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Trapped. This was the price Maxwell had paid, as well as his punishment. In that moment he had accepted it almost eagerly, anything to bring her back.
”Charlie,” he whispered as the shadow tendrils of the nightmare throne wound tighter around his limbs.
They had fulfilled Their part of the deal of course. Charlie was alive. Well, in a way anyway, but it was better than the alternative, right? The man tried his hardest to believe it, even when the image of his dearest friend transforming into something inhuman was burned on his mind. The look she had given him had been feral and filled with hatred before she vanished in the darkness with a hiss.
Maxwell sunk in his seat. It had been his fault. He would never blame Charlie for hating him. He had brought her here and caused the whole situation. He'd give up anything to undo his mistakes, and so he did.
He could feel the shadow tendrils snake their way through his skin and inside his arms. He flinched instinctively as the nightmare fuel burned inside his veins.
”Anything,” he reminded himself as he could practically feel every heartbeat spread the liquid shadows further and further inside him.
Slowly but steadily the nightmare fuel was taking over his body, eventually reaching his brain.
He could feel Them prying, digging through his memories for something and whispering cruel thoughts, implanting ideas to his mind until it became hard to distinguish which thought was his and which was Theirs... No! These memories were private! He would lock those doors and keep Them out, burying the memories deep, so he'd never think about them and risk Them finding something they could use for Their evil. Surely he could protect that much, he just needed something else to focus on, whatever he still had.
He tried looking around, but the room was still as dark as ever, and there was nothing he could focus on.
He could feel the clothes on him though. That would have to do. He had a fine three-piece suit and a well tailored coat, he was the most dapper man you could find, and the king of the world!
Yes, this is what he would focus on!
*****
The king of the world. How many days had passed? How many weeks? Months? Years? Maxwell had been counting just to have something to do, but it was hard to keep track of the time in the dark, and eventually the years blurred together. All he knew was that it had been more than a lifetime. Several lifetimes in fact. Long enough for his clothes to decay on his body. He still held onto their ragged remains, imagining them as the fine garments they once used to be.
He was still trapped on the throne and hadn't been able to leave at all, which meant that it had been an eternity since he tasted food. His mouth was beyond parched for having nothing to drink in all this time, yet he hadn't felt thirsty or hungry even once. Surely it was the throne itself that kept him alive, fueled by nightmares as the liquid shadows still flowed through him in a steady stream.
Maxwell was fully integrated to Their hivemind and could see what They were seeing and hear what They were hearing, which allowed him to look around his world even when he was unable to go there physically.
He'd been making changes and experimenting with his powers, creating things just to keep himself entertained. He was actually quite proud of the things he'd achieved, but there was a sadistic edge to everything he did, which he decided to ignore. Just as he was ignoring the fact that his powers came from Them. Everything he did used nightmare fuel that was provided by the throne itself.
But that ignorance made him sloppy, and just for the briefest of moments he forgot that he was guarding his memories from Them.
”I wonder what would my brother think if he saw what I've achieved,” he thought as he was looking at the world he'd created with his powers. He missed Jack.
”Oh? A brother? Jack?”
Maxwell heard a curious voice inside his own head speak almost too softly, and realized he'd opened that locked door. But it was already too late. The memory had been seen. But it had been such a long time that surely it no longer mattered, right?
”Oh and he's got children too? Fascinating!”
”You leave them alone,” Maxwell growled back at the voice.
”Oh, but family reunions are so wonderful though,” the voice teased. ”You might want to see this!”
Maxwell grit his teeth and followed Their direction to see what They were seeing.
To his surprise, he found himself back at his old world, almost exactly as he remembered it. Looking around, it was clear that only a few years had passed there.
”Time flows differently here,” the voice in his head responded to his unasked question and brought his attention to two little girls that were playing outside a house.
Maxwell didn't recognize the girls, but he knew this house. He looked back at the girls. They were twins. Twins like he and Jack. His brother had told him about the twins in his letters.
”Ah, sweet little things, aren't they?”
The voice spoke softly, but there was an ominous tone to it.
”It would be a shame if there was an accident.”
”You wouldn't,” Maxwell growled at Them, but there was no response. He could only watch powerlessly as They lured one of the girls to the cliff edge, and she slipped and fell. Maxwell could hear the other child scream and caught a glimpse of his brother rushing out from the door before his consciousness was pulled back to his own body on the nightmare throne.
He slumped in the seat. Maxwell wanted to scream too, but what good would that do. He just cried in silence, reminding himself to keep his memories buried. He had harmed a person he wanted to protect. Someone was dead because of him. Again...
”Charlie,” he whispered once more. She was the one person Maxwell could afford to think about, as there was nothing more They could do to harm her. She had already died and was now living the life of a shadow herself. And he missed her so much. Oh, he was so lonely...
”Don't look so grim, our King,” the voice in his head said almost gently. ”This should cheer you up.”
A shadow hand emerged from the darkness, bringing a phonograph close to the throne, now illuminated in the dim light on the pillars Maxwell had created. The shadow hand placed the needle on the disc and the device started playing a cheerful tune that heavily contradicted the mood in the room.
It certainly didn't make Maxwell feel any better. He spent the following days curled in on himself, trying very hard to distance himself from everything that was happening, just staring into nothing, feeling nothing, an empty shell of a man.
He was still distantly aware, through the eyes of Them, that the little girl, Wendy was her name, kept trying to make contact with her dead sister. He could even hear her call through the phonograph at times. How that was even possible, he had no idea, but he refused to answer her, hoping she wouldn't get involved any more than she was.
But his hopes were crushed when one day he heard his own voice call for Wendy, making promises to reunite her with her sister. And the next thing he knew, Wendy was there in his world.
What sort of king was he, if he wasn't even in control of his own actions? His body, his mind, his voice, they were all just playthings for Them! And now They'd taken everything from his brother too? And it was all his fault! Again! He'd be better off...
Maxwell paused. He couldn't fix this, but he could end it. He had the power to create whatever he wanted, so he conjured a sword, created from the nightmare fuel that surrounded and filled him. A dark and ominous blade, and so very sharp. He held it in his hand and admired his work for a moment.
Maxwell had no hesitation as he turned the sword towards his own chest and struck. But just as the tip of the blade pierced his skin, a sudden bolt of energy jolted the sword out of his hand and he watched the blade disintegrate and vanish.
He should have known the throne wouldn't allow him to just die. It had kept him alive all this time and it wasn't going to let him go so easily.
Maxwell sighed in defeat. He looked at the wound he'd inflicted on himself. It didn't surprise him to see that the liquid now pouring out from the cut was black. There was no blood running through his veins anymore, just liquid nightmares. That's all his life was now. He understood it by now that it was all that his life would ever be. Forever and ever, a nightmare.
He heard himself laugh, a distant, hollow, joyless laughter, and he wasn't sure if it was him or Them. It didn't matter. He was the king of the world.