Chapter Text
Lord Kozmotis Pitchiner, high general of the Golden age army and protector of the Tzar and Tzarina Lunanoff and all the constellations, stood with a death-like stillness.
Kozmotis couldn’t remember when it started, but he knew that it must have at some point. It was becoming increasingly difficult for the general to remember and keep track of things like his well-being. The hours seemed to crawl past him like gutted soldiers, and what felt like a month or a year would be in reality minutes. But Kozmotis knew reality, or at least he thought he knew, long ago, and this was not it. This place in which he dwelled was like a surreal, distorted dream. An endless and unchanging dream whose minutes and hours and days would all bleed into the next.
An eternal hell! He thought dryly to himself.
Long was he past the outrage, and anger, and even sadness. He felt as if time itself was wearing away at his emotions. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing...to feel...empty? unfeeling?
The general sighed heavily. His eyes drifted up to greet the night, where the sun was a distant star and the sky was black and hollow. It was endless, unchanging, unhindered
Darkness.
But he was still free wasnt he? He laughed aloud at the thought. He could leave whenever he wanted to!
And it was a very tempting thought.
Though he knew deep down he would never abandon his post, his responsibility, his purpose. Because of this he was just as trapped as the demon shadows he guarded. The irony did not escape him. He laughed harder, at the world, at the sky, at the shadows.
The shadows had been silent for many many many heartbeats. He often forgot that they were there at all, they had been so quiet, unmoving except for his own stark shadow. Often these stretches of silence and stillness were too much for even him and so he would take solace in the locket, or he would listen to . . .
Kozmotis gave another shaky sigh, as he once again slipped in and out of his muddied thoughts. A hand raked through his auburn hair.
The voices, he thought dully, that’s when it started, a month ago perhaps . . . no that wasn’t right . . . a year then . . . and they would come out at night, back when he would talk aloud to himself, to the locket, to the far away sun. To keep him company and help him stay focused.
He remembered that during the first few weeks of isolation he would list off all the reasons why, one at a time.
Why was he here? Because he has to be
Why was he alone? He is never alone
Why he had volunteered to guard the most dangerous prison in all the constellations?
Only he could be that conceited . . .
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and rubbed the tiredness from his eyes.
The shadows were always quiet, but they were shadows! Shadows don’t speak! Fearlings, not shadows. Shadows don’t move on their own and feed on your greatest fears. Shadows weren’t hideous creatures -
“With pitted eyes, dagger teeth, and dangerous claws!”A young voice giggled.
Kozmotis paused in his thoughts, taking a moment to process who had said those words all those years ago. Then he remembered. That voice, how could he have forgotten! Gods be damned if he ever forgot again. It was her voice. Her voice, her eyes, her hair, her smile, her laugh . . .
“And fearlings love to play with emotions” another voice, deeper than the first.
Kozmotis jerks awake from the lull of his thoughts. He was almost positive he had thought that . . . or could he have possibly heard it? He was tired, yes that was it . . . very, very, very, tired. His obvious lack of sleep was making him hear things.
He shook his head again, amused for no particular reason other than to not give in to the small lingering traces of fear that now seemed to claw at his resolve.
No he couldn't give in, he would just get nightmares again . . . he didn’t think he could deal with that. He was so tired, so drained, emotionally and physically. It couldn't hurt to close his eyes, he wouldn’t fall asleep, but rest just for a minute…
It was then that the fearlings decided to attack the entrance of the dungeon.
Like a united entity, they pounded and scratched at the door. It was so abrupt, so loud, there were so many screaming voices. It nearly gave the poor general a heart attack as his eyes burst open in the darkness.
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Pitch Black awoke with an audible gasp, his chest heaving uncontrollably. There was a visible sheen of sweat on his skin and he was hyperventilating. He was hot. Waaaay too hot! It felt as if his insides were being cooked while simultaneously freezing cold.
He growled in pain, his teeth bared. It didn’t take him long to realise it was another gods forsaken nightmare. His hands didn’t seem to get the message though, as they continued to shake uncontrollably. Still sweating profusely, he kicked off the covers (like the temperamental teenager he was) as if they had outwardly insulted his attire. Only after the fact did Pitch regret his decision, immediately shivering from cold sweats.
Augh! Why did his body have to act so strange when he got nightmares! You would think he would have been used to all the horror and gore his mind had manifested over the centuries. And yet, to this day he would wake up with panic attacks and cold sweats like some menopausal middle aged woman!
With a prominent groan, Pitch flopped back down on top of his bed, mind still racing and frantically analysing the details of the recurring dream.
Pitch black knew all about nightmares, he was The King of Nightmares for darkness’s sake. He actually quite enjoyed giving horror-inducing dreams to children. He reveled in hearing their shrill screams echo through the darkness, watching them hide helplessly under their blankets, believing that it would protect them from him. And their fears!
Sprawled across his bed, Pitch’s stomach began to growl at the thought of food, the smell, the taste. His fangs ground together without thought and his mouth salivated.
So many wonderfully fearful little children, with their vivid imaginations and excessive anxieties. Now he was in no way in fact a pedophile, per say , he quite despised them actually, but a children’s fears were always the most delicious!
Pitch grew sidetracked, and began to list off all of his favorite fears to feast on, seemingly forgetting all about the strange nightmare.
Arachnophobia, Ophidiophobia, Acrophobia, Thanatophobia . . . Pitch sighed then growled lowly, remembering suddenly just who had starved him in the first place . . .
Gods, he would do anything to scare again! And he would be to if it wasn't for those self righteous, stuck up, cockroaches, that called themselves Guardians. Now there! They were proper scum of the earth! If anyone should be called pedophiles it’s them, bribing children with presents and candy . . . it was sickening!
Pitch was halted from his ravings however when a fearling came crashing into his bedroom, panic and fear shedding off the little gremlin in waves. By the expression on its face it appeared to be . . . scared? Of what? The little shade then folded his hands absently, and spoke quickly, as if doing so would make it less painful.
“Forgive me, my lord, but a small child has fallen into the lair”
And his day was going so well . . .