koz huffed.

The freed star seemed deeply affected by the surroundings. Ever since they'd arrived in the undercity, Koyla had become increasingly recalcitrant. Koz supposed Koyla was having second thoughts about giving up the only safe hiding place available to his race in Alpheratz, or perhaps it was just that the depressing, dirty gloom reminded them too much of the smoky club they'd served in. It must have been difficult to remember any promise of safety.

Cater looked at him, and beneath the mask Koz could see that he looked about as enthused as Koz felt. “They have to hide very well,” he said mildly. “Thank you, Koyla,” he added, with an element of pointedness at it that Koz ignored.

Koyla shifted and stepped shyly close to Cater, nervously peering at the threatening formations of fog around them. They shook with fear, and when Cater lightly dropped his hand, Koyla clasped onto it, grabbing it with both of their smaller hands.

With a defeated sigh, Koz volunteered grimly to go first. Koyla looked in no state to part from Cater, and if Koz went down first... His hand strayed to the short-sword belted at his hip, thought of the dagger Dioscuri had given him at their entrance to Alsciaukat weighting the other. If there were hostiles down there, Koz could very well handle them, provided there weren't too many, better than if he had to babysit Cater's inexperienced reluctance to kill.

Nonetheless, Koz couldn't stop himself from hesitating as he stooped next to the narrow entrance. It looked claustrophobic, and Koz's mind was full of a similar service chute he'd once been trapped in as a child, for almost a full hour before his mother had realised he was even gone. It had been a horrifying experience, though long since eclipsed by many of the others he'd survived. Furthermore, a putrid stench emanated from it, rotting flesh and faeces, tinged with the heavily pungent reek of incense smoke. Koz couldn't imagine any creature desperate enough to make it's lair here.

Another memory came to him, and his hand strayed up to touch his locket. An unpleasant thrill ran through him when he realised anew it was gone.

Pitch looked even worse than this, when he first came, he reminded himself. It had been awful – generations upon generations of creatures living in his hair, mutated and warped by the shadows he carried, the cracking skin of mud on his body, so thick that even when he was naked, it looked like he was clothed.

He'd got this far, Koz thought. He'd be damned if a little dirt stopped him now.

Sucking in a final, fortifying breath, he sat in the chute, feet pointing down, and looked back at Cater. “Wait for my signal,” he said, and Cater nodded, smoothly crouching in front of the tunnel to peer into the enveloping darkness.

Koz swallowed, and then pushed off before he could regret his decision. It took barely any wriggling before the slick slime on the metal walls of the tunnel greased his body and he was plummeting in the putrid, enclosed space. Stale air rushed past his face too quickly to breathe, and Koz gagged as he was slapped in the face by the stench. The tunnel's sheer walls were only wide enough for him to lie out straight, his arms over his head and feeling very, very vulnerable as the black metal whizzed by just over his head.

His weapons rattled on the close, narrow walls of the chute, and sickening bends threw him against the walls with bruising force. Several times, he passed grated intersections, which had been piled high with foetid meat and dead animals, presumably to manufacture the stench. It was not a quiet descent by any means, and Koz winced at every clang that reverberated through his body. There was certainly not going to be any element of surprise for what awaited him at the bottom of the chute.

He closed his eyes tightly and tried counting the seconds that flew by. His head thumped the side and he bit back a groan as a headache exploded in his skull. After that, he focused on trying to anticipate the bends of the pitch black chute before they appeared, saving himself skinned hips or shoulders.

The landing, when it came, was somewhat of a surprise. There was no evening out of the winding chute, no decline, but suddenly where there had been walls, there was no longer. Koz yelped as he fell freely for a moment, hitting the floor a second later with an unhealthy crash.

Despite the immediate cacophony of pain that beset him, Koz struggled to his knees, his nerves prickling with danger. It was dark, damp, and utterly silent. He could smell mould and decaying fabric, along with a strange, dusty sort of musk that he couldn't place. He couldn't even see a hand in front of his face, and felt chills dampen the sweat on his back as he peered, sightless, into the dark.

Beneath his hands, he could feel fragments of cloth, the scratch of tangled lace, maybe, or just rough packing fabric. His knees were digging into the hard wooden slats of the floor, packing crates, most likely. A room built of stolen and repurposed packing crates off the docks. A draft of cooler air blew in through the chute, circulating in the stiff, hot air of the enclosed shack.

He remained in place for a while, straining his senses, hoping to see if he'd disturbed anything. There was no hint of star glow, or the faint, mental chatter of their voices. Disappointment crashed in him. Koyla must have brought them to the wrong place. Nonetheless, there was no way he could climb back up the chute – he'd have to bring Cater and Koyla down, and perhaps Koyla's light would illuminate a way out.

He stood up, fumbling at the wall for support, and patted along the rough, splintery plastic and wood blend until he found the protruding lip of the chute. He banged his fist on the pipe, wincing as it travelled loudly all the way back up to the top of the chute. There was a pause, and then a series of crashes as Cater evidently followed him.

Paranoia ran prickling fingers up his spine, and Koz turned around again, pressing the wall to his back as he stepped clear of the chute. His eyes swept the dark, uselessly. Something was itching in his instinct, and his gut felt sick with a dreadful anticipation.

It didn't feel like he was alone.

Another crash in the chute had him startling and jumping around, and his foot caught on something – a loose plank. He fell to the ground noisily, swearing in aggrieved pain as his ankle wrenched. He groaned faintly as agony throbbed up the limb.

“Suns and comets,” Koz hissed as he gingerly reached down and prodded the flesh. Just a sprain. But now, on his stomach, injured, alone in a dark and unfamiliar place, Koz was rattled.

His breath speeded and his heart began to thump faster. He stared into the dark like he expected a monster to purr from the shadows, almost blew a bitter laugh at the irony. Hadn't he befriended that monster?

A thunderous thud and a blaze of indigo light alerted him to Cater and Koyla's arrival. Koz sat up slowly and grinned at them, though the disparaging smile slipped off his face at seeing the state of his companion.

Cater, broader than he was, lay flung out in a star-fish position, a shivering Koyla clutching to his chest with wide, terrified eyes. By Koyla's faint glow, Koz could see great, tearing lacerations where the tunnel's narrowness had scraped the skin from the sides of Cater's body, flaying his ebony skin right off. Sweat soaked Cater's skin and the ugly wounds looked raw, like wet, fresh meat amid all the slime and dirt from the rest of the chute.

Koz winced. He hadn't thought the tunnel would scratch Cater so badly, but Koz could see blood beginning to well up at the cuts. Cater groaned stiffly, and numbly, his hand flopped over the ground, reaching up shakily to touch Koyla's back, to reassure himself he hadn't lost the star in transit.

The star took Cater's hand and held it desperately to their chest, folding their body over him as best as they could. Their eyes lingered over the wounds, shocked and horrified, and Koz supposed that since the stars – being inorganic creatures – never really experienced flesh wounds, Cater looked like a hideous nightmare to Koyla, with his skin peeled back and the muscle and flesh underneath exposed, blood seeping steadily out of them.

Koyla patted Cater's untouched face, looking for all the world like a frightened child seeking reassurance, their eyes wide with panic and worry. Koz could see Cater's white teeth gleam as he made an effort to smile, albeit painfully. “They're just scratches, Koyla,” he rumbled, “I'll be perfectly fine once I can clean up.”

It was small lie, some of the scratches looked rather deep, and Koz thought Cater could do with a healing unit when they returned.
Koyla didn't seem convinced, either. Their mouth opened and closed, but apparently, so great was their shock and fear that they couldn't remember how to form human words. Instead, their incomprehensible voice buzzed like a power drill into Koz's head. He cursed and grabbed at his temples.

Frantically, Koyla stared between them both, flinching at Koz's movement. Their eyes went wide and round, realising their mistake, and they clapped their hands over their mouth, hunching low and shaking.

“Don't worry,” said Koz, and Koyla started when Koz addressed them. “He'll be fine. We both will.” Wincing, he rolled painfully back onto his knees. With a few short gasps, he grabbed the side of the wall and heaved himself onto his feet, snarling between his clenched teeth as his sprained ankle screamed protest. Chills swept up his body again, and he leaned heavily on the wall.

“Come on,” he said to Cater through short pants, “Let's get out of here.”

“Kozmotis?” asked Cater. “You're – s-suns-” He had sat up, the movement pulling on the scratches. Koz saw his face blanch with pain as he slowly laboured to his feet, Koyla scrambling off him and hovering nervously at his elbow. “You're fine?”

“Sprained ankle. You're more important at the moment,” said Koz, eyeing the way that beads of blood formed like sweat on the raw, exposed underlayer of skin. Cater said nothing, but they both scanned the darkened room.

Koyla's indigo glow revealed very little. There were packing crates stacked everywhere, draped with faded bolts of stolen cloth, and dust plumed in from the ceiling. It looked like nothing so much as a makeshift shanty, but utterly deserted.

“You sure this was the place?” Koz asked, limping further into the room and peering about. So much of it was swallowed in darkness. He leaned on a small tower of packing crates, letting his arm hang into the opened box.

He didn't have a chance to hear Koyla's reply, for as soon as he let his arm drop, something moved against it.

Koz yelped and staggered back, and then cursed in pain. A brilliant glow exploded in front of his eyes and he went down, crashing as something drove full-speed into his chest.

“HI HI HI!”

He yelled in alarm, instinctively grabbing for the knife at his belt and driving it up into whatever had attacked him.

A brilliant, beaming face met his eyes, brown like earth with innocent, shining chocolate eyes, simple and childlike features, and a too-big pair of circular tortoiseshell glasses that drooped off one small ear. The star bounced excitedly on his chest, apparently unaware of the knife pushing into their stomach, parting the sand smoothly like hot butter. They wore no clothes but for a ragged and stained section of sheet knotted around their body, and their grubby little hands pulled Koz's hair with ecstatic wonder.
Hurriedly, Koz pulled the knife out of the oblivious star's stomach, trying not to gag as the sand, the colour of rich chocolate, flowed untouched over the entry point. Surreptitiously, he slid it up his sleeve. He doubted knowing that he'd just stabbed one of the stars would help his case.

“TANTRI! GET OFF IT!” shrieked another voice, and the room blazed with light as a navy blue star in pilot uniform jumped out from his hiding place behind a crate and yanked the brown star, Tantri, off Koz's stomach, anxiously caressing Tantri's shoulders and body, checking for any signs of harm. Their sands, navy blue and chocolate-brown, swirled together familiarly, the strands of their long hair instinctively knotting together in a braid. The blue star kissed Tantri's head in relief at finding them safe.

“Human! Human! Cephei! Cephei! Human! Cephei!” Tantri babbled excitedly, their voice a shade too loud and vibrating with their true one to be comfortable. The navy blue, evidently Cephei, spoke very quickly in the buzzing, inaudible tones of stars, serious face scowling and glaring at Koz out of the corner of his eye. An unhappy Tantri wriggled in the possessive hold, those soft, childlike eyes lowering as they realised they had done something wrong.

“For love of the dark, you couldn't keep hold of Tantri?!” another voice scolded, and bewildered, Koz looked to see a voluptuous emerald star sauntering out behind a box, her bright, hard eyes examining Cater and Koz dismissively. She stared hard at Koyla, who shrank under her gaze.

Koz swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. She was pretty enough to give him pause, and around her shimmered the air of fantasies as she turned her gaze on the humans. She, like Cephei, wore the dark blue star pilot jumpsuit, the two gold tassels on her shoulder marking her an established pilot. She was well-fed; her body was soft with curves, and she had enough excess sand to form a heavy braid of jade hair that swung down her back. She had long, curling lashes and a round sort of face, a button nose.

“Well, well, Tantri, Cephei, look at what we've got here,” she said contemptuously, “A pair of meatskins and a traitor.”

Tantri giggled silently behind their hand, braver now they were safely in Cephei's protective arms. Cephei glared at them suspiciously.

Koyla quivered under the emerald star's accusing glower and hid behind Cater, who had miraculously remained standing. Cater's free hand found its way to Koyla's head, and he rubbed a lock of grainy indigo sand between his thumb and forefinger absently.

She looked Koz over, and Koz sat up, not bothering to stand. It would only be an embarrassment to try. A hint of recognition entered her face, and her eyebrow rose smoothly. “I know you,” she said rudely. “Tell me why I shouldn't rip every miserable dream out of both your heads and leave you a mindless wreck.”

“I don't know you,” Koz replied, offended by her dismissive attitude.

She placed her hands on her hips and glared. “That's not the way it works here, meatsack. Tell me what you want, before I assume you're here to take me and my fellows captive and protect us all. Either way, you'll be leaving soon, but it's up to you whether you do it alive and still capable of thought.”

Koz gritted his teeth. It galled him to say it. “I need your help,” he said. “I need to find a star.”

He didn't see the emerald star's reaction, because at this Tantri gasped massively with excitement. Koz looked over and despite himself, was a little endeared by the sight of the childlike star bouncing on the balls of their feet, squeezing their hands together, while their eyes swelled to the size of golfballs in their head. Tantri whispered quickly in Cephei's ear, who looked deeply disgruntled. Tantri nudged Cephei expectantly, turning big, shining, round eyes on him pleadingly. Cephei huffed, then muttered sourly, “Tantri wants to know if you're on a quest.”

Koz blinked. “Er-”

“Yes,” said Cater, loudly. “He's on a quest of true love.”
Tantri's jaw dropped. They bounced into the air, glow literally brightening. “Tantri- no-” Cephei began, but it was too late. Tantri started talking, in the wrong voice and far too loud for the humans to understand, but Cater smiled and nodded understandingly anyway. Even the emerald star looked reluctantly curious.

“Is this true?” she asked him.

Koz gave Cater a panicked look, who returned to him a significant glare. Koz felt a blush crawl up his cheeks. “Uh,” he said, intelligently. “I- I am. My, er, true love,” he winced and was suddenly very glad Pitch wasn't there to see this, else he would never let Koz live it down, “told me I had to uh... find this star.” He swallowed. His cheeks felt like he could fry an egg on them.

Tantri pulled excitedly at Cephei's arm. “Tantri,” said Cephei tiredly, “I've told you before, humans can't feel love.”

Rather offended, Koz opened his mouth, but before he could say anything he felt Cater kick his shoulder discreetly. He shut up.

Grabbing Cephei's face, Tantri kissed his forehead messily, bouncing on the spot.

“Ceppphhhheeeeii!” Tantri squealed.

Cephei looked helplessly at the emerald star, who sighed heavily and rubbed her temples. She seemed to realise that there would be no calming Tantri. “Darkness guide us,” she muttered.

“Look,” said Koz, sensing an opportunity, “I just need you to hear me out. You can decide to help me or not later but please, just listen to me.”

The emerald star stared at him consideringly for a while, then she looked over at Koyla, standing timidly behind Cater still. The indigo star stiffened under her evaluation, and something unnoticeable to the humans occurred, perhaps some change in stance, some unheard communication, because for whatever reason, the emerald star seemed satisfied enough to change her mind.

“Very well,” she said, and gestured to him lazily.

“I was told I had to look for this star, because he'd be able to help me...solve this problem. His name is Sandy, uh, Man-something-”

“Sandy?” the emerald star repeated sharply. “Sanderson Mansnoozie?”

“Er – yes, how did you know...?”

She waved the question aside, and fixed him with a cold, hard stare. “Looks like it's your lucky day, meatskin,” she said, slowly, with an element of threat, “I've changed my mind. I am Rayysha Mansnoozie, ident #3F6826, and I think you'd better tell me exactly what business you have with Sandy.”

Chapter Text

Cater's mind was drifting. Pain throbbed steadily like an arrhythmic drumbeat. It came in jarring, irregular thumps and crashes; the sharpness of the pain was shocking, like drenches of icewater. The smoky taste of the stars' presence dazed his eyes and confused his senses; reality wanted to slide away from itself. Around him swam half-remembered fragments of things that Cater had once known, like blood-stained grips and the pungent sweat-and-piss stench of terror as bodies pulped under his massive, crushing hands. He saw hollow screams behind his eyelids as those dim, shady patrons of the club walked, never alive in his mind, like a march of the damned.

Nausea crammed up inside his gut like simmering arsenic. He could feel the irregular, tearing sensation of his wounds pulling as he breathed in the damp, dusty air of the bunker the stars used as a home, hidden under all the luxurious and sumptuous mansions of the rich humans. The injustice caught in his throat like blades - or perhaps that was just confused tears in his eyes, the lump in his throat, the tinny screams of the first human beings he’d killed with his own two hands echoing in his mind.

Something was happening to his eyes. It felt like a veil had fallen away, and now Cater could see further than he had ever done, deep into the heart of the world.

There was a star at his hip, thrumming in tones of dulcet indigo velvet, pressing his rough, stained hand to a grimy, grainy cheek. Blackness pulsed threadily at their throat, at their wrists, hazy blotches of fear-and-lead poison creeping slowly up their forearms the longer Cater bled. The undercurrents of their voice seeped around him like a drawing tide, waxing stronger and waning softly, firm indigo eyes compelling Cater to stay present. The star named him by a thousand names, some more perceptive than others, and Cater nearly wept at the brutal honesty of them. Koyla didn’t shy from calling him a murderer, though it was couched in gentle entreaty.

Keep it together, he ordered himself, and tried in vain to concentrate on the surroundings.

The packing crate wall was solid against his back; the damp dewy dark air was cold against the wounds on his sides. Koyla's warmth seeped into his bones, the hazy lights of their presence like a beacon to wakefulness. There were other lights, too, like distant beacons. He knew them, dim greens and browns and blues, soft colours that pulsed with remembrance, spring-soft-green-mother-love-heartbroken, aching all over in fiercely defensive colours vibrant against a human man, proud, arrogant and bloodthirsty, stooping over her. At her side crowded two stars so tenderly entwined that to Cater’s foggy thought, it seemed they shone navy-green, pure and sweet, two unlikely colours - stiff-worried-navy-love-angry-hurt and gentle-innocent-curious-soft-sleepy-chocolate - combining to create something truly beautiful.

Koyla’s weight and heat were a negligible thing across his chest, but their hair, writhing around the two of them like glittering purple snakes, reached to touch where Koyla could not. Everything about Koyla’s treatment showed their vague, apprehensive understanding of the human body; they knew just enough to pleasure, how not to hurt, but patching injured humans up was beyond them. Their glow strengthened, and Cater felt a low throb through his spine. Koyla was speaking in the language no human without star blood could understand, and yet their proximity meant that strange, isolated images shone through anyway.

...helppleasehurtpleasegoodbreaker...staystaywithwithgoodnodreamyes…pleasehelphelpamnotgood...domybestdomybestyes… Koyla’s words were not hushed, and there was an odd lull in the conversation flowing around them. A flurry of speech that passed over Cater's mind like distant birds, wings thudding low in the tones of arguments. They were angry at something. A contemptuous hiss, and then more words throbbed into his aching brain - sillychildsillychild its only a human whywhy do you care??

Goodhumangood, Koyla protested loyally, and Cater felt a spring-green flare of cold, mocking amusement. Koyla shrank.

A face appeared in Cater’s hazy vision, a roughly-chiselled face handsome in its nobility, concerned silver eyes. “Don’t worry,” a low voice rumbled, “I’ll get you to a medbot somewhere.”

“I’m fine,” Cater rasped as the world spun and dipped, “Keep… you have to talk to…” Words dribbled, incoherent, out of his mouth like drops of blood splashing over his lips, hot and coppery and wet.

The man’s silver eyes were glowing like chains of fire. There was a drumbeat of someone else’s dominance in his hollow chest, and Cater felt his words, horrified, swell up in his throat as puppet strings flickered in and out of view around the man’s limbs, each one made of brilliant white fire and accompanied by a chilly ruby smirk. He was soaked in blood - he dripped with it, running down his chest and splattering the floor with every steps like scarlet rain.

“What are you?” Cater whispered, and the man cocked his head, the shifting silvery fire in his eyes wrong somehow; Cater knew that it did not belong there.

“General Kozmotis Pitchiner,” said the man, like that was race, affiliation and name all in one, “You’ve lost too much blood. You’re hallucinating.” Every word was weighted with militaristic indifference. “Keep your senses, soldier.”

Cater passed out.

The mysterious emerald star, Rayysha, peered around the infirmary of Governor Tabor's beautiful palace with some curiosity. Koz, watching her with an eagle eye, thought that she seemed a little amused by the variety of sleek machines extending from the wall, ticking and whirring and occasionally sending up flashing messages, the bustling nurses that treated the stars like ornamental plants, an attitude which seemed to suit Rayysha perfectly. She wasn’t interested in the apes either.

Cater, stretched out on one of the infirmary cots, was wincing under the touch of a moonbot's healing light. Koyla pillowed his head on their lap, and Antigra was snuggled into Koyla's shoulder, Riore sat worriedly at Cater's feet. Elba leant disinterestedly against one of the bedposts, watching Rayysha, who regarded them all with a wary sort of neutrality, hot with defensiveness.

Elba’s chilly sleet eyes had hardly wavered from the green star since the moment they’d caught sight of her, stalking along beside Koz and the medistaff carrying the unconscious Cater on a stretcher. It was somewhat discomforting to watch, as Koz had become used to Elba being utterly bored with any aspect of life, but Rayysha treated it with indifference. If Elba had been human, Koz might have said that they were interested in Rayysha, physically. But none was able to accuse Elba of being humanlike in the slightest.

Koz averted his eyes from the sight of Cater's shredded skin knitting back together, a gory process which seemed to fascinate all the stars clustered around him. His throat was tight, and he reached up to rub the locket a shy Antigra had gladly returned every so often, cherishing its familiar weight. Having it back around his neck had felt like locking part of his heart secure again.

Rayysha had agreed to return to the palace with them so that Cater could receive medical attention, once Cater had passed out and Koyla’s evident fear convinced her that it was a serious enough matter. Koz hadn't liked the hard look in her eyes when she'd ordered Cephei and Tantri to hide in 'their place' while she accompanied the humans to make certain they didn't reveal the Guild's location and weasel out on the tentative deal Rayysha and Koz had made.

The skimmer ride had been awkward. Rayysha had used the time to grill Koz about everything he knew of Pitch, his circumstances, and why he wanted to find Sandy. By the end of it, Koz had gained a whole new respect for the intimidating star and several new levels of mental exhaustion.

Rayysha hadn’t seemed particularly satisfied with Koz’s vague answers, and Koz had direly missed Cater’s seemingly encyclopedic knowledge of stars and their culture. He had no idea how to make his quest sound agreeable to Rayysha, so eventually, he gave up and laid it out for her in the most honest terms he could find, his eyes all but glued to the airspace in  front of him and flush creeping slowly up his cheeks.

He wanted to find Sandy because Pitch had told him to in the letter, and Koz had to trust Pitch’s word, because it was the only thing that had a chance of stopping Tsar Apollo from ordering Koz to destroy Pitch, or worse, to break him and turn him into a freakshow for Apollo’s entertainment, before killing him. Either way, Koz knew that Pitch would end up dead if Koz didn’t find some way of making the shadowmage’s powers look attractive enough to Apollo, and he desperately hoped that this quest would give him the answer.

Rayysha had blinked and asked why Koz didn’t just disobey his Tsar. Surely, the General would know his men well enough to be able to avoid them long enough to steal away one ape?

Koz had gritted his teeth and muttered, “It’s not that simple.” Inside, his organs itched and crawled with the memories of white fire and glistening burns, and a small patch of dyed-white skin above his heart throbbed with phantom-aches.

Her eyes had burned with a fire of their own as she laid a rough, scraping hand over his arm on the controls, and told him that it could be done. Koz sensed that his honesty and powerlessness had done what Cater’s approach hadn’t, and Rayysha understood all too well what it meant to be unable to save the ones she loved. Those who had lost people bore it in their eyes, their manner, and shone out as kindred souls to others.

Koz shook himself out of thought and approached Cater. “You’ll be all right?” he asked, gruffly, and Cater offered him a tired smile. His leonine face was weathered with strain, but his large hands were as gentle as ever as he petted Antigra’s long hair, the star flopped almost blissfully over his trunk-like leg.

“I’ll be fine,” he said in his slow way, and nodded to Rayysha. “Go do what you must.”

Rayysha seemed slightly surprised to be addressed, but regained herself with the bearing of a queen. Imperiously, she twitched a finger at Koz, who assumed that it meant she wanted him to follow her. He did, unquestioningly, though inside he wondered where she would possibly be going. As far as he knew, she’d never been in the palace before.

You know nothing about her, an amused voice drawled in his mind, low and deep, and Koz nearly tripped as he recognised it as Pitch’s.

You’re driving me insane, now? He tried to think back, but whatever brief fantasy had put Pitch’s voice in his mind, it had gone.

Koz did his best not to understand the feeling that followed as disappointment.

“I’m not sure this will work, meatskin,” Rayysha said abruptly as they turned the corner into a near-abandoned, dusty corridor. Here, their footprints made thick tracks and dust-sheets covered everything like sad ghosts. A cool wind rustled past their faces, whipping up tiny dust-devils that skittered down the hall like reluctant lizards through deep graves of leaves. The stone walls of the palace were bare here, and cold; Koz could feel the chill seeping into the air. Doors gaped like broken-jawed mouths with teeth all punched out as they passed.

“What, exactly, are you planning?” Koz asked, ducking under a low-hanging chandelier with tinkling crystals that tugged his hair.

Like all stars, Rayysha walked through the world as a non-physical being. Her steps were light, barely brushing the floor, always a hint too fast and too slow for the laws of normal physics, airy and somehow removed from the normal planes of existence. The trick, Koz decided, was not to look directly at them for too long, and pretend he couldn’t see the separate grains of sand that made her body up shimmer and shift in his peripheral.

“You wanted to talk to Sandy,” said Rayysha bleakly, “That’s what you’re going to do. Whether he’ll answer, I can’t say.” She paused. “He has not been… himself in many years. I know only that he remains lit. That, at least, he can’t hide from me.”

“What do you mean?” said Koz, fixating on the first part of her answer, “How am I supposed to talk to him from here? I’m-” he stopped, because he’d been about to say only human, and somehow, that felt wrong.

Rayysha’s thick braid of hair twitched in amusement, and Koz tried his best not to think about how bizarre that was as she responded, “I’ll have to help you. Don’t worry, ape, my voice is strong enough for the both of us.”

Koz stopped in his tracks. “What?” he demanded. “You’re going to use… your natural voice? You’ll kill me!”

Rayysha glanced over her shoulder and chuckled darkly. “I think not, meatskin. But either way, do you have any choice?”

Balling his hands into aggravated fists, Koz strode to catch up with her, and cursed the damn letter to the depths of his soul in order to hide the fear that quailed there. Everyone knew how dangerous it was for human minds to be overexposed to the natural voices of stars. Too much contact either fried them completely… or changed them irreparably.

Koz wasn’t sure what was worse.

Rayysha’s destination became evident when she turned off one of the side-passages and headed down some dark, low cut steps. Koz privately thanked her glow as he tentatively followed, fumbling against the wall and wishing the lightstrips were active here. Rayysha was heading towards the old palatial centre, the groaning heart of the beast, where the servants’ old baths were located. Koz, in the interest of military paranoia, had scanned a few blueprints of the palace handed to him by the captain of Apollo’s bodyguards, though in times of dire strife, Apollo had his own ways of reaching Kozmotis.

Koz’s hand strayed to the white scar on his chest, and he rubbed it absently.

The baths were deserted and dusty. The great scoops of the old tubs gleamed whitely in the light of Rayysha’s glow. She had undone her hair, and now brilliant emerald tassels radiated around them as Rayysha stretched the strands, like a swirling nimbus. Someone’s clothes were deserted in one corner, fragments of reddish grit crusted around the edge of one tub, and Koz felt an unholy terror grip his heart as a flash of orange caught his eye.

He grabbed for his sword, realised suddenly that he didn’t have it with him as Rayysha’s eyes gleamed, pale white, in the darkness. “Are you afraid?” she hissed, and Koz felt sweat dampen his back as the shadows shifted and swayed.

It was easy to forget that stars and fearlings were cousins, until he was at their mercy.

“No,” he said resolutely, and Rayysha’s body suddenly brightened.

“Good,” she said briskly, and lit three candles. Her tendrils of hair wrapped carefully around the wicks and carried them up to a chandelier in the centre, placing them in familiar, wax-encrusted nooks. The dim lighting revealed that the orange flash that had so startled Koz was nothing more than an old copper clothing peg.

He exhaled shakily and told himself off firmly for being so jumpy. There was nothing of Kel’oshki here, and besides, Rayysha was his only way of getting to Sandy.

“I need you to be dozing,” she said firmly, and gestured to the plentiful amount of empty tubs, as big as a swimming pool each. “Pick one, relax.”

Koz walked over to the one nearest to him and gingerly laid down in it, propping himself up against the curved edge. It was smooth under his palms, like marble, and he frowned a little. Had it been sanded down? Usually, the baths had gritty textures, to help people keep their footing underwater. Maybe this was one of the clothes-washing tubs, there were far too many for just people.

The discrepancy occupied him long enough that Rayysha had finished whatever she was doing and came to sit beside him in the tub. She stretched out on her soft stomach, propping her round chin up on her hands, unwittingly pushing her large breasts up against the straining front of her jumpsuit. Unbound, her emerald hair rippled around her jade cheeks, and her dark eyes were half-lidded, the darkness seeming to please her, for she sighed languorously, lashes fluttering against her skin.

Koz swallowed and determinedly kept his eyes from straying from her face. His cheeks burned, and gulping, he turned his face to glare up at the vaulted stone ceiling, shrouded in drapes of shadow. It was impossible to relax; his nerves strained towards her, and prickled with discomfort at the sound of his own breathing. The baths were dead silent, not even the plink of water to distract him.

“Breathe, meatskin,” Rayysha murmured, and Koz jumped. She sighed, a faint edge of frustration to her voice. “You’re all the same,” she added, and Koz nearly squeaked as she abruptly rolled over and sat square on his hips, her thick legs either side of him and squeezing his body lightly. She planted her palms on her chest and leaned down, until their noses brushed, her lips a scant centimetre from his.

“Breathe,” she whispered, and as she said it, one soft little hand - hadn’t her touch been rough only a moment ago? - petted his neck, finding his pulse and smiling as it sped up. Her body undulated against him with each slow, controlled breath, friction perfect in exactly the right ways, her hair rippling around them both like a living green sea, her weight soft and feminine and there .

Koz’s hands clutched onto the smooth marble of the bathing tub, his eyes closing as his neck unconsciously bared itself, his dark hair fanning against the cool stone. He thrust up in uncontrolled little jerks against her plush body, prickles of shame running through him along with the slow burn of something else as she laughed.

“Relax…” she said, eagerly now, and Koz felt a hint of danger - but it was too slow to stop the incoming rush of drowsiness that suddenly hit him.

He struggled to open his eyes, terror thrumming in his chest. His body was unconscious and leaden, the weight on his chest refusing to allow him to move, paralysis holding him utterly captive. He tried to talk, demand what she’d done to him, but all he could manage was an incoherent groan.

The star chuckled again, hungrily. “I won’t deny,” said Rayysha, “You look very tempting right now. I could just pull every one of your succulent dreams out of your head.” Rough, sand-blasted lips scraped painfully over his neck in the mocking parody of a kiss. “Oh sweetie, did you forget this is how we hunt?”

Koz whimpered. He was terrified. Not even the memory of Pitch doing this exact same thing to him could temper it - Pitch wasn’t Rayysha, and even in his darkest moments, Koz had never really feared for his life with Pitch. Not like this. Pitch had never deliberately hunted Koz.

“Relax,” said Rayysha again, definitely amused now. “You’ll be calling every last thirsty shadow to you with all that fear at this rate.” Her voice shifted, and abruptly it was everywhere, thundering low in his bones and behind his eyes and in the pace of his heartbeat. “Nownow we can speakspeak like equals… youyou with your thought and meme with mine.”

Koz was struggling to breathe. Her weight felt crushing when only moments before, it had been so pleasant.

“We will callcall sweet-gold-one, do not worry,” Rayysha assured him. For a moment, there was silence, and then suddenly her voice rose to such a crescendo that Koz immediately blacked out, blood sheeting from his ears and nose as his brain pulsed with overload.

It lasted seconds, but even in the darkness he heard her song. It was impossibly deep and impossibly high, every frequency he had ever dreamed of and more, a throbbing, bass ache echoing through every flaw and fault in the stone, and out, hitting everyone in Alpheratz as they went. Koz, hurled relentlessly in her wake, screamed as his mind exploded with flashing lights and colours, stars and constellations he had never seen whispering and booming together in his mind in an incredible susurrus of cacophonous noise.

It stretched out over the pulse of the universe, was felt in every breath and bone and beating heart, in every trickle and whisper of shadow-sand-stuff, magic and electricity weak, limp afterthoughts bolting through his body like lightning. Koz lost his sense of the physical, the useless meat sack he had been wearing suddenly outdated, now, he could sing and sing and sing and soar with the emerald wings she had given him.

The ecstatic euphoria of the moment lasted a sweet, bitterly high pinnacle for the barest second. Then abruptly, another shout so powerful it cracked holes in his world blasted through him and knocked him down.

“YouYouYOU! Leaveleave me alone!” It screeched and wailed like sirens and tortured children, young and petulant and leaving the imprints of honey-dew on his tongue. Did he have a tongue? Koz couldn’t remember.

“Notnot here for meme!” The violent reply came, like eight hundred thunder-storms setting off at once, like a hundred bombs.

“Hello!” Koz cried, recklessly, and in the aftermath of their powerful cries it came like the dying whimper of a scared mouse. Nevertheless, the throbbing presence of the other caught it, and Koz was suddenly treated to an intense attention, deep burning gold like the hot hearts of supernovae and consuming like whips of heated butter and sunsets, saying-goodbye and screaming ecstasy at midnight, dragging tongues and small hot hands, fierce, mischievous, wholly inhuman.

“Wellwell, whowho are youyou?” Sandy - Koz knew without knowing his name, the same way he remembered how to breathe, somehow it was embedded deep in his mind and would never leave again - purred, and there was mockery there too, sharp and bitter like the bite of unripened pears.

“General Kozmotis Pitchiner,” he said, but it came out fractalised into a thousand other names, some of which he understood, some of which he didn’t, some of which whispered Seraphina’s hair rustling in the breeze, others Archaline’s smile, some the crackle of Apollo’s fire and his hand in Koz’s hair, wine on his lips and stone under his knees, obedience, others the wet noise of his sword piercing his opponent, another a similar action done in far more intimate settings, every experience of his long life abruptly thrown out for the consideration of this alien being.

“I don’t wantwant to talk to youyou,” Sandy shouted, mercurial fast, with all the spoiled petulance of a heartbroken teenager. “You leftleft me!”

“I’m sorry!” Koz sobbed. He felt grief pour out of him like ocean waves, and some detached, still-human part of him shuddered in terror as the stars manipulated the weak matter of his human mind into producing worlds of dreams ripe for the harvest. Pitch’s harvest gold eyes shimmered from behind a black hole maw, and Koz screamed. He could hear his silver armour clattering to the ground, the Fearlings imitating Seraphina’s scream, Pitch’s thin whipcord body pressing tight to his and his lips worshipping the curve of Koz’s neck (pretend you’re asleep, let him do it).

“I had to find-”

His world was splitting apart at the seams. A great pain pounded in his temples - did he have those? - and the hiss of hourglass sands and swipe of a scythe’s heft rumbled through him like Rayysha’s hands grasping at his shoulders, “Meatskin, come back! You’re killing yourself!”

“I have to find-”

“You’re looking for meme?” Sandy cried, in desperate hope, and there was a strange echo in his voice, a delay like the conferral of radio static. “Yesyes I will see you! I will see you!”

“How do I find you?” Koz shouted as the connection faded, and barely had enough time to receive Sandy’s answer before Rayysha slapped him awake.

With a great heave, Koz’s body bucked and came back to itself. His head was ringing with white noise and he was blind in one eye. He was deaf and dumb, flailing like a possessed thing and probably screaming, incoherently. Rayysha held him down, steel in her green eyes, for possibly hours until the worst of it passed.

When Koz, stuttering and blabbering, with tears sheeting down his cheeks and carving paths in the blood smeared over his face, had regained some sense of self, she shook him until her words made sense in his brain.

“I only had a vague sense of his location,” she said, worriedly. “Did you-”

Koz laughed, rough and wheezing. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he said, Sandy’s last response throbbing through his head like a live wire.

“WeWe will find YOU!”

Chapter Text

The Tsar passed a hand over his face, exhaling deeply in eminent frustration. He looked tired, Koz thought, with a sudden flash of worry; there were dark bruises beneath his eyes, and his pallid skin looked fragile and delicate, like vellum stretched thin over bone. He was paler than ever, and there were minute wrinkles of strain around his lips and eyes. It was only visible when Koz looked hard; Apollo had taken the precaution of dusting his cheeks and eyes with carefully-applied powders, and the flowery scent of perfume surrounded him, his fine, tailored clothes turning his body to lean, pretty angles instead of sharp knobs of bone and stretched skin.

“The Horsehead Nebula,” Apollo said in disbelief. Even his voice, low, soft, cultured in the smooth, near-silent sighs of upper Constellar aristocracy, sounded quieter than usual, as though every word cost him a great effort. “You want to get there in three weeks, still leaving enough time to return to us before we reach the prison.”

Koz evaluated him searchingly. He hadn't forgotten Apollo nearly collapsing on him on the short skimmer ride from the dock when he'd first arrived in Alpheratz. Apollo wasn't well, but Koz knew there was little he could do to help. Apollo had never done well with leaving the Towers, especially not on such extended jaunts.

“Ideally, yes,” he said.

Apollo downed a snifter of brandy probably older than Koz was, setting the snifter down with a sharp click on the marble table. His eyes, intent and steely silver-sharp, met Koz’s over his steepled pale fingers, shining in the light from the open balcony. The heady fragrance of jasmine whispered around them from the faint breeze, and Koz’s eyes idly lingered on Apollo’s finely stitched cravat. There were moons patterned on it, interlaced with stylised suns.

“I suppose it’s not a question of ‘can you do it’,” Apollo said wryly, “But rather, whose ship you have to steal to get there.” He smiled, and reached forward, his hand curving over Koz’s knee under the table. Koz's eyebrow arched, and Apollo smirked, shameless, at him. “I suppose you have one in mind, that I might need to ‘requisition’, purely for the protection of the realm, of course.”

Koz grinned. It wasn’t often that he appreciated Apollo’s crooked approach to laws, but now was certainly one of those times. It paid to be friends with the Tsar. “Of course,” he said, and slid the specs over the table.

“Sweet soaring suns and galaxies,” murmured Dioscuri, his eyes as round and wide as full moons as he stared at the sleek beauty neatly at rest in the hangar.

The ship was in the shape of a silver, polished oval, her sweeping fins pinioned up against the hull, the darkened plexiglass of her front screens like dark deep eyes. The deck was spotless, shining dully in the hangar lights, and Koz knew that she was equipped with the finest and most sensitive scanners there were to date, powerful thrusters that could reach hyperdrive in seconds, and AI healing and catering systems personally recorded by human voice actors. Across her hull was scrawled the simplistic title of the Golden Galleon, in what seemed to be real gold metal, brushed over with protective paints.

The ship had been a wedding gift to Governor Tabor upon the heir-contracting of one of his many daughters to the Aquari lord Scaesti, and was one of the Mark 5 Galleon ships the Aquari shipwrights had begun recently releasing, though no doubt fitted with the most luxurious of amenities. Tabor had been most reluctant, but the Tsar's authority far outweighed his, and he was forced to give it up, though amid great courtly outcry.

Even Koz, looking at the beauty of the ship, couldn't hold back his reverential awe.

“I know,” said Koz, a little smugly. “She’s the best in the Constellations. Hyperdrive completely outstrips our fleet.” The army, though well-provisioned, was never the first to receive improvements when wars were said and done.

“Whose balls did you have to fondle for that one?” Fochik muttered from behind him, but Koz chose to ignore her even as Aska sniggered. Io nudged the bawdy technician reprovingly, but Aska didn't seem to care.

He'd insisted, of course, on bringing the crew of the Molskarr with him. Apollo hadn't questioned it, though he'd looked deeply tired at the prospect of having to argue with Tabor in order to let him allow a group of ragged supply crew handle his prized ship. Luckily, Apollo had been able to produce Meterios' brand-new, reissued pilot license, for which he had tested very highly indeed, as proof that the Galleon would not be left in amateur hands.

Koz eyed Meterios now, noting how haggard and worn the cocky pilot looked, his beard half-shaven, clothes rumpled, eyes bloodshot and bleary. He was pale, too, and flinched whenever anyone raised their voice in his direction. When he lifted his hand to place a shakily admiring hand on the Galleon's smooth surface, Koz saw burns patterning his wrists.

Alice was watching him in sorrow and understanding. When she saw Koz looking, she smiled a little, painfully, and murmured, "He's been illegal for a long time."

Koz had inhaled at that. So Meterios had been a smuggler, an illegal pilot. No wonder he looked so ravaged coming back from having his pilot license actually given to him. They wouldn't have gone easy on the testing process.

"What are we waiting for?" Io shouted, making Dioscuri jump and mutter something foul about savouring the moment. She laughed at him, looping an arm around the surly captain's neck. "Breathe, Pollux! You'll have all the time you like to admire her once we set sail. Come on, you sorry lot!"

The lieutenant strode to the gangplank and without further ado, swung herself up onto the deck. As if given permission to approach, the others swarmed after her. Koz, grinning, his heart light with excitement, went to follow, but as soon as he had taken one step, Cater's hand closed around his elbow, and Koz was jerked to a stop.

Koz looked at the big man, a little confused. "What's wrong?" he said, and Cater stared at him with those deep, unfathomable, but kind brown eyes.

"I'm not going with you," he said, patiently, and Koz's brow flattened into a confused scowl.

"Why not?" he asked, and Cater released his arm, his eyes sliding away, downcast.

Koyla was at his side, like usual, the indigo star pretending to be absorbed in something else, the glittering grains of their hair swaying softly in an unfelt breeze. They'd found a pilot uniform from somewhere, the double tassels of a qualified pilot hanging at their shoulder. Idly, Koz wondered where the other three had gone. Rayysha had offered them a place to stay, one not disclosed to Koz or Cater - but the invitation had been conspicuously not extended to Koyla. Evidently, Rayysha was still angry at the betrayal of showing Cater and Koz their hide-out in the undercity.

For once, Cater's saturnine face was creased in an unknowable regret, and he said, "I can't leave them here."

As he spoke, his free hand lightly whispered over Koyla's shoulder, as if reassuring himself that they were still present. Koyla did not look at him, but a loop of their hair curled around his wrist, comfortingly.

"Not here," Cater repeated, searching Koz's face. "You've seen... this place."

Disappointment warred with bitterness inside Koz. He'd looked forward to having Cater accompany him on the trip; the oft-silent crewman was a soothing balm to Koz's twofold desire for company and hatred of needless, incessant chatter. He had become fond of Cater during their adventures through the underbelly of Alpheratz, and liked having a man he knew he could trust at his back.

But Koz had seen 'this place', and he knew perfectly well that with Apollo waiting like a snake in the grass that the stars were even more vulnerable out of the whorehouse than in it. He couldn't fault Cater for wanting to protect him. The man was wise, and brave.

"I have," he said, quietly, and extended his arm. Cater gripped his elbow, and Koz clapped him on the back. "Good luck."

"And to you," said Cater. "I hope you find your Guardians."

Koz nodded, glancing back at the Galleon as Io crossly leant over the guardrail, demanding to know what was taking them so long. He called out an answer, and jogged up to the gangplank.

Halfway there, Koz couldn't stop himself from turning, and shouting one last thing as the engines roared to life with the smooth purr of superior machinery, and the thrusters puffed experimentally with smoke, the great fins unpeeling from the hull and the mast rising, towering, the sails swinging down.

"Cater!" he shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth. The wind stirred from the engines whipped his hair, flung stinging dust at his eyes. He paused, then threw care to the split winds and cried, "Watch the Tsar for me!"

Cater looked a little surprised, but nodded gravely, properly impressed by the responsibility of the task. Koz grinned at him, then vaulted up onto the ship's deck, striding to the wheel. Dioscuri stood aside with a sweeping bow and what might have been a smirk on the mashed face.

"Golden Galleon to control tower, are we cleared for take-off?" he shouted into the communit, and a crackly, still slightly sour affirmative came back.

Laughing, Koz took the wheel and felt the throb of the engines through his boots as the ship took off, jetting straight up towards the atmospheric shield. Overhead, a wink of emerald green shot up in an arc, twisting spirals of glittering sand emitting the rippling tones of star-laughter as Rayysha easily outstripped their lumbering ship.

This was where he belonged, at the wheel of a ship, the promise of sailing the nebulae like a relentless tug of the sailor's first love - always the ocean, though Koz sailed the seas of the heaving galaxies, and wouldn't trade it for the world.

It took them two weeks and six days to reach the "Kjarksar" space station, on the outskirts of the Horsehead Nebula, sector 189A, and all of it had been spent in full hyperdrive, lifting out for only the briefest port-stops and check-in points as they entered Brotherhood space. The crew had been fast to immerse themselves in the great suspension tanks, allowing the ship's AI to fly them, faster and more mobile than a human captain.

They'd stayed awake in shifts to be certain there was always one human active on board, more to chat with Rayysha than anything else. And by "chat", Koz meant "stop Rayysha from devouring their helpless, sleeping minds". No one had explicitly stated the suspicion, but he knew that none of them really trusted the star. Rayysha seemed to enjoy their wariness; at least, as she'd confided to a disturbed, but understanding Alice Fochik, who Rayysha seemed to sense had her own experience with the greedy lusts of the unchecked Constellar populace, it meant that they weren't eager to take liberty from her.

Koz regarded his own sections with her with a special type of dread. Rayysha was even more guarded around him than she was with the others, he thought, but twice as teasing, even flirting on more than a few occasions - more, he thought, to discomfort him than of any hope of a sexual outcome.

Once, as the digital clocks neared 2200 hours and Koz was sleepy enough after his long day and recent awakening from chemically-maintained sleeps, Rayysha had dropped down from the swift, silent, shining shooting-star she was riding, alighting on the guardrail with the electric emerald tassels of her sands swirling around her like capes of the finest jewels.

In her abrupt, no-nonsense manner, she'd said, "I am surprised that Sandy is willing to humour you with this."

Koz looked at her steadily, his eyes ringed grey with exhaustion, his hair messy and tugged playfully by the solar winds. "And why's that?" he asked, to pass the time.

Rayysha's hard, unnervingly unblinking stare dropped to the deck between her feet, and for a long time she was silent.

Returning his attention to the navigation boards, Koz paused to fire off another relay to the Kjarksar commcrew with his approximate time arrival to the next check-point and current coordinates. He ran a few quick maintenance checks on the Galleon, giving a small, approving nod when everything came back clear and green.

By the time he glanced up again, Rayysha's face had fallen into craggy lines of remembered grief, and her thick braid was twisted together tighter than ever, as if the grains of her sand were trying to hug itself. She stared dully across the vivid backdrop of whirling, pulsating nebulae, the soft violet colours of the nearby star systems, the faint beams of distant suns, and what alien thoughts passed through her star-mind, he couldn't say, because suddenly, she said, "Sometimes I envy you apes the ability to cry."

A little taken-aback by the suddenness of the statement, he looked her, and though words hovered at the tip of his tongue, none of them seemed the right ones to say. Awkwardly, he simply stared at her instead, but Rayysha didn't even deign to glance his way once.

"Express all of your grief in a way that all the other meatskins can understand," she elaborated, sensing his confusion. "We... we don't have such a thing. When we grieve... those that survive are never the same after losing a loved one. We do not love lightly, our emotions are... deeper and stronger than any of your human oceans. More often than not, the dark seduces us, and we go to dance with our cousins. It is better to make a new start, there, without the pain and grief. We are not creatures that are built for death, but you meatskins positively revel in it."

Koz kept quiet, but inside he was crammed full of questions and confusion, along with no small amount of indignation. Revel in death? Well - perhaps he couldn't fault her that, remembering the way blood spraying across his skin made Koz's heart beat fast with primal glee, and the feverish battlelust that too easily consumed him when he had a weapon in his hand. Short-lived and easily killed, humans were the race most accustomed to death, if he looked at it in that way. Certainly not to a star, whose natural lifecycle spanned more aeons than it took for a human empire to rise and fall.

Rayysha swallowed, and suddenly she looked up and trapped Koz in her hard, rough gaze, examining him with a touch rough as sandpaper. "The reason I tell you this, meatskin, is so you can understand me when I say that Sandy is a stranger to me, and that I do not know if he has summoned you simply to kill you for the temerity of suggesting that he help you gain your love, when he has lost his. I would never suggest the Sandy I knew would do such a thing, but I think he passed from us a long time ago." Her jaw tightened.

Inwardly, Koz winced, as he always did whenever she referred to Pitch thusly. He was convinced she did it on purpose just because she knew how uncomfortable it made him, but there was no way he could contradict her without contradicting what he'd told her to get him to help in the first place, anyway. But he sensed a story here, and decided to pursue it.

"Why would he do that?" he asked. Later, he might wonder just when he'd become so blasé about receiving death-threats, and laugh bitterly into whatever he happened to be drinking at the time.

"There were three of us," said Rayysha, softly, and now a curiously private thing overcame her features, softening every line and making her sweet, pretty... and incredibly alluring. Even her shine dimmed and became luxuriant, deep and welcoming. Koz gulped and determinedly focused on the horizon in an attempt to calm his racing heart. "Myself, Sandy... and Chandra."

The unfamiliar name piqued Koz's curiosity, and before he could stop himself, he blurted, "Who is Chandra?"

She fixed him with a telling glare, and Koz piped down with a muttered apology. Her sands rippled in, assumedly, the star equivalent of clearing their throat, and she continued, "Sandy's brother. They were closer than blood, closer than flesh." A hint of wistful bitterness tinged her tone now. "I knew there was never any room for me."

He blinked a little, somewhat disturbed by the implications. Incest among stars was something different than it was to humans, he supposed, since they weren't organically tethered to bodies and didn't reproduce as such, but nonetheless...

Before Koz could interrupt again, Rayysha forged on, her halting voice gaining confidence as she spoke, as if a great weight needed relieving in her heart. "But still, we were three, and we were in love, and we were happy. I used to believe that nothing could ever stop them returning to one another, no fire too great, no distance too vast, no fight too ugly. But then - Chandra-"

She broke off. The metal guardrail groaned in protest, and Koz felt icewater drench his spine as he realised that Rayysha had been casually pulping the reinforced metal between her hands as she struggled to speak.

"Sandy fell apart after... afterwards," she said flatly, a little hesitance in her voice. "I had to watch over him every second of the day to stop him from turning to the darkness. He became... reckless. Angry. He hated me for not being Chandra, and he resented me for stopping him from following him into... into the dance. One night he ran away and returned to wishing-routes, and dropped all contact with me. I didn't even know he was alive until we reached out to him together."

At once, she shuddered and guardedness fell back over her like a veil. Her eyes were as cold and hard as specks of jade flint. "I tell you this so you realise that your journey, Golden General, may end here, in the arms of one of my people." Her lip twisted, bitterly. "As yours have so often done to mine."

"If I paid attention to everyone who may have a motive to kill me, I'd end it myself and save the inevitability," Koz retorted, and Rayysha inclined her head, coolly.

Without anything further, she jetted off into the sky, harnessing her shooting-star and colouring it deep-green as she set her familiar corkscrew pattern around the Galleon.

Despite his flippancy, Koz remained troubled by vague, throbbing golden dreams, always aching with something unseen, something just out of reach...

Those vague remembrances continued to dog him right up until they entered the Kjarksar system, and he was swamped over with relays and messages, snooty Pookan guards requiring every documentation he'd been given at each border point. The Horsehead Nebula was more fortified and insular than any fort or keep Koz had ever seen, and twice as suspicious of outsiders.

He couldn't help but heave a great sigh of relief once they were finally given permission to dock the Galleon at the Kjarksar space-station, orbiting a lush green planet the name of which was undisclosed to the crew of the Galleon.

Oddly, the first thing the confused crew noted was that everything was egg-shaped. The hangar they slid into was egg-shaped. The shocks that slipped around the ship like gloves were egg-shaped. The smooth white gangplanks were egg-shaped. The emotionless, faceless droids guarding the hangars were egg-shaped. Even the screen on which information was displayed for the human arrivals as to where to go next was egg-shaped.

Not a single other soul was to be seen, and they glanced nervously at one another as they stood there on the deck, somewhat dumbly. None of them had ever interacted with Pooka before, save Koz, who knew well enough the faintly disgusted air with which the Pookan Brotherhood tended to view human "outsiders", the kindest terms for which were still blatantly offensive to even the most ignorant ear.

Finally, Koz said, "I'll go."

He was the reason they were here, after all, and he knew full well that if he hadn't been the Golden General and accustomed to serving with the Brotherhood in battle before, there wouldn't have been a hint of an arranged meeting, especially on such short notice. Pooka could take years to formulate their social events, Koz knew - even their calendar was far longer than a human one. It took twenty five human years (approximately) for a single year Pookan time to pass.

Therefore, Koz was prepared for the usual blunt rudeness of the Brotherhood, who had never seen any reason to conceal their feelings about him before and certainly wouldn't start now.

Relieved, the rest of the crew hung back, disappearing back into the Galleon's quarters. They would wait there while Koz, hopefully, went to meet Zinna and Bunnymund. Koz envied them. Pooka were recalcitrant and difficult creatures, abrasive and highly, frustratingly, logical.

His steps echoed off the sharp white walls as he walked towards the screen until he could read it. His lips twitched at what he read.

"Too filthy for the space-station, huh?" he murmured, but obediently followed the directions and disrobed, padding, utterly naked, towards a recessed, glowing "disinfectant" chamber. He had no doubt that the hangar would be thoroughly cleansed after the diseased humans and their filth were gone.

The chamber was dimly lit with soft glowing panels in the walls (egg-shaped). Surprisingly, his eyes adjusted quickly, and the cool air had a oddly smooth and soapy feeling to it, as if it were silky marble against his skin, and breathing it left a faint aftertaste of mint and cloves. He wondered what they'd treated it with, hoped idly that it wasn't poisonous. Apollo would throw a fit if Koz died at the hands of a nefarious shower. Koz was directed to stand in a centre circle, which he did so with only a moment's trepidation.

He was no coward, and showers certainly weren't going to best him.

Nonetheless, even he jumped and hissed when suddenly blistering hot jets of water pummelled into him from all angles, forcing his body to jerk around the circle like a weak-limbed puppet from the force. The onslaught came like bullets, unerringly finding every sensitive part of his body and striking that twice as hard. As quickly as it had begun, it stopped, the hiss of the unseen jets falling away and the water draining through grates in the floor. Wincing, Koz looked down at his reddened and raw body, and knew instantly that it was going to bruise.

Wet and shivering a little now, he watched goosebumps bead over his red skin, darkened gold from the amount of light cleanses he'd been exposed to throughout the years. He didn't much like the whole process - he knew without a doubt that there was probably some Pookan monitor watching his every move and sniggering at his strange, hairless skin. Barely had he begun to wonder if that was it when new vents opened up.

Next was a fiery, parched air, buffeting him from side to side like so much spare chaff. Koz grimaced, standing as firmly as he could as the air around him rapidly dried out, and sweat sprang up on his back and forehead. Just when he thought he could bare it no longer, the attack stopped.

Warily, Koz looked around. Was this it? The pause, however, had only been to lull him into a false sense of security, for the moment Koz lifted his foot from the circle, a thick, viscous liquid was suddenly dumped over his head, congealing and collecting over him like slimy mucus. He choked and coughed, suffocating under its crushing embrace, his heart thrumming like a panicked bird's in his throat, blood pounding in his temples as he struggled for air. It drove him to one knee, and helplessly he gasped for breath. Darkness bled across his vision, and unconsciousness threatened.

All at once, the thick liquid stopped, dripping off and sealing in an impenetrable, waxy layer around his skin. Able to breathe once more, Koz sucked in the air gratefully, pitifully, great hoarse gulping gasps, bent over on his knees and shaking with coughs. Dizziness rushed and swirled about him as he weakly tried to stand, his legs feeling like limp bags of sand.

An insistent looking opening was glowing at him, flashing in an irregular pattern to catch his attention. As soon as he felt strong enough, he stumbled over to it, breathing a sigh of relief to see a one-size unisex coverall, dark green and made of a thick, tough material. On the back was branded several characters in Pookan that Koz didn't recognise, but he slipped it on anyway, grimacing at the way it chafed his sore skin.

He felt raw and pickled, but cleaner than he had in his life, even if he was aware of the barrier that presumably stopped him spreading diseases throughout the ship settling snugly over his skin. It really did feel like solidified wax. Koz worked on not feeling offended that they apparently thought he was so contagious that this was necessary. Humanity isn't catching, he thought, with a hint of amusement.

Once he was done, he headed out through another glowing door and was met with yet another computer screen. Internally, he sighed as requests for his reasons for entry, name, and qualifications were flashed up. Numbly, he tapped them in with shaking fingers, and the screen pulsed a deep green. Then, nothing.

Koz supposed this was a waiting room. There were no chairs, no possible physical amenity, but it had the cold, liminal feeling of a waiting room, not to mention the mechanised signing in points. He stood there, linking his hands behind his back and idly scrutinising the ceiling. There was not a hint of dirt anywhere, and everything was a flat, stark white, shadowless and uncomfortably reminiscent of the shadow-prison.

Koz's face fell in grimmer lines, and he couldn't help but reach out to brush his fingers over a wall, humming Pitch's lullaby under his breath. The touch did not ground so much as disorientate him, because all he could feel was the waxy coating over his skin, which had a nasty, rubbery texture. He thought about Pitch. He hoped that Pitch was doing well enough with only Fearlings and the distant threat of weapons pointed at his head for company.

Not much longer now, he promised silently, and we'll be together again, and I'll show them what you really are.

The soft hssh of pressurised doors distracted him, and instantly Koz schooled the emotion from his face, wiping it blank and cold as he turned to face the closest thing to a friend that could exist between a human and Pooka. Zinna stood in the doorway, easily heads taller than Koz even without his great, stiff ears. He had flat, cold blue eyes, like flecks of ice, and his fur was greyish-black, the colour of snow-rubbed tar, from where it was visible around the bottle-green robes he wore, printed with stylistic Pookan letters. There were silvery hints around his muzzle, and aside from his cold, evaluating stare and twitch of his whiskers, he made no effort to greet Koz.

"Follow," he instructed curtly, and then turned and strode off, with an odd, rolling gait of a Pooka. Koz knew better than to watch, or gawp like some ignorant youngling, instead, he walked quickly to keep up. Zinna always travelled at such a clip, and Koz's muscles didn't appreciate it. The wax layer kept his sweat up against his skin, and Koz winced, hating the vile feeling.

Thankfully, the walk was short, down one short passage, rounded and smooth, then a sharp corner and a long corridor of doorways. Zinna turned into the first one, wherein waited a young, lightly-coloured Pooka, with slightly nervous green eyes and the same green robes as Zinna, though they seemed to sit slightly awkwardly on his sloped shoulders. His ears perked as the two of them walked in, though he made an effort to try and control his face.

Inwardly, Koz smiled. Still very young, then.

"You're E. Aster Bunnymund?" Koz asked, trying for the same clipped tone he knew the rest of the Pooka used. Bunnymund straightened a little when he was addressed, and Koz, seeing there were no chairs, fell into a smart parade rest instead. There was no doubt in his mind that this was a formal occasion.

"Yes," he said, and even his voice had a thick overtone of accent, quite unlike the polished, oddly smooth voices of most Brotherhood-trained Pooka. Bunnymund hesitated, his ear twitching, and then fell silent, seemingly caught between awe at being in the presence of the Golden General himself, and the politely cultured disgust of being in a human's presence.

Koz cleared his throat. The sound drew Bunnymund's curious eyes, though Zinna remained as stiff and emotionless as a blank stone wall behind them. He remained, a silent chaperone, allowing Bunnymund to conduct the meeting alone.

"I need your assistance," said Koz. "I was told to request you by name, and I require you to vouch for the good character of a stranger to our galaxies by the name of Pitch." It was nothing he hadn't said already in his letter.

"Why would I want to do that?" asked Bunnymund, but Koz could see the true question - and no doubt the one that had coaxed him from his warren in the first place - burning in his sharp green eyes. Why me? he was asking himself. Why, of all the other infinitely more qualified Pooka, had Koz asked for Bunnymund by name?

At least, Koz hoped that was what he was thinking. It was difficult to push human emotions on those alien, furred faces.

"Pitch Black is from a world wholly unlike ours," Koz said, straight-faced. It might have been a slight exaggeration - but sweet suns, Pitch apparently didn't even know how cupboards and doors worked. It had to be a fairly different world. "This world is unexplored by any creature, human, Pooka, or otherwise, save himself, and only he knows how to return."

That truly was a bold-faced lie, Koz was pretty certain that Pitch had as much idea about how to throw himself back into the future as Koz did, which was to say, some vague thoughts about lockets and parallel universes.

"That's impossible," said Bunnymund stiffly, but his curiosity was piqued, Koz could tell. His ears were fully up, swivelled towards Koz in order to catch every word of what he was saying, and most notably, he was fiddling with his sleeve.

How young is this kid? Koz thought, a little concerned now. Had Pitch set him up to bring a child into a possible war?

Something bitter twisted in his heart, and the faces of thousands of young, fresh out of training recruits he'd seen lying dead on biers flashed past his eye. It wouldn't be the first, and it wouldn't be the last. In every war, there was always some young eager cannon fodder, even if they didn't know it themselves.

"You're a chocolate-maker, aren't you?" Koz tried, going along a different route. At Bunnymund's stiff nod, he added, "Pitch has never tried Pookan chocolate. They don't have it where he's from." He thought, anyway. Pitch had never mentioned a Pooka.

Bunnymund's expression was, for once, impressively stiff, but Koz could still see a twitch of dismay in his eyes. Sympathy, for humans? Koz wondered at it. Perhaps Pitch had had a very good reason for picking this young, insecure thing, with a heart somehow able to empathise with humanity, despite his own prejudices.

"But they do have sweets, candy, chocolates of their own. Made entirely without Pookan guidance," Koz continued, his voice soft and low, entreating, making Bunnymund lean forward to hear more.

"It would taste disgusting," Bunnymund declared immediately, but Koz grinned.

"Of course - only Pooka like yourself can make the best chocolate. But what if they found different ways of doing it? You know humans - we have a tendency to be ingenious when survival is at stake. And you could be the first to study it, and understand," Koz continued, and knew he had hooked Bunnymund.

The Pooka's eyes were wide and his nose was twitching, slightly, with excitement. The prospect of having a learned edge over his peers was enough to deal with even the hassle of having to agree to a pointless task, in his eyes. Of course, he couldn't be seen to be that rash, and impulsive, so instead, he sniffed and raised his head, his nose twitching.

"For the glory of the Brotherhood -" he started, glanced at Zinna. "I think it would be wise to take the learning opportunity."

"It's your decision," said Zinna, in his gravelly voice.

Bunnymund shifted, and then nodded sharply. "Yes," he said. "I offer you my assistance."

Koz felt the world drop out from under his feet, and it took every modicum of control he had not to burst out into a grin and start waltzing with the poor Pooka. The hardest hurdle had been overcome! Pitch's salvation was beginning to look closer than ever, now, and Koz was more than ready for it to finally arrive. It seemed like months since he'd last set sight on the lean, long grey face, the bright glittering eyes, the slinking, half-coiled movements, heard the rich and silky voice. He missed Pitch, but it didn't matter - soon, he'd be able to return to him, as specified in his letter, and Pitch would scold Koz for worrying, and they'd convince Apollo that Pitch was a human, useful creature - maybe even deserving of citizenship - and Apollo would probably want to sleep with Pitch at least once -

"We will travel in our own ship," stated Zinna, "and reach the set location in approximately 175 SGT hours."

Without further ado, he simply turned and walked out, leaving Koz standing there alone in the meeting room. Bunnymund looked at him, eyes bright and nose twitching, and then hurriedly followed in a swish of robes.

Koz nearly sagged with relief. Numb with a faint sort of shock, he stumbled back to the ship, following the decontaminant instructions with a dazed feeling. It was only once he was on board the Galleon again, the surprised crew clustered around him, that he really realised that the worst of the journey had to be over, and that even the stiff and recalcitrant Pooka had agreed.

He burst out into a great, wide smile, and the crew instantly understood the success of the mission. Io flung herself at him and he caught her around the waist, spinning her around, laughing. Dioscuri clapped him on the back so hard he stumbled. Meterios grinned, shaky and red-rimmed, Aska joked and ribbed at him, but Fochik hugged him, too, close to her, and Koz closed his eyes to breathe in her perfume, savour her soft warm feminine body up against his.

"I hate to cut the celebration short," Dioscuri intervened, "But we've been told to leave immediately upon your return."

"How rude," muttered Io, but it was done under her breath, and with a nervous glance back at the coolly glowing white hangar. The power of the Pooka was as mysterious as it was frightening, and Koz knew Io had a healthy, fearful reverence for them. Such as was fitting. They were remorseless and coldly inhuman enemies on the battlefield, as Koz well knew. More "weak" human soldiers had been slaughtered by Pookan contingents when they had been working together than by the actual Fearlings themselves. But that was the way of fighting fear - it turned ally against ally, brother against brother.

Koz thought of Pollux Dioscuri, a border guard lulled into slaughtering an entire ship by a moment of weakness, devoting the rest of his life to the man who saved him from murdering his brother Castor - Kozmotis himself.

The Galleon slipped from the shocks like a greased eel, the thrum of her engines firing them easily out into clean space, Dioscuri at the helm. Koz went belowdeck, heading for a shower of the non-Pookan variety, but was waylaid by some fore-planning. If he just quickly laid out the route now... Koz chartered a quick course for the return route, swiftly planning rest-stops and refuel stops. He had only made a few notes when a great clamour went up over the deck, and a breathless Fochik rushed down to the cabin, the roses of her cheeks blooming bright and red.

"The star captain is here," she panted, and the glaze of her eyes was strange and feverish, overspilled with abundance of creative energy that stars like Rayysha carried in every grain of dreamsand. "She says-" She had to pause to suck in a great breath, leaning against the door and swaying as if overcome by an invisible music only she could see. "Your pilot is close, she can feel him. She says you must come now, or you might miss his passing."

Koz's heart leapt, and the elation that soared in him had nothing to do with the memory of that warm golden attention, deep and knowing and playful, he swore it didn't. Fever-dreams had overwhelmed him as they neared the inevitable climax of the star's presence, strange, wistful, half-lustful thoughts that were removed from him in distant, alien patterns; there was nothing of the flesh, nothing that Koz understood, and as a jade-cheeked Rayysha had admitted, there had been a little leakage between them when they'd sung together, reaching across the skies and stars to speak to Sandy.

Koz was feeling her desire, her longing, her ancient, alien thoughts, strange and slow and circular. It was glad they had pulled away when they did, Rayysha had said, otherwise Koz would have surely gone mad. Given just a taste, and he was craving more, like an addiction that could never be scratched.

It seemed fitting that so shortly after assuring Bunnymund's help, the universes aligned to bring him another step closer. Koz began to believe the spiel he'd spun Apollo when the Tsar had first asked to his motives - this journey was fated, spurred on by the lash of destiny and magical forces beyond Koz's ken.

Now that it had been set into motion, it would not be stopped.

Chapter Text

Grunting, Cater pushed with all of his might, muscles straining. The bar lifted, and Cater held it outstretched, his muscles trembling with the exertion, but arms solid. Then he lowered it down until it touched his chest when he breathed in, sweaty from his exercise. The burn in his muscles made him wince as he carefully set the bar back on its ledge.

The gymnasium was still and silent, deserted at this time of day. It was near-evening, when all the courtiers would be involved in one of their rambunctious dinners; Cater could hear the music floating through the windows. The far-distant rumble of ships’ engines were like a constant counterpoint to the gaiety; for all of its airs and graces, Alpheratz was inescapably a trading city.

He disliked the silence. He’d grown used to having Kozmotis accompany him whenever he went to exercise, sometimes Captain Pollux or another crewmember too, and though Koz was never much of a talker even when not straining to the limits of his physical endurance (the man worked himself to the bone - watching the way he honed his body, Cater could well believe some of the tallest tales told about the General’s battle prowess), Cater had never needed conversation to find company satisfying.

He’d sensed that it was doing Koz some good as well; Cater could always feel less turmoil in the man’s energies after he spent some time devoted to his body, though he groused about the Tsar all but pushing him into the gym often enough that Cater knew he didn’t mind it, really, especially considering the way Koz had a tendency to preen when the Tsar happened to admire him (which was frequently becoming a very regular occurrence, now that Koz’s body had more or less healed from the abuse suffered at the prison planet).

A twitch of a smile brightened Cater’s dark face. Those two’s arguments had provided a great source of amusement and gossiping for the Molskarr crewmembers, along with a great many bawdy jokes and blackmail to use against Koz whenever they felt most malicious. Their insinuations always made high spots of pale colour bloom on the General’s distinguished cheekbones, and he’d splutter out negatives, looking so outraged that they’d drop the tease out of pity.

The smile fell. The palatial wing afforded to them felt so empty when all the others had left with Koz on his quest, but Cater knew he had made the right decision when he woke up the next morning with Tantri sprawled over his stomach and a cursing Cephei trying to extract the star without waking Cater. They’d both frozen, almost comically so, when Cater had opened his eyes, and Cater didn’t blame Koyla for their liquid chuckle as the indigo star watched Tantri and Cephei attempt to explain themselves. They settled on “Don’t tell Rayysha” and leaving quickly.

Cater shook his head and lifted the bar again, settling back in for another fifteen lifts. He had not done five when a tickle on his awareness alerted him to someone else’s presence.

The presence felt like fire, slow, simmering, languid and deeply dangerous, fickle and thirsty. He frowned to himself and tried to concentrate on his work. He didn’t want to know who that was.

So involved was he that he didn’t even notice when the Tsar, Holy Ruler of the Constellations, casually dropped onto the bench beside him until he asked, “Do you think I can make a law to say every man should be half-naked and sweating before I see him?”

After recovering from nearly dropping the bar he was lifting on his head out of shock (the Tsar certainly could move quietly when he wanted to), Cater took a measured breath and said in a slow, considered manner, “If you wished, my Tsar.”

He was painfully aware of the fact that he had foregone exercising clothes in favour of a pair of richly decorated leggings he’d found hidden in his expensive room, hoping perhaps to use them and hide them afterwards, despite probably stretching them out of shape forever. Cater didn’t own many clothes. The life of a supply-crew wasn’t exactly luxurious, and Cater had seen Lord Tabor’s cronies change clothes up to three times a day, never wearing the same ones twice. Now, however, he felt the lack of proper attire.

“Hmm.” The Tsar’s soft lip creased a little petulantly. “Though, on further thought, I’m not sure I want some of the vile old lords bare before me. Their strapping young sons,” he bared his teeth in a pearly grin, “Oh yes. Them, no.”

Cater said nothing. It was usually better to say nothing. People talked to fill up the silence, and Cater listened, and learned.

The Tsar tapped his knee and crossed his legs, the silk skirt of the flattering dress he was wearing flowing like dappled grey water around his milk-smooth flesh. Cater thought it was smooth, anyway. Tsars certainly didn’t do any hard labour, and it looked smooth, clear and vibrant, but somehow cold-seeming, like radiant marble. Sternly, Cater chastised himself for looking. Commoners weren’t supposed to gawp at the Tsar; though Cater knew this one was fond of getting around and certainly didn’t seem adverse to attention. It wasn’t as if the plunging neckline didn’t leave enough on show to entice a proper audience.

True to form, however, the Tsar continued when the silence dragged. “It really is a shame that I can’t justifiably order that a man like Kozmotis, for example, do us all a public favour by adopting a… hmm - how to put it… freer clothing style. Not that he doesn’t also please in formal military wear, as I’m sure you can agree. Ah - crewman, don’t look at me like that, you’ve seen the posters too.”

Cater was certain his expression hadn’t changed, but he nodded politely anyway. He knew what this man had done to Connor Meterios when he’d stood in the Tsar’s way for Alice Fochik. They’d called it re-evaluating his pilot license, but no flight test Cater knew of left manacle-scars and burn marks in the shape of aristocratic fingers. Cater had thought that Kozmotis was a threat when Captain Pollux introduced him as a loose cannon, mind poisoned from war, but the Tsar was the one who held Kozmotis’ leash, and had all the danger in the world behind him.

It took a special kind of madman to send thousands to die against Darkness itself while celebrating with scandalously wild parties in the brothel that passed for the seat of his reign, if half the rumours Cater had heard about the Towers of the Moon were true. He’d always privately thought most of them were exaggerated, but that was before they’d arrived in Alpheratz and witnessed the Tsar in the flesh at his games and his toys and his distractions.

Nonetheless, he seemed to be in a genial mood, so Cater allowed his wariness to take a backseat. For now. He liked to take people at their word, but not to the extent of foolishness.

Perhaps it was just the fiery feeling of the Tsar’s magic spreading slowly through the room, like poison-gas. It was incredibly strong, and it dominated Cater’s attention - ripples of goosebumps were chasing over his skin in time with the Tsar’s heartbeat.

The Tsar shifted a little, a moue of annoyance on his beautiful face. “He’s been gone so long,” he whined, sounding just like a spoiled child deprived of a favourite toy, “it surely can’t take that long to convince a Pooka to join a silly quest?”

The tone was coy and teasing, the words childish and whiny, but the hard flint in the Tsar’s eyes belied his intent. Games were never games. Cater wondered why the Tsar had sought him out; he had to have a reason.

What did he want with Cater?

Cater’s mind ticked over, analysing the conversation. He’d brought up Kozmotis. It was the only foundation between which they knew each other, but specifically, the Tsar had mentioned Kozmotis’ attractiveness; did he want Cater for a bedmate, since he’d made a remark on Cater’s undress as an opener? Cater didn’t know enough about the Tsar to guess, all he had to go from was the sometimes spiteful, sometimes affectionate way Kozmotis spoke about him, the way one might about a particularly irritating younger brother.

“I wouldn’t know, my Tsar,” Cater murmured, seeing as the Tsar obviously wanted some sort of response from him. He sat up slowly, putting the Tsar slightly shorter than him. He didn’t like making a showcase of his stature, but he couldn’t force himself to remain lying in the position to lift weights instead. It felt disrespectful, and also too vulnerable - leaving stomach and throat exposed to a predator he well knew hunted his kind.

The Tsar twitched the silk of the dress, smoothing the expensive fabric over his knees. His heels clicked on the odd-beige plastic floor of the gymnasium as he tapped his feet. Idly, he swept back a lock of snow-tipped ebony hair, drawing attention to his hands, quivering slightly as if he were in withdrawal, and his nails, which were short, rounded and manicured; they’d been painted grey to match the dress. It was a display, and aimed at Cater, but why?

He gritted his teeth. The Tsar’s magic and his presence were everywhere, spreading like wildfire over Cater’s senses. He could taste smoke and salt - smell the char of burnt flesh and expensive perfume, like decaying flowers and rot laid over with glittering gold and sumptuous red passion.

“Of course, he’s going to see the pilot as well, is he not?”

“Yes, my Tsar.” Cater kept his tone bland.

“I would have thought, seeing as you seem to be such an expert on… their kind… that he would have been glad to have your expertise.” The Tsar’s voice was as oily and breathy as any expert politician, and the sound of it washed over him like the slick, wet feeling of softened soap gliding over his skin. Cater fought back a shudder, but goosebumps prickled over his arms. A faint twitch pulled the soft, rose-petal lips, and Cater knew that the Tsar had noticed.

It wasn’t just the reference to Cater’s knowledge on the star people -  rare enough in this world to mark him out as different, dangerous, that had made him shiver. Beyond anything, he was certain that the Tsar wouldn’t care about his past, the past that had led him to learning so much about stars as he had. Perhaps it was that the Tsar was coming at him with an obvious intention to - what? Seduce or intimidate? Whatever it was, it was working well. He fought back another shiver. Cater could feel the strength of his magic, roiling like a stormcloud beneath his flesh. His heartbeat began to pick up pace.

“It was my decision, my Tsar,” Cater told him softly, and the Tsar’s eyes gleamed with interest.

“Is that so?” he prodded, but when Cater didn’t rise to the bait, he said instead, “A shame. It must have been something important, to separate the… dream team.”

He couldn’t refuse his Tsar. Especially when he could feel the Tsar’s magic, lapping hungrily against his senses, especially when the Tsar was being quite so blunt about exactly what he wanted to know.

“I stayed behind to protect the freed captives.”

Cater’s eyes were politely averted, staring somewhere over near the door and half-heartedly wishing that someone would come in even as interest tugged at his mind. Cater inhaled, exhaled in a measured pattern, controlling himself absolutely. His face remained as deep and still, as calm as a lazy summertide lake.

Still, he could clearly see a half-instant of shock flash over the Tsar’s face at his answer, and then a deep re-evaluation that seemed as if it crawled in his bones. Cater wondered what the Tsar was looking for, and what he had seen.

“Protect them?” The Tsar repeated with a hint of mockery curling his inflections, “From who, crewman? From my greedy, greedy court, from a stumble down the steps, from themselves?” He paused, and added slyly, “From me?”

Cater said nothing. He had the distinct impression of being trapped in a minefield, with either way he stepped likely to kill him.

The Tsar’s cool touch came as a surprise on his sweat-warmed skin, and Cater blinked reflexively, the only sign of his surprise as the Tsar turned his chin to look Cater in the eye. The Tsar’s eyes were dark, stormy-silver, like pencil-lead and knife-edges. The little smirk that played around his lips was as ruthless as it was enticing, and Cater knew that the Tsar was well aware.

The Tsar examined him coldly, but his gaze was flecked with the burgeoning of interest, though positive or negative, Cater didn’t know. His grip on Cater’s chin was unyielding, though jittering, and at his touch a steady throb of electricity tingled at Cater’s jaw, spreading over his neck and chest. Goosebumps rippled over his skin, and before he could stop himself, he shivered again. It was just so strong! By the seven suns, how did he cope with all that fire behind his flesh?

Lips quirking in a lazy open-mouthed smile, the Tsar abruptly leaned in close, so close that his lips brushed Cater’s skin. “Ah, it’s been so long since I last met a clairvoyant like you. I must be setting off everything at once…”

The Tsar was right - every alarm Cater had was jangling in his mind to an extreme degree. Cater was magically sensitive to the powers and energies of others - which could be a curse when dealing with creatures overspilling with magical power, like the Tsar himself. The intensity could get overwhelming.

The Tsar pulled back, dark eyes considering and almost bored, and murmured, almost to himself, “I wonder…”

He tapped Cater’s chin, and a small pulse of magic leapt from his touch.

It jolted through Cater’s body like a bolt of lightning, and he jerked, gasping as his vision flashed white and fire raced through every vein in his body. He thought perhaps he keened, made some animal noise of half-torment, soundless howls tearing up through his throat. When he blinked the stars from his eyes, his skin was shivering over with cold sweat, and all he could feel was the Tsar’s presence like a throbbing fire of magical energy in the room, the flux and pull of the cycles of the planets waxing strong with the madness in his blood.

“Sensitive, indeed!” The Tsar muttered, pleased. “Don’t touch me on the full moon,” he added, “someone as fine-tuned as you would die instantly.”

His chilly grey gaze swept over Cater again, like Cater was a particularly interesting brand of new pet, and gestured to Cater’s wrist, where his wristcomm was strapped. Cater’s arm was trembling, his muscles spasming at the mere proximity of the power the Tsar wielded. Nonetheless, he forced himself to raise his arm, and keep it there, muscles twitching convulsively and his calm demeanour wrecked. He felt weak, and pitiful. No wonder Connor had broken. Cater hadn’t even taken a night in a jail cell.

The Tsar leaned forward and tapped in a code into the comm. “That’s my personal code,” he said, pale eyes intent, “Use it to requisition whatever you need for the whores’ comfort. We fly for the prison planet in eight days, 1400 hours. I expect you to be there.”

Cater stared at him, knowing that his face was bloodless and shiny with sweat and shock. Somewhere, a part of his mind was flabbergasted - the Tsar’s personal code? He was being bought. He was still shaking, little starbursts under his skin igniting fires in his body. He gritted his teeth past a whimper. The last thing he wanted to do was accompany the Tsar, especially a Tsar who knew the extent of Cater’s clairvoyance, a talent he kept close-guarded, and could disable him with a single touch.

“Y… Yes my Tsar,” he managed, and the Tsar grinned, well-pleased.

“I need someone like you at my side,” he said, as if he were imparting a great secret, then rose fluidly to his feet and turned to go. At the last moment, his shaky-pale hand came down to pat Cater’s head, as if Cater were a pet dog, and Cater couldn’t stop himself from flinching in anticipation of that awful magic. None came though, and the Tsar laughed as he left.

“Don’t be late!” he sang, and was gone.

Cater leaned over the bench and threw up.

Later, after the queasiness in his stomach had settled enough for him to concentrate, Cater stumbled to his feet and made his way down to his room. The world spun and sank around him as he walked, and dizziness flashed behind his eyes in jolts - white lightning, the Tsar’s laughter. The normal tides and eddies of the crew in the wing allotted to him should have felt familiar, calming, but it only served to aggravate nerves worn ragged by the lightning-pulse, because they were gone - gone along with Kozmotis.

He regretted his decision to stay behind now. Io would be there in a flash, fussing and gently mothering, but it would be Alice curling up into his side and offering him water, holding him through the worst of the shakes. She'd been through similar enough symptoms to know how he felt.

Captain Pollux and Connor would offer him a shoulder each, supporting him as his world spun and tumbled. They knew not to say anything, not to overload his aching brain with more noise. When Cater, at last crying out because their energies felt like raw wool scraping over his abraded senses, asked them to leave, they would, but he knew they were there.

Like a family.

He staggered against a wall and then slumped down it, breathing heavily. He missed them with the ache of a thousand suns.

There was a soft wave on his awareness, and then the steady, burning song of Koyla’s presence standing out like a beacon against the darkness. Cater had his eyes closed tightly, but he was still trembling. Koyla said nothing, only touched him with a rough dry hand, and then they picked Cater up, his massive frame no burden on their inhuman strength, and carried him the last few steps into his room, dumping him on the bed with characteristic lack of care. Cater relaxed into the soft sheets, letting them ground him, exhaling shakily, and was vaguely aware of Koyla curling up against the small of his back as he slipped into a deep, troubled sleep.

His dreams wandered, back and forth under a deep purple sky. Lightning bolts of silver pierced the somnolent clouds, and if Cater listened, he could hear the soft, rapid beat of the Tsar’s pounding heart, and Koz’s wind torn voice shouting “Watch Apollo for me!”

Apollo. White fires raced over a lush garden, and Cater could taste smoke, blood, and salt in the back of his mouth. The fire carried the scent of pines across the sandy fells, each a shimmering void purple. A faint hint of worry emanated from the bruised lilac skies, and Cater knew more than felt Koyla curling around his sleeping mind like a great turgid snake, rippling scales each like deep still pools hiding a vortex beneath the surface. The star sighed, and cirrus clouds tumbled across the dreamscape, and an artificial calmness sank languidly down to Cater’s bones, and he found himself relaxing without knowing why.

Then there was nothing but silence, and stillness, and the warm ripple of tender indigo sand.

He slept deeply for hours, his body recuperating as Koyla watched sharply over his mental and emotional state. The lead scars at Koyla’s throat, wrists and ankles ached in unison when Cater cried out in his sleep, fires swaying over his dreamscape. Koyla kissed his eyelids when he did so, brushing their indigo sand over his eyes until they caught there, and Cater fell into a dream of Koyla’s devising.

Only once the human that had freed Koyla from the darkness and the chains had broken Lune’s madness and cast out the silver fire that Lune’s Son had put in him did Koyla allow him to rise to the surface of his waking mind, struggling against the heavy weight of Koyla’s influence pushing him into unconsciousness. Koyla gave him as much space as they were able - it wasn’t their fault that Cater wasn’t waking up as fast as he usually did, they couldn’t control their instinctive reaction to sleeping prey any more than a human could.

Cater surfaced slowly, swimming to wakefulness. His eyes were hazy when he first opened them, then he groaned as the light stabbed him and turned over.

“What’n’stars y’do K’la…?”

Koyla stared at him and displayed irritation. Brows down, mouth thinned, eyes narrowed. The basic human expressions were hard, but Koyla was getting much better - only Cater didn’t seem to be bothering to look at their effort. Displeased, Koyla pushed him out of the bed, moulding their face into smug happiness when Cater looked up. The human’s expressive dark face creased down at the corners of his eyes and his brows flattened in a way Koyla recognised as “Anger”, but his flat lips stretched to bare his teeth to indicate “Happiness”.

Anger or happiness, which is it? Koyla wondered, staring at Cater’s face and trying to discern whether he was likely to punish them for being rough. They didn’t want to hurt him, but they would never let themselves be put back in the lead chains to be beaten and kept away from the songs of their siblings in the sky. Koyla kept very still and silent just in case - the best way to avoid a punishment for doing a bad thing was to do nothing.

“Ouch,” Cater complained, “That’s going to bruise. Abuse, I say, abuse!” He blinked at Koyla with those deep brown eyes, then when Koyla didn’t react, he sighed and said, “Where did I lose you?”

This Koyla recognised - Cater did this when he recognised that Koyla was confused, and this was Cater saying that it was fine to be confused, and that a punishment was not incoming, and that Koyla may tell him what had confused them.

Koyla worked their lips for a moment, forgetting briefly that they had to fill their artificial lungs with air in order to speak with the sounds and vibrations the way humans did. Sheepishly, Koyla sucked in a deep breath and carefully let it out, shaping the air stream with their tongue and vibrating the vocal cords.

“Face confusing,” they spelt out carefully. Human speech was hard. Koyla didn’t know why they didn’t just speak with their minds instead of keeping them walled off all the time.

Cater nodded. This was an affirmative. He had understood Koyla’s message. “I was only playing, Koyla,” he said, softly, gently, “I’m not angry with you. I’m not really that hurt, either, I was just pretending to be offended. A joke.”

Koyla nodded slowly to show they had understood, though they took a while to puzzle it through. Humans were so needlessly complex.

Cater heaved a great breath and scratched the stubble on his scalp, grimacing. “Need to shave, Koyla,” he muttered, but when Koyla peered curiously at him, he didn’t seem to need an answer, so Koyla didn’t respond. “Think Kozmotis would mind if we used his bathroom? He’s got the biggest one, and you’ve already been in there.”

He looked at Koyla now, so Koyla blinked slowly, their prismatic eyes shimmering with a thousand indigo tones. The grains that made them up suddenly shifted and blurred, warping into faintly horrific gapes and distortions before Koyla’s normal face settled; the star equivalent of a  good stretch. Cater, faintly nauseated, glanced away. Koyla’s mannerisms were unapologetically alien sometimes - it was jarring to be reminded that they were not anything approaching human and only appeared that way because it was easier to hunt his kind when wearing a human face.

Cater ended up using Kozmotis’ bathroom, shaving his scalp, jaw and body with the lightscanner until he was completely hairless, the way he preferred; it was a habit picked up from some of the less than clean ships he’d served on as galley-cook where space-mites and comet-rats were more than common. Strapping his wrist-comm on, Cater’s wrist tingled where the Tsar had touched it. His lips set in a thin, flat line.

“We may as well get some use of this,” he said, with uncharacteristic chill, and with Koyla floating peaceably at his heels, he strode towards the hangar and found the nearest available skimmer. With Koyla’s soft directions, he dove once more into the gritty belly of Alpheratz, trusting Koyla to lead him to their brethren.

He found the stars crouched still in the dirty hole at the end of the chute, the same place that Kozmotis had tracked them to before. Cater stared darkly down the gaping opening of the chute - the skin had been flayed off most of his body the last time he’d tried to fit down it, and he wasn’t going to try again now. Instead Koyla went, flattening themselves into a thin long stream and worming down the hole like a thick snake.

Why hadn’t they moved? Cater wondered, looking around at the dingy, dirty neighbourhood. It couldn’t feel safe to live there knowing that humans had already found the hiding place once.

He thumbed the wrist-comm, and felt an inward smile dawn. He thought maybe he’d found a good use for the Tsar’s code - put his money towards something that helped for once.

A lick of paint was really the smallest gesture for the stars’ private refuge.

The stars were a little dubious of his plan when he first explained it, but they quickly warmed up. Within hours, they were happily grabbing the most expensive, genuine fabric pillows and curtains they could find, toddler beds made to size, real wood boxes for hiding places, insulators and cleaners. Cater hired other stars to help the fixing up job, and they shone with joy when he snapped their collars and told them that they were free to go - though he would appreciate it if they helped finish the construction, and he would escort them back to their former master to pay the money owed for the job - Cater was no slaver, but he was also no cheat.

With the stars’ incredible strength and tirelessness, they worked through the night, tunnelling right under the ground of the hovel and transforming it into a lush and luxurious palace, hidden right underneath all of the worst grime and filth in Alpheratz. The walls were insulated with moonmetal and lead, proven to be the best at insulating star voices be they star or fearling, and over that coolant was placed, just in case any heat signatures should give away their position. State of the art security systems were put in place, which Cater painstakingly taught Cephei how to use and change their own codes. The doors - human shaped, hidden underground and accessed only by a tunnel - were made out of a metal too heavy for a man to lift on his own.

They each made their own dark small burrow, carved right into the poisoned loam and pitch black as night. The only lights that far down were their own shines, but they didn’t seem to mind - in fact, the darkness positively enthused and energised them, and Cater was all but blinded by the radiance of their glows, and deafened by the joy in their songs. Antigra pulled pink pillows nearly the colour of her glow and showed them excitedly to Cater, almost childlike in their simple, innocent ecstasy.

Walking on, Cater came to Elba’s nook. The silver-grey star glared at him suspiciously, and lashed their body forward, hissing, “You can’t buy us, human. We know your kind.”

Shocked and a little hurt, Cater stepped back, and then let solemness sink over his expression. He couldn’t begrudge Elba their wariness. If Cater had suffered even an ounce as much as the stars had at human hands, he’d probably be suspicious of them too.

Riore tugged on his sleeve, and he smiled at them, a little wearily. The peach star shone as softly and as comfortingly as they could. “You are kind,” Riore said, tenderly, and placed a hand on his arm.

Cater shrugged a little. “I’m just doing what we should all be doing.”

Riore glanced about, and then shifted from foot to foot, looking uncomfortable and strange. Then they leaned up and whispered, “I would not tell you this if you weren’t kind - something is hunting your friend.”

Cater’s eyes widened, and chills shot down his spine. “What do you mean?” he asked, urgently. Kozmotis was in danger?

Riore swallowed. “There’s something following you. It burns, it burns inside with the fire of an exploding sun, and it took Carmine.”

On his way back to his rooms that night, disturbed and heavy with grievous thought, Cater ducked down a side passage and found himself in a courtyard, open to the sky. The moon was nearly full,  an ominous pearlescent eye, and Cater shuddered under its touch.

He heard the scuff of a stone, and thankfully a long honed instinct had him leaping behind a pillar, because out of the darkness came the radiant form of the Tsar, utterly nude and utterly beautiful, fae and transfixed by the wildness of the moon. His hair was bright white, his eyes were mirrors for the moon, his skin as pale as milk and glowing with a faint radiance. Never had he looked more inhuman, more starlike, and his every movement had a lurching, feral sort of grace, white lips peeled back over white teeth.

Apollo sank down to his haunches and raised his head to the moon. An eerie song drifted around them - tortured and indistinct, as if coming from inside a locked room. At first, Cater thought it was coming from the Tsar, and then horror jerked his heart as he suddenly realised it was coming from inside the Tsar, a haunting, broken melody from a creature long trapped inside his body.

Shaking his head as if a gnat had landed on his cheek, Apollo huffed smoke, a smattering of silver sparks hissing as they hit the stone. His snarl lowered and deepened, and a sigh came from behind Cater.

He stood aside, feeling absurdly guilty as an elderly woman walked past him, having clearly seen him spying on the Tsar. However, she took no notice of him, but crossed the courtyard and knelt stiffly in front of Apollo, the bells in her old, withered hair jangling.

“Ah, ‘Lo,” she said, softly, “I wish you would remember how to ask for help before it twists you into  this.” She caught his young, smooth face between her wrinkled hands, and held him there with deceptive strength. At once, her skin rippled stonewash grey in the moonlight, and even from where he stood Cater could see the blaze of magic-gold eyes.

The moonmage kissed Apollo’s forehead, and his body sank and folded into a deep, exhausted sleep. She settled herself onto the cold stone, and lifted his head into her lap, idly stroking the pure white hair off his face. Her face was still and at peace, and Cater felt like a voyeur as he watched them together. He turned to go, but just as she did, the moonmage called, “Won’t you stay awhile?”

He hesitated, glancing at the Tsar, and remembering all too well his warning. Don’t touch me on the full moon. It wasn’t the full moon, but the absolute devastating power radiating from his body was already giving Cater a chronic migraine.

She saw him looking and smiled wearily. “He won’t attack so long as someone is holding him chained.”

Even as Cater watched, one of the Tsar’s hands curled around the moonmage’s ankle, an oddly childish motion that jarred even as it perfectly fit the strange innocence of the scene. He approached, but did so warily, carefully watching to make sure that at no point Apollo would have access to his skin.

He thought maybe that he understood why Kozmotis had asked him to watch Apollo, now.

“Who are you?” he asked, and she laughed a little, humourlessly.

“A very old friend,” she said, and glanced down at his face in her lap. “My name is Alysea. We were… something. Once.”

Cater kept quiet. Alysea didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

After a long silence, though, he couldn’t hold back his curiosity any longer. “Is it true?” he blurted, and felt like Kozmotis in his inability to keep quiet, “That the Lunanoffs - that they’re less… human?”

Alysea smiled. “Hybrids,” she said, “Half star, half human. It rips them apart with longing for both worlds, a terribly cruel fate to suffer. Never truly one, never truly the other.” Seeing his face, she snorted and said, “I hope you didn’t really think that we all worship them because Apollo is beautiful.”

Cater didn’t know what to say. Eventually, she sighed, and said, “We’d better get him inside.”

Cater nodded, quietly, and followed her - not bothering to question why a woman surely in her later hundreds was able to easily lift and carry a fully developed adult man.

She was a moonmage, and ever since a sleek shadow wearing Kozmotis’ face had planted the fear of hell in his heart, Cater had grown quite used to inexplicable happenstances.

And if he had thought that the episode the previous night would at all delay their departure from Alpheratz, he was wrong then too. He did smile to see Apollo brushing aside the young, perfumed courtiers to offer his arm gracefully to Alysea, a blush dawning on the old woman’s cheeks as she accepted it and allowed him to lead her up the deck into one of the great ships.

Cater had already bid farewell to the stars, and left them at their new home - even Koyla. Koyla had pressed up close to him and kissed his breastbone, just over his heart, his throat, his hands, forehead and cheeks, clasping his hands tightly and staring deeply into his eyes for over a minute. Cater hadn’t known what to expect, but he supposed that was as close to a goodbye as he was going to get.

He still felt a pang of sadness as he ascended the ramp, stepping aside for a busy looking crewman to bustle past, a hood pulled low over their features. Nonetheless, as they passed, Cater caught a flash of orange, and the burn of deep, thirsty eyes sunken low with madness.

A vicious foreboding seized him, and Cater hurried to catch up with the Tsar. At least Cater would probably be able to see that messy death coming before it happened.

I should have just gone with Kozmotis when he asked, he thought, full of regret.

Hindsight truly was perfect.

Chapter Text

Koz dreamt.

The world passed him by in the slow, hazy fractals of galaxies. His body was a thing neither here nor there, a lead weight anchoring him to a somewhere, but beyond a mild frustration at not being able to roam as far as his wandering mind wanted, he felt nothing for it. He found the quintessence of mortality and of humanity and the understanding and realising of time’s passing and his own approaching death written in every cell and chromosome of his fallible ageing body dwindling the longer he dreamt, until the mad rush of humanity’s effort to prove itself, to live messily and wonderfully and brightly in the ticks and tocks they had allotted to them became as unreasonable and unimportant as the life of an ant.

Over time, Koz slowly came to understand, not in the frantic (human) crush of conquering knowledge and stealing it from their dead inked trees and from the lips and throats of their fellows, but the patient, unhurried ways all enlightenments come, that all things had a cycle, and the galaxies were never still.

Some darknesses are darker than other darknesses, and some lights guide and some lights burn, and some do both, and some are all at once and neither.

His expanded consciousness reached on the wings of emerald silence, and unconsciously, the greedy human left in him begged for those he loved, those he left, those he feared for. This was a human jealousy, counting each second as a treasure, but those vast emerald expanses of shifting sand allowed him to grab with the placid complacency of a true star, and Koz reached to touch their far-away minds.

Koz’s mind called him Apollo, but that was a far-distant thing, and names, titles, human things slipped away from him like greased fish, slippery with incomprehension. Nonetheless the presence he reached for was brilliantly unique, and he knew it.

Apollo shone like a radiant, brilliant beacon amid a thousand dull boring little human minds, a diamond in a rough of pig-shit. His thoughts felt like shimmering strands of jewels, and Koz could see the cycle of the galaxies in him, felt the shifts of that celestial tide pushing and pulling on his mind. At the moment, the tide was full and he was overspilling with star-radiance, hurting from the amount of it, but later, the tide would withdraw as they always did, and he would be as empty and soft and human as every other scurrying ant. No, not human - never anything so weak. A hybrid, ripped between two worlds and outcast from both, a king made out of tyrannical madness.

Curious little thing, aren’t you, ape? Rayysha’s voice drifted and curled like incense smoke around phantasmagorical skin, chills rising in her wake. What else of our secret thoughts should I show a filthy meatskin like you? When I wake your body and thread your mind back into it, you will return to raping us and killing us even with our hearts bare to you. Human greed leaves nothing unspoilt.

Her hate was bitter, deep and endless, like a rippling ocean of blood and salt, a still mirror that reflected the shimmers of the eclipsed stars into Koz’s mind. He broke a little under the weight of that grief, and was lost to a spinning, complex darkness that pulsed behind the bars of a cage (generalsweetgeneral set us free! setusfreepleaseplease sohungry ) and became near-feral with a hunger and injustice so great it darkened all light and made the world flat and grey, as if held in the grip of moonlight.

Moonlight.

Human, human, Rayysha was calling. Human, wake, wake. If you drift much farther, you will not live.

Distance. Silence. Emptiness.

He was asleep in Rayysha’s star, her sands cradling him close to the rock and protecting him from the heat as they shot through space, faster than a bullet or a light ray. A glittering stream of emerald was left in their wake, and wishes throbbed through her grains at every planet they passed like jolts of electricity. He understood himself in measures, felt his own heart beating and the blood rushing through his veins, felt the slog toward death and the Tsar’s lust twisted like thorns into his flesh - and what was that? A cage that reeked of smoke and the red priestess’ long copper hair, “You are a servant of the light. You are a servant of the light. You are a servant of the light.”

Disgusting, Rayysha muttered, and her words echoed like thunderclaps in their proximity, you are not content with clipping our freedom and raping us, you must do it to yourselves, too? Ah, poor little ape, how long will you listen when they tell you that you belong on your knees? There is a black king in your heart and he will not be denied forever.

He had no voice to shout, but a great fury rose up in him. The Tsar’s dog had his place, at the Tsar’s side, at the Tsar’s feet, with his sword in the guts of the Tsar’s enemies. He’d sworn oaths of fealty, oaths of brotherhood. He could no more deny Apollo’s wish than he could renounce the Light.

Oaths! Oaths! She scorned him, her mocking laughter ringing like bells and the slam of prison doors. What are the promises of men but air and lies? You imprisoned us and we loved you anyway - what choice did you give us? Dark - yes, corrupted - yes, but monsters? The only monsters in these galaxies are men! Somewhere distant, Koz heard the Fearlings beg for mercy again. Their voices took on the screech of his daughter’s pleading voice - not for trickery, but to make him understand.

They are only children, ape!

He was lost.

And when he woke, it was to the gentle, syrupy song of soft somnolence, and everywhere in Rayysha there was fire and desire and love so bright and hurting that at once Koz understood why Cater had said that the love of stars was beyond human comprehension. They did not love with a limbic system, an organisation of brain and body and mind. They loved with every essence of what it was to be themselves.

He couldn’t open his eyes, and Rayysha did not see with any human ocular system, but he knew in the same frighteningly inescapable way that Rayysha had told him everything else that they had found Sandy on his own star, and if he let his mind drift to Rayysha’s he saw coruscant shards of glassgold rippling between jasmine and jade, each grain a whispering secret, a journey untold. Pleasure rose and fell in waves at their meeting, like the white noise rush of tides, the swollen heaviness of orgasm and slumberous intensity of well-fed bellies.

Sandy! His name thundered like a chant, like a prayer, and the celestial chorus all around them took it up, repeating it back through a relay all over the galaxy until even the most distant star could know and understand that Rayysha and Sandy had met again, and life was good and happy and fat.

An angelic giggle crackled through the darkness like lightning and sherbert, and the warmth of golden candles stroked Koz’s sleeping face. Hellohellohello, he sang, and it was sweet and lilting like the break of new dawns, you found us. Oh, you found us.

Us? Rayysha’s query wrapped around Koz’s mind, holding him still. Who was us?

Electric dissonance ripped through the painfully bright heart of Sandy’s eldritch sprawl. Held safe between his talons another presence sighed and sang with the violent kiss of wind and blood and hailstorms. Fierce and mighty, she demanded that all knelt - conqueror, goddess, consort of forces older than time, fickle and free - but trapped.

It was Sandy that had trapped her, this alien and raging force, wrapped layer upon layer of his shimmering sand around her and suffocated her into dark and deep love, and now he echoed her words in a lilting melody they made together. From her, Koz felt shy and terrible bitterness, fearful hope, quashed and torn down so many times it shone only raggedly, patched through with holes, a shaky recognition of two strangers meeting for the first time since they had lost one another at Lady Archaline Pitchiner’s fall back years at the crumbling villa in the Orion sector.

He did not recognise her, still, though Koz’s heart jerked, too bruised to believe, until she spoke, and removed all doubt that there could be.

Hello, Seraphina whispered through Sandy’s lips, Father .

Inside Rayysha’s star, Koz’s body shot into wakefulness, and he opened his eyes to find himself in crushing, poison-green darkness. It was searing hot, and the air was thin and dry. He pounded on the walls with his fists, smoke curling up from his clothes as the molten rock wisped through the fabrics with ease. His heart was full of a madman’s desperation, the same broken longing of a shattered man that had led him to lunging at the prison gates like he could claw Seraphina out of the darkness alone.

No father could resist their child’s cries.

He tried to shout her name, but there was not enough air, and Rayysha’s irritation seeped slowly in like mustard gas. He rasped and gasped for air, and she chuckled like a granite avalanche.

It would serve you right to let you die, ape, she thrummed, taking a deep satisfaction from his struggling as he fought, reduced to a thoughtless animal as he slowly suffocated inside the burning heart of a wishing star.

From Sandy there was nothing but a mild curiosity, like a small boy watching another sadistically ripping the wings off flies then setting them against spiders. Molten gold splashed down Koz’s spine and he screamed, black spots flashing in his vision.

Let him breathe, Seraphina whispered, and her voice was as soft and dry as sand, barely even half as strong as Sandy’s clarion star-strong power, but he heard her and instantly obeyed, compelled into submission by a love that raged between them like wildfire.

If Koz had had the presence to think, he would have equated their relationship to those of slave and master that he saw constantly between starkind and humankind, lacking the understanding and too swaddled in ignorance to be able to think that anything genuine could exist between two such alien creatures.  It was lucky then, that he was unconscious at that point, otherwise if Rayysha did not kill him instantly for the temerity of suggesting that her once-lover bound himself willingly in chains to an ape, then Seraphina would have had Sandy crush Koz slowly and painfully between his coils of golden sand. It would take a while longer for  Koz to realise that the humanity in his daughter had been stripped out by the old constellation Typhan and replaced with the same sharp glittering fractals of starhearts, burning and raging beyond all control. Her loyalty was not with humankind - Seraphina  was dangerous, would see every last scuttling ape destroyed.

But for now, father and daughter had finally reunited, and the fragments of the little girl in Seraphina told her to have Koz placed on a nearby asteroid, where the breathing-band’s magic around his neck could start to filter him more air, and provide him a stable surface to wake upon.

Breathebreathe, Sandy sang softly to her father’s unconscious body. He paused, and a hint of greed brassed his golden sand. Muchmuch gooder when breathingsquirmingbegging, notnot deaddeadstillcold.

Seraphina felt the burgeonings of his desire and projected joking frustration - Sandysandy, can you not think with your brain instead of your cock for once?

His answering snort rippled through his entire heaving body of separate grains, still holding her careful and  close deep inside. This was an old joke between them. Having no no brains no cocks, muchthanks, he assured her haughtily,   willthink willthink how want.

It was true  - as a star, Sandy possessed no flesh like a human, no brain or organs, only his swirling sand. He could and did shape himself very convincingly into the form of a human male when he was planetside, but that was nothing more than a facade to aid his hunting.

My father, she reminded him dryly.

Rayysha, ignored, drifted closer and closer. She understood now. Sandy had never bothered to find her again after all this time because he missed their bond, he had done so because his precious human had allowed her father to find her at last. She made no secret of the hurt she felt at this, and it brimmed over them all in shaking, shuddering waves of sadness. Down on the asteroid, Koz’s breath quickened and he suddenly woke with tears on his cheeks, unsure of why such a great torment gripped him but knowing only that it did. The blazing lights of the two stars hung in front of him, idly rotating to keep their wishing stars from stabilising into great suns.

Rayysha with all her hatred of humans for all they had done to those she loved, had been replaced by no more than a meatskin child. Fury burned her up, and her glow darkening fierce and bright, she shot away into the darkness like a hate-fuelled arrow, not bothering to stem the toxic waves of spurned anger. She had fulfilled the meatskin’s request, anyway - she had taken him to Sandy. She hadn’t promised anything about taking him back.

Sandy simply let her go, a low frisson of sadness echoing underneath his continued bright song. The faltering moment suddenly let Koz glimpse, impossibly, a shrieking darkness revolting in Sandy’s core, an unhealed patch ripped of grief and pain, covered over by innocence and naivete. The darkness pulsed. We were three. It tasted of Fearling. The brightest stars all lose their minds to darkness eventually.

Koz gripped the blasted rock under his hands and bowed his head,  shuddering to keep control. He felt flayed bare, dreadfully confused. The esoteric language of stars was not his language. He saw Rayysha disappear, and panicked, though he didn’t want to admit it. With only Sandy left in front of him, a massive glowing orb of brilliant gold, lazy tendrils drifting like ropes left in the current, everything seemed startlingly real.

“Seraphina?” He called, hoarsely, searching that too-bright core, trying to somehow see past the shimmering waves of bright gold sand to his daughter deep beneath.

Father. She spoke like a star did, vibrations thrumming into his bones. He winced in pain as the star that held her captive pulsed and darkened in rhythm to her words.

He hardly dared to believe. His mind couldn’t wrap itself around the impossible truth, and he knew that he was crying, great broken sobs. A mild concern emanated from Sandy - stars could not weep, and he didn’t understand this strange human activity - but they both ignored it. Koz was desperate to see her, to touch her, to understand that somehow, Seraphina was alive, all those nights spent mourning her in vain, the sacrificing madness that had taken hold of him since her death - no, her vanishing - quenched, but Sandy was a jealous guardian and kept her safe and imprisoned deep within. Trapped in a hard shell of molten gold, dragged around the skies.

“Is that… Is that really you?” Too many times tricked by the Fearlings to not ask - not when Pitch had had to drag him from the prison doors with Seraphina’s voice screaming in his ear.

Yes Father. Her voice rippled around him like wind, invisible and untouchable, yet somehow felt.

Bitterness now swelled mightily within her, a festering wound ripped open. Giving him no time to absorb the monumental news, she hissed, Why did you never come for me, Father? For years I’ve been trapped inside this cursed star, believing that you would find me. I said it every night. “I believe, I believe.” But you never came. You forgot me. You left me to rot!

“I didn’t know,” Koz begged, “I thought - Seraphina - my girl, my baby girl - you were dead!”

Now Sandy interjected, his voice cool and calm with alien logic. But you did know, gatekeeper. Your puppetshadow told you.

Breathless with confusion, Koz’s mind struggled to fit together the pieces of what Sandy suggested. Pitch? “I didn’t-”

He stopped short, the words he had reread a thousand times on the darkest nights when he missed Pitch’s presence the most, the sly lithe shadow that had squirmed his way into Koz’s mind and taken root there, insidious as poison but sweet and gentle and delicate as honey, like bruises and bitemarks on the first gentle blushes of summer. With shaking hands,  Koz pulled out Pitch’s letter, and smoothed it flat against his knee. He read it aloud, first confidently - lips shaping words written by a desperately beloved hand, confident in Pitch’s innocence of such a hideous crime.

“Take the fastest ship you have and flee, far away. Look for Star Pilot  Sanderson Mansnoozie, Pookan E. Aster Bunnymund, and a child of light in the service of the Lunanoffs, Nightlight. They will help you fight against me…” He kept going, throat swelling when Pitch talked about the monstrousness Koz refused to believe would happen, “ I will become a monster, Kozmotis, far worse than anything the Constellations have ever seen. We are all puppets to our own fates in the end. I suppose I’m asking you to remember me how I wish I could be, instead of how I was, and how I will be. You are a great man. I am proud to have you as my past, but I won't allow me to become your future. You deserve more.”

He paused, suddenly, and understood. Pitch had known. Pitch had known because he had lived it, because Koz had escaped from the relentless fate that he had thought would happen at the prison planet, had thought that together they’d changed the future, hadn’t ever doubted or wondered if Pitch had known anything more.

His eyes flickered, disbelieving, over the spidery words, feeling the betrayal hit like punches to the gut. Pitch knew Seraphina was alive because he’d lived it, lived her death and knew the pain that Kozmotis was suffering, and he’d kept on living past becoming a monster, and the monster’s eyes, the Nightmare King had known that Seraphina was alive, but he’d never bothered to tell Kozmotis, he’d let Kozmotis suffer, he’d let Kozmotis mourn - Pitch had kept it a secret-

“Look after her.”

The last three words of Pitch’s letter. Kozmotis had been confused. Hadn’t thought. Wondered who her was.

He knew. Pitch knew. And he’d never told Kozmotis.

Now the fury came. Whiplash strong and incandescent, it possessed him without reason, and his eyes flashed and flared gold with lambent magic as it raced through his veins. Pitch had taken Seraphina away. Hatred darkened and suddenly erupted within him.

With every part of his might, Kozmotis glared into the darkness and cursed Pitch, cursed Pitch to pain and eternal agony. Pitch would suffer as he had left Kozmotis to suffer.

The prison planet was black. Still.

Unchanging. Silent. Silent silent silent silent.

Pitch paced.

Quick - one side of the door - turn, the other. Scuffing dirt over his boots. Not polished anymore.

Kozzy. Kozzy would polish them.

Breathing. Forgot to do it. Didn’t really need to. Wasn’t human, not like Kozzy, not really. Blink. Hadn’t done that in a while. Eyes burn like Sandy’s whips.

Had to be human for Kozzy though. Didn’t like the shadows. Had to try be human. Ignore the monster.

Shit, I’m hungry.

Pitch glanced up at the towering doors. He didn’t like shadows either.

Made of them though. Couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t escape any of it.

They were watching.

Could see the silver gleam of ships. Star-ships. Golden Age ships. Should be impossible. Wasn’t. Not in this time. Eyes of the Tsar on him.

Pitch was going to die.

Knew so. Did it before. Didn’t he? Nothing of Kozzy left in Pitch so obviously he would. Die, that is. Funny. Wanted to die for so long, before. Before Kozzy. Before all this. Nightmares made it so.

Only one Nightmare King can rise from the prison of fear.

Couldn’t let it be Kozzy, could he? Had to be Pitch. Wasn’t worth life like Kozzy. Kozzy had to live.

Guess we’ll see if I’m like you, Sandy. Immortals dying. Should be funny. Wasn’t. He’d even take Sandy’s company now. Judge me now, fat little bastard. Being all self-sacrificing. Letting Kozzy get away. Guarding him.

Not everyone could deny their nature like Sandy did. Pitch hungered. Didn’t mean that Sandy didn’t. Sandy was better at lying though. No Mr Lunanoff Sir I Never Ate Any of your precious Children’s mINDS Whole. Funny. Least Golden Age knew Sandy’s lot were monsters. Should be afraid of dreams. Were just pretty lies to trick you into dying happy.

Laughed at that a little. Sounded so rough. Hadn’t laughed in a while. Since Kozzy.

Fuck. Breathe.

Pitch thought he’d gone mad.

Again.

Madder.

Solitude did that. Thoughts lost coherency. Stopped thinking after a while. Too hard. Easier to feel. Hunger.  Always hunger.

God. Hungry enough to wish Sandy was here. Fuck. Or Jack. Ripe for the picking, that boy. Brimming with it. Enough fear to sate Pitch for months.

Fuck. North. Even fearless North. Bunnymund. Spitting out fur for ages but it’d be worth it to make the rabbit crack. Hah. Crack. Like an egg.

Or pretty Toothiana. Pitch wasn’t human, but his body once was. Might be nice to have a woman again. And she’d fear him. Also probably kill him.

Pitch shook his head in disgust. That wasn’t him. Ripping off her wings was more tolerable.

Sandy feared his darkness now. Might be fun to play with. Feared and wanted it the way all stars did. Sweet addiction.

Shit. They were in his thoughts again. Get out, shadows. He didn’t want this. Don’t prey on Guardians. Bad idea.

Kozzy’s chest slicked with sweat, head tipped back and a scream welling up inside him, blood gleaming at the hollow of his throat. Oh God. Oh God. Pitch couldn’t think about that. Too late. Mouth watering. Hungry. Wasn’t going to last much longer. Couldn’t resist the shadows much longer. Going to die soon.

The Fearlings were laughing at him. Keeping mockingly silent. They knew Pitch was doing the work for them.

Only one Nightmare King can rise from the prison of fear.

Pitch stopped in front of the doors and looked up. The sky was deep and black and endless, joyless. He missed the sun, missed all the colours it made, missed the relief that it made night. He even missed the stupid moon, for all it had brightened the night. There was no light at all here, apart from on the silver shine of the doors and the distant points of the watching ships.

He was ready. He’d given Kozzy all the time that he could, but Pitch’s hunger was slowly destroying his resolve. Pitch had destroyed the escape shuttle, too, making a prison out of the planet.

Pitch bit his lip. He raised his hand, trembling, and pressed it against the door. The Fearlings laughed their silent hissing chuckles on the other side. Come on puppet, they hissed. Are you scared? More laughter.

“No!” Pitch snapped. He looked at the empty sky again and felt his heart ache brokenly with longing. He wished he was far away from here, gone away with Kozzy. If he closed his eyes and thought hard, he almost was able to pretend that they were still together at the prison planet - Kozzy, warm and solid and alive at Pitch’s back, his heat sinking into him, his arm a heavy weight over Pitch’s hip, his skin soft and warm under Pitch’s clawed fingertips. Kozzy would smell of musk and a hint of strange fresh soot-like smell, the smell of the light scanner. Clothes and linen. Incense smoke. Weapon oil and whetstone. Metal.

It took finding myself to discover I could care for someone.

The irony still cruelly amused him. Pitch gripped his hair. He didn’t want to die. The Fearlings were right. He was scared. Scared of becoming the Nightmare King and losing his mind to hunger and hate. Scared of never seeing Kozzy again. Scared of having to spend the next centuries alone and hated in a dark hole underground, wishing he could just die.

Now that he knew what he was missing, Pitch felt like he could never return to a life where no one wanted him. But he didn’t have a choice.

Better me than you. Kozzy didn’t deserve this. Better Pitch. Already broken. Already dark.

He was so scared.

It would hurt. He knew that it was going to hurt. It still hurt him even now, and he was centuries on. The embodiment of fear forcing its way into a host was never going to be gentle.

He hugged his skinny arms to his thin, birdlike chest and shivered. He’d never remember this time. This was all futile. But if it gave Kozzy just one, maybe two months more of happiness, Pitch would take it.

He swallowed. There wasn’t any more time. Now or never.

He closed his eyes and slowly turned around. He couldn’t bear to look at the doors as his hands moved instinctively to the keypad. He’d been Kozzy once, his body would remember the code. It did.

The doors unlocked with a soft click of locks and shimmers of wards falling away. Pitch heard the oilslick slippering of Fearlings sliding over the floors from their opened cages, towards the doors.

His throat felt tight. There were tears sliding down his cheeks. His hands found the handles.

“Bye, Kozzy,” said Pitch, very softly, and then yanked the doors open as wide as he could.

Then the screaming started.

Chapter Text

“Come, come in crewman, I have need of your mind and willing hands!” the Tsar called brightly. Cater stared and felt a headache come on already.

The Tsar beamed up at him, sat cross-legged on an intricately patterned divan before a coffee table with a Ringnaut game set up, ready to played. His eyes were that darkly compelling grey once more, not the bright mad silver Cater had last seen them, and he sat with the shifty, irrepressible eagerness of a young boy - behind the bars of a thick, reinforced lead cage that boarded off one end of the hallway. It was clearly a purpose-made cage-complex; why the Tsar needed one, why he had put himself in it now as their ship glided through safe, clear space, those Cater didn’t bother to ask himself.

Gingerly letting himself in with a key hanging on a hook just outside the cage, Cater slid the bolt of the cage’s door firmly shut. He winced at the sound. He had never liked cages at the best of times, let alone human-sized ones with very clear spaces for manacles to be hung on each wall. The back of his neck prickled, and furtively Cater hoped that the manacles wouldn’t be making an appearance. With that look in the Tsar’s eye, Cater didn’t know what would happen.

He took his place in front of the Tsar, who grinned at him, all soft lip quirking and bright glittering eyes shimmering in the lightstrips’  gleam, disconcertingly pale.

“I thought you could start second, seeing as I am terrible at this game, I outrank you, and I was here first,” said Apollo charmingly, and Cater nodded silently. Apollo took his first move on the winding, labyrinthine hologram of the board.

The last time Cater had played this game had been with Koz on board the Molskarr, and Koz had thoroughly smoked all of them. Cater was pleased to see that true to his claims, Apollo really was terrible at the game, and if he kept it up, Cater stood a good chance of winning. He’d always been the reigning champion aside from Io on board the Molskarr, and it was pleasant to get a victory in again. He won with ease.

The Tsar huffed and glared, but a smile twitched his lips and made it all a false display. He shook his head. “I was never any good at tactical strategies,” he sighed, “That’s why I made Kozmotis, he can win this game against Pooka.”

“I played him,” Cater offered after a moment of heavy silence, “He was good.”

“Indeed,” Apollo conceded, “I look forward to when this little mess has been sorted and then I will simply have to show you how to make Kozmotis sweat.”

Clearing his throat, Cater fought to keep his face level, and moved his piece another three steps without comment. Apollo suddenly glanced up at him and winked, his wet tongue darting out to trace his soft lips.

“At this game, of course,” he laughed, little giggles bursting up between his palms even as he pressed them over his mouth as if to snatch his promise away and steal it back into his mouth, absurdly childish, absurdly innocent, “I once had him play against four Pooka and one slave. I’ve never seen him scowl so much!” He paused for a moment, contemplating, and then sighed. “That’s a lie, he scowled exactly like that when he found me in bed with his wife that one time.”

“Oh,” said Cater, noncommittally, but inwardly he was impressed. Koz struck him as the sort of man who killed any of his wife’s lovers.

Apollo took one look at his face and then roared with laughter. “Not like that! Not like that!” he hastened to say. “The Lady Pitchiner, mm, how to put this… she had all the sex appeal of a very gorgeous, very seductive, jaw-dropping cactus, and by that I mean that you would have to be quite masochistic to even attempt it. I was only in her bed because she decided that she was cold at night, so evidently, the only solution was to tie me, with my running temperature and… ah, internal flames, to the bedframe and drop a mattress over me.”

Ah, thought Cater. Quite literally in Koz’s wife’s bed. Everyone knew the story, of course, of how the General had lost his wife and daughter, but the reminder that this was Koz’s actual family sobered him. “She sounds like she was a formidable woman,” he murmured, and Apollo hummed in agreement.

Cater moved his piece again, quickly calculating a way to end the game in another two moves. Apollo followed the pattern he had predicted to the letter, and in an instant, the game was over and Apollo had lost again.

The Tsar threw up his hands in shock and mock-anger. “You’re too good at this!”

Inclining his head, Cater allowed a twitch of a smile. He reached down to take the pieces and set them back in a starting position, but just as he picked up Apollo’s piece, the Tsar’s milk smooth hand closed around his, holding it there.

Cater swallowed dryly. Already he could feel it, that throb of fire deep in the Tsar’s core; Apollo’s hand was warm, warm and dry like a flame, but his skin was as soft and smooth as a child’s, and his fingertip was running gentle circles over the back of Cater’s dark hand, making his breath catch in his throat. It must have been the magic, but Cater felt goosebumps of shivery electricity running over his skin, a hint of Apollo’s fire curling deep in his stomach. He looked up at the Tsar to find Apollo watching him, half-lidded eyes dark and stormy grey like thunderclouds at midnight, lips slightly parted, the faint wet gleam of his tongue teasingly visible.

At once, Cater wondered what it would be like to kiss them, and in the next breath, felt a curious mix of shame, awe, and terror drench his spine. This was his Tsar, not some other person - his Tsar, his godly, holy Tsar, whose touch brought the Light with it.

“Oh,” the Tsar sighed, “Look at how you blush when I touch you.”

Sucking in his breath, he glanced aside and kept his eyes on the floor, his hand in the Tsar’s trembling. Apollo chuckled, low and cold, and he tugged on Cater’s hand, immobilising it at the wrist and lifting it to his lips. Cater quivered as Apollo kissed slowly over his flat, wide palm and up his fingertips, his lips murmuring against Cater’s skin. Each brush sent another small pulse of magic through him, and Cater bit his lip as a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. It was torture, of the best kind.

“You’re adorable, crewman,” Apollo crooned, pressing Cater’s palm flat against his cheek. “Why - I could just eat you up .”

It was the magic, it had to be the magic. Cater gritted his teeth and his hand jerked involuntarily, wishing desperately that he could tear it out of Apollo’s grasp. The pulses were getting stronger, throbbing through his nerves and targeting places where he was most sensitive, as if somehow Apollo could play his body like an instrument without even having to touch him more than once.

“What are you doing?” he gritted out, risking a glance at Apollo. The Tsar’s eyes gleamed as he slowly slid one of Cater’s fingers into his mouth, an almost unbearably sensuous slide. He was burning hot, almost painfully so, and his tongue traced patterns like glistening fire.

“Stop it!” Cater begged, tried to pull away but his body refused to move, held captive completely by the spell Apollo was sending into his skin. Panic blossomed quickly, raced to overtake the electric feeling in his nerves and was quashed in the same instant.

“Apollo!” The voice cracked out like a whip, and the Tsar dropped Cater’s hand in an instant. Cater dropped back against his seat, his heart thrumming in his ears like the desperate beat of a hummingbird’s wings, relief washing over him like a tide. He’d been… so frightened. Whatever the Tsar had done to him, it hadn’t been natural. He hoped it hadn’t. He thought it hadn’t.

I am a servant of the light.

“Apollo!” He recognised that voice. Cater kept still, cringing against the chair. He didn’t want to be seen. His heart was beating fast, he could feel sweat on his skin, and he felt sick. What did he do to me? He swallowed.

It was the moonmage, Alysea, and he assumed that he hadn’t been seen yet, because she came right up to the bars and said in a voice so soft and private that he felt immediately like a voyeur, “‘Lo, what are you doing?”

Petulance, a familiar expression, smudged the Tsar’s face, and he sprawled over the divan nonchalantly. “What does it look like?” he drawled.

“It looks like you’re being a coward! ‘Lo, you know you don’t need to lock yourself up like this. You know how to make it easier-”

“-we were just playing chess,” the Tsar interrupted, his eyes suddenly turning steely and cold. There was a pause, and Cater stood on wobbly knees. The elderly moonmage took one look at the state of him and her lips pursed, a hint of something like anger flashing through her eyes before she controlled herself. She looked back at the Tsar and glared, hard. He met her stare resolutely. Cater felt chills run down his spine. His knees almost folded.

“Crewman,” said the moonmage flatly, “please, leave us.”

Cater nodded. His world was still spinning around him. He left, slowly, tracking his way against the wall as he went. He had just reached the corner when he slumped over, and then strained to listen.

“Sweet galaxies and singing stars, what the hell did you use on him?” Alysea demanded, and Apollo chuckled softly.

“Nothing but a little spell to loosen him up a bit. He was taking too long to come around.”

“A little spell?”

“He’s aura-sensitive, a tap feels like a hammer blow,” the Tsar stated nonchalantly, and there was a pause.

Alysea cleared her throat, and spoke again, softly, so that Cater had to strain to hear. “I hate to see you doing this to yourself, ‘Lo,” she said, “Putting yourself in chains like this, you know it only makes you worse.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” the Tsar snapped. “Aly - I could hurt someone. Seriously hurt them. You know I wouldn’t care but what if that person was Kozmotis, or... you?”

“I can take care of myself and you haven’t fried Pitchiner’s brain so badly that he wouldn’t be able to defend himself if you tried to cook him, Apollo,” Alysea retorted tartly. “You know how to make it easier for yourself, and chaining yourself up alone, that won’t help.”

Apollo snorted. “I was trying to make it easier for myself, but you interrupted just as he was coming around.”

“‘Lo, you’d eat that poor crewman for dinner and spit him out still raw if you tried. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care who you hurt, but you have to keep it together. The consequences if you don’t are far too great.”

A long, deep silence fell, and Cater clawed roughly at the wall, scrabbling for support on the too-smooth panelling. His head was still swimming, but he had presence of mind enough to know that he needed to leave, and needed to leave now. He didn’t want to find out what would happen if the Tsar knew he had eavesdropped on his evidently private conversation.

He stumbled blindly down a few corridors, his head pounding. He could taste soot and ash in the back of his throat, a hint of salt. Apollo’s magic. Falling sideways against a thick plexiglass window, Cater groaned and slid down to his knees. The wide vista of space dropping away around him was hardly helping his nausea, but the plexiglass was slightly cooler to his sweaty forehead. He squinted and peered out. His reflection wobbled in the view, and Cater suddenly leapt back with a surprised grunt.

His eyes were a bright, glowing silver, visible against the darkness of his face. What did he do to me? What is he doing to me?

He grabbed at the communit strapped to his wrist and brought it up to his face. The more he studied them, the darker his eyes went, until they settled on a lead, piercing grey Cater dimly recognised. He had seen them before, glaring out of Koz’s sallow face, stark against the muted gold of Koz’s light-stained skin.

“That’s why I made Kozmotis.” The Tsar’s words echoed in his mind, and abruptly, Cater felt vomit curdling at the back of his mouth. He rolled over and dry-heaved, panic blotting his vision and the strange, insidiously sick feeling of Apollo’s magic inside him petting comforting, patronising lines of electricity inside his nerves.

Cater choked on nothing. He was frightened. The Tsar evidently had some intention with him - but what that was, Cater didn’t know, didn’t want to know.  Why him? He was just some blank-slate crewman on a rundown isolated supply ship. Was it still to do with Kozmotis? The Tsar had seemed interested in Cater’s abilities, but Cater wasn’t the only nor was he the strongest aura-sensitive out there.

His shimmering eyes sheened over with darkness, and Cater nearly cried with relief when they throbbed and faded back to his usual deep brown, reserved and currently cracking with tears and strain.

On his hand and knees with the Tsar’s magic fading away, vomit crusted on his lips and a longing for Koyla to be here - well, it ironically seemed to be a recurring situation for him. First after the wild ride down into the underbelly with Alpheratz with Kel’oshki chasing them over the rooftops with their vibrant, hairline-sharp orange daggers, secondly the time that the Tsar had cornered him in the gym, and now thirdly this.

“Crewman?”

Alysea.

He jerked a little and wiped his mouth, embarrassed. The withered mage looked down at him and smiled kindly, with a touch of sorrow. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Cater nodded, sheepishly getting to his feet. She extended a hand towards him, and after a moment, he took it.

“He can be a little overwhelming if you’re not used to it,” she said kindly, “But he doesn’t really mean to do what he does. The magic just… leaks into anything he touches.”

“How do you know all of this?” Cater asked her. He was beginning to get tired of this bizarre, old moonmage telling him what he was supposed to think and feel about their royal Tsar.

“I told you,” said Alysea,  “I knew him well once. We grew up together.” She paused and traced a circle around Cater’s wrist. “I spent my life trying to protect him from himself, but he would never listen to me. Something happened to him, but he barely resembles the kind boy I once knew.”

“How could you grow up together?” Cater asked flatly. Alysea was ancient - long into her hundreds, maybe higher.

She smiled a little tightly, and then her eyes flashed brilliant gold-silver with magic, and for half an instant, the withered crone was replaced by a girl as soft and young as barely eighteen, thick dark hair and sharp eyes. The magic released and Alysea staggered, fell against a wall with a greyish pallor on her skin. She smiled weakly.

“A curse. Apollo’s father disapproved of me,” she sighed, “He disapproved of much of what Apollo was.”

She smiled at him one last time, and then slowly started to limp away.

Humans were fragile, Sandy knew, and he had to hold them gently and carefully otherwise they would snap and break at the forces they were travelling at. He had to be even more considerate than usual with Koz, because Koz didn’t have a thick shield of molten gold like Seraphina had to keep him safe. He couldn’t speak either, not unless Koz was deeply asleep and dreaming.

Nonetheless, it was a long journey back to the far reaches of the galaxy from the Horsehead Nebula, and it would have taken far more serious barriers to stop them from learning some things about one another along the way.

Seraphina hadn’t taken the news that Koz hadn’t actually come for her after all very well in the slightest. There had been much storming, threatening to turn into suns, and general screaming, until Koz had explained well and truly that the Fearling creature on whose half he had come to plead had tricked him all along, and only lead him to her now. After that, she calmed a little, but her tentative joy at their reunion became noticeably… stonier.

Sandy wasn’t too bothered. Seraphina would come around eventually. He was excited. He’d heard so many stories about the Golden General, and now he was holding the man himself carefully between his great gold tendrils, shielding him from both the chill of space and the heat of Seraphina’s molten prison. Sandy tried to keep his nose out of Koz’s dreams, but even he drew a line at Koz’s frequent nightmares. It was almost insulting, laying in the arms of a star pilot and then insisting on having the most hideous screaming nightmares about possession and death and terror.

So maybe Sandy gave him a little nudge every now and then. That wasn’t so bad, was it? And besides, Koz’s sweeter dreams were so much more interesting than his nightmares, which were nearly always the same thing. In Koz’s sweet dreams, there was a shadow - a shadow who did not belong in any sweet dreams at all, but Sandy supposed Koz was a general, a human who took much pleasure in the killing of other humans, and in Sandy’s experience, their heads were usually odd . Sometimes the shadow and Koz danced, and the shadow’s body flowed like water from one step to the next, sometimes they lay together and the shadow’s sharp teeth kissed Koz’s shoulders, sometimes they sat and talked but the shadow’s deep rich voice was everywhere, and listening too long made Sandy’s head hurt, because the shadow talked about deep dark things, mastery and slave and you belong with me, I belong with you, we’re the same, you’ll never escape me and I’ll never escape you.

It rang familiar, and it rang uncomfortably. When Koz woke from those dreams, Sandy would press tight to Seraphina’s cocoon until his sand managed to sneak in through infestiminal cracks and put her to sleep, and then he would brush Koz’s mind with his own.

Sometimes he asked questions, sometimes he just listened - but Koz talked about the shadow he called Pitch then, and it made worried butterflies in Sandy’s metaphorical belly when he thought about it.

The humans hated the stars’ cousins, but when Koz dreamt of Pitch, all Sandy could feel was the slippery shadow of fearling, fearling, fearling. It made him anxious. Did Koz know? Did he care? Was this why he hadn’t made Sandy wear a collar, and shrink down, and be quiet and soft and gentle, the way all humans tried to tame the stars when they were frightened of them?

Every day we are apart, I miss him more, said Koz without saying it, and Sandy nodded because he understood what it was like to be hollowed out with craving for another person, until it felt like the world balanced on seeing them again.

Chandra. Lover, brother. Sandy thought Koz would understand the sentiment of that.

He was your Pitch, wasn’t he? Koz said - clumsy, human, but trying to understand. Trying to understand what grief felt like to a creature that had never understood death.

Yes- Sandy wailed softly into the darkness, yes- But there was no chance for him to see Chandra again, ever again, because Chandra was

-gone.

Koz’s awkwardness in the wake of that profound sadness was telling. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to think about Sandy, about Sandy who had split with his Rayysha because their perfect circle could never be perfect again without Chandra, he didn’t want to think about surviving past the one he found to match the curves and lines of his soul with theirs.

When you find someone who loves you, Sandy told him, someone who loves you enough to hurt you, don’t let them destroy themselves. Don’t. Don’t. You’ll never be yourself afterwards. You’ll be this - Frustration stopped him short. There were no words in a tongue that Koz would understand for this, because humans were stupid and dull and couldn’t talk properly and yet they were! the ones who made his kind wear collars and gags because they couldn’t learn how to listen-

Dreamdark, he said, eventually, and Koz’s confusion darkened.

I’ve seen stars survive some pretty hairy things, he said, and Sandy thought maybe he was trying to comfort the both of them - you are not me I will not lose him as you lost him - but Sandy knew better. There had been three of them. Rayysha. Chandra. Him. Not two. Koz was already losing one, but he didn’t know it yet. He didn’t see it yet. He was going to lose them all and it would kill him and break him apart like it did to Sandy, but Sandy knew that Koz wasn’t bright and couldn’t listen like he could, and the darkness-

He is gone, Sandy told him. He would have returned to me if he knew this world still.

Maybe he’d see Chandra again. Afterwards.

It was close. The brightest lights, the strongest flames, they all died down eventually, and they’d left the other stars long behind now to sail into deep, dark space, until the far distant gleam of the lights from the ships surrounding the prison could be discerned.

Pitch. A shadow-creature that did not belong in this Age. Such improbabilities, such deviances in the natural order of things was always punished.

Seraphina stirred, and her thoughts swelled, loving and tender, against his, and Sandy clutched the molten orb of her cage close and felt poison-jealousy in his heart where the grains were half-black and dead from Chandra’s passing, and he wondered who would survive the fallout.

Seraphina would, he would make sure of it, she could breathe, adjust, live alongside her own kind again. This.... Pitch would destroy the world as Sandy knew it. Stars were not humans, they did not adapt or change or mutate or grow. Either the shadow-creature would leave a space for Sandy to keep burning his light against the dark, or Sandy would be extinguished.

He was rather excited for it.

Chapter Text

They stopped Sandy at the first gate. Three towering Celestial soldiers, implacable in their silvery armour, shimmering with their golden sigils, firmly barricaded the entrance, the slits of their cold grey eyes under their icy helmets burning down at the little star with cold disgust.

Koz’s height topped theirs, and the three soldiers all bowed low when he approached, submissive in the face of their general. And yet, when he ordered them to put their halberds aside, the three soldiers gripped them tighter, the wire-wrapped hilts and wicked edges gleaming under the lights dangerously.

“Sir, we can’t let it through unrestrained,” the bravest soldier said, and Koz, dear Koz, frowned for a moment in genuine confusion.

Outside, Seraphina soared in loops around the stationary shells of the ships, broadcasting worry. Sandy could see her golden orb flash past the windows every so often, kept flying by the power of her own winds. She could keep it up for a very long time, but not indefinitely, and he worried for her. If her control over the winds failed her, she could stabilise into a sun, and then the molten metal that kept her prisoner would boil her alive, and the fragile, precious human inside would be destroyed by the heat.

But they had both agreed that they could not let Koz go back into the adder’s nest alone. Seraphina didn’t know what to think about her father, but she knew that she didn’t want him gone again so soon. Most of the time. And Sandy had heard the whispers of the other stars about the Tsar and his fiery, flagrant madness, and the way he took ownership of his servants like they were pet dogs. The fact that Koz knew this and took pride in it worried the both of them more than they liked to admit.

So there he was, a little star captain, braving one of the unholiest and most dangerous things his kin would ever know - an enclosed ship full of humans and Tsar Lunanoff himself.

“Chains…?” said Koz, glancing down at Sandy, and at once a terrible guilt transfixed his expression. “Are you… Are you going to be… okay with that?”

Sandy sighed silently and pressed regret back at Seraphina, then resignation. Once they put the lead chains on him, Sandy’s ability to speak and think would be greatly diminished. It would render him entirely mute until he removed them to see her again. Her fury flared for a moment at the injustice of it, but then simmered instantly into concern and fear. She didn’t like the idea of having him out of her reach on this ship.

If something happens, she whispered, If something happens, Sandy, you rip that collar off with your bare hands, and you call me, and I’ll smash into this ship so hard not a single organic will breathe afterwards.

I know, he said, and then smiled sweetly at the guards in the way that he knew made his cheeks dimple and his gap-toothed grin catch on one soft lip. Obediently, he held out his arms, and they moved quickly to secure the lead handcuffs. Sandy was rather proud of his shapeshifted body; it curved and plumped prettily enough, and yet he still had enough height to reach Kozmotis’ pectoral, and long, tangled hair besides to flow right down his back down to his calves. It was slightly more efficient than some of the forms he used purely for pleasure, since Sandy was well aware that human spaces were built for humans and therefore, anyone not proportioned properly like a human would struggle, but the detail he’d managed in the face and skin pleased him.

He thought Chandra would have been proud. Why, if not for his radiant gold skin and faintly unnerving flawless symmetry, he might have passed for a human adolescent.

His pleasure was abruptly cut off when they snapped the collar shut, for when they did that, a vast tide of Nothing overwhelmed Sandy, and he nearly cried out if not for the Nothing in his throat swelling and stopping his words, and the Nothing on his skin, in his blood and bones and eyes and ears and Nothing, everywhere, nothing, nothing, nothing, he was blind and mute, deaf and dumb, lost in total sensory deprivation.

And his golden glowing skin instantly darkened and dulled to lustreless brass, and he fumbled, lost in this heaving sea of darkness - not even darkness, because Darkness was a Something and here there was Nothing - until he remembered that he had shifted rods and cones in his eyes, and he had opened them, and that he could see, even if he couldn’t see, saw in the dull, flat way humans saw, and if stars could cry then Sandy would have, for at once he was reminded how blind humanity was.

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear any of his kin, he couldn’t hear the distant murmur of his cousins on the prison, he couldn’t hear the quiet song of far distant constellations, or the beating heart in Seraphina’s chest. He couldn’t even hear the whisper-fine rise and fall, silent as grains of sand, in the humans as they dreamt and wished and fell, even awake, closer towards their own Dark and Nothing.

“Sandy?” Kozmotis touched his shoulder in concern, and Sandy felt the pilot jumpsuit he was wearing abruptly constrict through his own nervousness and terror. He stepped back, quickly, eyes darting over the four suddenly towering and intimidating humans.

He was powerless. He couldn’t think or see or hear or breathe, and the collar cut him out of everything, and he was little and small and beautiful, and humans - humans wanted -

“Everything’s fine, Sandy,” Koz said, and his voice was soft and comforting, but his eyes were hard and steely, and Sandy saw the bloody warrior there, and felt a little safer - he was alone and outcast and afraid, but Koz was a brutal fighter who would slaughter anything he was pointed at, and Sandy knew that he wouldn’t mind Sandy pointing him at the people who had hurt him.

Nonetheless, Sandy felt very small and insignificant as he shuffled to clutch at Koz’s sleeve, hiding his big round eyes behind a curtain of dully shining hair. The thick tangles hid him, but he was still visible and he knew it, and he felt every watching stare from the humans as Koz strode off at a brisk pace, every passing glance, shred over his skin like filthy claws. His shoulders sloped submissively and Sandy began worrying a lock of hair between his tiny pudgy fingers. He hadn’t thought it would be like this.

“The Tsar is waiting,” Koz said brusquely, impatience straining his step. “Hurry.”

Sandy nodded silently and tripped after him, the Nothing swelling into his throat and brain until he felt like he was overspilling with it. Nothing. Nothing. How did the humans live like this? No wonder Seraphina scorned them.

Koz lead him down mazes of twisting, identical white corridors, all pale, all gleaming, and Sandy was instantly lost. He was struggling to focus on keeping up with Koz, who with his much longer legs and experience of walking like a biped was going quite fast. Sandy didn’t mind. It kept his head busy, kept him from thinking of the vast empty nothing nothing nothing where there should be thoughts and feelings and rivers and oceans of thought and movement and wishes, stars shifting and growing and loving, not nothing nothing lead-grey-heavy-dark.

“Sandy,” said Koz, abruptly, and Sandy looked up at him, a little startled by the sharpness of his tone. Koz’s jaw was clenched and he was scowling, but a faint blush was blooming over his cheekbones. “The Tsar - make sure that you aren’t alone with him. And… do your best to keep your wits sharp.”

Sandy blinked at him, tried to ask why but the Nothing stopped him and he choked on air instead.

Koz looked deeply uncomfortable. “He… The further from the City he goes, the less… restrained he becomes. My Tsar enjoys sport.”

He did not explain further, no matter how many times Sandy tugged his sleeve, until eventually Sandy gave up, though a pit of worry formed in his stomach.

The meeting room was full of others that Sandy had never met. There were two Pooka, one young, one old, standing stiffly away from everyone else, there was a Lunanoff-knight with glistening pale skin and a sharp lance smiling dazedly into the air, a small crowd of humans. They all swarmed together to greet Koz, and Sandy hung back, aware of their dismissive, even slightly amused glances. At one point, a blond human even ruffled Sandy’s hair.

The humans fell together and started talking rapidly, until their sounds made the air buzz unpleasantly and Sandy couldn’t hear anything. He found himself sidling towards the two Pooka, who had generated a silent circle to themselves that the humans instinctively avoided. The younger Pooka looked at him, and his nose twitched and his bright green eyes held the warmth of spring, not the hardness of his mentor’s. Sandy felt safer next to him, though the Pooka soon looked away and paid him no mind. Perhaps it was because of that, when every so often he drew the eyes of the humans like a lodestone - they couldn’t help themselves from eyeing him, sometimes lustfully, sometimes pityingly, sometimes a mixture of both.

Sandy didn’t have much experience with human meetings, but he supposed this probably wasn’t it, because the Tsar wasn’t in attendance. Yet. One of the humans, huge and dark-skinned with kind, liquid eyes and a soft smile for Sandy, kept glancing at the door and rubbing one of his hands with a faint grimace each time. He looked in pain.

If Sandy’s senses hadn’t been full of Nothing, he wondered what he would breathed and felt and known from this place, cold and clinical white, but already washed dirty by the apes’ presence, and the corruption that they always brought with them. He felt sorry for them. The humans just couldn’t seem to stop themselves. The star people had their own corruptions, their own darknesses, but Sandy would let his light be eaten out into a Fearling any day beside the most hideous madnesses and depravities that humans fell to at the drop of a hat.

Speaking of madness…

The door slid open and cloaked itself instantly into the wall, the way that humans built their things, demure and quiet and unobtrusive. They liked their slaves that way, too, thought Sandy a little miserably, touching his collar. He didn’t understand why everyone couldn’t just get along without the fear and racism and hate.

As one, the humans suddenly fell to their knees, bowing their heads subserviently for the entrance of their Tsar. All, that is, save for Koz, who though he bowed his head and his posture changed, became rigid and stiff and respectful, remained standing.

The Tsar was not quite what Sandy had expected, yet he fulfilled every one of Sandy’s expectations nonetheless. Tall enough, but lean as a rapier, he entered the room with a chilly smirk and blazing bright eyes fixated on Koz, brilliant and soft with a bitter desire. He wore clothes that both flattered him and made an invitation of him, and though he moved with a slink that was easily mistaken for sensuousness, he held the stiffness of a man unhappy in his own skin.

Sandy was quietened in his presence, and he fidgeted with the cuffs around his wrists in silent discomfort, fearing what would happen.

“My dear General,” the Tsar said at once, “How it pleases me to see you returned at last.”

“It is good to have a solid deck under my feet,” Koz assented with perfect politeness.

The two of them locked eyes, and the Tsar’s hand lifted, curled towards his General and then dropped, fluidly, to rest on the table as if that had been his intention all along. Koz let it happen, but there was a frustrated tension between them, and Sandy was no expert at reading the soft, mushy faces of humans, but even he could see the way the Tsar gravitated towards Koz, as if Koz, unbelievably, were the sun and he, the Tsar, a petty little star.

There was a pin-drop sort of silence, wherein no one seemed to really know what to say, and didn’t want to be the first to intrude. At length, it was Koz who broke the spell and spoke first.

“Allow me to formally introduce the products of my quest,” he said a little dryly, and for some reason his word choice made the large crewman standing near the back smile quietly. “This is Sandy,” he said, pointing at him, and Sandy felt himself shrink when the Tsar’s pale gaze focused intently on him, and the translucently-skinned Tsar’s body began to glow faintly, the mad fires of Lune brightening his gaze. He crammed himself against the wall even after the Tsar’s roaming stare had moved on to the next.

The young Pooka was Bunnymund, the elder was Zinna, the strange Lunanoff-knight was Nightlight, and the humans were all the members of the same crew, Alice Fochik, soft and pretty and quiet-looking, half hidden behind cracked bravado Connor Meterios, silent and dour Pollux Dioscuri, who hadn’t taken his suspicious eyes off the Pooka once, a bubbly human female Io Bova, who had embraced Koz when he’d first entered, and then the crewman who was friendly to Sandy, Cater. He was the only one who didn’t have two names. Sandy wondered if that was important.

“These are all the people that your letter mentions?” the Tsar asked, and Koz nodded, clearing his throat.

“As you all know, I encountered a creature on my rounds at the shadow-prison, who… appeared, gravely wounded, due to the magical powers of a small, silver locket, presumably from a parallel universe or something similar,” Koz began.

There were nods around the room. To an Age such as this one, casual multiverse travel was fairly common and not unbelievable.

“I offered medical aid to the creature, who upon his waking, told me that his name was Pitch. After, of course, I wrested him out of the mental grip of the Fearlings.” This was delivered dryly, and Pollux Dioscuri, the only other who had fought Fearlings face to face, snorted. “It became apparent that Pitch is… peculiar. His skills in shadow-manipulation do not seem inherently vicious, and on more than one occasion he was able to block the Fearlings from my mind. However, their similarity to those of Fearlings cannot be escaped, and such with all travellers, it must be evaluated whether he is safe to… continue in our world.” Koz spread his palms flat against the table and leaned over it, silver eyes hard and intense. The Tsar leaned back against the wall and seemed perfectly happy to let Koz dictate the meeting.

Sandy wondered idly why no one was sitting on the perfectly good chairs directly in front of them.

“I don’t believe that Pitch poses a threat, despite his past actions,” stated Koz flatly, “And if I went down to the prison, I could prove it.”

A shocked stillness descended, and Sandy saw the humans glance nervously at one another.

Without moving, the Tsar yawned and said, “Absolutely not.”

Koz, surprised, turned to look at him. “My Tsar-” he said, and Sandy could tell that he was struggling to keep his voice respectful, “That was the entire point of gathering all of these people. To prove to everyone that Pitch may continue to be useful beyond saving my life more than once!”

“Your judgment is clouded,” Apollo said flatly, “There has been a breakage in the prison. The monster opened the doors. Whatever the creature might have been, it is almost certainly dead or worse by now.”

Koz clenched his fists and shook his head. “You don’t understand, my Tsar,” he snarled, “He knew that it would happen, and I know that Pitch can’t be eclipsed by more darkness, I know-”

“Kozmotis,” the Tsar interrupted, “I said no.”

Frustration simmered in the General, and Sandy gulped and pressed himself further back against the wall. A muscle was jumping in Koz’s jaw, and he looked like he was seriously considering punching the Tsar in his beautiful, holy face. Apollo seemed ignorant of the danger, fiddling with his manicured nails, but Sandy observed a tension in the way he held himself, like he was coiling to spring.

“Then exactly, my Tsar, what was the point of doing all of this?” Koz asked, deadly-quiet, and beside Sandy, the young Pooka’s ears slowly inched towards his skull and pressed flat against it.

“The point was to get you out of this place while the right bombs arrived from the Celestial City,” the Tsar said, finally looking up to meet his eyes. “Kozmotis, you are emotionally compromised and you know it.” He stepped forward and placed his hand kindly on Koz’s shoulder, with a gentle look of utter sincerity on his face. “Go, take yourself to be purified. I hear there’s a Shining Brow priestess in Alsciaukat. Leave me to fix this.”

For a moment, they teetered on the brink of something dark. Tension rippled and boiled and Sandy held the breath he didn’t need, waiting for Koz to shove the Tsar back and assert his own authority. The Tsar’s eyes were bright and sharp, compelling and cold, and the force of his presence lurked sluggishly at Sandy’s senses not obscured by the Nothing like a gush of rampant wildfire.

The silver in Koz’s eyes seemed to shine in the lights as he bowed his head, every movement rigid as if it cost him a great effort. He said nothing else, but stormed out in a billow of powerful muscle and sharp rage. In the aftermath, tension popped and relief swelled over everyone present.

“Crewman,” the Tsar said, and Cater looked up. “Go with him. See that he reaches his destination.”

Cater nodded, and then quickly pushed his way through his crewmates after Koz, the thud of his footsteps receding swiftly. The Tsar stared at those left assembled, and then rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking rather tired.

“You must be confused,” he said softly, silkily. “No doubt Kozmotis has told you some wild and conflicting ideas about this shadow-creature at the prison.”

The humans glanced at one another, but didn’t dare say anything. Bunnymund’s nose twitched. He was beginning to look irritable.

“The truth of the matter is that this… fantastical idea is just that. A fantasy.” The Tsar’s voice was so soft, so deep and rich and warm, and it lulled over Sandy’s mind like the lapping of warm waves. He struggled to stay awake. “What could sound more ridiculous?” the Tsar continued, “Appearing in a flash of light… a man from a different time? But those of you who have met the shadow know it exactly for what it is, a Fearling trick.” He inclined his head to the humans, who stiffened with pride at his recognition.

“Our General spent so long protecting us from the threat of darkness and fear,” the Tsar whispered. “It is now time that we protect him from the darkness that has encompassed him so greatly as to blind him. You do not need to worry for his health. He needs only to trust in the guiding touch of the Light to bring back to the right path, and us.”

He smiled, and his deep grey eyes and soft lips made him a creature of such beauty in that moment that even Sandy’s heart felt moved, and for an instant, he was inspired to follow this ethereal creature to the ends of the galaxies. Then he noticed anew his faintly shimmering, shining skin, the immutable marks of the alien hybrid, and remembered again the trapped and mutilated star inside the beautiful Tsar, who gave him her fire and magic.

The humans had no such insight, and they fell down to their knees, pressing their foreheads into the ground. The Tsar laughed, an enchanting ripple of near breathless whispers and staccato sighs, and gestured them up as if they were all good friends. He walked towards them and allowed them to cluster close to him, reaching out adoringly like fanatics before a real living god. The cocky blond pilot, Connor Meterios, didn’t seem to know whether he wanted to shrink away or press close to the Tsar, but his little mate, Alice, flung herself at the Tsar, laughing when he caught and spun her.

It was, truthfully speaking, a little disturbing to watch, and Sandy glanced up at the two Pooka instead. The younger one’s ears were twitching, and he looked further vexed, in a pointed aside, he muttered something to his elder in a language Sandy didn’t know.

Eventually, the Tsar dismissed them all, and they hurried from his side like little mice scuttling from a beloved cat’s claws. Once the last human was gone, the Tsar turned to the Pooka and spoke in rapid, flowing Pookan, which seemed to surprise Bunnymund, though he only took a few seconds to recover his composure.

Sandy, wide-eyed, fidgeted and tried to edge his way towards the door. A panicky feeling was starting to line his shapeshifted-for-the-occasion stomach. The Tsar was standing in front of the doorway, and Sandy would have to somehow sidle past him if he was going to escape. Why had Koz left him? He should have known this would happen. Seraphina had warned him.

“Make sure you aren’t alone with him.”

The Tsar and the two Pooka appeared to be having some sort of very polite argument. Their voices never rose, but Bunnymund interrupted frequently, and his ears twitched manically. Whatever the Tsar said evidently smoothed his ruffled feathers, however, for he sat back and appeared to be considering something. After a while, he offered something that was obviously an assent, because a smile spread across the Tsar’s face, and the Pookas left shortly after, closing the door behind them.

Sandy saw his chance and took it, shuffling quickly after them. The Tsar’s hand fell like a prison sentence on his shoulder, and Sandy stiffened in fear.

“Stay awhile, if you would?” the Tsar requested, voice as sweet as milk and honey.

Sandy nodded quietly and stared at the floor as the Tsar perched on the edge of the table, his sharp silver eyes piercing. “My General has been different of late,” he stated, and Sandy twisted his hands nervously together and wondered where the Tsar was going with this. “It is not the doing of… one of your kind, is it?” The way he said it was like an insult, and without knowing why Sandy felt shame catch at him.

He shook his head immediately, horrified by the notion. No! Rayysha had been most respectful with her delicate burden, and Sandy knew well the limits of humans - they hadn’t touched him at all! It was the shadowy fingers of Pitch that had twisted and changed Koz’s tune, but Sandy didn’t think that had to be a bad thing.

Suddenly the Tsar looked very small, and sad, and tired. “As I feared,” he said, gravely, and for a moment he stared down at his shiny boots and seemed at a loss for words. “He has gone from me, and I have only myself to blame.” He looked at Sandy, tiredly, and said, “Do you know what it’s like, living with this curse?” He plucked at his translucent white skin, his colourless white hair. “Bubbling away under your skin, poisoning your thoughts?”

Sandy had never been good at finding things to say, but the Tsar’s grief looked real, even if Sandy didn’t understand why he was upset. It moved Sandy, and he didn’t stop to think before he jumped lightly and floated to sit next to the Tsar, or before he wrapped his arms around the Tsar’s skinny body and held him tightly, like he would fall apart if Sandy didn’t keep him together.

Rayysha had taught him this way of hugging, after Chandra had gone and Sandy couldn’t keep his light lit by himself anymore, and she had held him for days and nights and whispered the bright things in life in his ear until he heartened to them. Now Sandy could do the same.

The Tsar’s body shuddered briefly when he touched it, like he feared Sandy would be dirty, but Sandy’s strength was no match for the Tsar’s half-hearted resistance, and after a moment, Sandy felt a hand snake into his hair, grip tightly at the roots.

The Tsar chuckled, and Sandy looked at him, confused. His eyes were glittering with malice, and his smile was strange somehow, twisted, pulled into a smirk. “What a sweet little thing you are,” he said, and he reached up with his other hand and cupped Sandy’s cheek, his big human hand feeling strangely smooth on the grains of dreamsand that made up Sandy’s body.

“You have the power to ease my pain, little one,” he said, so very tenderly, “Would you be so cruel as to deny me what little relief I have left?”

Touched, Sandy stared up at him with wide, glistening golden eyes, then shook his head quickly. Sandy was not cruel! He’d help. He put his hand on the Tsar’s cheek in return, felt powder come off on his fingers. He would do anything! He knew exactly how terrible and awful and hideous grief felt inside, like being hollowed out inside.

The Tsar smiled. He ducked his head and put his lips on Sandy’s, very softly, very gently, just once, and Sandy closed his eyes like he knew he was supposed to do when people kissed him, and he held on tight because this close all the lead in the world couldn’t have stopped him from feeling the tears of the tortured star-being under the Tsar’s flesh. The Tsar’s body moved, and one hand pressed at Sandy’s shoulder, none too gently, until Sandy understood and laid back, and then the Tsar hovered over him and kissed him some more, until Sandy felt like he couldn’t breathe even though he didn’t need to, and the Nothing around his throat was so strong that he opened his mouth in a silent scream.

“Hush now,” said the Tsar, kindly, and Sandy clutched onto him gratefully for his kindness, even false-sounding and hollow, because Sandy was desperately scared and he didn’t know why, “You can’t use your voice against me, little starling.” His eyes were bright with delight.

Hesitantly, Sandy worried his plush lip between his flat, square little teeth, and then nodded again, shyer than before. Yes, he knew what the unbridled power of a star’s voice could do to a fragile human.

“Do you consent?” the Tsar asked searchingly, like it was a test, and Sandy bit his lip a little harder. He was beginning to have second thoughts. Sandy wasn’t stupid, he knew there was a reason that Koz had told him not to stay alone with the Tsar, but he didn’t know what it was. He’d heard rumours of what happened to stars, but he knew that wouldn’t happen to him. Would it?

He squirmed, wishing Koz would come back, and shot a look at the closed door. Koz. The Tsar was already so sad and angry because Koz had wanted to look for Pitch! If Sandy didn’t take his pain away like the Tsar said, then the Tsar would be even angrier with Koz, and then he wouldn’t let Koz see Pitch at all, and Sandy didn’t want to come between them with his selfishness.

So he nodded, because Koz had hope for Pitch and Sandy had dreamt with Koz and seen that hope, and he wanted to believe it too.

The Tsar grinned, widely, and his pale, long fingers hunted over Sandy’s body for the clasp to his pilot jumpsuit. Sandy took one of his hands between his and lead him to it, then watched him unbuckle it and slide the jumpsuit off one shoulder. The Tsar touched his lips to Sandy’s skin, tilted his head and pressed his cheek flat against Sandy’s upper arm.

“Wish I may,” he began teasingly, and Sandy went rigid, “wish I might…”

Seraphina turned loops in the open skies. It was hideously boring. She’d done the same loop almost forty-three times already, and that was after switching it up by going the other way a few times.

She missed Sandy.

It hadn’t been long, only a few hours or so, certainly nothing compared to the long years trapped inside the prison of molten gold. But even just a few moments without him reminded her of those times of screeching, lonely madness with old blind Typhan, her jailor and ward, from whom she had stolen the winds that she wielded. It had been her own raving darkness that had entombed her within her fiery prison, and Seraphina had never expected to see the light again - until Sandy, sweet, naive little Sandy, had mistaken her prison for a wishing star and harnessed it, his heart blown through with aching holes and anger and desperation that she understood.

He had been darker back then, madder, and they had bonded over their shared hatred of others, but as time passed Sandy mellowed, became gentle and sweet and gold, and Seraphina had soured, become bitter and cruel. Crueller. And yet her scathing hatred couldn’t bear to touch Sandy, because Sandy was different, was hers, was precious and beautiful and innocent. She was petrified that one day he would grow tired of her pettiness and human limits, and find another star to spend his days with.

Sending him down with Koz to stand in her place felt wrong. Seraphina snarled and a particularly rough wind blew for a moment until it died down into a more sustainable pace. Koz. Her father. Useless, weak, human. Everything Seraphina despised about herself, he embodied.

If only I had been born a star-being, she thought, longingly, and deep inside her molten prison the scarred, hideous remnants of her clenched ragged fists, worn scrap-thin. If she had been free and tetherless like Sandy since birth, she wouldn’t be trapped, would be free…

Sandy. Sandy. Where in the shattered galaxies was Sandy? He had to be coming back soon. He had to -

A glint!

An arrow of gold arched up from the ship Seraphina had seen Sandy land on, but he only brushed briefly against her mind, cold and somehow distant. She pressed him eagerly for questions, but he did not answer, said nothing, but landed, human-formed still, and climbed into the little cockpit that he had set into the molten gold of her prison, so that they never even needed to land for sleep.

Sandy? She questioned, Sandy? Did you find out what the plan is? Are we - well, you - going down to the planet? And… Kozmotis? What did he say? She paused, for even with Seraphina’s oft-blindness she knew that Sandy was being uncharacteristically quiet and solemn. Gently, she prodded, Sandy, are you okay?

Tired, he snapped, abruptly, and turned over on his side. Going to sleep. Inside the cockpit, he curled up into a tight little ball, and twisted an old bracelet made of knotted hair - one plait of brilliant orange, one plait of bright gold - around his wrist again, and again. He said nothing more, but his mind didn’t slow or stop into his dreamstate, and Seraphina dared not ask again.

In silence, she carried them on, around and around and around in a loop around the spaceships that carried the Tsar.

Chapter Text

The Tsar stood with his feet slightly spread, weight balanced forward, like he was prepared to spring into action at any moment. His skin was still pale, but his hair was almost as black as before, and his eyes were calm and cold. He was in control. His hands were clasped behind his back, as if he was taking care to hold himself back.

For now, thought Cater, standing beside him.

They were outside the temple of Light in Alsicaukat. The Tsar had grown impatient waiting for Kozmotis to return, and had, bringing Cater with him purely to silence Alysea, gone straight down to meet him as soon as he left the purification. He had remained tightlipped and cold the entire time, barely barking even a few terse words in Cater’s direction, quite unlike his usual garrulous self.

Cater wondered at it.

Did he not trust his General to obey a direct order not to intervene with the bombs that even now were slowly charging? They would take hours, maybe days, before they were ready to fire, hence their impractical use against Fearlings in battle. But to destroy one stationary planet and its sole human occupant, it worked well enough. The intensity of the Light bombs would shred through the animate darkness of the Fearlings like heated knives through butter. The splinters that remained were bothersome, but they dissipated over time and were largely harmless.

Remembering the tall, sleek shadow with Kozmotis’ face but burning, desperate golden eyes fully his own, who had, with utter ease, broken every one of the crew into sobbing obedience, Cater fought back a shudder. He wondered what would be left of Pitch. A body? Hunks and scraps of bloody, half-vapourised flesh? Nothing but shattered darkness?

The uneasy feeling coated the back of his mouth and tasted like copper when he swirled his tongue over the roof. He’d chosen to believe Koz’s words when Koz said that Pitch was not as he first appeared, but Cater didn’t know what to think anymore. The Tsar made everything complicated and Koz hadn’t seemed too inclined to smooth out the wrinkles that arose in his explanations.

Silence dripped, almost tangible, down the back of Cater’s neck like a bead of sweat. He barely dared to breathe; he felt his blood rush through his veins and pound in his head, tingling and alert with the proximity. He’d chosen to lean against one of the pale, faintly shining walls, arms crossed over his barrel chest, and now thanked himself; the dizziness was somewhat abated by the cold metal against his back and shaven head.

Surreptitiously, he eyed the Tsar and tried to pretend that they weren’t alone. He hadn’t forgotten what the Tsar had tried to do last time.

There was the faint sound of movement behind the door leading to the temple, and the Tsar straightened, the fingers encircling his wrist tightening until his knuckles were white with strain. Another strand of hair began to slowly whiten at the root. Cater politely ignored it.

The priestess’ head of shimmering fire appeared around the door, her eyes roaming the hallway, evidently expecting something else. Someone else. She gasped when she saw Apollo, and for a moment the door in her hand trembled, like she was considering slamming it shut. Instead, she pushed it slowly open and stepped out, lifting her chin and balling her fists, attempting to reclaim pride. She was familiar, the same priestess that had purified the Molskarr crew when they had last passed through Alsciaukat. Dimly, he remembered that her name was Pyrrha.

The priestess was naked, Cater saw as the door was pushed open, the lights from the braziers backlighting her with warm tones, and underneath her swirling tattoos, largely around her hips and wrists red marks - rough handprints - could still be seen. Pyrrha was young, and her eyes flickered between the Tsar and Cater in obvious discomfort at her exposure, but she made no effort to cover herself. Such a thing would have been thoroughly against the teachings of the Light.

Apollo didn’t even spare her the most cursory of glances. He jilted, as if for a moment he planned to leap forward, perhaps grab the priestess and shake the answers he wanted out of her, but quashed the desire firmly and asked, voice ripped through with strange undercurrents, “How is he?”

Pyrrha swallowed and glanced at Cater nervously. “He has been purified in the name of the Light…” she began, but her voice trailed off, small and meek. “But… my Tsar.”

A frown creased the Tsar’s brow, cold and knotted, and a pale flush seemed to wash over his cheeks, draining the colour from his lips and skin under his make-up, until he had gone cold and white with rage.

She turned now to Apollo, beseechingly, and her hands came up to twist one another diffidently, playing with the chain of the pendulum she still held. “I tried everything,” she said, and she fell forward a step, wincing in pain. Under the harsher lights of the hallway, the blossoming bruises on Pyrrha's hips and breasts stood out starkly against her skin. “It wouldn’t take.”

At once, Cater understood, and felt a sickening drop in his stomach. The pendulum in the priestess’ hands gleamed dully, the pendulum Cater well knew that she used to hypnotise her devotees into a state of mind to allow the Light to enter them.

“I am a servant of the Light,” he whispered, and Pyrrha gulped, looked sidelong at him, a hint of guilt, a hint of terror.

So Koz wasn’t a servant anymore. Cater supposed that Pitch was the epitome of darkness, if Apollo was the paragon of light. And the hypnosis had failed.

“I knew this would happen,” said Apollo tightly. He clenched his fist. Another lock of his hair turned faintly luminescent, and slid slowly out of its swept back arrangement as he bowed his head.

Cater shifted, cleared his throat, tried to wet his tongue. “The way he talks about P- the monster-” he began, carefully, seeing only paths of destruction laying ahead, and well aware of the mounting pressure in Apollo’s aura, like a volcano readying itself to blow.

“I know exactly how he talks about the Fearling monster!” Apollo interrupted furiously, and his words tripped over each other to get out of his mouth, like a secret that couldn’t wait to be told, “It’s the same way he used to talk about me!”

He stilled, suddenly, as if realising what he had said, but then Apollo’s spine stiffened again, and he raised his head to show Cater his eyes, his eyes that were shiny with jealousy, brimming with hurt and guilt and regret. And anger. Above all, the hurtful emotions boiled down into bitter anger, the sort that shredded at any opposition with the ruthlessness of shrapnel shards. Cater felt the arguments inside him die down into a quiet, shrivelled sort of hopelessness.

It would be war, then, and it couldn’t be stopped.

Pyrrha stepped back, removing herself from the situation. She spared one look to Cater, tellingly terrified, and then turned and fled back into the dark, hazy warmth of the temple, her pale body disappearing into the smoke.

“Come,” Apollo snapped, turning on his heel and striding down the corridor. Hastening to catch up, Cater looked at him. Apollo’s heeled boots tap-tap-tapped on the floor, making a sharp staccato rhythm. He walked like a man marching to defeat death, repressed fury bubbling like a poisonous potion under the skin. The air smelled faintly of detergent and cleansers, clawing at the back of the throat.

He dared not ask where they were going. It soon became self-evident anyway as they followed the coloured strips that lead to the hangar. Cater allowed himself to hope that this meant they would be taking the small skiff back up to the big ship, and that Cater could slink off and make himself not a part of what was to happen next. An unrealistic hope, but Cater’s brain scrambled for any excuse.

Then they turned a corridor sharply, and Cater spotted Koz ahead of them, hurrying furtively down the corridor, his steps stumbling, still confused from the effects of the incense smoke burned in the temple. He was wearing the clothes he wore under armour, the leggings, the tall boots, the shirt and padded jerkin, the sword at his hip. Around his neck, Cater saw the omnipresent hint of gold, Koz’s locket.

“Pitchiner!” the Tsar shouted, picking up his pace, and Koz jerked as if he had been shot in the back. He turned his head, and his eyes were dark and wild and confused - and not quite silver anymore.

He wobbled a few steps on, and then stopped and leaned against the wall, breathing hard, cheeks flushed. “My Tsar,” he rumbled when Apollo stopped before him, and he bared his teeth in a sort of grin, but he didn’t fall to his knees in respect.

“Where are you going, my General?” Apollo asked, and his tone was pleasant, if clipped, and Cater felt the danger behind it all the more.

Koz flattened his palms against the wall behind him and swayed. His pupils were blown wide. “Pitch,” he said.

“Kozmotis,” said Apollo. “I told you not to go down there.”

Koz’s lip curled and lifted, almost a snarl. “I know,” he said.

“Are you disobeying me?” Apollo questioned, deadly soft.

Even drugged and only half-conscious, Koz was cognizant of danger. He clenched his fists and pushed himself up aggressively, dark eyebrows pulling down into a deep scowl. The words danced on the tip of his tongue, and Cater stared at him, begging him to have the sense enough not to say it. But Koz was a decisive man - born and forged in the depths of war, and he made choices in an instant, working off his gut, not afraid of turning back, yet determined to protect what he loved. Perhaps Cater knew it was futile before he even tried, because he slowly backed around the Tsar, clearing enough space just in case they came to blows, that Cater could stop them swiftly.

“Yes,” Koz hissed, “This is import-”

“Kozmotis,” Apollo interrupted, and Cater felt the might of his magic swell, powerful and huge and crushing, until it filled the entire corridor and held him helpless against a wall, “It is customary to kneel for your tsar.” Every word, every movement, was a warning, but Koz trampled over it, heedless.

“If you try to stop me-” Koz snarled, and Apollo cut him off again, not bothering to hide the bitter, cold amusement in his voice.

“You’ll… what?” he baited.

Frustration warped Koz’s face. He started forward, and his hand dropped violently to his sword hilt, gripping it tight. He pulled, and an inch of the shining blade appeared, and suddenly, he stopped. His muscles were jumping and twitching, Cater saw sweat on his forehead and a fire blistering in his eyes. He was terrifying, and Cater remembered again the people Koz had cut down with such ease in the club in Alpheratz, human lives equated to so much chaff in front of his blade, until he’d dripped and squelched with red blood, and still the thirst in his eyes had never been quenched.

A murderer with shiny medals.

Apollo didn’t even bother to step back, out of Koz’s space. He shook his head, curiously pitying, and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if the Golden General threatening treason was just another headache alongside Scorpio avoiding taxes again. When he spoke, his voice was slathered sweet with honey, patronising.

“It is as I feared,” said the Tsar. “The Fearlings have twisted you and turned your head. Lay down your weapon, and submit to me now. Your judgment is compromised.”

“No!” Koz roared, and in the instant he moved so did Apollo, and the world shook and then went suddenly, absolutely still.

Koz was frozen, his sword drawn and half-raised, light gleaming off the deadly weapon. His eyes flickered desperately, and his muscles twitched and trembled, but he couldn’t move. Apollo stood, unruffled, two fingers held lightly to the pulse point on Koz’s neck. Cater could feel the steady surge of magic from Apollo entering into Koz, diffusing through his system, holding him captive to Apollo’s will.

With a shiver, he recognised it. Apollo had done the same thing to him in the cage, with the abandoned game of Ringnaut between them. A single touch to transfer magic, and Apollo could overtake his body entirely with tiny frissons of charge, and with the signals Koz’s brain was desperately sending to his body interrupted and altered by a few extra twitches from Apollo’s magic, he was a helpless puppet.

For a moment, Apollo held them both there, proving his point while his eyes glowed silver and Koz sweated and struggled. Then, just as mockingly slow, Apollo raised an eyebrow and Koz’s fist was forced open, dropping the sword with a horrendous clatter. He stepped back, raising his hands, and the moment Apollo’s magic was gone from him Koz buckled and fell to his hands and knees, head dropped and panting.

“I thought you could handle the prison until further measures could be taken,” he said, almost in disappointment. “I see now that I was wrong.”

Koz shuddered in revulsion when Apollo’s fingers returned to tug possessively through his hair, lightly bringing his head up to rest against his knee, in a movement so evidently practised Cater knew it was a position they adopted frequently. “I pushed you too hard,” Apollo said with all the tenderness of a beloved parent, “...and it is only right that you’re lashing out.”

Apollo tipped Koz’s face up to look at him, and smiled, softly. “Don’t worry, Kozmotis. I will clean up this little mess and bring you back to the Celestial City.” He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Koz’s forehead.

Koz’s body jerked, and then abruptly he folded and slumped down into an unwilling sleep, held upright only by Apollo’s hand under his chin. For a moment Apollo regarded him, and then he stepped back and gestured to Cater.

“Pick him up,” he ordered.

Reluctantly, Cater did as he was told, lifting Koz in a bridal carry. Utterly limp, the general lay still as if dead in his arms, and Cater swallowed and watched Koz’s chest move as he breathed.

“I suppose we will be getting a use out of that cage after all,” Apollo remarked dryly as he set off, apparently unconcerned about Cater following him, or the sword left in the hallway, or the fact that Koz had tried to kill him.

“What… what are you going to do?” Cater asked, and hated the way his voice shook. He couldn’t help himself. He was thrown. Ever since he had met Koz, Koz’s loyalty to his Tsar had been completely unquestionable. They’d teased him for it.

Apollo glanced at Cater, and then stopped, prompting Cater to stop as well, to cup Koz’s face with the delicacy of a man handling a prized possession. “I’m going to put him in the cage until the Fearling monster has been obliterated,” he said. “And then I’ll take him home.”

Cater glanced down at Koz’s slack face. That was… understandable. Reasonable, even. The shadow-monster had attacked and hurt all of them when they’d gone to resupply the prison. The Tsar was just keeping everyone safe the best way he could, and Koz hadn’t been very… stable recently, after all.

Apollo stroked the bottom of Koz’s lip, and added quietly, “I will teach him again what it means to belong to me.”

Chapter Text

Slowly, Koz came to realise that there were other things than pale, blind whiteness in the world. The faint imprint of grotesque images squirmed behind his eyelids, like swollen, corpulent slugs - or perhaps greedy flames bloated under their own weight, he couldn’t quite be sure. Either way, the floor was cold, and hard, and he felt the ache of bruises on his knees, as if he had fallen hard, though he remembered no such thing.

His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth, and his head pounded as if he had been drinking. His eyelids were crusted together with a thick layer of sleep, and he grimaced as he tentatively reached up to wipe it away. His headache groaned in protest.

Koz opened his eyes, squinting in the light from the overhead lightstrips. Wariness ebbed into confusion.

He was in… a cage. It was richly furnished, with a luxurious bed half-hidden behind embroidered drapes in the corner, a bathroom recessed into one wall, even a shelf of books, sofas, a carpet, but there were manacles dangling from one wall and thick lead bars that walled the dead-end room off from the rest of the hallway. It was an oddly simplistic doorway. Why hadn’t they used reinforced plexiglass, near-impossible to crack or shatter, if they wanted to keep him in whilst being able to see him? Or a camera? Koz, when his own particular brand of magic saturated his system, could bend lead as easily as paper.

Lead. He reached out to touch one of the bars. It was smoothed soft, almost shiny, reinforced with some other sort of metal. Iron, probably. There was really only one reason that naked lead bars would be used for a cage, and that would be if the cage was built to contain a Lunanoff, or a star pilot. It had to be a Lunanoff - the manacles were human-sized, and the gaps between the bars would be easy for a shapeshifting star to shimmy through.

Apollo.

His head pounded with some foggy memory. His Tsar’s face swam before his eyes, dim and confused, but the memory slipped away before Koz could discern any details.

He got up slowly, steadying himself on the back of the sofa when dizziness threatened to overturn him. There was a crystal tray on one table, with a glass and some pastries, but no cutlery. No knives.

Koz’s bewilderment only deepened. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temples and tried to work backwards. He had met Sandy, returned with the little pilot to the Tsar’s ship. He couldn’t remember what had happened to Sandy after that; the Tsar dominated his memory of the meeting, with his sudden cold refusal to allow Koz patience with Pitch. “The doors have been opened.”

A cold horror squirmed in his gut. Pitch had opened the doors. Pitch had opened the doors - then he would no longer be Pitch, he’d just be some shadowy… Hadn’t he always been like that?

Koz could barely remember. Pitch’s face was a blot of paleish light, hair like fire - no! That was the priestess. He remembered her. Soft. When had-?

“You’re slow, General.”

That voice. Bitter like unripe oranges, unrequited and sharp. Muzzily, Koz turned his head, but all he could see was a faint reddish-gold blur outside the bars of the cage. He sank down onto the floor.

“I’ve been following you since Alpheratz. You have something I want.”

He squinted dazedly into the light, and made out a sackcloth hood, underneath, darkness. “Who… who’re you?”

He was showing his breeding, thought Koz with faint dismay, as his words slurred out clipped, only half-enunciated and snappish, half-order. Apollo would have scowled at him for that, tightness around his lips, a hint of downturn on his sculpted brows. “My Kozmotis,” he would say, “dog you may be, but you do not have to bark like one.”

“For the love of the darkness,” the voice said, chilly and exasperated, and the blurry figure leaned forward and clamped one gloved hand around the bars. Something orange flashed, and then there was a sudden breeze and a sharp nick on his cheek.

Numbly, Koz touched the cut on his cheek, feeling it instantly cauterise, flesh bubbling from the heat of the knife. Vibrating, the knife had stuck into the wood of the bookshelf, smoke curling from the tip. It was familiar. The last time Koz had seen a knife like that, it had been opening the throat of the club’s owner in Alpheratz ear to ear, then riddling the back of the skimmer he had clutched onto, pinning down his cloak and keeping him safely on.

“Poison beetle,” he heard himself say. “Kel’oshki.”

“Give the man a prize,” Kel’oshki snarled, pacing in front of the bars. Their other hand came up to grip at the bars, and for a moment, the whole structure seemed to shake as the metal creaked. When Kel’oski took their hands away, the lead was singed, sizeable grooves melted into the bars.

Koz began to wonder if Kel’oshki planned to cook him alive. He was sweating. Maybe it was the headache, and the general sick feeling that followed. His thoughts weren’t making much sense.

“Why are you here?” Koz asked.

The danger in Kel’oshki’s presence was beginning to sharpen his mind, prickles of nerves making themselves known. His hand spasmed. There was electricity in his bones.

“You and I,” said Kel’oshki, citrous eyes burning with madness, “You and I, we’re the same. Well. Similar.”

Koz blinked at him slowly. “How?” he asked, in utter disbelief. Kel’oshki was a murderous assassin who served the Tsar, Koz was a murderous soldier who serve- well, maybe Kel’oshki had a point. But Koz’s murders were legal.

“He has us both in chains,” Kel’oshki hissed, and their gloved hand scrabbled at their sleeve. Underneath the sackcloth they were wearing in lumpy shapes to disguise their body, they wore tough, fire-protective shells of leather worked through with cooling runes. Over that, they wore another bulky jumper, with machinery hooked around it - Koz thought maybe it was a primitive coolant system? And of course the mask, banded with stripes of orange just like the patterns of the beetle, Kel’oshki’s vibrant orange-gold eyes searing underneath it through the eyeslits. Kel’oshki thrust their wrist at Koz, who squinted to see a cuff made of moonmetal inlaid with lead, shimmering over with a familiar, glossy pale magic that moved like the patterns of fire.

“It’s simple,” Kel’oshki said, “I get you out, you get me out.”

Snorting something that may have been a laugh, Koz said, “What in the stars are those puny things? And why exactly do you think that I would agree to freeing you? I’m all for the Tsar having a lid on a psychotic murderer, assuming you were talking about the Tsar.”

Frustration lit in Kel’oshki’s eyes, and in a second, another knife of fire-hardened orange glass appeared in their hand. Koz laughed at it.

“He burns me!” Kel’oshki shrieked. “If I stray too far, if I do something he disapproves of, the cuffs activate and he burns me, he burns me! I can’t take any more fire, Pitchiner, it’s killing me! ”

Koz was still laughing. It was a cold, cruel sort of laughter, bitter in the face of Kel’oshki’s unrealistic hope. There was no escaping from a man like Apollo Lunanoff. You served, or you died. Koz knew that. Had known that.

He closed his eyes again. He’d drawn his sword on Apollo. Apollo. His best friend. And he’d drawn a sword on him for -

“I had a family too, once!” Kel’oshki burst out.

Koz stopped laughing, a few bitter snorts still making their way out. “Everyone had a family once, assassin.”

“You don’t understand. I swore to return.” Kel’oshki’s gimlet stare was burning, forcing Koz to look away. “Your Pitch. Maybe you do. I would destroy every last scuttling ape on this ship just to have them in my arms again, but he keeps me, he won’t let me go!”

“I’m still not seeing any advantage to giving you an ounce of freedom, murderer,” Koz snapped. “And even if, by some ridiculous chance, you did manage to get both of us free, Apollo has ways of making even the strongest willed man alive bend his knee. He would find us both. You want to stay alive? You keep those cuffs on and do what he says.”

“How’s that working for your Pitch!” Kel’oshki spat. “The bombs are nearly ready, Pitchiner. In a day or two, your Pitch will be dead and there will be no going back, no last minute saves, nothing. I thought you lost family before, Pitchiner. So eager to lose it again? What’s better, to take a chance to be with them again, or lose it all being a dutiful servant? ”

For a moment, Koz allowed himself to think, wild and somehow desperate, of a life free of Lunanoff rule, where Pitch could show him all of the strange, wonderful things about his earth, about his people and his believers, his towering trees and powerful mountains. And in the next instant, Koz felt a terrible guilt. Betraying the Lunanoffs wasn’t just saving Pitch.

It was turning his back on his closest friend - one of his only friends. Apollo had been there when Archaline had died. In his own, incredibly unsympathetic, flirtatious Apollo manner. Besides, even if Koz evaded Apollo’s powers, he’d never be able to outrun Nightlight, pet bodyguard of the Lunanoffs and an inhuman, eternally watchful and unresting.

If Apollo didn’t judge him worth being hunted by Nightlight - well, then there was always the sweet Tsarina, whose persistence was almost as legendary as the strength and madness she wielded on full moons when her reason disappeared into savagery. Koz had had the pleasure of being trapped on an estate with Tsarina Selena under the full moon once. He had locked himself and his family in the cellar, and Archaline had spent the entire night with her lips pressed to the keyhole, begging the Tsarina not to break the door down and slaughter them all.

And if not the Tsarina, well, in a few years their son would be old enough to begin his first stellar explorations. What better for a young Tsarevich to prove himself than capturing and killing a renegade General, especially if said young Tsarevich proved to have an ounce of his parents’ powers?

There was no way that Koz and Pitch could hide from them forever. Koz had to think about Seraphina, and the countless millions that depended on him and his image of the Golden General to stay safe.

Pitch, or the entire Golden Age.

“No,” he said flatly.

Kel’oshki growled. “You have a daughter, don’t you?” they hissed, desperate.

Koz went rigid. “Leave her out of this,” he commanded, and Kel’oshki’s sick grin oozed through in their words.

“Pretty thing, I bet,” they hissed, “Looks like you, I bet. And those Lunanoffs are strong enough to get her out of that cage, I bet.”

“Shut up!”

“You know what he does to pretty girls, don’t you?” Kel’oshki giggled, and it came out deranged. “I know what Apollo Lunanoff does to pretty girls. Why, I bet you could just ask your pretty friend Alice. I was there, y’know. I saw it. I saw how he made-”

“Enough!” Koz barked, a nausea already squirming in his stomach at the thought. Horror enveloped him. Apollo wouldn’t do that. Not to Seraphina. But he had no problem hurting Alice, and hurting Connor Meterios, and you knew that, and you let it happen and you ignored it because that’s just what Apollo does, and what’s to stop him from -

I would stop him!

And yet you wouldn’t stop Pitch’s murder.

“Shut up!” he said, but Kel’oshki laughed.

“You leave me to rot here,” Kel’oshki promised viciously, “After he’s done with her, I’ll take my turn, and I’ll carve her up all pretty with my knives.”

Koz snarled and grabbed the bars, shaking them. “You won’t fucking touch her.”

“Oh, but I will,” Kel’oshki said gleefully. “And maybe if I’m feeling generous, I’ve got a few big friends that might like a turn at the General’s daughter. After all, we know the Courts love some willing whores, don’t they? Put her in a collar and gag and she’ll fit right in.”

“You’re sick!” Koz shouted, his face twisted in horror. Kel’oshki laughed in his face.

“Says the man who claims that the man who enslaves an entire race is his best friend! At least I obey him out of self-preservation, not a twisted sense of loyalty! Think about it this way, General. Let us both out, and then I’ll be gone from here, and you can make personally sure I never touch your daughter.” Kel’oshki gripped the bars and glared up at him, eyes flaring with satisfaction. They both knew that Koz had no way to refuse.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said again. “If you got me out, I’d kill you.”

Kel’oshki gurgled a laugh. “I’ve survived hairier and hotter, Pitchiner. It’ll be amusing to watch you try.” Kel’oshki stated, eyes gleaming. “He’s got the only set of keys. Break out. You know him better. Find a weakness. There always is one. Bring those keys to me. I’ll make sure you get out to that planet, and that those pesky bombs are long gone, that no one looks for him for a good long time. Long enough for you to get away. You won’t escape without me, you know you can’t. They’d shoot you down laughing. Then we never see each other again.”

Koz stared at them levelly. “You can’t honestly expect me to betray my Tsar.”

Kel’oshki grinned. “I guess we’ll see if your Pitch and your daughter really mean anything to you after all, Pitchiner,” they said. “I guess we’ll see.”

Apollo approached the cell at the end of the hall with no small amount of trepidation. The extent of his diffidence surprised even him. He was never nervous. Never visibly so, anyway, and yet there he was, pale-knuckles and shaky breath, sweating like a teenager with his first girlfriend all over again.

He had never thought that this would happen.

Kozmotis, turning against him? It was an idea so incomprehensible that even months ago he would have laughed it away. Kozmotis had loyalty to Apollo written into every sight he ever saw, with his Lunanoff-silver eyes. Kozmotis was his loyal soldier, savage dog turned bodyguard, considerate friend.

But the Kozmotis that had come back from the prison raving about Pitch and shadow-men hadn’t been the Kozmotis Apollo had thought he had known inside out. The realisation had taken a while to settle, and his magic had reacted even worse than usual to the travel, thrown out of whack by his perturbed state of mind.

He wasn’t foremost in Kozmotis’ heart anymore. Even when Koz’s wife Archaline had still been alive, there had been an unspoken, resentful understanding that Apollo had broken him down and shaped him into his firstly, hers second. She had come to hate him for it, had found her own revenge that still stung him every morning he woke by his wife’s cold side. But Apollo had borne it all with the smugness of the self-assured, with Kozmotis, he could do anything.

We could be gods together.

The people loved him. Golden General. Shining Tsar. They were on every temple, Apollo and his loyal, perfect guard dog, the Light and his willing servant. What would they say now, when the willing servant threw away his collar and turned to let the Dark swallow him up instead?

Bitterly, Apollo mused about the helpless Pitch down at the prison planet and felt a savage stab of glee at the thought of the creature suffering as it was blown to shreds. It wasn’t personal - well, that was a lie. Pitch had made it personal when he had dared try to take Apollo’s one light away from him. Koz was the only creature strong enough to withstand the legions of the dark, the only creature strong enough to withstand the siren call of the light, and Apollo wouldn’t tolerate him being taken away.

He didn’t quite know how to treat a Kozmotis whose heart he was questioning. Did he laugh and joke with a man who had tried to kill him? Did he purr and enchant with a flick of the finger, did he captivate Koz and bring him down to his knees, trade his body for loyalty as was Apollo’s custom? He’d never had to do that for Kozmotis before. But Kozmotis had never questioned him for a stranger before.

He’d given Kozmotis the courtesy of turning up alone, at least. Alysea wouldn’t nanny him here - she had never been part of his life when Kozmotis had grown into his soul, pushing fresh leaves through the festering mire of everything that was Apollo, rot and mould painted over with wet plaster and bright gold spray paint. He’d give Kozmotis the trust of facing him alone.

He stopped outside the bars. “Kozmotis?” he said, softly, peering into the gloominess within.

Koz had turned the lights low, but he was still visible, a lump curled up on the bed.

Firmly pushing down his nervousness, Apollo slowly unlocked the door and let himself in, locking it carefully after himself. His steps instinctively softened, becoming a prowl as he approached. “Are you awake?” he asked. “I don’t particularly wish to leave this conversation to fester overnight.”

“I’m not asleep,” Koz rumbled. In the darkness, his voice was deep and sure, an anchor in the greyish light shining in from the dimmed lighting in the halls.

“Good,” said Apollo, a little helplessly. He didn’t know what to say. “I… didn’t want to lock you up in here.” He attempted to inject a bit of humour into his voice. “It’s more for my sake. I saw what you did to that priestess. However will I amuse myself if all the girls chase you instead of me?”

“I’d hate to interrupt your… amusements.” Koz’s voice grated like gravel, flat and dull.

Apollo took another step forward. “Kozmotis…”

The distance stretched between them, a gulf of unspoken things. Apollo’s eyes prickled and he blinked, suddenly. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be like between them. Koz was never this stiff and cold unless Apollo had done something irreparably bad, but he’d always forgiven Apollo his shortcomings before. He wanted to apologise. He didn’t know how. Apologise, to him, for him trying to kill me?

“My Tsar,” said Kozmotis listlessly. In the darkness, Apollo could see his elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped, head bowed as he sat on the edge of the bed. A childish frustration welled up in him. This was all wrong! But even Apollo knew stamping his feet and shouting like a child wouldn’t make this any better.

“I didn’t want to lock you up in here,” he repeated, a little pathetically. He didn’t know what he was doing. This wasn’t like court. Apollo didn’t know the rules here. He didn’t make the rules here.

There was a silence, long and dragging. Apollo bit his bottom lip, feeling his teeth sink into the soft flesh. There was a measured breath from Koz, one that Apollo knew, he had studied every emotion and flicker Koz had ever shown in his presence, committing it to memory. This one was Koz steeling his courage.

“You were right, my Tsar.” It sounded awkward, falling heavily, but he said My tsar the way he always did, with that ineffable sort of pride and devotion, like he could imagine no higher honour. Apollo hadn’t realised how much he missed it until Koz no longer referred to him that way, and his chest filled with warmth.

“I… I was?”

“To put me in here.” Koz rose to his feet, silent and huge in the darkness. His eyes flickered golden in the lights. He took a step towards Apollo, who refused to be intimidated by Kozmotis, beloved Kozmotis, and stayed exactly where he was. It left them uncomfortably close.

Apollo didn’t know what to say. Embarrassingly, he was glad that the darkness hid his facial expression - the deerish surprise wasn’t very Tsarlike. Koz was insufferable when he was right, and still proud when he was wrong. It took months of needling before he’d admit it.

“It helped me realise a few things I’d been hiding from a long time.” Koz stepped forward again, and now Apollo was forced to stumble back before they collided. Koz kept going, and Apollo kept retreating, eyes a little wide. When Koz backed him up against a wall, Apollo swallowed, and understood. He wasn’t born yesterday.

“It did?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Some truths about you…” Koz murmured, dark and almost dangerously, the same voice he used to threaten someone who’d gone too far. But when his hand came up to cup Apollo’s chin, rough skin like sandpaper to Apollo’s smooth skin, used to the soapy grasp of his fellow courtiers, the meaning became far more sensual. His voice rumbled through Apollo’s body, and he couldn’t help but shiver. Koz’s hand was broad and thick enough to span his entire neck, choke him in an instant. Considering that Koz had tried to kill Apollo not long ago, Apollo wondered why he wasn’t a little more concerned.

He was acting like a teenager with his first crush, Apollo scolded himself. This was hardly new to him. But never Koz. No matter how many times Apollo had cajoled, flirted, seduced, jokingly or not. Never Koz. And Apollo would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued, interested, hadn’t wondered, hadn’t wanted. Wanted an embarrassing amount. For an embarrassingly long time.

“Oh?” His voice dropped halfway through, and Apollo once more thanked the darkness for hiding his embarrassing flush.

Koz didn’t reply, but hesitantly moved to kiss Apollo. He stopped short, his breath curling over Apollo’s cheek and causing shivers to skate up his spine and goosebumps to spread over his skin, and Apollo saw him wavering, knew that Koz would be nervous. They’d never done this before, after all, and people were usually a little nervous the first time they kissed a holy avatar of Light.

Apollo crossed the distance and kissed him, smiling a little when Koz instantly responded by lifting him up and pressing him back against the wall. His strength made Apollo gasp a little; eagerly, he wrapped his legs around Koz’s hips. If that was how he wanted to do this, Apollo was amenable.

“Some truths about me too,” Koz said roughly, supporting Apollo’s body with one hand as his other grasped Apollo’s wrist and pinned it above his head.

“I can see that,” Apollo choked. “What… what can I do for you, Kozmotis?”

“Hold still,” said Koz, and at once the tease dropped out of his voice, made it cold and harsh, flat and angry. Startled by the change, Apollo froze - just in time for Kozmotis to snap the manacle shut around his wrist.

Immediately, an old panic bloomed in Apollo’s stomach, of other times when he had been chained helpless like this and they hadn’t stopped, and an old sickness twisted through his belly and he remembered the smell of crushed pine needles under his knees, salt on his tongue, the dull ache of the lead burning his wrists, and he yanked, futile, against the chain. He tried to pass it off with a nervous laugh. Koz just hadn’t realised. Apollo would say. He’d release him. Koz wasn’t like - that.

The laugh came out shrill and all wrong, nervous and panicked. He winced. It gave away too much. He couldn’t make it sound like he wouldn’t. Wouldn’t be good for Koz, but if they could do anything but this, if they could do - “Maybe you-”

“Should shut up,” Koz interrupted flatly. He dropped Apollo, but the chain kept him yanked upright, and he bit back a hiss as it yanked his arm in its socket painfully. Shocked tears sprung up in his eyes, and he wriggled back, clenching the chained hand into a fist. He hadn’t ever imagined that Koz would be like this. The darkness hid the shine in his eyes well enough.

It shouldn’t be like this. Koz was only a rough lover when he was intoxicated. Apollo’s less than candid observations of Koz’s partners over the years told him that much. “I’m sorry!” he bleated, scrabbling for reasons, “I didn’t want to lock you up in here! Please don’t hurt me!”

Koz slammed him back against the wall, dazing him for a moment as his head connected against the wall with a solid thump. Panic overwhelmed him, and Apollo began to struggle in earnest. He struck out with his free hand, felt his hand connect solidly with Koz’s shoulder. His mind, half-dazed from the impact and the terror coursing through his veins, struggled to pull a charge. A spark of lightning had just appeared at his fingertips when Koz punched him in the stomach with all his might.

Doubling over, Apollo dry-heaved, nausea thick in his throat. The chain was twisting his arm awkwardly, but it left him in an open, vulnerable position. Koz caught his other wrist and yanked Apollo upright again, snapping the other manacle shut.

His eyes were dark and shuttered, but they shone bright, unfettered gold. He said nothing when Apollo, seeing no other option, started begging, his pride in tatters.

“I’ll do whatever you want!” he bargained desperately. “Please - please - stop this, I can show you - I can make it better without-”

“I don’t want that from you!” Koz finally snapped, and Apollo, lost, went silent. He was shaking. He couldn’t stop it. Convulsive tremors. Little tells. That’s how they found out that they got to you. Apollo was never good at lying to Koz. He never thought he’d have to be. There were tears sliding down his cheeks, he knew he looked like a mess. Pathetic.

“I don’t want to hurt you, or rape you, or whatever it is that you’re thinking I want to do,” Koz said, firmly, and Apollo choked miserably as Koz’s broad palm, gently now that Apollo had stopped struggling, pushed him back against the wall and secured the strap around his hips, then knelt and clipped shut the ones around his ankles. “All I want is to protect my family. Whether you agree with it or not, I’m going down there and I’m going to bring Pitch out of this alive, and then I’m going to find my daughter, and I’m going to set her free.”

“Kozmotis, no, ” Apollo cried instantly. “Don’t do this. I know you feel like it’s your only choice, I know you’re probably angry with me, but I need you to trust me! You aren’t yourself, you haven’t been since you came back from the prison!”

Kozmotis ignored him. He was checking the chains, making sure they were comfortable, buckled tightly enough to restrain for an extended period of time without hurting Apollo or causing undue stress. The little gesture of caring, of nobility still in Koz, made Apollo all the more desperate.

“The darkness is affecting you!” He shouted.

Koz continued, as if deaf. Frustrated, Apollo yanked at the chains, and cried, “By the stars, if you place any value on our friendship at all, you’ll listen to me this once!”

Koz’s face twisted into a scowl, and he grabbed hold of Apollo’s forehead, shoving his head back and prizing open his mouth to force a gag inside. He buckled it tight, easing a finger between Apollo’s cheek and the strap to check it wasn’t uncomfortable. Tears leaked out of Apollo’s eyes. He thought maybe he would have preferred it if Koz was rough, if he acted angry, instead of this glacial, reserved sort of calm.

Yanking Apollo’s head back, Koz leaned down and hissed in his ear, “Maybe if our friendship meant that much to you, you should have thought of it before you put me in a fucking prison cell.”

He let Apollo go, took the keys off his belt, and walked away, carefully locking the cage door behind him as he went.

Alone in the darkness, the Tsar swallowed his fear and let his head fall back against the wall, trying very hard to imagine himself far away.

He was still shaking. 

Chapter Text

Koz ran, folding himself tight against the wall whenever a guard passed. His heart thudded loud and strong in his ears with the passion of the fight; he couldn’t stop a grin stretching over his flat, bared teeth. It felt good to be doing something, to be seizing his life in his own hands.

He ignored the memory of the Tsar’s tears sliding down his cheeks, soft in the light from the hallways, his thin, weak body struggling against Koz’s and the panic cracking in his voice when he’d thought that Koz would… Koz would…

He didn’t know how to feel about the fact that the Tsar thought him capable of doing such a thing. Maybe the Tsar knew Koz better than Koz did. It wouldn’t surprise him.

Diligently, he compartmentalised it somewhere far away, to remember on those moonstruck nights that always belonged to Apollo somewhere deep in his mind. Right now, he had something - someone - else to focus on.

Namely, getting to a ship, convincing the crew to take him down to the prison planet, and getting Pitch out of the way of the light bombs. After that - well, Koz hadn’t thought that far yet.

Pollux Dioscuri was loyal to Kozmotis. He’d bring the ship down for them - the Galleon was still docked in the mothership’s hangar. Io would surely come along, too, Alice Fochik, Connor Meterios, Serah Aska. Cater he wasn’t sure of any longer. He hadn’t missed seeing Cater beside the Tsar when the Tsar had defeated his attempt to challenge him in Alsciaukat, and he knew well enough the ways Apollo had to wrench a man’s loyalty from under his feet.

But Dioscuri wasn’t Apollo’s type, not nearly aesthetically pleasing enough, short and scarred in a way that made him look traumatised instead of rugged and dashing or whatever it was that seemed to fascinate the Tsar so about Koz’s scars. If there was anyone he would have left alone, anyone still loyal to Koz, it would be him.

Kel’oshki was certainly holding up their side of the bargain. The hallways were empty and clear, their lighting dimmed faintly to night-settings. He couldn’t know about the bombs yet, but if Kel’oshki had done this much, Koz could only hope that they’d done the rest, too, and that his adventure wouldn’t end shortly in an explosion of the mothership’s guns.

He slid sideways into the maintenance tunnel that lead to the hangar’s centre. It was usually blocked off to anyone else, but Koz had piloted enough ships like this to know the ins and outs of all of them. He’d even had a hand in designing some of them, when the Fearlings were threat enough that even big ships like this were built specifically to hinder their entrance, and also to prevent disasters such as Dioscuri’s tale - a single possessed guard being able to slaughter an entire crew. The lightstrips here were painfully bright, but still not as bright as the ones from the prison planet, so Koz only squinted and forged on largely through luck and a sixth sense that told him when to dodge around cargo crates.

The maintenance tunnel opened up in the centre of the near-deserted hangar. The gleaming shells of soulless ships stood, waiting for a command. Their shapes cast long, ovular shadows over the ground, the thin sticks of their landing gears towering forests of cables, the flat, black cold of space somewhere behind him, sucking at his clothes.

He was still wearing the clothes he had been wearing when the Tsar had picked him up - the clothes he wore under armour, in preparation for the battle that would commence. The stiff jerkin kept him warm enough, and the thin breathing band around his neck ensured that the hangar’s airlessness didn’t trouble him. Furthermore, the dark browns and blues blended him well against the greyish shadows, nothing more than a tiny speck dashing and skidding under the ponderous underbellies of the ships, seeing metal whizz past his nose close enough to touch it with his breathing.

It was a labyrinth. He would never find the Galleon in time. Frustration tore through him as he ran desperately from ship to ship, straining his eyes in the dim light to see their names, then moving on.

His comm-unit flashed. It did it twice more before Koz noticed it, and then he stopped short, a dread flooding his stomach. Had he been found already? The message was from Io.

As quickly as it had come, the dread turned to hope. Maybe Kel’oshki had reached them too? He read the message, understanding instantly.

“Sec5 B12.” She had told him the ship’s position. Sector five of the hangar’s grid system, bay twelve.

The possibility of it being a trap ran through his mind as he turned and raced towards sector five, but he dismissed it before the paranoia could overtake him. He had only just left the Tsar, and if it was a trap, then it would be one headed by Kel’oshki, and Koz couldn’t defeat them if he tried. Kel’oshki was too fast and too precise. And if it wasn’t a trap, then it would lead him to Pitch.

The Galleon’s ramp was already down, golden light shining from within. A dark figure blotted out the light, and Koz skidded to a stop.

“Ey, Pitchiner, you took your time!” a familiar raucous voice hissed, making an effort on keeping quiet.

“Serah,” he said, relieved.

Kel’oshki was nowhere to be found. Koz didn’t have time to go search for them. He hesitated, then unlooped the keys from his belt and dropped them on the floor. Maybe Kel’oshki would have the sense to look here first. They fell with a clatter, and lay there gleaming and silvery, a silent accusation.

I did what I could, he told them firmly, and then dashed towards the Galleon and freedom.

Serah Aska, the technician for the Matapan space station, rolled her eyes and beckoned him in, her grease and oil stained smock reeking as he passed.

The whole crew was in there, except from Cater. Connor Meterios was pale and hollow-looking, shaky, and he avoided Koz’s eyes as he went to take the pilot seat. Alice smiled at him weakly. She looked gaunt with stress.

“Kozmotis!” cried Io, and Koz barely had time to turn before she leapt at him and clung to his neck. “Thank the stars that you got here safely!”

He hugged her back, easily lifting the short lieutenant off her feet. She laughed, and slapped his shoulder until he let her down.

“That’s enough fraternising, now,” said Dioscuri gravely from the corner, but there was an element of teasing in even his voice, and Io giggled at him, her eyes bright and warm with mischief.

“I’ll fraternise with who I like, Mr Captain Dioscuri,” she shot back, “Especially if he’s famous and rich, like this one.” She patted Koz’s arm, who spluttered.

“Hear hear,” muttered Alice, slyly.

“You don’t all have to come with me,” said Koz, sternly. “If you do - you’ll be defying the Tsar, you’ll be outlaw-”

“Fuck the Tsar,” Connor said flatly, and Io glanced at him in worry before patting Koz reassuringly.

“No one here really has any love left for that man,” she said, delicately.

“I’ll follow you, and you alone, until the end of the earth if I had to,” Dioscuri said quietly. He crossed the room to stand in front of Koz, extending his hand. Koz clasped his elbow. There were no words to be said at a declaration like that, but Dioscuri wasn’t looking for those.

“Let’s go pick a hideous Fearling monster, die in the attempt, and have our bodies blasted out of space!” Serah shouted, breaking the mood, and there were a few relieved laughs.

“No one’s going to die,” said Io, firmly, and Serah rolled her eyes.

“Make everything dull, why don’t you?”

The crew took up their positions, and the Galleon’s ramp lifted, the mast extending and the sails spreading out from their cramped position against the hull. The throb of the engines blared, and then it lifted, almost soundless, from its port.

Instantly, alarms began to blare down in the hangar. Searchlights exploded into brightness, zeroing in on the ship. Instantly, the crew snapped into intent focus, and their fingers flew over the control panels. The Galleon lifted, pointing its nose towards the roof of the hangar, then looped over and shot out of the hangar upside down, narrowly avoiding the tractor beams shot out by the hangar crew. The ship’s guns hang limp, not even moving an inch as the Galleon sped out underneath them, then arrowed directly for the dark blot of the prison planet.

The atmosphere inside the cockpit was tense and cold. Dioscuri Dioscuri was clutching the backk of his captain’s chair, not bothering to sit, so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, and Io was chewing on her lip. Connor Meterios looked blank and distant, focusing on the space all around them. He was paler than milk. Even Serah looked somewhat subdued. Alice was the only one who looked cheerful.

“Did you hurt him, Koz, to get away?” she asked. Her blue eyes had turned as hard as flinty sapphires, and as she spoke, she convulsively rubbed a long-faded burn scar on her wrist.

“No,” Koz lied,  only a little. It was more for himself than her, and she glanced away, dissatisfied, and returned her attention to the controls.

It would take them half an hour to reach the prison planet, and the minutes ticked away into fraught silence. This area of space was deserted and empty, not even asteroids to bar their way, and out of the viewports, everything was swollen, oppressive black. The prison planet was only discernible as a blacker spot, like a sprouting fungus or plague boil.

The space around them was deserted. And then it wasn’t.

Overhead, a brilliant streak of bright gold shot past, turning three, dizzying loops. Connor swore and the ship jinked to the side to avoid being hit as the wishing-star whipped over them, faster than anything the Galleon could hope to achieve, took a wide turning circle that spread a wave of shimmering gold across the sky, then arched back down towards them. As it passed, the star piloting it spoke, and his voice was so loud that it rumbled through the deck into their feet, and through their bodies and into their minds, then echoed there like a tinnitus screech. Alice screamed. Connor spasmed, Dioscuri fell sideways, blood sheeted from Io’s nose and ears, and Serah collapsed sideways in a dead faint, falling out of her chair.

Where are you going?

Koz stumbled, grabbing onto Io’s chair for support. The throbbing echo reverberated in his sternum. His voice sounded as weak as it ever did when he almost tremulously tried to reply.

“To the prison planet-”

Sandy looped back in front of them again. The brightness felt like it would sear the sight from their eyes, but they couldn’t bear to look away.

Very well, he thundered. I will accompany you.

The wishing star turned another loop, and then a strange thing seemed to overcome it, and a spot of brown-wasted rock appeared at its nose, then more, pitted and scratched over with molten gold. The star’s tail was increasing, bulging in brightness. Eventually, the wishing star swept on without the star pilot attached, leaving him marooned, loose tendrils and half-formed body rippling as the sand that made him. The Galleon rocked as Sandy lashed one crushing tentacle around it, and swearing, Dioscuri ordered Connor to switch on the deckscreens.

Koz turned and ran up the stairs, bursting out of the door that lead to the deck. The glacial chill of space sank into his bones, but he didn’t care, transfixed by the brilliance of the sight before him.

Sandy was an enormous, amorphous being of brilliant golden light, towering bigger than the Galleon and turning a faintly human shaped head down towards Koz, a star unchained. One huge tendril affixed itself in a loop around the railing.

The star’s face leaned down close to Koz, close enough to touch, fanning the tendrils of his hair out wide. The sandy surface was bubbling, indecipherable shapes forming and then releasing. Two eyes, then the bump of a nose. Sandy blinked, then the lower half of his face unhinged completely into a gaping grin. The grin narrowed, then softened, became soft plump lips.

The rest of Sandy was forming and altering as well. The height decreased, chubby hips and thighs and tiny feet forming out of the trailing edge of the star cloak. A plump belly, swollen with all the wishes he had eaten, all the tendrils combining to make two arms. But the hair swirled as if alive, tendrils alive and darting, and Koz swallowed a little as Sandy stepped onto the deck, the rippling pennant of his hair streaming behind him like a comet.

Sandy laughed, and it sounded like the world been born and shattered at once.

You’re staring, he teased, and he was still forming, tiny details. One of the animate strands of hair looped round and brought a small bracelet of interwoven hair, one orange-copper, the other clearly Sandy’s gold, and affixed it around Sandy’s wrist. You wouldn’t happen to have a jumpsuit, would you?

“I’ll ask,” said Koz, a little weakly, and then, on shaky legs, turned and went back down into the cockpit. Once there, surrounded by his fellow humans, all pale-faced, having seen the exact same thing on the deskscreens, his knees buckled and he sat down with a thump.

“Stars,” he muttered.

“Stars,” repeated Alice wonderingly.

Sandy chuckled at their thoughts, their minds a plaything for his games, and every single one of them winced.

“I really hate your kind sometimes,” Koz said, and Sandy laughed again like bell chimes.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said Connor Meterios a little dryly, “But we’re nearly there. And there’s a problem.”

Koz came and peered over his shoulder down at the front view. The scanners said that they were directly in front of the prison planet, but all Koz could see was an unimpressive amount of - black.

“Shadows,” he said, and Connor nodded.

“Strongest forward lights,” Koz commanded absently, and the Galleon’s searchlights lit up the swirling maelstrom of darkness, barely a spot of light before the shadows swallowed it, and the light puttered and died.

Dioscuri cursed. He came up behind Koz, glaring at the shifting darkness. “How are we going to fly through that?”

“Blind,” said Koz. He cleared his throat. “Switch to manual. I’m going up on deck.”

“Kozmotis, are you insane?” Io demanded. “Straight through… that?”

Meterios shrugged, and then the Galleon drifted forward, the ship breaching the darkness. The swirling shadows yielding like a thick soap bubble, oozing over the vidscreens and casting everything in darkness. The glow of the cockpit lights instantly brightened, and then flickered, dubious.

“I’ll be fine,” Koz said. “He won’t hurt me.”

He pounded back up the stars into the sharp harsh darkness of the deck. The Galleon groaned, crackling frissons of light running up the sails as the wards repelled the darkness. Sandy was a pulsating glow, sweet mouth hanging open and eyes wide, dazzled, staring up at the swirling darkness as if utterly entranced. His hair was knotting and furling in time to the darkness’ haphazard swirls, loops and curls made together, tuning in on a frequency Koz couldn’t hear.

Stellar winds shrieked over the deck, threatening to blow Koz straight off. He grasped onto the handrail and made his way slowly around, the Galleon bucking and tossing in the storm, liquid drips of darkness splattering down like a wound in the belly of a great, turgid beast.

Sandy was the only thing untouched by the ferocity of the darkness’ storm, a pillar of innocent golden light, and it was by his light that Koz saw the spiked shape of the ship’s wheel stark in the gloom, like a spinning torture rack, thrown up hands pleading for mercy. In the maelstrom, everything became nightmarish, grey-stained, rotting. Koz choked on sulphur, rasping for breath, and his fumbling hands found the ship’s wheel.

Wrenching it with all his strength, he fought the darkness for control of the ship. Tendrils of liquid darkness began to ooze down over the sails, the lights hissing as they were broken. Shards of glass fell like sharp, glittering rain, flashing in the dying lights. The sails seeped shadow now, nightmarish, like a trail. With wet splats, the darkness oozed down over the deck, cobwebbing patterns in skittering shapes. Repelled, they skirted Sandy with a strange, mutual respect, and bypassed him for Koz.

“No!” Koz shouted, kicking at one slimy shadow as it licked at his boot, “Get off!”

They were twining around his legs now, intimate as lovers, every surface they touched becoming cold and slippery, utterly numb and prickling with ten thousand tiny bites. He could feel oily darkness oozing against his pores, poking at fragile human skin. He gasped in pain, and concentrated on bringing up memories of joy and warmth to fend off the darkness.

He remembered Archaline’s body in his arms as they danced, the heavy weight of his daughter’s head on his shoulder. Laughing with the Molskarr crew, Cater’s solidarity, Io’s motherly embraces. Apollo’s wicked teasing, his arm slung over Koz’s shoulders as they stumbled home, drunk together. His heart glowed with warmth, light and hope and joy, and his skin began to glisten gold. He clenched his teeth. It wasn’t enough.

“Silly soldier,” she’d whispered, her teeth flashing in the darkness. “Come here.” She’d reached up to kiss him then, lips as soft and dangerous as knife-lined silk, her fingers whispering over the nape of his neck. “Say my name. Say my name.”

“Archaline-”

Her lips curled into a smirk against his neck. “I love you, silly soldier.”

//

“Daddy! You’re home!”

He crouched, knees protesting, whole body sore, but it was easy to muster the smile. “Hey- oof!”

His words were cut off by Seraphina flinging her whole body directly at him, knocking them both tumbling to the ground.

The light in his skin brightened, and settled into a firm, golden glow. His eyes shimmered and lit up, and he felt strength course through his limbs. With ease now, he straightened the Galleon’s course, and kicked aside the darkness.

It retreated, hissing and clawing, and suddenly, the darkness overhead loomed, and the Galleon began to slow. The density of the space around them began to thicken and curdle like gone-off milk, and the ship trembled as the force from the engines began to slowly be overpowered by the darkness pushing back.

The thick snakes of darkness Koz had slapped back with the light from his skin were writhing over the floor, forming gaping mouths, tiny animate fingers. Smoky faces, caught in twisted screams, began to slowly distinguish themselves out of the muddy murk. Dream Pirates. The corrupted souls of dead children, reanimated again to plague the living with terror and wickedness.

The Dream Pirates wavered, insubstantial forms flickering like candle smoke, and then they slowly began inching towards Sandy’s pool of golden light, phantasmagorical fingers reaching for the trailing edges of his wind-tossed hair. They chewed on the loose grains that fell from every excess movement, consuming the wishes inside, growing stronger with each dream devoured.

Sandy’s body went rigid when the Dream Pirates curled tentative, curious claws around one glowing ankle. Sexless and soft, he was as sweet and tender as a child, and they bit hungrily at the soft flesh of his calf, flowers of darkness blooming blackly on the golden grains.

Still, Sandy didn’t move, transfixed by the maelstrom overhead, as if hypnotised. Unmoving, he didn’t fight the shadows as they slithered and dripped over him, tracing every ridge and nook of him, over his chubby little belly and plump arms, dipping up to trace his skin and feel his lips. Crowned in a flickering garment of oilslick shadows, the darkness possessed him, whispered cautiously possessive things in his ear. Where their dripping tendrils touched, darkness spread like a stain.

“Sandy!” Koz shouted. “Sandy-!”

Hopelessness stopped him before he could speak. Sandy couldn’t hear him. Wouldn’t hear him. The star was transfixed by the whispers of his dead kin, the shadowy ghosts that extinguished stars became when their lights collapsed, Fearlings.

Coal black now, shadows began to slowly dissolve his form. The outline of Sandy blurred, shifting, morphing, corrupting, and Koz shouted again.

“ SANDY!”

Desperately, he focused on his own light, threw it wide. There was one way that could work. It was a cruel way, and Sandy would likely never forgive him for it, but Koz couldn’t let him become a Fearling before his very eyes. “I wish-” He had to yell over the shrieking darkness of the storm, but there was still no reaction.

Koz closed his eyes and concentrated. A wish had to be from the heart.

I wish you would stay.

At the first, Sandy’s shadows went rigid, and he let out a howl of fury and pain that rang through Koz’s bones. His ears popped, and a ringing silence followed, but it didn’t matter, because Sandy slowly turned his head.

Koz’s heart froze in his chest.

Sandy’s face was a jigsaw of hollowed darkness and plump gold. A glaring white eye burned out of one eyesocket, the other, hazy black-gold, stared still into the storm. A gaping jaw cracked slowly open, shadows slavering out, and a gold-forked tongue darted to taste for fear. The shimmering strands of hair that remained stood stark against the swirling shadow-crown.

I wish you would guide me through this.

The star snarled. The lumps of his shoulders raised, sharp teeth forming out of the darkness. The brilliant, mad white eye remained fixed on him. Slowly, the other eye rolled down to focus on him, too, a hint of gold sparking within.

I wish you would protect us.

Sandy rolled his body with evident effort, then fell to his hands and knees and let out a tortured scream. A blazing light lit up over his heart, and the gold pierced him through like an arrow. His eyes burned now with a frenzied hunger on Koz, and Koz stumbled as he felt a strange sucking at the edges of his mind, and then a dizzied joy overcame him, euphoric with bliss, he drifted, a kaleidoscope of stars behind his eyes and two burning suns drilling into the sweetest centre of his being, scooping out with grabbing hands the things he had held onto with such hope and promise.

The memory of Archaline’s smile… the sound of Seraphina’s laughter…

He swayed, and a dreamy smile spread over his lips as his hands loosened on the wheel. The gold on his skin flickered and went out, but drowsiness was inching through his veins like lead had replaced his blood. Sand began to crust over his eyelids, dreamsand holding them shut. Each grain glimmering gold from Koz’s own dreams. His body buckled and refused to obey him, and through a haze of dreamdaze Koz lay folded over the wheel, a spike jabbing into his stomach, he dimly remembered a long past memory.

Marble smooth under his hands… her weight thick over his hips, rubbing and rocking - “breathe…”

The heat in his blood, the fire in his limbs, but each one heavy and unmoving. Rayysha’s heavy-lidded eyes of smoky emerald, dark and shimmering with lust. A crooning mockery in his ears.

“Oh sweetie… did you forget this is how we hunt?”

A shock of terror overwhelmed him, and frantically, Koz scrabbled for the present. There was a hole inside his heart where Sandy had gnawed on his hopes and dreams, and with a sickening lurch of horror, Koz realised that he had forgotten what his wife’s face looked like.

“Get out!” he shouted, and forced open his eyes. Darkness twisted over him like a welcome blessing, he felt Fearlings at his heels, a Nightmare Man pillowing his body against a shadowy chest.

The star crouched on the deck, unrepentant golden eyes glimmering, restored to his full shimmering splendour. You taste good, he crooned. You should let me taste you again.

The temptation sucked at Koz’s will, but the darkness at his heels touched him with a chilly reminder, and he glared at the star instead.

“I gave you a command!” he roared instead, and Sandy lashed his head, displeasure radiating from him with the ache of a thousand exploding supernovae.

Nonetheless, his form bulged and swelled, lost all semblance of humanity. Lashing one rope of golden sand around the ship, Sandy coiled himself around the main mast and lifted an amorphous head to screech at the darkness. The throb of his cry shuddered and jittered deep in Koz’s bones, but he gritted his teeth and ignored the splitting headache it produced.

The swirling darkness before the Galleon quailed, and then, almost meekly, it shrank back into a vortex of suckling shadow. Sandy’s grains brightened until they shone bright as a sun, illuminated the entire ship, and without the Galleon’s impetus, the star dragged them forward into the black hole.

“Thank you,” he whispered as the darkness retreated, and Sandy flicked a coil of golden sand.

You didn’t give me much of a choice, meatskin. The derision in his voice was bitter and sharp. Your kind always feel the need to do that to mine.

Koz swallowed, but didn’t deny it. Instead, he held the wheel and focused on keeping their course straight through the hole. It was by Sandy’s grace alone that the darkness did not swarm down and pluck every last nightmare out of the humans on the ship, since Koz’s light had long since disappeared.

He ignored the aching terror in his heart, the emptiness when he tried to remember Archaline - there was nothing, only a faded sort of imprint, a dim understanding that he had known her once. He struggled to remember anything, a flash of a hand, maybe. There was nothing. Sandy really had eaten the dreams directly from his mind, ripping them free. It gave him comfort that at least Sandy had left the memories of Seraphina untouched.

Without remembering her, he found it difficult to understand why he would be bothered by such an absence. Yet the gap in his thoughts was terrifying, like a tiny termite hole.

Sandy screamed at the sky one more time, the volume of his voice causing a fissure to split through the mainmast. The jagged crack seeped a brackish darkness, splashes of golddust drifting through like the swirl of a nebula. The Galleon shuddered as if possessed. Then, at once, they exploded into stillness.

Everything was black, deep and smooth and dark, like the polished interior of a mirror. A glossy onyx soap-bubble seemed to have formed around the prison planet, the eye of the storm. Beyond the stillness, the cathedral of flashing spires and thunderous murk was still visible, but here, it was utterly untouched. The shadows drifted like stagnant lakes, voices whispering of the drowned, bloated bodies underneath.

There was a creak, and then the door to cockpit slowly opened and the crew staggered out. Connor’s face was bloody, Dioscuri limped, his eyes hollow and white with nameless horror. Io supported him on one shoulder. Alice was shaking, but she mustered a tremulous smile when she saw Koz. A putrid, flat ash dusted everything, painting their cheeks and faces grey. It sizzled into nothing when it touched Sandy’s glowing skin. The star’s great head swung round to regard the humans, before it lifted again, hair fanning out around him, to stare down into the darkness.

“Serah?” Koz asked. His voice was rough and hoarse, as if he had been screaming.

“Passed out,” said Connor Meterios quietly. “Panic attack.”

Koz nodded.

Alice cast a nervous glance up at Sandy, the huge golden cloak of sand shimmering and twisting into ribbons and ropes around the entire ship. “Are you sure… are you sure it’s safe?” she asked, but he knew well enough what she was actually asking him.

“Sandy is a friend to humans,” he stated firmly, and wished he believed it as he said it.

Don’t push your luck, the star grumbled in his head. Your friends have brought me nothing but humiliation and misery, father-of-Seraphina.

Koz fixed on his best smile and hoped that Sandy had had the sense to keep his words private to Koz. Apparently he had, because all the of the crew looked reassured instead of terrified.

The prison planet’s surface was oddly smooth, lumpy edges of stone looming out of the gloom. After a moment, Koz understood why. Half of the prison had been completely pulverised, creating the soft, dusty grey ash that settled over everything like a choking blanket. The shape of the guard room was dimly recognisable, the doorway a black hole into another world. Pitch, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Koz depressed a toggle on the wheel, and the creaking sails lifted and dipped. The Galleon began to nose towards the dock, which was thankfully still relatively intact.

“Keep your wits about you,” he warned, catching Dioscuri’s eye. The man still looked incredibly shaken, but he made an effort to nod at Koz. “It’s no shame to stay behind. In fact, I’d recommend that.”

“Well, I sure as hell am not going out there,” Meterios stated firmly. At everyone’s looks, he said, “What? Someone has to stay with Serah, too.”

“Fair enough,” said Io, worriedly. “Keep her safe, Connor.”

“Yes, mother, ” Meterios drawled, and then turned and vanished back inside the ship.

“Alice?” Koz said softly.

“What?” she demanded. “You think I’m not going with you?” She balled up her fists, soft, petite body quivering with indignation. “I’m not weak, Pitchiner.”

“I wasn’t saying that you were,” Koz said quickly, and Alice glared at him one last time before huffing and trying to brush the grey dust out of her hair.

The shadows didn’t seem interested in the ship at all. Nothing happened when the Galleon’s ramp extended down onto the dock. Cautiously, Koz proceeded down it, followed by Io, Dioscuri, and Alice. Sandy uncoiled himself from the masts and drifted down behind them, unanchored to gravity and somehow achingly beautiful in the dim greyness. He adopted a loosely human form, barely the shape of limbs and the edges of a face, nothing more, and stood there shining like a fiery beacon in the dark. His hair spread up and out behind him, like the three prongs of a generic star shape, tassels of light.

Koz would never admit it, but having Sandy’s constant light at his side was somewhat of a reassurance when faced with the filtered gloom before him.

The moment Koz’s boot thumped onto the ashy, deadened soil, a low, subliminal hum in their ears started up. He grimaced. It was mostly annoying, like the drone of a buzzing fly, but it was proof enough that something had noticed they were here.

“Pitch?” he called, cautiously, his hand dropping slowly to his sword hilt, though he didn’t draw it yet. Behind him, Io scanned the darkness sharply, holding on to Alice’s hand. Dioscuri brought up the rear, alert. Sandy floated overhead, emitting boredom.

A flicker, the lean shape of a shadow darting over a wall.

A low, eerie giggle. A flash of feverish golden eyes.

“Pitch!” Koz stumbled forward into the main courtyard, feeling the tough soil beneath his boots as the only indication of what this had once been. It was nigh unrecognisable. Twisted hunks of faded grey metal scratched up from the ground, shredded remains of the mighty doors. They looked like they had been rended and ripped by gigantic shadow claws.

Koz swallowed, and forced down the nugget of fear in his stomach. Fear would undo them. Animate shadows oozed out of corners, skittering Dream Pirates, lumbering Nightmare Men. An oily Fearling prodded a trailing lock of Sandy’s hair. Instantly, the star whipped around and swallowed it whole, an odd expression crossing his amorphous face for a moment before his form shuddered and his hair blossomed with an extra tendril of golden sand, energy absorbed from the Fearling. The others shrank back with the respect of fellow predators.

“Don’t be afraid,” Koz cautioned. “If you are not afraid, they will not attack.”

“Don’t-don’t be afr-afraid…” The echo shot back and rebounded from every wall, like it was trapped in a dizzying funhouse of mirrors, distorted and warped. Another mad little giggle.

“Come out, Pitch!” Koz shouted, gripping his sword hilt. “I know you’re there. Show yourself!”

“Sh-show yoursself,” Pitch parroted. “If-if they know you’re there…” His voice hissed and altered, became young and high and sweet. “Afraid… Afraid…”

Dioscuri stumbled. Koz glanced back behind him. Dioscuri had gone completely still, his skin the colour of pasty milk. “Castor?” he muttered. Io touched his arm in concern, and he shook his head. “For a moment, I could’ve sworn he sounded like…”

“Isn’t Castor your brother?” Alice asked.

“Brother,” Pitch wailed again. “Brother, I know they are there…” His voice sounded tortured, high and young, breaking with terror.

“Castor!” Dioscuri ran into the gloom in the direction of the voice. “Castor - I’m coming!”

“Pollux!” Io shouted. But he was already gone, vanished into the darkness.

“He’s trying to trick us,” Alice whispered. She was pale with fright.

“Stay together,” Io warned. She held onto Alice’s hand, squeezing it warmly. “Are you okay, Alice?”

“I’m fine,” she muttered, glancing up at Koz’s worried look. “It’s just… strange.”

“Stop this, Pitch!” Koz called. “We all know it’s you. Let Dioscuri go.”

Pitch ignored him again. There was a soft hiss, like the brush of clothes over stone, and then a familiar, soft sighing voice whispered, in a drawn out sigh, “Alice…”

“Apollo?” Koz said, bewildered. Why would Pitch use- Oh.

Alice had gone white. She was trembling, glancing around in the darkness. “Just a trick,” she repeated, and Io nodded.

“He’s not here, honey, you’re safe. And if he was, Kozmotis wouldn’t let him touch you. Nor me.”

“Alice…” The Tsar’s velvety chuckle seemed to ripple from every corner. “Just let me… touch you.”

Alice gritted her teeth. “You’re just a trick!” she shouted bravely.

Another low, throbbing chuckle. “Am… I?” Apollo murmured, and from the darkness there flashed an instant the shape of a shadow, lean and tall, slinking from behind a pillar. His skin was smoke grey and his eyes were citrous gold, but it was Apollo down to the finely threaded shirt he was slowly sliding off his shoulders. “I’m here… don’t you know me?”

Alice shrieked and leapt back. “Get away!” she screamed. She backed off, but the shadow only burst into fluttering darkness, and giggling, appeared behind her. Insubstantial hands reached out to brush through her hair. Alice broke, and ran, disappearing into the darkness even as Io leapt to catch her. The shadow dissipated into nothing.

Back to back, Koz and Io stood alone in the gloom, save for Sandy, smoothly twisting in the air overhead like a dolphin, unperturbed. Koz’s heart was beating fast in something he refused to call fear. Silently, Io’s hand groped backwards and grabbed his, clammy with cold sweat, but the plucky lieutenant kept her attention focused.

“Pitch!” Koz tried again. “Leave them alone. Face me, you coward!”

“He’s not here…” the darkness singsonged. “Don’t you know?”

“No,” said Koz firmly. “I don’t. So you better show me him. I’m not interested in darkness.”

“Ooh,” the shadows mocked. “Don’t be afraid…”

The darkness twisted, and then a jerking shape appeared, raglike, out of the gloom. Koz saw first the burning pinprick of two eyes, and then the white gleam of teeth. The puppet crawled, disjointed bones shoved up against paper thin skin, grinning like a skull as he skittered and clawed over the ground like an animal. A blot of darkness covered the creature’s face, furled up from his body like fur, and the patches of skin that could be seen were such a dark black that they blended completely with shadows. “Herre I ammm,” the Nightmare King singsonged.

Koz drew his sword, and the Nightmare King flinched. “Don’t attack,” he hissed. The shadows that made up his face swayed, and then he sat back on its haunches. “I… leave you alone. Kozmotis.” The Nightmare King inched forward, slyly. “Stay…here…” he cajoled.

“Let the others go,” Koz said, unwaveringly. “Release this darkness. And let me see your face.”

The Nightmare King giggled. He put his head down, surely cracking his spine, between his wrists planted on the ground and giggled. The shadows around him swirled and knotted. But he didn’t answer.

Sandy shifted above their heads. Curiously, the star drifted down and landed lightly on one tiptoe. Sandy tilted his head and peered at the shadowy mass.

Hello, he said. Did you know that you’re beautiful?

The Nightmare King shrieked a laugh and jerked forward, shadow claws sinking into Sandy’s golden grains and lifting him high out of their reach. The Nightmare King rose - and then kept rising, all the way up to his full height. Standing, he towered over any man, and the distant point of his eyes burned and hissed like hellfire. The cracking gape of his grin split open again, and for a moment, the shadows shifted away and revealed the high arches and slopes of a familiar human face.

Less beautiful, Sandy commented sourly.

“Pitch!” Koz shouted, hope blooming.

“You brought me a glowstick, how kind,” Pitch cooed. He shook Sandy, who rattled limply in his grasp and blinked up at him with slow, alien eyes. “If I snap it in half, will it glow brighter?” He turned Sandy this way and that, evaluating the golden light, downright fascinated.

“What’s a glowstick?” Io hissed from behind Koz, who shrugged.

“No, Pitch,” said Koz warily. “I think he’ll just bleed everywhere.”

Pitch dropped him without a second thought to refocus on Koz, and Sandy, unbothered, simply drifted away a few paces, and rotated there, shining. He made no effort to assist any of the humans.

“I’m very sorry,” Pitch said. “You humans are so… fragile.” His shadowy form began to decrease and waver, blurring into a shorter, lithe shape that Koz recognised. Pitch extended his hands. “So good to have you where you belong, Kozmotis.”

Suspicion lit in Koz. He never called me Kozmotis. “Do you know who I am?”

Pitch giggled, high and shrieking and insane. “Kozmotis, I know you.” His voice echoed through a thousand shadows.

Somewhere, there was the sound of a distant scream.

“Where’s Pollux?” Io demanded. “Where’s Alice? What have you done with them? Let them go!”

Instantly, a knot of shadows swarmed over Pitch’s face, and the Nightmare King snarled, “Will not!”

Koz slashed at the darkness in front of his face with his sword, and the Nightmare King screeched in pain as the light-enchanted blade cut through his form like a hot knife through butter. Whimpering, the creature instantly disappeared, relocating into another shadow. The darkness deepened, became noticeably menacing.

“Pollux!” Io shouted. “Alice! Where are you?”

Grabbing Koz’s hand, she tugged them both into the darkness, Sandy drifting overhead and lighting their way, as if anchored by a tether. Koz glanced up at him and thought. He gritted his teeth, and said, “I wish you would find them, Sandy, and get them back to the ship safely.”

The star’s shine throbbed and brightened, and his brilliant gaze turned to focus on Koz again. That dizzying euphoria revisited him, and Koz lost his grip on Io’s hand as his knees buckled and he fell flat onto the floor. Sandy drifted down around him, the floating waves of his sand shimmering as he coalesced into a hard, shining ball. Koz’s vision swam, and then he remembered, and a soft smile touched his lips, lost in recollection. Dazedly, he watched grains of dreamdust drift slowly up from his body into Sandy’s open maw.

“Kozmotis?!” Io yelped, but Koz hardly heard her.

There’s not much light left in you, Sandy sighed, as he drew away, leaving Koz gasping and shuddering on the ground.

But still, the star lit up, and hummed in concentration. Two thick golden threads snaked out into the darkness.

“Where are you!?” The Nightmare King parroted Io shrilly. “Where are you?!”

A shape stumbled out of the gloom, Sandy’s tendril locked around her wrist, and a terrified scream echoed somewhere. Koz held his sword up in case it was another shadow, but as it came closer they recognised Alice, white face shiny with sweat, making streaks in the grey ash on her face. Io embraced her, hard. Alice was sobbing in terror.

“Pollux?” Io peered searchingly.

Sandy was scowling, focusing hard. The tendril began to draw back, its sides lashed with darkness and bites from shadow claws. Irritably, the star flicked off a few stray Dream Pirates. Held in the end of the coil was the limp shape of a body, unconscious, that quickly proved to be Dioscuri.

“NO!” The Nightmare King shrieked, and his shape blurred out of the shadows just as Sandy dropped Dioscuri’s body in front of Io. He stirred, eyes opening, and smiled just faintly when he saw his lieutenant.

“Io-” he began to say. “I thought I saw-”

The Nightmare King lashed out, shadow claws scything through the air as quickly as a hummingbird’s wing. Io screamed “POLLUX!” , and jumped forward. For a moment, time hung, and then all at once it kept going and Io’s body fell to the floor, separated into two neat halves, hot innards exploding over Dioscuri’s face. Her face, frozen in an eternal expression of horror, was bare inches from his own.

Dioscuri shouted in horror, and Koz stared, a tinny sound blocking out Alice’s scream in his ears. Instantly, Sandy lurched forward and gathered the two humans in his grasp, cradling them close to his core just like he was used to doing with Seraphina. The star was rattled now, shivering. His golden sand was splashed with dried blood.

“Get us out of here,” Alice whispered to him, and Sandy twisted and shot away, back towards the ship, with all the fire and fury of a wishing star unchained.

Koz, alone, stood in front of Io’s still hot body, her intestines strewn about his feet, and he stared.

He could hear the fluid whisper of shadows. The Nightmare King, claws glistening with blood, was staring at him, gimlet eyes burning into his own. A hot chill ran through his body, glacial with fear but heated with something else. Something dark, something hungry . A droplet of blood slowly welled up and dripped off the tip of a razor sharp claw, and in his mind as he watched it fall Koz relived every sword-slash, every stab, every gory, bloody thrust with which he had ended another human’s life… and enjoyed it.

“Kozmotis…” The Nightmare King purred. “Kozmotis…”

And he extended a bloodstained hand.

Chapter Text

The shadows immersed him like the silken waters of a moonlit pool. The twilight kept the edges of the world soft and unthreatening, kept the world neither silent nor noisy, but saturated with long gone echoes. The moon and the shadows worked in fluid tandem, casting illumination and shrouding shadow where it was needed.

There was polished pine beneath his bare feet, cold. Surprised, he curled his toes. A sturdy oak chair propping up his body. A thick blanket patterned with strange, four-legged creatures with red noses was spread over his knees, and Koz could taste peppermint. He breathed in deeply, identifying an odd, sugary smell, like over-sweetened icing, and cookies in the oven. The smell made him feel hungry.

Slowly, Koz opened his eyes. He was in what appeared to be an office, a cluttered desk in front of him strewn over with all manner of tools. One wall was entirely ice, silvery soft in the moonlight shining in through the windows behind him, which showed only more ice, extending far away into the horizon like a flat white plain. The stars studded the skies, many more than Koz was used to, and he peered at them, trying to recognise their configuration and place himself in the universe. He soon gave up. He had never seen them before.

A draft blew down the empty fireplace, the mantle marked with strange runes he didn’t recognise, and Koz shivered, goosebumps prickling over his skin. He got up, tugging the blanket around his shoulders as he went. He was wearing soft leggings, the loose shirt he wore under his jerkin. In the colourless light, they were greys and blacks, but as soft as clouds.

The silence felt sacrosanct. Koz didn’t want to call out, didn’t want to rupture this rare peace. Curiously, he wandered around the office, a quiet wonder dawning over him at some of the marvellous contraptions simply scattered about. He touched a small schooner with bustling sails, and thought maybe that Seraphina would have loved a gift like that.

There was an untouched slice of fruit cake on a nearby shelf, and Koz broke off a piece. The taste filled his mouth, the richness overpowering, the dampness of the fruit, the solidity of the cake. As he swallowed, it seemed to sink into his stomach and fill his entire body with a radiating warmth, like ingesting a hot water bottle.

Hunger satisfied, he meandered out of the office and found himself before a massive, rotating globe. A skylight let cool moonlight play over the sleek surface, allowing Koz’s eyes to make up darker blots depicting oceans and land masses. The planet was not one that he recognised. The globe hung still, its surface dark and dim. The metal struts that supported it gleamed.

The moonlight shone like a patient beacon upon a small, strange insignia set into the floor. Koz padded closer to it, wincing at the chill of the floor, and stopped short of the insignia, his toes poking the stone. A pentagon was set into the floor, each corner separated into five triangles. Inside each triangle, there was a shape and a figure, the purpose of which Koz couldn’t discern. In the centre of the pentagon, there was a small circle set with a spiked symbol Koz also didn’t recognise.

“You’re awake.”

The voice startled Koz, and he jerked, clutching the blanket close around himself. The silence shattered, then slowly absorbed and descended into a warm feeling of still, respectful peace. The whole place felt like a mausoleum to the living.

Glancing around for the origin of the voice, Koz stepped back, unwittingly into the direct moonlight. It lit up the planes of his face, shimmered in his eyes, eclipsed moons burning with rims of weatherbeaten gold. His hair, black as jet in the light, fell softly, freshly washed, around his cheeks. He held the blanket tightly like a cloak around himself, and a little dazed, feeling like a young boy again, squinted up into the darkness.

“Here,” the voice said, comfortingly familiar, silky and warm like melted dark chocolate, surprisingly bitter on the tongue. Pitch’s eyes shone like copper pennies in the shadows, and his grey skin was dappled in the moonlight like tiger stripes, long, slender legs slipping elegantly out of the silken dark robe he was wearing, bare feet pressing against one of the struts at the very top of the globe. There was a glint of silver at his chest, the twisted hunk of metal that Pitch took for a locket.

Koz touched his own, golden, and found himself smiling, desperately relieved. This was Pitch, as Koz remembered him, not the terrifying puppet shape that had been the Nightmare King.

“Pitch,” he said, gratefully. “Where… where are we? What is this place?”

“Don’t think about it too much,” Pitch advised. He lifted his leg and slid gracefully down the arch of the globe, flinging himself off at the last moment before the curvature of the globe took him beneath the platform Koz stood on. The moonlight flashed over his skin, the shadow robe trailing wide as he spun sideways, landed lightly and soundlessly on one tiptoe. The shadow robe lapsed down around his body again, close fitting and sheer as water.

“This is the least threatening place I know,” Pitch explained. He moved, hesitantly, closer, the sway of the shadow robe of his hips familiar, the almost uncontained energy and flow in his rhythm welcome, like he was prepared to move from step to pirouette at any moment, to melt into darkness and shadow. He walked like a star, Koz realised, like gravity, like physics, was a concept only dimly explained, no barrier to his movements. “I… I didn’t want to scare you.”

Koz snorted, fingering the edge of the rough blanket. “That’s a new one, for you,” he teased, and Pitch dropped his gaze, a hint of purple rising into his cheeks, like bruised grapes. He had stopped short of entering the moonlight, and the shadow and light divided them.

“Is this your home?” Koz asked him, and Pitch’s thin lips crinkled back into an amused smirk.

“Most certainly not,” he asserted confidently. “I’m… borrowing it.”

“And are you… you?” The question fell from his lips without considering it, and Koz anxiously rubbed his thumb against the blanket while Pitch, considered his question.

Pitch’s eyes dropped sideways again, mournful, then raised to look at Koz. He raised his hands, hesitant, and then clasped them together, fiddling with a hangnail. “The man who built this place built it so that the Nightmare King may never enter, but I, Pitch, could. I have never been glad for nor understood that distinction before, but for now - yes, I am myself.”

“Remind me to thank him, then,” Koz said, words stilted, at loss as for what to say. “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

Pitch’s lips twitched. “Well, technically, you’re having a nightmare, but yes. I suppose there’s not so much of a difference these days.”

Koz thought about the stars, their wishes, their gentle dreams, Sandy’s hunger, and said, “No, I don’t suppose there is.”

They fell into a silence again. Koz was looking up through the skylight at the implacable eye of the moon, thinking about Apollo. The thought of the Tsar reminded him of what had happened on the prison planet, and he clenched his fists, a slow nausea burning through his gut as he remembered what had happened to Io. His heart panged.

She had been the most welcoming of all the crew, from the very beginning, the first one to listen to him about Pitch and the first to jump to his defense. She’d brought with her a bubbly, infectious lightheartedness with her constant chatter and gentle, considerate nature, conjuring in him a trust that in Koz, was hard to earn and quickly lost.

“I’m sorry,” Pitch whispered. “I never mean to hurt them.”

Koz sighed, heavily. There was a lump somewhere in his throat, and his eyes stung and burned. The inescapable weight of the fact that she was gone hung around him like a noose. “It’s my fault,” he said, gravely, “not yours. I knew more than anyone what we would face, and I let them come anyway.”

Lieutenant Io Bova would join the tens of thousands others whose deaths Koz had caused, directly with his sword or indirectly through his own faults. He didn’t remember most of their faces, anymore. After a while, a soldier became inured to guilt, and it became easier to let the death wash over him without truly registering than to face it head on. Maybe it was a cowardly way of coping, but at least it worked.

“I can’t control myself,” Pitch confessed. “I don’t want to control myself.”

Koz looked at him. Pitch was fidgeting, cheeks seared in shame, but he still lifted his head and stared up at Koz. “Given the choice, I’m violent, I’m cruel, I’m mocking,” Pitch continued, and he spoke softly but with great feeling, and Koz felt compelled to listen. “Given the choice, I’d turn on you in an instant and shoot you in the back. Because that is what I am.”

Seeing Koz begin to protest, Pitch impatiently hushed him, overriding his voice with his own. “I know myself better than you! And I tell you - I’ve already done it. How many times have I barely shied away from hurting you out of a twisted need to possess you further later on? And now with all these shadows - I’m so much worse. I feel it in me. The things I want - I’ve never wanted before. But... Everything you are, I was once. I know loyalty, I know- I know obedience. So I’m asking you…” he swallowed and bravely looked Koz in the eye. “I’m asking you to not give me a choice. At least… at least until I know myself again. Please. Don’t let me hurt anymore of the wrong people.”

He was shrinking in on himself, bony elbows and hunched shoulders, bowed head, and shaking. Koz watched his pride buckle and give in, his clawed fingertips scrabbling continuously at the crook of one arm, mauling at his skin beneath the shadow robe.

Gently, Koz reached out and pulled that hand away. Pitch stilled, fiery eyes still focused on the floor, and Koz smiled, almost awkward, and asked, “Dance with me?”

“Kozzy!” Pitch huffed, exasperated. “I can’t hold this forever-”

“So I don’t want to waste it,” Koz grinned, and Pitch blinked at him, eyes all soft and wide and startled.

“Fine,” he hissed, but the venom in his voice fell flat, and sounded relieved instead, and Koz had to hide a grin as he pulled Pitch into the moonlight.

The moonlight bleached the hollows in Pitch’s face, painted his skin as white and gleaming as a Lunanoff. Koz almost laughed at the contrast, arranging Pitch’s hands properly for a waltz. This was one that they shared, he was confident, and Pitch seemed content enough to follow his lead.

Pitch’s shadow robe swished around their ankles as they moved in the circular, meandering pattern of the waltz Koz lead them in, the hems tickling Koz’s bare toes like the soft, silky cold skin of a manta ray’s underbelly. Pitch was biting his lip, fighting back a smile as Koz grinned unrepentantly up at him.

“What shall we say, Kozzy, when they asked what we did when I built a dreamscape just to talk to you alone?” Pitch said, his eyes gleaming, and Koz felt a laugh bubble up in his throat as he dipped Pitch, feeling the ridges of Pitch’s spine move under his broad palm.

“We had a very serious conversation about the future,” said Koz.

Pitch arched his brow. “Is that so? And what did we decide, Kozzy?”

“To let the universe fuck itself,” Koz snorted, “It’s all going to end when I wake up.”

“Now, that doesn’t sound like a very fair decision,” said Pitch, spinning effortlessly under his arm, and then back again, pressing his slender back against Koz’s chest and glancing over his shoulder, eyes glinting wickedly. The dance had ceased to be a waltz, but Koz was happy to experiment. “Won’t we even consider where we’ll go, after?”

“After? There’s not going to be an after.”

“You’d be surprised what taking your future in your own hands does. I’ve seen more rebellions than you’ve seen days, boy. ”

“We can’t all be old men in fluid bodies of liquid darkness,” Koz quipped back, spun Pitch out again and pulled him in close. Pitch’s arms snaked around his shoulders, Koz’s hands smoothing down to hold onto his bony hips.

“Do you have any idea how old I am?” Pitch asked, in all seriousness, as they swayed. “I’ve seen terrors - I’ve created terrors beyond your imagining.”

“Do you have any idea how old I am? I tell you, being a parent ages you more than any time passing,” Koz shot back, and Pitch grinned, sharp flashing teeth.

“How responsible,” he cooed, “Does that make you a hot dad?”

Koz blinked at him, the references flying straight over his head. “My temperature is only average,” he said, and Pitch snickered, ducking his head to press his forehead against Koz’s shoulder. Pitch was taller than he was, had to contort himself a little to rest his head there, but he didn’t seem to mind. He spread his hands flat against Koz’s back and shoulders, holding them both there, possessively mapping out the muscles under Koz’s shirt, still idly swaying. The moon polished his hair to the colour of buffed onyx, and paled his skin to the colour of cigarette smoke and mist, but his eyes were as fierce as ever.

"I don't know what I'm doing," Koz admitted. The admission was roughened by unbent pride, and in its aftermath his cheeks flushed, as if he feared Pitch's derision.

Pitch supposed it was understandable. Koz was used to being the 'Golden General' whose words were divine law, and uncertainty hardly fit the bill. But Pitch was nothing but the ragged, long-discarded scrap of a shadow that had once been important, and he knew sometimes that a person just acted without logic or thought, without knowing why, even if when they trailed it back to the root the reason behind it all was consuming, drudge-like boredom.

Pitch wondered if maybe Koz was bored with the peaceful life of a Golden Age veteran, with his smooth machines that could do everything for him if he pleased, with the Tsar's ear willing to bend any rule for him if he pleased, and the adulation of the public behind him full-strength. People broken and forged in wars had to take great strength to readjust to peacetime.

"That's okay," he said, eventually.

They sat, side-by-side, hips crammed together even though there was no real reason for them to sit so close together, legs dangling over the side of the platform in front of the globe, feet tapdancing in the abyss. Pitch's looked like slim black ribbons next to Koz's, and even in the friendly dimness Koz's skin shimmered with overtones of gold.

It reminded Pitch faintly of the Sandman's colouration. Pitch wondered if maybe Sandy would have been better at helping Koz with this. Undoubtedly. The little creampuff probably was full of wise, ultimately unhelpful sand-signs and warm, patronising smiles. Thankfully, the Sandman didn't exist yet, not really.

"No it's not," Koz contested, as Pitch knew he would. "This is bigger than just me - than just us."

"Most things are," Pitch said noncommittally, his eyes roving the curving surface of the globe. He pinpointed Burgess, wondered what Jack Frost would say if he were here instead of Pitch. He doubted Jack would be any more or less help than Pitch himself. The vapid boy would probably throw a fun-laced snowball and try to outrun his problems, like usual.

Would Jack ever come to exist, now?

The thought disturbed him. Altering timelines had repercussions, Pitch knew, and the distant future was affected by a myriad of countless things. But if there was one thing that being immortal and still more or less sane, depending on who one asked, had ever taught Pitch, it was that grounding himself in the present and pretending the future and the past never existed was largely the way to do it. His faulty memory would allow nothing else. Then again, Pitch was the one who had been dragged away by the living embodiment of his own fears after losing spectacularly to a child, so there was that.

"You don't understand," said Koz, a little hopelessly. "Disobeying the Tsar - this will start a war. Another war." His statement had a cold, doomed sort of finality.

"Maybe so," said Pitch. "Do you care, Kozzy? Truly?"

"What?" Koz looked at him, the stark surprise in his face outlined by the gentle light of the moon.

At least little Lunar was still there, thought Pitch morbidly, though perhaps that didn't bode too well for Pitch's immediate future, having been overcome by the Nightmare King as he had.

"How could you say that?" demanded Koz. "War destroys thousands - it kills innocents-"

"And it also gets the guilty out of power. It shakes up a bit of change in the world, in my experience. Usually only for a few generations, but humans can't help that they live in cycles." Pitch drew patterns on the floor as he spoke, trailing fronds of vines maybe, or perhaps Sandman's whips lashing through the night.

"The guilty?" Koz shook his head, quickly, as if to dismiss Pitch's suggestion out of turn. "The Tsar isn't-"

"The Tsar's just a figurehead," said Pitch, "You of all people should know that, Kozzy."

Grimly, Koz's mouth fell flat. He couldn't contest that. But he tried anyway. "It's not like it would be for any sort of reason," he said, insistently.

"Of course it would. But the reasons hardly matter. Something needs to change in this cesspit of an empire, and whether we like it or not, we were picked to be the catalyst." Pitch fished out the warped silver locket to prove his point. The melted edges gleamed sharply in the light, the cogs that had made up the time-turner still visible.

Koz sighed. "Maybe you're right, and there's this big plan by the Pooka to get you free. But I doubt it. The Pookan Brotherhood doesn't care about anything. And certainly not humans. The Tsar - the Tsar's not a bad man, just misguided. And there's so much good to lose in this world - the technology for one. I can't fight a war just because of you. Two people aren't enough."

"You're not fighting for just me, though, are you?" asked Pitch. "I'm not the only inhuman creature your Tsar doesn't understand, who he wants to keep collared and chained. What do you think will happen when the stars get tired of being your servants? How long, realistically, do you think your race would survive?"

Koz paled to the colour of sour milk. Relentlessly, Pitch kept going.

"No one will fight for us, Kozzy. Who in their right mind would fight for the freaks when they have everything to lose by doing so?"

Koz said nothing. He seemed a little uncomfortable; no doubt he was questioning such a thing himself. Pitch took pity on him and patted his shoulder.

The sky was darkening outside. The moonlight flickered, and Pitch glanced up at it, seeing slow, oozing shadows mouthing at the walls. North had built this place so that the Nightmare King couldn't enter, but even he couldn't stop the Nightmare King from physically ripping the place apart and tearing them out that way. Pitch would have to wake Kozzy before the Nightmare King took control of the dreamscape - otherwise Pitch well knew that Koz would be locked in an unconscious hell until his body rotted away and he died.

They didn't have much longer. But they had enough.

"Either way," said Pitch, with an element of finality, "We're going to fight anyway. You're no more likely to go trotting back to your Tsar with your tail between your legs than I am to stop the Nightmare King from trying to terrify all of those ships up there."

Koz snorted, resignedly. "That's true," he said. "I suppose... if I was going to listen to the Tsar I would've done it already."

"There you go," Pitch said, humourlessly, "Now, Kozzy. I'm going to let you go now."

"What?" Koz grabbed at his arm. "What do you mean?"

"I said that I can't hold this up forever. I wasn't lying." Not about that, anyway. "I'll see you in the daylight, Kozzy," he said, and stood up.

Koz followed him, at once hesitant, and a strange awkwardness descended. They'd never actually said goodbye to one another before, and the shaky ground had never been tested here. Koz stared at him for a long while, eyes as ruddy gold and cold silver as eclipsed moons, as if committing his face to memory, and then silently, he held out his arm.

Pitch looked at it, uncertain of what to do. He copied Koz, whose lips twitched into a smile, no doubt aware of how oblivious Pitch was.

Koz grasped his elbow in a firm grip - still gentle, of course, Pitch knew that Koz could probably snap his bones if he wanted - and nodded once, abruptly.

"See you, Pitch," he said, gruffly, then dropped Pitch's arm.

Pitch took that as his cue. "Bye Kozzy," he said, quietly, and let the dream go.

It was Cater that found him.

He didn't know where Alysea had gone, and he didn't know why there were no guards, and he didn't know why no one bothered to stop him as he walked, trying his best not to look suspicious, towards the cage in the dead end hallway. He didn't like cages at the best of times, especially when said cage contained people, but he particularly disliked them when they held his friends.

And Koz was his friend.

He hadn't quite sorted out what he wanted to say. Or what he was feeling, for that matter. It was a mess, and one that Cater wasn't eager to unravel.

It took three paces down the corridor for Cater to realise something was wrong.

A terrible, blistering pain throbbed through the walls, ached through the floor, screamed through the ceiling. The glaring white of the walls was like acid burns behind his eyes, and the tiny pockets of shadow yawned like crevasses. A sweat sprang up on his forehead and his head began to pound. He tasted something strange and ashy on his tongue, an electric kind of tingle that he associated solely with the Tsar's particular brand of fey and unwholesome magic.

He knew without knowing what had happened immediately. The Tsar's aura was dampened and dull - dead, almost - but it was unmistakably in the cage, and Koz was nowhere to be felt.

Koz had broken out.

Cater started running, his footfalls pounding heavily through the deserted hallway like the rattle of gunfire. Disbelief swarmed within him when he saw the cage door, unlocked, teasingly left slightly ajar, and a familiar pale figure slumped against the wall.

"My Tsar!" he shouted as he drew closer, "My Tsar!"

There was no response. Cater legitimately wondered if maybe Koz had killed the man after all - strangled him with the restraints, smothered him with a sofa cushion, the possibilities were as endless as Koz was creative.

Cater yanked open the door and went inside, going straight to the Tsar. Apollo's head was bowed, chin sunk down onto his chest, and he held perfectly still, shaggy locks of black hair covering his face. His skin was disconcertingly brown - deep, warm, like the colour of oak, and faded scars were visible, twisting up his wrists. They were old manacle scars, Cater recognised them immediately.

"My Tsar?"

He touched Apollo's wrist, feeling the pulse thrumming away under the skin, faster than the beat of a hummingbird's wing. Not dead then, just... gone. A hint of relief swept over him. This, a broken thing in chains, was at least something that Cater knew how to deal with.

"My Tsar," he said, softer now, coaxing. Cautiously, he slowly reached out to touch Apollo's shoulder, giving him time to recognise Cater's hand coming towards him. There was no reaction, so Cater carefully put his hand under Apollo's chin and lifted his head, brushing the hair out of his face.

There was makeup on Apollo's face, glaringly obvious now that his skin tone had changed so dramatically, almost comically clownlike. His eyes, brown like bitter coffee grounds, stared vacantly at nothing.

Cater hummed, deliberating, and then reached up and with a heave, ripped the chains out of the wall.

Apollo fell like a puppet with the strings cut, collapsing limply onto the floor with a tremendous clatter. He looked tiny somehow, much diminished without the lunar-bleached curse bright and glaring white on his skin. It was certainly jarring when placed against Cater's memory of the clever ghost that had wrapped wires of servitude around his limbs with the ease of a spider trussing up a fly. Cater wondered who had taught the Tsar how to make his mind go far away when he was somewhere he didn't want to be, wondered if that person was still alive.

With Koz, Cater didn't think so.

"Apollo," he tried, hunkering down into a crouch to make himself smaller, "Apollo?"

There was a hint of a stir, and then deep dark eyes blinked up at him from behind a shaggy mat of thick dark hair. The chains clanked as  Apollo curled up, chin tilted with a hint of pride. He blinked again, with more cognizance.

"Crewman," he said, eventually, voice as brittle as autumn leaves, as if he'd screamed himself hoarse, "Cater."

Cater said nothing, but he extended one hand.

There was a lengthy pause while Apollo, more or less helpless, weighed his options. Then, his entire arm trembling, he reached out and laid his wrist in Cater's hand.

Cater worked his thick fingers into the manacles and pulled. His muscles strained. The lead they used for restraints was soft, pure enough that the pain it caused inhuman captives was enough to stop any breaking out. But to Cater, who had no such weakness, they snapped open fairly quickly.

Apollo snatched his hand back, but not before Cater saw the ugly looking blisters and burns that raised on his exposed skin like a rash. He winced in sympathy, and quietly got on with removing the rest of the chains.

The moment Apollo was free, he shuddered, and paled. Cursing, the Tsar leant back against the wall and twitched and shook like he was having a fit, his eyes rolling madly behind closed lids and whole body wracked with convulsive tremors.

His back arched, and he groaned, long and low and pained. The colour was creeping out of his skin as slow as moss growth, poisonous blots of white oozing out like infectious fungi, sapping the humanity out of him as the star part that had been held at bay by the lead chains forcibly retook its host.

It was a hideous thing, and Cater, grimacing, turned his head away and went to stand in the hallway, trying his best to ignore the half-bitten sounds of pain from within the cage. Apollo was quiet, at least.

The Tsar had just, still shaking, staggered out to join him when suddenly an old woman raced around the corner, shockingly spritely. Alysea's braid full of bells and ribbons made a tremendous cacophony as she ran, her robes flapping ridiculously around her skinny legs. And yet, when she screeched to a stop next to them, she wasn't even the slightest bit out of breath.

"There's a ship!" she yelled.

"What?" Apollo demanded, and Alysea grabbed at him, almost shaking him in her panic. The Tsar's knees buckled under the force and it was only Cater's hand grabbing the back of his shirt that kept him upright.

"There's a monster," she said. "A shadow monster. The Fearlings are loose!"

"Explain yourself!" Apollo overrode her with a shout, and Alysea struggled to maintain her fragile calm. But when she next spoke, her meaning was more measured.

"A ship approaches from the prison planet - we have recovered the escape pods of the crew, brought in by that star of Pitchiner's. From what we can tell, the Galleon is being piloted solely by Fearlings taken physical form. And Kozmotis. 'Lo," she held onto the Tsar, a little desperately, "They're rising to attack! They're going to kill everyone on board!"

Chapter Text

The battle at the end of the world began with a lull.

Escape pods whirled through the starlit darkness. Under the thick glass, faces paled with fear were visible. After a short debate, one of the Golden Army’s carrier ships drifted forward and mercifully opened its tractor beam, bringing each one of the pods in safely. The Molskarr crewmembers huddled around on the deck with glassy eyes, shocked out of their wits. They spoke in nothing but gibberish when they were impatiently questioned through the comms; a woman’s blood smeared their cheeks and hands, and they looked around themselves with the detached stare of people woken from a nightmare.

The nightmare-ship hung motionlessly in dead-space, a chaotic maelstrom of black shadow squirming around it like a monstrous halo. Curving around and away, a brilliant golden star cut the blackness of the sky like a knife through softened cheese. As it passed, the reassurance of its brightness heartened the grim soldiers who manned their battlestations, and squinted through distance-viewers to spot their General standing at the prow of the nightmare-ship.

He was untainted, the Tsar would later remember. Proud and handsome in his pride, with unbowed shoulders freed from a yoke of servitude he had carried since the day he had first donned that silvery armour that now caged him head to toe. In the shadowlight, it became as grey as lead, like twilight instead of the first rays of dawn. Everything around him was a blot of shadow, and creeping tinges of fear crept up the most hardened spines at the sheer amount of shadow that seeped from the nightmare-ship’s poisoned planks.

The star pinwheeled and swept around the navy again, kept in glistening orbit by the weight of thousands of spaceships, the gleaming frissons of their sails twitching as they kept position. The nightmare-ship had no such compunction, and drifted with errant purpose, rocking in the stellar winds whipped to a frenzy by the circling star.

Like a vulture, thought Bunnymund, hidden down in the depths of the crown-ship. His wide green eyes were huge and horrified, and his nose twitched and his ears quivered. Zinna had barricaded the door. The only sign of tension in the older Pooka was his drawn weapon, and the visible whites of his eyes. Bunnymund knew that Zinna had once fought Fearlings alongside the General Kozmotis under the command of the Pookan division. When Kozmotis had enjoined them to come along to bear witness to his Fearling-mutation, this had not been what Bunnymund had been expecting. He had been slyly eager, having taken some interest in forms of mutation himself through magic-imbued chocolate, to discover something new for the Pookan Brotherhood, and have his name written down in the Annals, and never be again the young kit among thousands of young kits exactly like himself.

But now, Bunnymund was scared. Every time the star went past he tracked it with his eyes and let out an earnest wish. Once or twice it glowed strongly, as if in gentle response. Bunnymund clung to the thought of the little captain that he knew was inside. The star would save them, wouldn’t they? They had always been the most subservient and gentle of the races before the Pookan Brotherhood’s might.

The nightmare-ship shuddered, as if it was alive. Craning his head at the viewport, Bunnymund nearly shuddered himself. Shadows were writhing, huge scythes of it swirling into the enormous, pitch black figure of a corrupted man, eyes like pits of starved fire in his black face, teeth large and sharp like the mythical predators of the Warrens that Bunnymund had been told about as a kit. The Nightmare King towered over the solitary, resolute form of the General, but not once did his shadow fall over the gleaming armour or cold golden eyes.

The General raised his fist, and shook his head, like a disapproving parent. Bunnymund could just imagine the Tsar’s incandescent reaction on the head of the crown-ship. No silver fire hissed down from above, though, so Bunnymund supposed that he wasn’t too angry just yet.

Then the General let his fist fall, and all hell broke loose.

Bunnymund had never been in a space-battle before. He’d taken part in simulations for the essential combat training of his education, but the Pookan military fought very differently to their human counterparts indeed. There was a great deal of sharp turns and jerking ship movements, the engines throbbing dully under the pads of his feet and the low whine of missiles fired from thick blasters shooting hazy blossoms of fire into the darkness. The shadows swept out with great greedy grabbing hands, crushing ships together and grasping handfuls of squirming human flesh to drop it into the churning maw of the Nightmare King far above. Visible from everywhere were the points of his eyes, like eclipsed suns, and his jagged grin.

Around these epileptic flashes came the star, ducking and weaving past the black harpoons of the nightmare-ship to sear screaming shadows in its tail, golden sand enroached upon by the black. It left fiery trails of hope and defiance to rally the human troops against the fear exuded by their enemies.

There were three huge motherships in the navy, and from them detached thousands of battle cruisers with blaring lasers and snapping sails. A stellar storm was threatening, thought Bunnymund with an odd sort of detachment, and blustery winds crackled through with stardust and the warping that occurred whenever two powerful forces fought in close proximity started to stretch time, awkwardly speeding one ship, slowing another, like the heavy-handed grabbing of a child. The humans called it the interference of Fate.

Bunnymund eyed the glittering golden star, aloof and untouched, instead. The stars in the far distance were beginning to glow brighter in response to their kin’s distress, constellations reacting to shed the battlescape in wan pale light. Weakened, the shadows screeched and began to separate from their conglomerate mass.

Now Dream Pirates cackled from the ship ropes and swung from boat to boat, their sharp cutlasses cutting so carelessly through the minds and bodies of already-dead men. Nightmare Men loomed out of the corpses, their mournful faces stretched and distorted into an eldritch horror. And Fearlings, of course, Fearlings, ravenous corrupted-stars wrenching dreams from the skulls of the cruiser crews and blackening them into nightmares. The star dealt with those most directly, taunting and teasing the Fearlings until they left their defensible positions and could be obliterated by the star’s fiery tail.

Watching all of this, Bunnymund pressed his paw-like hands to the glass and experienced a boyish yearning to prove himself against the battle. He felt it so desperately wrong to watch tamely as the Nightmare King destroyed the ships with such ease! Didn’t the Pookan Brotherhood alliance with the Constellar Empire mean anything?

“Keep your mind, kit!” Zinna said roughly in the language of their people, and Bunnymund turned his head to stare at him beseechingly.

“They’re being slaughtered!” he protested. “Aren’t we supposed to preserve life, not watch it go to waste when we could help?”

He knew Zinna had the transformative chocolates on him. The battlescarred veteran would be more than a match for half the Fearlings out there. And with Bunnymund’s help - they truly could turn the heaving shadowy tide.

“Our life,” Zinna growled out between gritted teeth. “Not those of apes!”

Stunned, Bunnymund stared at the betrayal. Abruptly, he was furious. Unwittingly, his ears pricked up and his spine stiffened as he drew himself up to full height.

“Coward!” he roared, and it was a human word, contemptible, but all Bunnymund knew to describe Zinna in that moment. For in Zinna’s eyes there was a true and terrible fear, a fear of these shadowy creatures that the humans faced with such courage and the Pooka hid from.

Zinna closed his eyes, and bowed his head. He was too honest to dispute the claim, and stepped aside when Bunnymund boldly sprang for the door.

“Kit,” he whispered, as Bunnymund passed, and despite himself, Bunnymund was compelled by an old respect to stop. Zinna looked at him earnestly, and said, “Watch yourself, brother.”

“Watch me, brother,” Bunnymund spat back, in contempt, grabbed Zinna’s boomerang from his chaperone, and sprinted with the speed only a Pooka could attain.

Once down into the throng of hallways and surrounded by panicky, shrieking humans, Bunnymund’s resolve faltered. His sensitive ears were assaulted by the painful screams of humans, and from a nearby viewport he had a splendid if utterly unwelcome view of the Nightmare King mustering himself for a leap. The Nightmare King landed with earth-shattering force on the spine of one of the motherships and snapped it under his shadowy bulk. His great rending claws of darkness split the ship’s shell with ease and cracked it open like a walnut. Into the breach, shadows poured. A claxon rang out as the mothership fell.

The deck suddenly rocked as a flaming cruiser spun sideways and crashed into the crown-ship. Shadows oozed out like maggots. Human screams were everywhere, death and pain, blood and loss.

Bunnymund stood in an isolated centre and felt his heart pound with horrified dismay. He was sweating under his fur and his ears twitched frenetically, unable to focus himself in the din. He’d forgotten - he’d never known - how noisy humanity was. How fragile it was.

The crown-ship’s most powerful blasters shook the floor again as they fired massively at the shadowy hulk of the Nightmare King. The blasters impacted against the Nightmare King’s arm, ripping a sizeable hole straight through it. The Nightmare King roared, his teeth flashing, and the darkness around him instantly reformed over the hole. Eyes whirling red and yellow with anger, the Nightmare King turned his cavernous head towards the crown-ship.

Lunanoff, thought Bunnymund, in scattered hope, Lunanoffs and stars. Kin as they were, only their light could rend a Fearling. Surely the humans knew that much? There was no other justification for keeping the mad Lunanoffs on the throne for as long as they had-

The ship rocked again and Bunnymund fell against a wall.

They were losing. The General’s guile and the Nightmare King’s brute strength made matchsticks of the navy.

The star’s blaze of brilliance shot past. The arc of a whip lashed out and struck the Nightmare King across his proud cheek, turning his head with the force of it. Black shadow writhed out like blood, and the Nightmare King screamed in pain, distracted. Bunnymund felt a cessation of fear in his spine as intense as relief, and at once knew what he must do.

Their ship! Docked mildly in the great hangar inside the crown-ship. Bunnymund had never flown solo before, but how hard could it be? He turned on a hair and began running down the halls, dropping to four legs for added speed, Zinna’s boomerang clenched between his teeth. His robes twisted around his ankles and he nearly tripped - irritably and without thinking, Bunnymund kicked them off with one powerful bound of his hindlegs.

And then he was off. The humans scattered before his passing or Bunnymund leapt right over them, sometimes missing them by only a hairsbreadth each time. On four legs, it was immediately easier to compensate for the rocking of the ship as it was bombarded and bombarding in turn, and Bunnymund felt himself overtaken by a primal joy he usually only felt when racing the tracks of the dirt-beaten paths of Warrens with the other kits, fighting to be first.

He made it down to the hangar in record time and located his ship as the only one left in the hangar. The bulbous egg-shape would have set it apart from the streamlined beauties that the humans favoured, anyway. As Bunnymund approached, he shouted a command to it, and the ship’s lights instantly lit up and the gangplank descended.

Suddenly, the star touched his mind. Bunnymund was aware of a great squeezing in his heart, a narrowness in his lungs, the fiery pain of a thousand burning wounds meeting the dead cold of space. In that touch, the star shoved raw panic and worry down upon him, and despite his breeding Bunnymund bleated in panic and possibly soiled himself, running directly into the wall of the ship.

The blow of his skull hitting the metal brought him back. Something was wrong. Something was wrong! And Bunnymund had to help the star.

Frantic now with new purpose, Bunnymund ran to the controls and slammed his hands down onto the control panel. The symbols lit up and Bunnymund felt the ship link to his mind - and instantly, they were aloft.

The ship wobbled as they zoomed out of the hangar, Bunnymund’s instinctive fear of crashing warring with the sudden appearance of thousands of cruisers zipping around the novice pilot with skill and the ease of long practice. The world was filled with fire and screaming. Shadows flickered and danced, living things with teeth waiting to bite.

The ship was responsive to its pilot’s will, but the pilot was terrified and had no idea what he was doing. Twice he extended one sail when he meant the other, and thankfully both times he narrowly avoided collision and death. Half his concentration was taken up with scanning the sky for the gleaming golden star.

As if summoned by his thought, the star reached out and found him again, pushing down fear and pain. His thoughts were tinted by blackness and despair, the feverish hate of an unfulfilled grudge. Bunnymund’s mind was not as fragile as a human’s, but even he quailed from the alien feel of a star’s mind, the lyrical strains that led to nowhere, the hushing twist of sand and dream and thought, circular and incomprehensible. But now, the savage urgency was unmistakable, and helplessly Bunnymund felt himself be dragged along.

The ship responded and set a course immediately for the star’s location. As a cruiser spun out of the way, Bunnymund felt his heart sink into his stomach like a rock. His ears pressed flat to his skull with terror.

The Nightmare King had the star between his giant shadowy fists, a snarl of concentration on his cruel face as he slowly wrenched it apart. The star was shrieking, flailing as he fought to keep hold of the rock that formed his wishing star. Even as Bunnymund watched, the Nightmare King succeeded, ripping through the eldritch tangle of limbs that connected Sandy to his star and then throwing Sandy far away. The star pilot hit a cruiser and instantly the cruiser burst into flame from the heat of his body. The dissonant screech of his song throbbed wildly through Bunnymund’s blood, tuneless with agony. Stardust floated up from the severed ends of the star’s tendrils.

The Nightmare King turned his attention to the glowing ball of molten metal in his hands. His grin stretched wider with hunger, and Bunnymund wondered what was possibly so interesting about the core of a wishing star. In an instant, his question was answered.

In the cold of the Nightmare King’s glacial hands, the molten metal core was solidifying hard and turning brittle. It only took one hard squeeze before the entire thing shattered into beautiful and deadly shards. And in the shadowy centre of the Nightmare King’s clenched fist, a human figure wreathed in fiery gold broke out, and a storm of hair as black as the night that surrounded them curled and frothed over the Nightmare King’s knuckles. The Nightmare King bent one great eye to survey his prize, bigger than the freed human’s entire body. It gleamed cruelly with hunger.

The human figure was struggling. Around her, the stellar winds began to form a howling cyclone, forcing the clenched shadow hands of the Nightmare King apart. He screeched with unholy fury, but the wind’s strength was too much for him. The gale shoved him aside with such force that he was momentarily unseated from his position atop the destroyed mothership. Freewheeling in space, the Nightmare King roared savagely and crushed three cruisers under his bulk as he regained his footing. But the human girl was free, coasting defiantly in the eye of the most magnificent galactic storm Bunnymund had ever seen.

But she was human! Humans needed air to breathe, warmth to stop their blood from freezing - and none of that was in cold space! She would die unless Bunnymund got there to save her. Desperately, the star found his mind again and pressed an entreaty upon him. Save his human! Please! Sandy would do anything for the Pooka but the Nightmare King was too strong for Sandy to defeat alone!

Closing his eyes and trusting the ship’s senses, Bunnymund pressed outwards and found the furious gale-force mind of the girl. He linked to her, almost as an afterthought, and honed in her location. Let me through! He begged as the winds batted him around like a cat playing with a mouse. He had the strangest sensation of vibration through his entire body as the star used him as a relay.

Seraphina!

Bunnymund’s fur was standing on end. His ears were whirling. His green eyes were shining brighter than new leaves in spring. And he was possibly the most terrified that he’d ever been in his life. But with that terror, came exhilaration, the exhilaration of a Pookan mind link, the star throbbing like a burning pyre behind him and the girl a tornado before him. Such powerful forces! He almost felt like he would be crushed between them. Forcibly, he reigned them both in. He’d been trained to maintain Pookan mind links. He could do this!

His ship arrowed through a gap in Seraphina’s cyclone, and the storm-tossed girl herself became visible, a tortured creature. The ship responded almost on autopilot, activating a tractor beam and opening the hatch with a hiss. Bunnymund waited in position just long enough to know that Seraphina was safely aboard, then he poured power into the ship’s engine and they shot away as fast as they could. Behind them, Sandy launched himself back into the fray, distracting the Nightmare King before he could protest the loss of his prize.

Linked as they were, Bunnymund felt Seraphina’s mental scream ring through his bones and winced in sympathy.

Sandy! She shrieked. Sandy! Behind the name rang decades of loss and terror.

A compassionate acknowledgement came back through the star and Bunnymund gripped the console tightly, forcing the mind link to stay together in the force of such powerful emotions.

Seraphina, the star whispered, softly aware of Bunnymund’s sensitive hearing. Please stay safe.

You fool! She was crying, Bunnymund could feel it. Feel the tears as if they were his own, but they weren’t, because Pooka did not cry- You fool! Sandy - come back to me.

I promise, he assured her tenderly, and if sensing her violent rejection of promises alone, added, Pitch Black cannot kill me permanently. I am too strong for him. Dryly, Or, I will be too strong for him. He is rather showing off at the moment.

Bunnymund had only a moment to wonder at what Sandy meant by that when suddenly the Nightmare King reacted and his fist grabbed Sandy out of the sky, like swatting a fly. The golden mote of Sandy’s presence disappeared into the Nightmare King’s churning maw, and abruptly, the mind link dissolved.

Bunnymund, stunned, wheeled around and charged into the underdeck of the ship, where the tractor beam had deposited Seraphina. There she was, this powerful presence, laying limp and still on the floor. He could feel the volatile activity of her mind, but her body was a wreck of decades of abuse, charred and burned, twisted into a facsimile of what it should have been. Cauterised wound seemed to have replaced the entirety of her skin. A rotten, gangrenous stench suffused the air. Bunnymund winced.

He hurried to her side, lifting the ruined face into his lap. Her eyeballs had long ago been seared out of her sockets, and her shattered and pulverised body barely had any resemblance to a human. Without the star’s energy to parasitically keep herself alive, she would quickly die.

Bunnymund rummaged in his pouch. He had to save her. These medicines were Pookan-made for Pooka alone, but he hoped they would work on a human. What was the worse that could happen?

His stiff fingers found the chocolate that he wanted and carefully he prised open her jaw, long since fused shut by melted bones. The crack of her bones made a sharp retort to his methods, and he winced apologies as her caustic mental response summoned a gust of wind to bend one ear painfully back. He forced the chocolate into the ruin of her mouth and massaged her throat until it fell back there. He lifted his hands over her body and concentrated hard, and as he did, he recalled to him the instinctive magic that was a Pooka’s birthright, the magic of life and new beginnings and hope, and he planted the seed inside her breast, and as it was planted, abruptly, it germinated, and took root.

Her body heaved now, bucking under the intrusion of foreign magics, and her dim eyes shone vibrant green. Her body began fixing itself so rapidly that Bunnymund cried out in shock, almost drowned out by the twisting and fixing of bone, the flow of new skin, and a green nimbus throbbed around them. Seraphina’s body jerked once, twice, and then suddenly she sat and swallowed the chocolate, choking as it obstructed her airway. Tentatively, he patted her back and stared in faint horror, faint pride, at the hybrid abomination he had created.

The human-Pookan hybrid turned her fixed hands over and stared down at her working body, flexed her toes. Her eyes filled with tears, and her hair whipped up with an invisible gale.

“You healed me,” she said. “You don’t even know me.”

Blushing slightly under his fur, Bunnymund twitched an ear self-deprecatingly and said, “Well, the chocolate was just standard medical issue- oof!”

She had punched him in the shoulder with an impact of wind so strong that he stumbled over. Her eyes shone brilliant bright Pookan green, and the magic of new life pulsed in her slender form until it seemed as if she vibrated with energy. “Turn this ship around!” she commanded in a ringing voice. “We must aid my father!”

“Your father?” Bunnymund questioned, but leapt quickly to fill her orders when she scowled at him imperiously, with all the authority of a queen.

“I am Seraphina Pitchiner,” she said her name like it was a title, and perhaps it was. “Pooka! Carry me. I don’t know how to walk.”

“E. Aster Bunnymund,” he muttered back as he did her bidding, but he wasn’t sure she was even listening.

“Come!” she said impatiently. “We have mad kings to depose and Fearlings to destroy!”

Chapter Text

They were running. Like prey, the ships darted, little silver minnows before the onslaught of a labouring heron, and chasing them, the booming laughter of the Nightmare King routed them utterly. Three-quarters of the proud Golden navy had been destroyed in the escape, or otherwise scattered, the crews driven so mindless with terror that they’d steered straight into asteroid fields and hit the rocks. Only one mothership remained, the crownship, accompanied by humming drones whizzing around its ponderous flanks, their lasers blaring as they kept the Dream Pirates from overrunning the crownship in their corrupted skiffs.

The Galleon itself remained at a relatively sedate distance from its foreband of marauding shadows. The General gripped the wheels and fought to keep himself free of darkling influence even as he directed the Nightmare King, and Pitch within the Nightmare King, how to crack open the shells of the ships and eat the soft, terrified prizes within. No stranger to war or darkling carnage, Kozmotis remained horrifyingly untouched.

The Tsar, not so.

Apollo stood at the bridge of the crownship, behind the commander of the ship. Rutherford, as the most senior general and Koz’s technical replacement, was supposedly in charge, but the man’s eyes were fear-panicked, and his orders delivered at a crack of his booming voice. Apollo clenched his fists and watched his men, good men, be destroyed from the huge vidscreens around them, and felt rage boil within him.

This was Kozmotis, all Kozmotis. How dare he, first of all, turn against his Tsar and his people, after all they had done for him? How dare he free the monsters which had destroyed so many in their ravaging campaign to darken the Constellations forever? How could he turn against the one person in whom he had had any confidence in, since his wife’s death, Apollo himself?

Apollo burned now with shame and fury that Kozmotis had made a fool and a mockery of Apollo’s trust in him. He had thought Koz devoted enough to cause and tsar to avoid the temptation of some ragged shadow-thing, and yet, clearly, his General had shown his moment of weakness and allowed himself to be overcome.

Swallowing, he forced himself to watch as another attack-ship was taken over by the Dream Pirates, watch as their oozing tentacles of black shadow seeped down over the ship and the horrifying despair on the men’s faces as they surrendered to the inevitability of death in space, batted around by black cats like mice. One brave man leapt from the prow of the ship, only to be cruelly caught and rent in two by Nightmare Man claws.

“Take the planet’s gravity,” Rutherford was shouting. “Westerly - We can swing round with the impetus and break free, the monsters don’t have the engine power.”

The subject of their salvation glowed innocent blue-green on the vidscreen. Earth, the only planet for miles, dimly earmarked for a colony planet in the Taurii section, Apollo remembered. Rutherford meant to ensnare the Galleon in the planet’s gravitational pull, forcing it to crash and containing the threat long enough for the navy to escape. The ignominy of running away abruptly grated on Apollo.

“No,” he snarled, half-aware of the smoke that curled up from his fingers. It was thick and cloying, like rotted perfume. He bared his teeth when Rutherford swung round to look at him, wide-eyed and surprised out of his fear. Apollo closed his eyes and concentrated on the parts of him that were wholly other. Magic sprang, eager for pain and bloodthirst, to his skin, and Apollo opened his eyes again with a flare of brilliant white light. As expected, the crew sunk back, caught between their fear of the dark monster chasing them, and their fear of the light monster on the ship with them.

“It’s time to end this little game,” Apollo hissed. “Our general wants to play with forces beyond his control, does he! So let him!”
He rolled his shoulders back and cracked his knuckles. Apollo’s father had always taught him that emotion powered the strongest of Lunanoff magics. And negative emotion scarred more than any ridiculous notion of love or joy.

So Apollo thought about betrayal, and spurned attentions, and his own fury, and picked at the scabbed wound and dug and twisted fingers into raw flesh not quite healed until the skin broke and pus and blood flooded out, oozing blackly in his soul with the call to madness. He shuddered as if gripped with fever, and his painter’s hands blazed with a hideous and blasphemous light, their paint the blood of dead men, their canvas the skins of those foolish to take a snake to their bed.

“Bring me to the deck,” he ordered sharply, barely aware of Cater cringing and squirming away from him, his sensitive abilities overwhelmed by the magic frissons. Apollo could feel it snapping under his skin.

He clicked his fingers and a spark leapt from the crook of his thumb like a lighter. One. He clicked his fingers again. Two. Three. Four.

A firm hand took him by the elbow and drove him down the corridor. Apollo’s attention was focused firmly inward, dragging up any number of traumatic and hideous memories to worsen the tightening ball of pale poison forming in his chest.

There were reasons, good reasons, why Apollo feared being at a captor’s mercy in chains, and he groaned quietly to remember them now in all the vivid detail interminably stamped on his skin. They called him the whore-prince for his lust and yet, when the fires had come and had burned down everything and he was trapped inside with only his screams for company, it hadn’t been any lover of his that had rescued him from the blaze. Twitching nerves awoke now, long-deadened after a blaze that had destroyed Apollo many years ago into a withered corpse, hidden now by new skin stretched over the burn scars, as if the internal damage didn’t exist anymore so long as his face was beautiful, and recalled to him the pain of burning alive in his own fire.

He’d refused to let himself be used like someone’s slave-boy, worn down and broken and ragged into a thin paper sheet of himself, and had burned for it. Burned and burned and burned, and now the fire was inside of him, and Apollo had the power to punish anyone who thought he could take Apollo’s love and then twist it against him like Koz had done.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Sparks leapt into the air and disappeared, the charge shaping into a thick cloud that followed him. His hair was standing on end, each strand glowing unholy white, and the ghost of a dead-star was slowly waking, adding ancient, chained rage to his own.

Sweet Lune, he entreated his ancestor, help me destroy those who have destroyed me.

Her answer was pure, unadulterated rage and madness. It boiled into him like a fetid tidal wave of stinking, ugly hatred, churning like nausea and acid. Her voice was the rattle of chains and the screams of creatures left to darken and die and madden in the darkness.

Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

The absolute coldness of space came as if in challenge. He stepped out onto the deck, felt the reassuring solidity under his boots as above, the stars and sky swirled with pageants of darkness, serpentine, sinuous, slick. The air was electric, rapidly charging with each click. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. He gathered the magical tension around himself in a cloud, and strode, radiant with light, to the prow.

The Nightmare Galleon was visible, a black shape with ragged sails like a patch of utter black pasted over sheer grey. Nebulae swirled vacantly in the distance, forming stars attracted by the bloodlust of their cousins’ feeding. The pinpricks of the constellations watched like eyes, expectant and hungry for a show.

Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Apollo was losing count and losing control. The fires licked and teased playfully, but they were a bonfire rapidly spiralling beyond his measure. The clouds of supercharged magical tension hung around him like lead drapes, their elastic thrill beginning to eat holes into his clothes, like tiny, gnawing, acidic moths. He felt the sparks’ fluttering against his cheeks, felt the smoke plume with his breath.

Kozmotis. Kozmotis. This whole problem began and ended with Kozmotis. If he hadn’t picked that one darkling for mercy - if he hadn’t been so dear to Apollo - if he hadn’t been so blindly noble in his quest to champion everyone - if he hadn’t -

The breath built up inside him, and Apollo released it in a great howl. Kozmotis wanted Apollo’s attention, wanted his vengeance and madness in all its ugly glory? He had it!

Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one.

Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four-twenty-five-twenty-six-twenty-seven-twenty-nine-forty-three.

Dimly, behind him, Apollo heard a voice that spoke in minds rather than vibrations. The voice carried in it the anguished heart of a star that had not fled fast enough to escape a supernova, and the heat of the supernova lingered still as Kel’oshki grabbed Apollo’s radiant arms and screamed in his face, orange sand bubbling out of the cracks of the mask. “THAT’S NOT ENOUGH!” they screamed. “MORE!” More to destroy a darkling monster that threatened to blot out the stars! More to destroy a putrid tsar whose lazy bigotry had enslaved a race! More to avenge a broken promise between brothers that had yanked open a gate left unguarded, and the poison that had streamed out!

They shook him and Apollo’s body jerked, lank and suggestible as a rag doll, and Kel’oshki reached into his brain through his eyes and ripped out the threads of sanity until, a tapestry unspooled, Apollo came undone. The breaking was silent and soundless, and the snap of the vestige of his sanity was akin to shooting cannon through a dam.

The world poured and liquefied at once into the slow turning of that hated, heated supernova heart, and together Kel’oshki and Apollo burned and burned.

Lightning struck like a thunderclap and the world went white!

The Tsar became visible as a tower of light aboard the prow of the crownship, stretching up into the swirling maelstrom of shadowthings. Dream Pirates screeched and fled from the fierce bright light. It was an old, fetid sort of brightness, less like the fresh birth of a scraped-raw protostar and more the ugly croak of a dying, blind supergiant. But the nature of its rottenness made it all the more potent, and even as Koz watched, gripping the wheel of the Galleon with all the temerity of a man humbled at once to terrified boyhood, a lunar lightstorm gathered above the crownship.

And Koz watched, and felt fear grip him utterly.

As a boy, he had prayed to the gods of light to keep him safe from the shadows. As a man, he had knelt at that safesame god’s feet and privately scorned his childhood fervour. And now, he unexpectedly, suddenly remembered why the children of the Golden Age were taught to love and fear the Lunanoffs.

The Nightmare King was picking up on Koz’s fear, great head swinging around with wet nostrils flaring like a hound picking up the scent. Citrine eyes narrowed down on him with an expression somewhere between delighted lust and horrified hunger. Blind to the threat, the great shadowy body wrapped itself around the Galleon, and the lipless gape of the maw yawned open in front of Koz, as quick to turn on his pseudo-master as a whipped dog.

But Koz, frozen, couldn’t even bear to look away from the intensity of the light straining the sky.

He had always known that Apollo had magic, and had always known that he’d never understood and trusted magic. Koz’s own brand of it was laughably simple - sheer physical strength. He’d always known - but now it was if the cloth over his eyes had been whisked away, and at once Koz realised the foolishness and depth of his underestimation.

Apollo wasn’t anything so weak or flawed as human.

The stream of light was building into a great hurricane of fire, crackles and sparks of white hot electricity running through like snapping dogs on the hunt. The screaming shadows surged away from the light but were too slow, were snapped up and ripped to shreds by lunar-teeth. And still, the storm built.

The ships bucked and plunged like frightened horses. Frissons of stellar energy crackled up and down the sails like the bays of the hunt. The thud of hooves and screeches of foxes came from the clustering shadows, squirming away from their ancient enemy.

They remembered the scourge of the Lunanoffs. They remembered the curse and blessing of Lune’s children. And they remembered how shadows crumbled like ash before that light.

The Nightmare King gathered. Alerted by his subjects’ fear, the mighty king of night raised his unholy head and mustered his blackest and deepest darknesses against the threat. A black hole, sucking and squirming, formed opposite the supernova, and in the eye of the storm the Galleon began to tear apart. Ship fragments whirled past, bolts and scraps of metal, carbonised empty shells of humanity, the tiny crews of the fighter-ships blotted out by the incredible magic storm before they had time to so much as offer a prayer to the vengeful god that now brought heavenly destruction down upon them.

In between the polar opposites of the storm’s wrath, the humans scurried in their little metal pods, as fragile as leaf-shells against the onslaught. Death suddenly loomed close to all, and all were forced, in that raw and unexpectedly primal moment, to make their peace with their impending fate, or be obliterated still regretful.

The fiery hurricane swirled into a single line. Apollo, the magnetic conductor of wrathful savagery, swayed on board the crownship and Koz felt their eyes bridge the vast black distance between them, felt himself stare pleadingly into those alien, furious silvery eyes and beg for a mercy that would not be forthcoming. Apollo shifted and thrust his hands forward, and fire roared.

The hurricane collapsed at once into a vortex of white fire. It struck like a lightning bolt the heart of the Galleon.

Koz had no memory of the moment the fire hit. He had the before, watching it creep closer as if each heart-stopped second mattered the same as years over the black void that separated them, the hard ridge of the wheel in his hands, the mechanical taste of manufactured air from the breathing band around his neck, the weight of his armour on his body. He had the fragmented memories of after - a colossal heat, a searing screaming, collisions so violent and forceful that his body tumbled and fell in little broken pieces like porcelain. If it hadn’t been for his armour, Koz had no doubt that he would be dead.

Darkness all around him and a void beyond the stars. Squealing shadows ran and were consumed in that cleansing, sick old light, and the absence of it was as stark and sudden as midnight. Floating in the void left behind, Koz saw a little blue and green planet swimming in space, with lush, beckoning forests of verdant green, unapologetically and inappropriately vibrant in the wake of the fiery destruction of the Galleon.

There was heat against his back and cold against his front. Bitter, bitter cold, the bone-chilling freeze of space curling icy claws in the rents in his armour, poking amusedly at the sensitive human flesh beneath. His breath plumed in front of him. Convulsively, he shivered, and the movement rotated him, drifting slowly and aimlessly through a graveyard of destroyed ships and ashes, to look up at the belly of the crownship.

Koz was going to die.

The cold was sapping his strength even as it presented to him this unpleasant clarity. He was going to die. He could see the Nightmare King, horrifically burnt and howling, screeching and thrashing languid tentacles of shadowlimbs, indiscriminately hitting out in its pain. In the centre of the great shadowy form, Koz could see a tiny denser core of thickly-webbed shadow, around the size of a man. The size of Koz himself. Pitch, imprisoned within his own poison.

The crownship was pitted with holes made by darkling claws. In the absence of Apollo’s light, the world was black, blinded by afterimages. Of Apollo himself, there was nothing to be seen. The shadows, half dead, half-wounded, crawled, screaming like any war-wounded, something humanlike in their torture and their pain.

Koz floated above the little blue and green planet with blossoms of fire spreading over the dulcet black sky and thought how beautiful the darkest heart of war could be.

The cold was creeping in him now. He couldn’t feel his limbs, and there was a deadened feeling of ice crusting on his lips and around his eyes, spreading in beautiful curls of frost over his armour. He was so cold. It felt like being plunged into the heart of an icy lake for three hundred years.

It was dark, and cold, and Kozmotis did his best not to be scared. Death was a companion that had hunted by his side for many a year, after all. But Koz had never imagined that taking his hand would feel so much like opportunities missed and lives unlived.

A dreadful fear was quavering weakly against the bitter cold. It made his heart stubbornly beat rapidly freezing blood. It made his mind scream with the desperate thoughts of a man who surely never deserved to live another day. After all, what was a general of the Golden Age if not a murderer with shiny medals?

Archaline - he would be with her soon. And Seraphina would have to mourn her father again-

Stars - it was cold. Her hair was the colour of this deep black. The silver of the ships’ hulls were in her eyes. And the cutting wind felt like her laughter, if only it wasn’t so cold. A tiny, egg-shaped ship was drifting somewhere far-distant, and for a moment, Koz felt fur on his cheek and tasted green growing things, felt the grittiness of sand under his fingertips, felt the wisp of a feather and the clatter of bells. In an instant, it was gone, but a sad sort of darkness remained, and Koz wondered whose memory it had been.

Pitch? He hadn’t the breath to shout. But of course, the monster heard. The shadowy muzzle, oozing black, white blind eyes revolting in pain, slowly and painfully focused on him. The Nightmare King’s body was shredded into rags of acid-speckled black cloth, and through the rents in the Nightmare King, the dim hazy eyes of the constellations could be seen, indifferent, whispering their starsongs across the galaxies until the end of time. In the Nightmare King’s throat, a speck of gold flickered and burned and moaned terribly with the monster’s pain.

Cold. He was getting tired, so tired. The lethargy sunk down upon him like the gravid kiss of a star-pilot, and for a moment Koz confused the twisting threads of greengold in the vivid tapestry of flaming ship above him.

The Nightmare King’s cumbersome body moved, flowed, shifted, like a turgid river in full sway, like a curtain blown by a thick plume of smoke, molasses dripping off an oak table. His eyes burned like hot citrines, and his hands reached out like the spidery claws of dead trees raking the sky in winter. They were gentle, though, when they closed around the shell of Koz’s armour with the frozen man inside, and the shadows that lapped over his chest were the warm, heated shadows of a thousand campfires, flickering and dancing and seeming to sink their burning into every inch of Koz’s chapped and deadened flesh.

Koz gasped weakly. The Nightmare King’s eyes were great and liquid, soft and deep like the pools of molten gold tempting men to greed. Like suns, they burned, and where they burned, they warmed, with a softer fire than that white light, a fire that lit of adrenaline. Koz felt himself arrested by the profundity of the age in those great bright eyes, and a few moments drifted untethered past, uncounted between the two of them.

Not so, for the Tsar. Crumpled against the side of the the crownship, Apollo stared through half-bleared eyes at the shadow wrapping his great arms gently around the gleaming jewel of Koz, shining silver-white like the trueness of Lunanoff purity amidst Fearling black. He was aware, vaguely, that the railing was cold against his cheek, and that Kel’oshki was slumped, wheezing with a terrible sort of agony that had nothing to do with the physical, against his back. The star wished itself dead. Apollo could empathise, but found he didn’t much care to.

A stick of bright light hopped out of the crownship’s hidden depths, and Nightlight stood silhouetted against the stars on the cabin roof, his blazing hair a halo of innocence, his barbed armour a mocking memory of the Fearlings he had been created to battle. His lance shone like teardrops, fated with its own light. Apollo saw him, and was seen in return.

Nightlight’s glow brightened like a steady candle, and the forever-child bounced, always a little too high, as if he remembered the rules of gravity and physics and ordinary men at the last moment of the perfect jump. Apollo reached for him.

Apollo’s body was twisted and melted. His lovely face was cracked, and a flake of his cheek had come off to reveal the ugly, scarred and raised red flesh hidden underneath. His skin and body was darkened with soot and magiclessness. He could feel nothing of his hands. He couldn’t bear to look at them yet. He wasn’t sure if he still had any. Apollo was fairly certain he was bald, too, and wrinkled and hideous, and as people started to shuffle about on deck he was possessed of a terrible fear that they would uncover him in this ruin. All he needed was to get back to his quarters, call the doctors. They’d reconstruct his face and put him in moonmetal until he was as radiant as a young star again.

Lunanoff magic - beautiful, yes, powerful, undoubtedly, but its beauty came from suffering and its power exacted a heavy price.

“End it,” he said, slurred, really. “End it.”

The world became dashingly, vibrantly clear. Nightlight was in the perfect position. It could all end right here. The Nightmare King and his shadow of terror, the man Apollo loved and his betrayal. The murmurings of star rebellions and increased pirate activity, destroyed. The Pookan Brotherhood firmly replaced in its careful distance. The star people under the thumb and heel of humanity once more. In that split-second, Tsar Apollo Lunanoff saw a chance to save his Golden Age, and took it.

“NGHTLIGHT!”

The spectral boy jerked.

“NIGHTLIGHT! THROW THE LANCE!”

Nightlight looked down at the Nightmare King’s long dark spine, curving trustingly towards the protected ball of silver that he held. He gripped his spear, and obediently, raised it. It would be quite easy. The Nightmare King was such a large target, and such a mean and nasty one, and Nightlight was by blood bound to the word and order of Lunanoffs. And yet, the spectral boy hesitated.

In Kozmotis there had been a heart that Nightlight had liked. Good and solid and warm, like hot chocolate on cold firelit nights, of blankets and warm things and marching bands. In the man of war, Nightlight had seen a little heart of peace waiting for the right time. And Nightlight had liked him, and had liked the Pitch that Kozmotis had told him about, and had been excited to meet him. And he didn’t understand, really, what had happened, but he knew it was sad and bad, and he knew that Apollo had wrecked himself again and Nightlight had better take him away to a dark place to do the dreaming and the healing until his Tsar was beautiful and all masked up again.

Nightlight didn’t want to throw the lance. But he didn’t want to disobey his Tsar.

“NIGHTLIGHT, NOW!” A pause, and Nightlight could see the desperation in his Tsar’s face. Apollo was always beautiful to Nightlight, even when his face was half-gone and all the burn scars were visible and they reminded Nightlight of the bad time when Apollo had been nearly dead for so very long even after his physical body looked as healthy as ever, and this time, Nightlight wasn’t sure that there would be another Koz to rekindle the spark in his Tsar. “IF YOU HAVE EVER HAD ANY LOYALTY TO ME AT ALL-” And Apollo’s voice cracked in bitter remembrance of Koz’s betrayal, and Nightlight had so much shock and sadness that Apollo would ever doubt Nightlight’s loyalty and love for him even if everyone else in the world left him behind that he acted on impulse.

The lance, perfectly aimed, left his hand at the perfect time, and it struck the Nightmare King in the back with a soft, almost gentle, thump just like the wingbeats of far distant birds circling around the towertops of the Celestial City in the summertime when the skies were lazy jade.

The lance pierced the Nightmare King all the way through and lodged into Koz’s chestplate, stopping a millimeter short of scratching his skin. There was no sound, no scream, only a soft gasp, the gasp a living man made when the breath was forced from his body.

And his eyes widened, round and soft and vulnerable gold like eclipsed moons, and Pitch whispered, “Kozzy - it hurts.”

The force of Nightlight’s throw had sent them backward, into the gravitational pull of the little blue and green planet Earth.

And silently, entwined, they began to fall.

Chapter Text

Nightlight was supporting Apollo. His armoured shoulder was bony and uncomfortable, and he was a little too short to be of any real use, but the gesture was very much needed and appreciated. Apollo, limping, his flayed and burnt flesh exposed to the icy chill of space, preferred to look at the floor. Kel’oshki followed him dully, head dipped in utter subjugation.

Apollo expected them to be more smug. Everything they had predicted had come true. It had been Apollo himself who had posed the greatest threat and caused the greatest harm to his former general.

These thoughts pressed in on him now with the dim feeling of hallucinations, as if that Alpherati day with the wood of the dresser under his smoking hands was years passed, not scant months. Nightlight was pushing him gently into a chair, someone had draped a robe to conceal his nudity. Cater’s strong fingers were curling around his own. The big man was crying; in Apollo’s current state of numbness, he could barely conceive of why. The crew of the crownship were standing around, their faces upturned towards the glowing screens. The main screen was dominated by the quick, fiery arrow of a shape hurtling down through the protective gases of the planet Earth, piercing it through with the deadly swiftness of a lance into an unprotected back.

“He’s gone,” said Kel’oshki very quietly. The ‘without me’ was unspoken. “The bastard.”

“Humans don’t keep their promises to creatures like you,” Apollo told them, hearing himself say the words without understanding them. “You should know that by now.”

“Not the human, or its ugly shadow!” cried Kel’oshki. With a muffled sob, they buried their mask into their gloves, and wept glassy tears of orange sand.

A wrinkled but firm hand fell on Apollo’s shoulder, squeezing a little too hard for comfort. Alysea was hovering next to him, concern in her face as she checked him over with the years of experience from their shared past. This was hardly the first time she’d helped him pick up the pieces of himself after a bad bout of destructive magic.

“It’s over,” Apollo told her. “Thanks to Nightlight’s loyalty.”

“And you’re…?” she hesitated.

Apollo simply looked at her. There was a numbness consuming all parts of him, and his heart felt scabbed raw and wrung out. He couldn’t muster anything save a hollow shock.

“’Lo,” Alysea murmured, her eyes stricken, “You need a doctor. You need –“

She gestured helplessly to his withered and warped face, the narrow and rigid shoulders above the blanket, raw and red reopened burn scars. He could still feel the fire in his flesh, but burnt out, smothered. When he tried to reach his magic, there was nothing but a charred wasteland. The absence as much horrified him as it relaxed him. The realisation that he currently couldn’t pose a threat to anyone was as much frightening as it was unexpectedly relieving.

Apollo felt his eyes slide away from her well-meaning concern. He knew well what he looked like. Maybe, he thought blackly, they’d finally match. The cripple and the crone. A love story for the ages. Someone was pressing a cup against his lips, numbly, he swallowed the water. It felt like ice in his ruined throat. He coughed and spat it out, humiliatingly, it dribbled over his lips and chin.

“Sir!” It was Rutherford. He wouldn’t look directly at the ruin of his Tsar, but he was too well-trained to not report. For once, Apollo was grateful for the man’s utter lack of interesting qualities or curiosity. “There’s a ship, Sir!”

“Which ship?” Cater demanded, and Rutherford looked momentarily embarrassed at being questioned by a cook, even if said Cook was an aura-sensitive who had impressed his tsar.

The man regained himself quickly. “A Brotherhood ship, sir,” he said. “It’s headed for the planet.”

“Let them go,” Apollo heard himself say raggedly. If the Pooka wanted to poke about the corpse of the Nightmare King, let them. They weren’t under his jurisdiction, and the pragmatic side of Apollo noted that if, impossibly, the darkling had somehow survived, none were better equipped to end the creature save for his own wife and child, back in the Celestial City.

The thought of his shrewish wife and young son confronted him with emotions that he couldn’t identify. He wondered what they would think of him now. He wondered how long the reconstructive surgeries would take. Tsarina Selena would be well within her legal rights to leave his bed while he remained physically unattractive. Perhaps it would be for the better. She had never liked him, and they already had one son, one heir. One son that he hadn’t seen in months. Was he starting to walk, yet? When Apollo had left to head the army, MiM had been on the verge of tottering.

It was time to return to them.

“Gather the armies – or who remains. Make as many repairs as you can. We head back, regroup at Alsciaukat,” Apollo instructed Rutherford in a voice as strong as a crushed leaf skeleton in autumn. The general nodded, and turned to immediately begin relaying his orders.

Alysea took hold of his chair, and her eyes glowed as brightly silver as slivers of the moon. In an instant, wheels melted out of the floor and affixed themselves to his chair. “I,” she proclaimed with haughty authority, “will bring this one to his rooms to rest.” She needn’t have bothered with her airs and graces, Apollo doubted anyone would question her. Not now, when they were all avoiding looking at him.

“Somebody needs to call Selena,” Apollo muttered as Alysea wheeled him away.

“I will,” Cater asserted. He was looking down at Apollo with more concern than Apollo had ever seen him display. “I will tell her – that Kozmotis and his monster are…” He trailed off, some conflict of emotions playing across his face.

“Tell her it’s all over,” said Apollo, heavily. “And to start organising funerals for the dead.”

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, when Bunny had been a very young kit, he had been caught outside in a fearsome summer storm. The wind had lashed, the trees had snapped with dry resinous cracks, the ground had shuddered like the thorny back of a stirring dragon. The fear and the awe that had gripped him then overtook him now, unapologetically, as he stared into the very resolute eyes of Seraphina Pitchiner, which, despite being glossy with frightened tears, promised him the hell only someone who had been entombed in the heart of burning star for over a decade knew if he didn’t do exactly what she said.

Bunny, his fur plastered to his skin, had run all the way home through that summer storm, whimpering. He almost wished he could do the same now. In fact, he began to wish that he had stayed with Zinna on the crownship. The canny Pooka had survived many battles against the dark forces without more than a few scratches on his hide, but Bunny was just a wet eared kit, a chocolatier who had flunked most of his combat classes. He had the distinct feeling that he was outmatched – yes, outmatched, by a not yet fully grown human girl, strengthened though she was by outlawed Pookan healing magic.

“Take us down to the planet,” Seraphina repeated in a low hiss, four parts mental, one part with her actual voice, strained and reedy with disuse. Her eyes were lambent, a fierce and inhuman shade of green, and her black hair swayed in the constant winds that seem to fumble around her, like old lovers made strange and unfamiliar. He could feel her fearsome mental presence, the natural bearing of an empress dethroned but still crowned with dignity.

“I barely know how to fly this ship!” Bunny protested. He might as well have been a leaf against a gale for all the good it did.

“Then we crash,” said Seraphina, coolly, as if she was talking about the weather rather than their lives. “I will not let them be taken away from me passively again.” The unshed tears in her eyes began to well up; politely, he pretended not to notice, but there was nothing he could do against the pleading expression on her cold and lovely face.

“We’re both going to die.” Bunny growled to himself. “This is what you get for listening to apes.” Nonetheless, he placed his paws on the control panel and extended his mind to the ship. Concentration diverted, he barely heard her hastily muffled sob of relief.

The Pookan egg-ship shot unevenly past the great silvery bulk of the crownship unopposed by any interference. Bunny tentatively aimed for the planet, and hoped. At this point, it was the only thing that would keep them alive. A novice pilot trying to land on an unfamiliar planet? It just as well could have been a death sentence, just like the one that would be awaiting him back at the Warrens for daring to use his magic on Seraphina. The thought both sobered and decided him. There would be no going back.

The Earth rotated idly, a lush blue and green picture of paradise. Clouds drifted across the land, obscuring the patches of green, and as they rushed towards it, the planet curved away. The dark scar from Pitch and Kozmotis’ crash landing seared across the landscape – visible even from space. Its beauty was distracting, but Bunny kept himself focused as the ship pierced the atmospheric layer.  The ship’s hull began to heat up, minutely, it began to shake. Bunny’s grip on the control panel tightened almost painfully.

They were coming in too far and too fast. An experienced pilot would have begun breaking, releasing only tiny jets of fuel to coast over the wide curvature of the planet, leading to a restrained and circular descent. But Bunny had never flown alone before, and so the egg ship plunged straight down, first mountains and trees becoming suddenly visible as they rapidly approached.

Bunny became aware that he was screaming.

“Pull up!” Seraphina was screeching. “Pull up, you –“

Alarms were blaring from every surface, altitude warnings and flashing lights. The whole ship was juddering and shaking, the metal coating peeling away like damp wallpaper. Seraphina was hitting him, each fist accompanied with the clout of wind. She managed to hit him directly on his sensitive nose, and Bunny’s ears twitched reflexively as he automatically pulled away – pulling the ship’s controls up as he did so.

The egg ship veered erratically between the spread fingers of two mountains, managed to lurch over a looming hillside, then ploughed directly into a particularly spiny thicket of trees.

In hindsight, it was probably lucky that they had hit the trees first instead of the ground. A direct collision would have probably rendered the front of the egg ship rather similar in appearance to an organic egg that had been smashed with great force against an unyielding surface, with whatever that had been inside spread widely and in various degrees of pulp across the surroundings.

Bunny had been thrown unconscious as the first collision with the trees had wrenched him from the control panel, sending him flying up to crack his head violently against the ship’s ceiling. Like a rag doll, he tumbled around the interior of the ship, hitting the walls with a variety of unpleasant sounding wet thuds and snaps. Seraphina, rather more experienced with being trapped inside a fast-moving flying object, picked one wall and flattened herself against it with the power of the wind.

The egg ship carved a satisfactorily wide strip of the forest into matchsticks. Eventually, it hit the base of the hill and came to a resounding stop that buckled the last of the protective metal sheeting flung haywire across the forest. The entire ship groaned. A calm voice announced something in Pookan, a few symbols flashed across the cracked and broken screens, and then abruptly every single light died, and the ship became as silent and still as a tomb.

A patina of dust hissed down through a crack in the viewport. It was very dark, still. Bunny’s breathing was wet and stilted. Her own gasps thudded in her ears, like a heartbeat. There was a faint aroma of crushed grass, warped metal superheated. Trees broke and fell with a distant rumble like earthquakes. There was presence – some sort of presence – pushing in noisily, sucking up all breath with its freshness and vivacity. There was a presence of life, the Earth’s life. It had felt the invasion like a living thing. Did it resent their presence?

Seraphina held her breath. If the Earth hated them here, it didn’t make it known. She whispered thanks into the metal of the destroyed ship, and painstakingly, crawled to Bunny’s side, staring down at the blood that matted his fur. It felt soft, surprisingly springy under her hand as she touched his shoulder, tattooed with some mark of claiming. His mind wakened at her touch, and she felt his pain, terrible at the edges of her perception.

The pouch. He pushed her with a gentle mental nudge. Seraphina was used to alien minds interacting with her own, but that of a Pooka was unlike anything she had experienced before. Everything had its place, and that place was interwoven with a thousand others, twisting together like the strings of fate, like the growing and glowing germination of seeds. It was rich with secret, furtively blessed with magic, innate.

Unused to having fingers not burnt together, she fumbled awkwardly at the belt, yanking at the pouch he had indicated until a sticky brown square landed in her hand. She dropped it twice before she managed to get it to his mouth, where carefully, and clearly in great pain, he swallowed. The magic spread its warm healing roots through him, and she felt more than heard his sigh of relief.

Reassured that he would not die, and too used to autonomy to perceive that possibly Bunny might have wished her to stay until he could at least prop himself up, Seraphina began to crawl towards the exit. The ship’s door had been buckled inwards, but the viewport she had seen earlier was cracked, and it only took a few more hard hits to dislodge it from its frame, clearing a small space that someone determined and skinny could escape through. The thought that the much bulkier and taller Pooka would be trapped inside until she came back to free the door did not cross her mind.

She squeezed herself into the fresh air, rolling free of the ship with a hiss as the hot metal burned her skin. She landed on the grass, and lay, paralysed for a moment. The Earth’s heartbeat was much louder when in direct contact with it, Seraphina could hear the lazy pulse of life through the soil, the curious winds of this planet skating down over her skin and raising goosebumps. The grass tickled; unperturbed, the beetles and small squirming animals of the dirt continued around her. The heat of the sun on her skin was warm and friendly, light from a remote star.

Seraphina did not need the sun’s light. She had a star of her own, waiting to be found.

She called for him, a wordless cry that needed no sound. Stumbling on coltish legs that she hadn’t used in a decade, she wavered and wobbled over the green grass. The Earth listened curiously to her entreaties, like a small child, tiptoeing after its mother. The winds steadied her when she threatened to fall, once, a tree branch caught her as she teetered to one side. A small red fox trotted behind her, sharp black eyes inquisitive.

She moved blindly, following her heart. She could still dimly feel the presence of others, others like her. The dark scar radiated with the Earth’s pain, like a numb patch of pins and needles. The total confidence in the great heartbeat of the planet was oddly reassuring – the Earth did not concern itself with the damage. It would grow. It would grow stronger than before. For this was how life worked on Earth, the fittest survived, and always, life regrew.

The red fox fled back into the cover of the trees. Spreadeagled across the darkness, a deep cave burrowed into the soil like a parasite. This was where they had landed, the Earth was freshly scarred, still hot. Moving uncertainly across the stripped and peeled soil, Seraphina minced, healed feet suddenly soft with nerves that protested at the heat.

The trees nearby rustled. Sunlight broke, sweet and beautiful, through the green leaves. A gleam something sharply silver lit up in the cave mouth, like a beacon. All thought of burning feet fled Seraphina’s mind.

“Father?!”

It sounded absurd to say that she had forgotten him, in her worry. Her father had dominated her thought for years, like vague and phantasmagorical dream, an impossible value to strive towards. Her memory of him was dim and uncertain, as faded as her connection with humanity. But Sandy had been the force of love behind her continued survival, and her golden pilot had wrapped his stardust into her heart and her mind, and without him she felt blind, lame, as if the light had gone out of her life and the sun had died. They had orbited each other, chasing each other into eternity across the cosmos.

She rushed as fast as she could to the silvery glint. It was a pile of armour, like death shroud, with a pale man wrapped inside. The gold had drained out of his skin like an infected wound, and he was as pale and silver as the moon, scarred from his beloved tsar’s last attack. His shock of black hair was streaked with grey, and his skin was cold as ice. He looked older than she remembered, weaker, his skin wrinkled and marked like greased onion skin stretched over his bones. There was a great rent in his breastplate, perfectly bisecting the Lunanoff jagged moon crescent, a freeze burned scratch wandering down his midriff.

“Daddy,” Seraphina tried. The word came out awkward and wrong-shaped in her throat. He hadn’t been that for years. Was she supposed to honour the value he had once represented? Like old coins, glittering in the sunlight like his ice-fractal armour. Numbly, she touched the raw wound where the lance had scratched him. He bled red, like her. This flesh had once helped to create her own. She supposed that she felt worried for him.

His eyelids fluttered, the eyes underneath searching. They opened a crack, and she saw his grey eyes, once so much like her own. He stared at her with the dazed confusion of a man who was not quite awake, and his lips moved, fumbling a faint word. She put her bloodied finger to his lips. They left a smear on his chin. He tasted the rust of his own blood.

He would not die. Seraphina moved on.

The shadows of this cave were dead ones, exhausted ones worn thin and grey like a palimpsest of evil secrets. The Earth’s sunlight penetrated deep, following her into the darkness. Her hair rose and brushed the walls, her green eyes glowed bright and sharp, unfazed by any shadow. The Earth’s heartbeat throbbed through the soles of her feet; it felt intimate, to venture deep inside the cave, wrapped around in the Earth’s embrace. The presence of the planet whispered to her, giggling like a little boy asked to dance in spring.

 Nonetheless, the shadows mustered, weakly, to defend their king as she approached. The air grew thick and viscous, like turgid soup. Seraphina laughed and kept walking. Electric prickles, as feeble as pins, prodded her skin. Contemptuously, Seraphina blew it away with a tempest snort that sent up a cyclone of dust. Gritty black sand swept bitingly at her cheeks. She brushed it aside. Desperately, the shadows tried one last ploy. They tried to convince her that there was nobody in the cave at all, but the steady thud of the Earth’s heartbeat in her ear laughed at the suggestion, and lead her right to her star.

The body of Pitch Black lay on his back, the bloody tip of the lance protruding like a stern finger from his chest. It had gone straight through his heart, and shadows curled limply from the grey flesh. There was no bleeding. It was curiously clean, this ashy corpse, even with the bones shattered grotesquely from the fall. Pitch’s eyes were open, unseeing, glassy gold.

Sandy was not there.

Seraphina eyed his position, then leaned back to glimpse her father’s silvery body at the front of the cave. So Pitch had thrown her father aside to save him the impact.

“You probably saved my father’s life, monster,” said Seraphina, and then because it only seemed fair, she twisted the lance viciously in his chest and broke the few ribs that remained whole with a hard stomp. “That’s for Sandy,” she told him. Then she ripped the lance out, gooey shadows slinking gratefully back to the ruin of Pitch’s chest. Like fat black spiders, they began to weave webbing over the gaping wound, sealing it with shadow and sand.

Still holding the lance, Seraphina wobbled away a step, turned her back on him. Then she sank to her knees, and for the first time since she had been a little girl, she cried. It wasn’t clean crying. It was messy and uncomfortable and strange, and her back heaved as she shook and gasped and hiccupped little breaths of absolute misery. It was the sort of broken and bereft crying of a holy man whose temple has been desecrated, guilt and anger and fear and loss all mixed together. She rocked and keened to herself, resting her forehead against Nightlight’s lance.

Sandy wasn’t there. Sandy wasn’t there but Seraphina was, and the darkness of the cave, cold and still and open, was so dissimilar to her fiery heart in the star that it terrified her. She curled up on herself and hugged her knees to her chest, whispering pleas to the dark, just like she had done on that night so very long ago, fleeing the Fearling massacre at her home. Sandy had found her there. Sandy had brought gold and brightness and wishes and dreams into the dark and empty terror of her senseless childhood.

She knew and barely cared that the Fearlings around her were feeding off her fear. The darkling behind her was probably healing himself from the strength of her negative emotions. She didn’t care, Seraphina decided, all at once, let them. There was no use being afraid of the dark when one accepted that they would never see the light again.

But how Seraphina wished it wasn’t so.

A series of ugly snapping sounds behind her startled Seraphina so badly that she leapt to her feet and turned around.

It was Pitch. Of course it was. His bones were fitting themselves back into place, in hideously grotesque and ugly healing, a Frankenstein display of jerking body and swarming shadow. He sat up abruptly, and the shadows over the walls gasped as his heart restarted, and his eyes burned bright brilliant gold like the sun, like the heart of the star. He coughed, and spat out sand. Black sand.

Seraphina lifted the lance threateningly. Pitch eyed it with a particular hatred. Seraphina aimed the lance at him and walked forward until it touched his prominent collarbones. She raised an eyebrow and her green eyes flashed and burnt.

Then he blinked hard, as if there was something stuck in his eye. A tear welled up in his brilliant golden eye, then ran and spilled down his ashen cheek. It glittered bright gold. As it fell onto the puddled sand at Pitch’s side, it blossomed a warm sunshine yellow.

The sudden, violent surge of hope in Seraphina’s breast was as strong as the dull despair had been just a moment earlier. Despite her loathing for the creature, Seraphina dropped to her knees beside Pitch and grasped hold of his thin shoulders. She shook him, and his face scrunched up. He screamed breathlessly in pain, his closed eyes welling with more tears. One or two were gold. She caught them carefully in her hands and pressed them into the nugget of golden sand.

“I will stick this back in you,” she threatened. “Let him out!”

Pitch’s eyes darkened with hate. He lurched and coughed, and spat out a fine haze of golden sand. Lines of gold began to show up under his skin, in his veins, bright and glittering. The light wore through his shadow-papery skin like fire.

“Sandy!” Seraphin shook Pitch hard, slapped him across the face. His neck broke with a gristly sound, and his head flopped at an odd angle. It should have killed him. Instead, he lifted his hands and clicked his head back into place. Golden sand oozed out of the wound in his chest like blood.

Sandy’s presence very faintly pressed against hers, and suddenly, Seraphina knew exactly what to do.

“Wish I may, wish I might-“

Pitch’s eyes widened and he garbled out a broken “NO!” but it was too late.

The rivulets of golden sand became streams. Lazy strands of gold shot and twisted through the cave in stardust tendrils, and a familiar dear heart formed with them, shaking himself off with a sort of full-body shudder.

I believe, Sandy said drily into her mind, being inside that creature’s stomach was the worst nightmare of my entire life.

Seraphina laughed, felt tears of her own slide down her cheeks in wonder. “You’re a wishing star!” she rebuked him. “You’ve never had a nightmare!”

That’s true, he said thoughtfully.

“Form a body, Sandy, I want to hold you,” Seraphina demanded, and the rippling golden sand turned a decidedly embarrassed shade of orange.

Oh! But Seraphina – I don’t have much sand – I’ll be small.

Pitch made an odd sound beside Seraphina that had she been listening closely, she might have identified as a laugh. The shadow-creature fell back against the rock, thin chest rising and falling slowly. He closed his eyes and turned his face away as if the light show above pained him.

Seraphina rolled her eyes, and apparently sensing her disdain, Sandy obediently coalesced himself into a great brilliant nexus of swirling sand. Glowing just as brightly as any young star, he formed a body, barely up to her hip, round looking, with shorter hair than she had ever seen on him. But his soft little face was always the same, and so was his gap toothed smile, tugging at one plush lip. He had no pilot uniform and had manifested no sex for himself, choosing to ignore the conventions of formation. He padded, not quite touching the floor, over to her, and settled himself quite comfortably in her lap.

You’ve grown so tall.

“You’re just short,” she teased, and then hugged him so hard that his sand compacted. Impulsively, she kissed him, and his skin lit up brilliantly like a firework behind her closed eyelids, and the Earth thrummed excitedly underneath them. He was grainy, and apologised sincerely for the roughness, blushing yellow like the sun. She embraced him, uncaring, the first time they had ever been able to do so. It was unfamiliar – he was warmer than she had expected, but she thought maybe she could get used to it.

Definitely, Sandy concurred.

She pressed her nose into his rough hair, trying to hide her glad tears. She had so feared his death. He had been her companion for so many years that the glimpse of a life without him had undone her.

I can bear anyone’s tears but yours, Sandy said, sounding quite distressed. He wriggled in her arms and put his small hands on her cheeks, his great glistening golden eyes staring up at her warmly. He rested her forehead against his. Seraphina was aware of her hair fanning around them, of the Earth laughing at her blush, at the definite feel of a sprouting daisy pushing up between her fingertips. She blinked and pulled back. She gasped.

The cave was carpeted in meadow flowers, daisies and dandelions, little purple thistles. The red fox sat in the entrance of the cave, his bright eyes watching hers, his bushy tail wrapped around his paws. The wind bustled in, carrying the sweet scent of clovers.

Seraphina’s heart suddenly seemed light enough to fly away. She kissed Sandy again, and he glowed brightly in response to her attentions, brightly enough to aggravate Pitch, who groaned and rolled away, hitting a rock with a thump. They jumped apart, guiltily, glanced at each other, and then Seraphina had to press her hand over her mouth to stymie her giggles.

Don’t worry about him, said Sandy, kindly. He won't be a problem anymore.

She lifted him up onto her hip and walked out of the cave into the brilliant sunlight, drinking in his wonder at the beauty of the preening Earth.

It’s lovely, sighed Sandy. He paused. Furred One! He sounded delighted, and Seraphina felt Bunnymund stir on the other end of the mind-link, radiating a definitive annoyance.

When you two are quite finished, the Pooka grumbled, I need to be dug out and there is a man slowly dying outside. No rush, though.

Guiltily, Seraphina dropped Sandy, who floated unconcernedly, and hurried to the egg-ship to retrieve Bunnymund and his medicines. Flowers sprung up where she ran, much to her bewilderment. The sun shone bright and hot on her skin.

She was free. They were all free.

For now. Tsar Apollo Lunanoff still lived, and the Constellations were only as far away as the night sky. But now Seraphina had hope and a dream to carry them through. Her father lived, his monster had relinquished his hold on Sandy, and Bunnymund had become a reluctant friend.

All would be well. There was still a great and sickly light to conquer, but for the first time, Seraphina thought darkness and all the good it brought would prevail.