Chapter Text
*fic*
Pitch couldn't remember the last time he felt any love for his dear Seraphina that wasn't immediately swallowed by the ravenous black void where his heart should be. Such is the duality of his being.
Contrary to his own denial, General Kosmotis Pitchner was still very much alive under all that...Pitch Black-ness. Weak and bound as he was, exist he did. Rare occasions like his current state allowed the man to claw his way to the surface briefly.
It had been some time since he observed Seraphina comforting Jack Frost of all beings. Some time since he had heard her speak (be it to or of him) with out white hot rage boiling in her words. All he could glean from her emotions had been despair.
Despair at the monster he had become.
And to think, the frost spirit had such a similar darkness within him, a side of him compelled to kill. To slaughter innocent mortal children. Because HE made him so! That wretched fool had purposely created a being that existed to destroy the life he claimed to protect!
The hypocrisy!
Not only that, his own daughter turned a blind eye to this wicked child's brand of murder. Praised him for keeping balance, accepted him as her child without hesitation; her Winter Prince in the Court of Seasons. Among her Spring Princess, Summer Prince and Autumn Prince.
His...grandchildren.
While she had birthed three, the fourth was merely a reanimated corpse. No heartbeat drove the frozen blood through his veins, lungs only took in air to speak or give the illusion of breathing. A true horror should one really think about it. Something dead, clinging to this world, obsessing over making children smile. And visiting in their darkest hour to provide release.
But, because he gave the children frivolous fun, she could not care less. After all, Winter was savage. It would tear any living master asunder. Only the dead could hope to master death itself.
Pitch had met the three true seasons. All at different points in history. Naturally, they greeted their dear grampa with similar reactions.
Anis, Autumn, he happen by sometime in the 1300s. Pitch was soaking up the abient fear of uncertainty that hung in the air.The red head was watching rather dismally as the last of the plague dead were burned en masse outside a small French village. Turning from the sight, he'd had taken one look at the figure in black and well, blanked out.
His brilliant green eyes became flat and dull. His face slack. Not at all that surprising. Abject horror took many forms and such was the way most who could see him behaved. The Dark Ages were barely over, but The Boogeyman was still regarded as one not to trifle with. He'd expected it really, perhaps accompanied by the sprite soiling himself.
So imagine the Nightmare King's reaction when the latter did not come to pass.
And he nearly lost his head to the swing of a massive battle axe.
"What in the hell?! Have you no idea who I am welp?!"
"Oui. Votre réputation précède de vous grand-père. Cependant, il vous manque une certaine ... Je ne sais pas ..." (Yes. Your reputation precedes you grandfather. However you lack a certain...I'm not sure...)No inflection was present in his voice, those lifeless eyes following their quarry." Dans tous les cas, n'hésitez pas à rester immobile si vous, s'il vous plaît." (In any case, feel free to remain stationary, if you please.)
That's all the warning he got. Granted, had he listened, a split second later he would have been in two pieces. The gigantic blade was firmly buried in the spot he'd stood on. The shockwave of power cleaved the ground a good half mile long, causing the terrain to shift. How was he swinging that monstrosity one handed?! The blade alone had to be no less than four feet wide!
The mourners screamed in terror, highly alarmed that a great section of earth had suddenly crumbled away leaving a new cliff so near the pyre. Some lamented the wrath of God was surely upon them.
They were sort of right. Pitch had unwittingly unleashed a force of nature's wrath upon himself. The insects happened to be unlucky enough to be in close proximity. He had no choice but to beat a hasty retreat. Without delay, he plunged into a shadow cast by the debris. So he missed what came next.
"Tch. Pitoyable." (Pathetic.) Just as suddenly as it came, the rage evaporated. Anis looked around confused then groaned loudly. " Oh mon Dieu, encore une fois?! Un tremblement de terre est due ici de toute façon..." (Oh my god, again?! This area was due for a quake anyhow...)
He actually sought Shemu out a century or so later. The one who most shared his intimidating stature and eyes. So feared by mortals he gained several incarnations as various deities of the middle east. It's not hard to guess what happened when they met.
"Hello there. I'm sure you've heard of me, Pitch Black, The Nightmare King? You must be She-"
Something sharp sliced across his cheek before he finished Summer's given name. A deep cut that bled freely. Golden eyes narrowed above the white cloth mask. With a sharp flick, the drops of black blood dripping from his blade spattered across the golden sands.
At first, the two merely stared. Locked in a battle of heated glares. Shemu gave no indication that he had even struck save to cast off the inky fluid. Yellow irises flashing brilliantly broke the stalemate.
" وسوف يسبب لك الألم هو كل ما تحتاج إلى معرفته. يكون في وضع الاستعداد أو تموت، لا يهم بالنسبة لي. ." (The pain I shall cause is all you need know of me. Be on guard or die, it is of no consequence to me.)
To say that sounded ominous would be an understatement. His scythe formed almost too late to parry the strange sword. It burned like the desert sun, singeing his exposed flesh. When still, it appeared solid. However when Shemu snapped his wrist, the metal wavered and bent lengthening like a whip. That description isn't quite accurate. The bends were sharp angles with no curve. Even though he countered, the weapon merely snaked around the pole of black mist.
To shear off the arm holding it.
Pitch watched in horrified awe as his left arm was severed. The detached limb exploding into tendrils of shadow and vanishing. To his courtesy though, the intense heat generated by the sword calterized the wound instantly. How convenient. Not that it mattered. Regeneration was a perk of immortality. Being a living shadow helped too.
"Insolent bastard!" The fringes of his cloak lashed out in anger. Aiming for his assailant's face.
"هوية والدي ليس سرا. ولي العهد Lunanoff لتدمير لك. !" (My father's identity is no secret. An heir of Lunanoff shall be your destroyer!) An amused chuckle followed that declaration. Another casual twist of the wrist sent the sword looping and winding like a funnel that shredded the shadows easily. The vortex whipped Pitch up into the air then pile drove his face across the sharp sands.
When he awoke, the bamly noon day air had been replaced by the frigid night breeze. His arm had regrown, the skin slightly paler than the rest of him. Perhaps they weren't as alike as he first thought.
The Boogeyman would have ended his opponent, conscious or not.
Mariposa he knew to be passive. That was a fact. The timid Spring goddess was often known to just let winter's wild minions over stay their time until her mother stepped in to help her. Mother Nature couldn't command these elementals but that hammer* of her was rather effective in letting them know when to fuck off.
Too bad Pitch confused passive for 'never violent in any way'. As pertains to Mari, that really meant 'just likes to give Mama something to do when she's not busy'. Looking back on their first meeting, he felt rather dim for ignoring the fact that things aren't always what they appear.
Pitch was drawn to the area by the fear the locals had of these strange new invaders from beyond the sea. She was braiding her unique blue locks beside a waterfall when he found her. He didn't even get to speak before she screeched at the top of her lungs and charged him like a hummingbird from hell.
He discovered the hard way that her style was hands off weaponry. Specifically, anything from leaves and petals to grass and feathers became a razor sharp hazard under her direction. She never actually touched a single thing she threw at him!
"Will you calm down! I have no desire to harm you child!" A wall of black came up to shield him.
" El sentimiento no es mutuo gilipollas!" (The feeling isn't mutual asshole!) She replied whipping her arms out wide then slamming her palms together. The concussive wave shattered his shield like glass and forced him to cover his ears.
Fat lot of good that did. On the plus side he couldn't hear the rest of her ranting as she continued to bombard him until he finally ran for it. On the negative, he couldn't hear ANYTHING for weeks.
So, he'd learned something in that rather short stretch of 3 centuries. That even in spirits, certain things seemed to be hereditary. The seasons shared their mother's intensity, their father's regard for him and the immense power of both. As well as his own bipolar.
Joy.
There went his plans of subverting the Mook in the Moon with his own creations. Well, until he met Jack. But everybody knows how well that panned out. For all his efforts he got blasted to hell by a frost spirit, beat up by a living peep, and lost a tooth to a punch in the mouth. From the Tooth Fairy of all things!
And now he watched the winter bane convert the brats that helped halt his glorious plan into spirits like himself. Saw the love for these new additions to the family shine in his daughter's eyes. Felt that hypocrite in the sky beam with pride.
And felt nothing but nausea himself.
*fic*