Snowflakes And Shadow Crowns

Say You Love Me

He stared up into the abyss of shadow with yet another sigh on his lips and a bleeding hole in his heart. Being the king of all things dark and unholy sort of meant that he was accustomed to the fickle thing called depression, the unwanted friend known as anxiety, and the replaying guilt of regret, but he'd have to admit that he hadn't felt heartbreak in a long, long time. The last time he could recall were the final few moments he spent as Kozmotis.

That feeling still haunted him, and he expected this one would too for the rest of perpetuity just the same. What luck.

If he claimed he wasn't tired, he'd be the king of all lies--not that he wasn't already--because, truthfully, he was far past a state of lassitude. He had simply stayed in bed for the past months, getting up only for a few hours everyday just to realise that anything and everything was utterly pointless and that the prospect of sleeping seemed so much more entertaining. Not that it offered any true respite since the only thing it brought was nightmares.

And regret,  and guilt, and more regret, and remorse, and self-loathing, oh and even more regret.

He was a mess.

Jack, Jack, Jack, and Jack--that's all he contemplated, all he spoke of, all he dreamt about.

All he needed.

And if it seemed rather redundant, he couldn't admit that he'd noticed. Everyday felt the same, so much so that he couldn't tell one from the other. Everything blurred together into one inexplicable imbroglio that was set to replay like some broken record; Jack never left his mind, the pain of infeasible what-ifs nailed into the forefront of his heart and soul, no premise of fading with the passing of time that seemed so adamantly stagnant.

And he never in his thousand years of life thought that anything could hurt so damn much.

Rolling onto his side, cradling his head with one arm, Pitch closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew that he was the only one to be blamed. He was the one, after all, who'd pushed Jack away and vanished; he was the one who'd made that final decision, but he kept asking himself how it could've been different. Perhaps he had been too hasty in finalising his choice? Gods above, did it feel like it.

"There has to be a way..." He breathed softly into the cloth of his robes, his brows beginning to ache from being knit together for so long. Perhaps there was a chance, albeit a bit small, that he could make this work. Maybe there was something he could do---a plan he could devise--that could ease Jack back to him.

But, no. He knew the Guardians would not be so foolish this time around; they would never leave the boy alone with him, especially after that stunt he pulled. And, besides, he was forgetting that Jack was only playing with him. There was no love in that cold heart of his.

The truth of the matter hurt more, it seemed, each time he remembered. Ideas would swirl in his head, a false sense of hope would swell his ribcage, but each time optimism seemed to brush his fingertips, reality would smash him back into the hole that he had so pathetically dug.

Huffing angrily to himself--which came out more like a wounded sigh--he threw his legs over the side of the bed, the stone floor cold through the feet of his pants. He sat there for a moment, staring at the dirt that had swamped his lair, always clinging to everything ever since he'd been defeated. A path of it was cleared where he'd gotten up on previous days, the grime having been swept away by his coattails, leaving the end of the cloth grubby and covered in filth. Normally, he supposed, he would have been rather infuriated at the waste of a perfectly good robe, only now he didn't really have the energy to care much.

He stared at the soiled stone, debating whether or not he truly wanted to get up and, honestly, that thought made him feel more than just a bit pathetic.