Pretendings

His heart clenched, twisted, jumped to his throat and dropped to his stomach, and he felt as if he were being pulled in every which direction… It pounded against his ribs. 

And it was dark. Darkdarkdarkdark… and he was breaking, and he was scared… 

Emma. Emma. She was safe… but he wasn’t he was dying. 

His nose stung from water he had accidentally inhaled. His lungs ached and screamed. Every part of him screamed. Screamed. Screamed. But he made no sound. he couldn’t. Any attempt just filled his lungs with more water. 

And the cold was enfolding, stabbing, penetrating. 

And he was scared. A little part of his mind has said that if Emma was safe, that was all that mattered… but he was still human. He hadn’t wanted to die. It hadn’t been a calm moment. 

Wait. 

Hadn’t. 

Hadn’t.

HADN’T!!

Hadn’t. Past tense. 

He had already done this. He had been there, done that, got the tshirt. Or, in this case, a staff and a set of ice powers. 

He wasn’t drowning. He had already drowned. 

And he had come back out to the light of the moon. 

The weeds are pulling you down.

They keep tangling around you. They've moved up from the ankles, ensnaring legs and torso.

Now they catch at your arms.

There's a light above that can just be seen, but it's growing dimmer and smaller by the second. Soon it will be gone, beyond any hope of reach.

She flinches at the touch and moon-colored fingers curl up protectively over the top of her head. There’s nowhere to go. She can feel the shadows stretching around her like walls and retreats to the more comfortable darkness behind her eyelids. She shakes her head once, then again. Her cheeks are hot again and the tang of saltwater spreads across her skin.

Jack hated that he had somehow gotten confused.

Pitch had made a point, Jack had possibly missed a point, then made a point, Pitch had missed it… So why did Jack feel as though he had missed something else?

No. He didn’t.

He hadn’t.

Stupid, stupid mind games.

He flexed his fingers again, taking a deep breath and deciding that he would play along.

Wait....

Tendrils coiling, tangling around your ankles. Weeds.

Lake-weeds, swaying in murk.

Do you remember the last time you felt cold, Jack?

Or the way you clawed for the surface?

The breath dragged from your lungs.

Blood freezing in your veins.

Drowning.

Dying.

Aisling gasps and twists around toward the source of the voice, a pale hand flying up to freeze by her ear. The already-crouched form curls in on itself defensively, curtains of white hair falling forward to shield wide, red-rimmed eyes as her face contorts into a snarl. 

Jack hated that he had somehow gotten confused.

Pitch had made a point, Jack had possibly missed a point, then made a point, Pitch had missed it… So why did Jack feel as though he had missed something else?

No. He didn’t.

He hadn’t.

Stupid, stupid mind games.

He flexed his fingers again, taking a deep breath and deciding that he would play along.

"Now look who completely missed the point," Jack rolled his eyes. "You wanna tell me how to get out of this place?"

-

Jack turned to look at the wraith.

"You know, I forgot just how annoying you were." His fingers tightened around his staff, but he was still searching for a way out of this hell hole.

He realized, to his frustration, that the only times he had ever gotten in or out of this place was because Pitch willed it. He had been lured down a hole by his sister’s voice, only to find himself in one of Bunnymund’s tunnels. He barely even remembered how he had wound up here this time, he’s been caught in a fear coma, for lack of a better word.

All traces of amusement had gone. He stood -- or hung -- or jutted -- with one hand held behind his back, the other before him with fingers curled so he could feign the inspection of blackened nails.

Jack looked at Loki with a quirked eyebrow.

Jack hesitated, looking down at his staff.

He was a trickster by nature - he always had been. He recognized a trick when he saw one. Or, at least, an attempt at one.

As he considered it, he realized he could leave now and get the other Guardians (he probably should). He should probably admit that he couldn’t take Pitch on his own - especially down here in Pitch’s lair, on his home turf. He was at a complete disadvantage here.

He finally felt as though he could fight, but he couldn’t fight something he couldn’t see. And that meant Pitch could come at him from any direction. 

Oh, Pitch had hit a nerve alright. The wrong nerve. From the Nightmare King’s perspective, at least. He had hit the nerve that reminded Jack he needed to fight back. For the Guardians, for the children, for himself… for the memory of a boy who had believed in him, and had faith in him even in a moment of despair. 

That wasn’t a memory Jack could allow to be tainted by Pitch twisting his words from those years ago. 

He fought to catch his breath through the stinging in his throat and sinuses. Words clacked out in his mind like something typewritten and he tried to form them with his mouth, but all that came was a pained rasp as air scraped against the stung-raw flesh. He had collapsed to his knees, but the weight of his upper body fell on his arms which stretched out to splayed hands on the floor. There was a soft pattering on his back from the little handlermarkcivilian girl. He knew, he knew he wasn't operating efficiently. He was trying.

Artham felt his fear take the next level up when the dragon’s terrible voice was directed at him again.  In some strange way, he felt his fear settle him and the world seemed to still.  Only he and the dragon existed in the entirety of the world.  The dragon and his flames and he and his words.