kandai_suika | [ficlet] Rise of the Guardians: Cacophony (Reply)

Titre : Cacophony

Auteur :

kandai_suika
Fandom : Rise of the Guardians
Personnages/Couple : Jack Frost, les Gardiens, Pitch Black.
Genre : Dark
Rating : R
Disclaimer : William Joyce, Dreamworks
Warning : Character Death. Graphic violence. Child Murder.
Prompt : For

rotg_kink. " Jack and Pitch. Platonic life partners in unhealthy co-dependency, egging each other on in madness, taking pure delight in harming others and laughing as the world burns around them. Give me dark and violent, but make me sympathetic all the same.

Résumé : The first time they killed, it was glorious.

Note : Originellement posté en décembre 2012. Non relu.
Continuité : None.
Taille : ~2,700

Cacophony, noun: Music. Frequent use of discords of a harshness and relationship difficult to understand.

The first time he killed, it was accidental.

He didn’t really remember it, anyway, it was just a silly little girl who was outside at night and she had to play in the snow, lost herself in the woods, cried – cried until it hurt too much to cry and died, died in the cold, alone, her lips blues and her eyes frozen on the cruel moon. Silly foolish little child, why didn’t she listen when they said the cold was dangerous? He didn’t remember her name, her cries of fear, of pain when the frost was running on her fingers, the silly little tears your breath had frozen; however, he knew he didn’t want the little girl to die.
(He just didn’t remember why.)

After her sobs vanished in the unforgiving night, he was angry and ice was everywhere, snow storming around him like a furious blanket of hurting cold. He asked the Moon if it was a punishment, if he had done something wrong, if he could fix it – but the Moon never answered, never listened to his sobs shed in the snow, never cared before and never will.

The second time he killed was an accident too but he wasn’t sad like the first with the little girl. It was an old man, who slipped, fell and hit his head against the hard snow. He lost consciousness and didn’t wake up. He wasn’t sorry because this one didn’t cry, didn’t feel the pain, just tripped on the ice and died – and the Moon didn’t care so why should he be sad? He wasn’t made to be sad.

So he laughed instead. He laughed with the people who played in the snow – precious, precious children with their big eyes, their tiny hands, why do you play when the cold is dangerous? –and he laughed with the people who died in the snow, because that was what he was supposed to do, right? He laughed and laughed so hard it made his ribs ache and his head dizzy, he laughed as if he could die from it and – Does this mean he is happy? Tears are for sadness and laugh is for joy, so he has to be happy to watch children play and die in his cold arms. He doesn’t care if his ribs hurt, if his heart aches because he is happy, even when the children are not.

(He has to be.)

So he laughed as people played – and people died.

When the child – precious, precious little boy, why don’t you come and play? – stepped on the thin line of ice what covered the frozen little lake, Jack had let a gentle smile form on his iced mouth. The nameless boy – who cares to learn about their names when they don’t know his – was somewhere around ten, eleven maybe and Jack could see a hole in his smile, the baby tooth missing while the other were already growing in the tiny mouth. The child was laughing when he slid on the ice, his short limbs spread like a clumsy spider to regain whatever balance and soon, Jack was laughing too, and it was almost beautiful, almost perfect in his own way, two laughs laced together in the cold air of December.

And then, the kid tripped on the ice, making a little noise of discomfort when his skin encountered the frozen surface. His smile widening, Jack took a step forward and stretched his hand to help the fallen kid – maybe this one, maybe this one.

The boy’s arm slid through his pale hand, as if it didn’t exist.

Jack never stopped smiling, even when the CRACK of the ice breaking cracked the freezing air of the evening. He looked down the hole in the pond, locked his cruel eyes with the opened, terrified ones under the darkening surface and watched, watched as the joyful smile turned in screams of terror, watched as the water – cold, unmerciful, cruel waters – took the little boy down to the very bottom, watched as the eyes slowly closed in a forever-lasting sleep.

He would say “Rest in Peace” in his usual mocking tone if he didn’t know better. Death never brings peace, only bitter tears and little girls who cried in darks, empties places.

(His heart is hurting like hell but only because he is laughing too loud.)

He lost track of the number, after a while, and he stopped to care as well. People played – beautiful smiles lost in the storms, ice skates left over frozen lakes torn open, widened gazes forever buried under a white blanket – and people died. He didn’t care because he was laughing all the time.

He was made for laughing, for blissful joy and innocent glee – but this ugly, broken, twisted sound that roar in his throat is the only thing he can ever get. Eventually, he hopes, there would come a time when he wouldn’t be started by his own laugh, when the sound will ring true and not wrong, wrong, wrong –

This time will come, he ~~despairs~~ hopes.

(It has to be.)

He didn’t know when it started (was it ever here, behind his back?) but there was something following his steps, a breeze cooler than the wind he used to ride, a dark echo of his never-ending laughter, a shade darker at the corners of his eyes, a dark presence lurking in the dark. Sometimes in the dead of midnight, Jack could have sworn, he had heard a mocking snort and felt something sharp brush against his neck.

(But when he turns back, he only sees the shadows.)

There was “something” in the dark; he didn’t know what or who it was but he did care, somehow.

Because the “something” was laughing back.

The snow was red and it was beautiful.

Jack got help, this time: he had let the children – beautiful precious children there are wolves in the woods don’t get lost in the snow or you won’t come back home! – to a famished pack who valued hunger over safety. The boy tried to fight against the starving beasts as the girls, seven and twelve, flew away. Or tried. The wolves had torn their guts open and devoured their insides when they were still screaming; the boy still breathed for a moment, crying for his missing arm and legs, but he didn’t last long. Their screams of agony reverberated in the midst like a thunderous echo, a silent whisper of beauty and joy. He tried not to laugh, to enjoy the sounds but the ~~hurt~~ joy was too heavy on his chest.

Jack liked the red. It was the only thing he could touch, the only thing that stayed on his skin when he dug his hands to the elbow in the puddle of red and grey. He was still smiling among the bloodied corpses when he suddenly heard.

He heard the empty laugh of the shadow.

When he turned back, quick as the North wind, there was someone behind him.

There was someone behind him who looked back (tall dark and cold yellow hungry eyes and sharp smile and dark everywhere near him and despair despair it will eat you like wolves ate children) at him. Startled, Jack blinked in confusion as the stranger didn’t fade in the shadows like he used to do.

Instead, the Shadow man took a step forward, his smile getting wider and wider as he came closer.

“You surely are something, aren’t you?”

Jack didn’t think, couldn’t think. (He had been alone for so long, so long.)

“Can… can you see me?”

A sound of broken glass and howling wind escaped the shadow man’s throat and Jack took a few seconds to understand the man was laughing again.

“See you!” he repeated gleefully. “Oh, precious little thing… Don’t you have any idea of who I am?”

Shamefully, the younger lowered his gaze and shook his head. Here, there was finally someone who could see him, who talked to him and he still couldn’t say anything right, stupid stupid stupid –

A pale hand with longs fingernails clasped under his chin and his eyes were forced up, meeting the cold yellow ones. The Shadow man had stopped to laugh but he was still smiling, his sharp teeth giving him the look of a hungry wolf.

(He will eat you alive.)

“You will know, Winter child, you will know.”

Somewhere, buried deep in his screwed, numb mind, Jack knew something wasn’t quite right in this disturbed, twisted world of his. His laughter shouldn’t be so hollow, his ribs shouldn’t hurt while he chuckled and he should care (but nobody ever cared why should he?), make sure children came back home (he never had a home), bring them joy (how could he if he didn’t even know what joy was)…

He just wanted to laugh. (He had to.)

“We will be great together.” had said the Shadow man, extending his slender hand toward the younger spirit.

He just wanted to laugh. (He was meant to be.) And this stranger, this one who stepped confidently on the snow, who had looked back at Jack and answered him like it was the most normal thing to do, this stranger was smiling to him, his hand stretched with raw hope and burning hunger.

(He will eat you alive.)

He just wanted to laugh.

His fingers were still covered in red and grey snow. The Shadow man didn’t bother.

The first time they killed together, it was glorious.

Jack had been luring some kids deep into the forest, further and further as they were playing with the snow. He made the snow cover their tracks – they lost themselves in the snow – and then, the sun was upon the horizon – they lost themselves – twilight came – lost lost lost – and the night fell.

With the night, the screams, the whimpers, the pleads for their mothers. The Shadow man took delight to scare them, projecting shadows on the trees, whispering threats in their red and blue ears, making them cry for their lives as their eyelids became heavier and heavier. When sun came, the frost had taken the stilled bodies, the tiny frozen chests and Jack had made a blanket with the snow to give them decent graves.

It had been fun and it had been fearful – and Jack had never laughed more in his entire spirit life. He was still giggling when the shadow’s fingers had closed like an ugly, dirty spider on his wrist (eat you, Jack, eat you) and he didn’t stop when the wind rose quietly.

“Come, precious child, come.” – and there was a promise in the tone, a silent vow to never let him go. He admitted he was scared – he didn’t want to go, he didn’t want to lost himself in the woods, lost like the children, lost himself and die lost – but the Shadow man’s grip was strong, tender, almost caring and Jack couldn’t stay alone anymore.

They lost themselves.

(He had lost himself, too.)

He could only hear his sick laughter resonate in the woods.

They killed a second time, a third one, and one more, always more…

Fear was demanding; fun was sharing and carefree – they mixed so well, polar sculptures tainted with shades of fading black, of grey and white. Their creations built in midnight sand and sharpened ice were a dull mirror, a shadowy reflection of perfection.

Cold and dark, hurtful fear and twisted fun – they were both, they were neither, they had just been very alone for a long time. But they had each other, now; they would never be the cold and silent nights, the watching Moon, the people passing by and through like they didn’t exist.

They existed, however.

They existed – and somehow, someday, they will make them believe.

This was simple, somehow. Pitch needed fear and Jack needed to laugh. The first one took delight in giving nightmares to children, giving them a break when the snow came – and children were so relieved not to have to suffer endless nights of dread, they didn’t always remember the meaning of “playing safely outside” and Jack came, with his ice, bringing laughter and death when they didn’t ask for it. (And oh the fear, the fear of the children dying, the fear of the children who survived, the fear of the parents even, it was everywhere and always so pure, so intoxicating.)

Pitch was breathing, a smile of contentment set on his thin lips, and Jack was laughing brightly. All was cold and dark, white and colorless, fear in a land where the night was the only frontier; all is burning and all is freezing under his bare feet and the long fingernails digging in the pale skin of his shoulder is only a constant reminder of a pain that always was here before.

“We are a perfect team, aren’t we?” had asked Pitch once, his ugly yellow eyes shining with an unholy glee, an unhealthy pleasure, broken and twisted (eating you, eating you, eating you) like Jack’s laughter.

He could only nod – and wish Pitch’s nails weren’t so sharp.

This was simple and this was ~~wrong~~ perfect.

They wanted more, more than mindless killing, more than broken laughter and dull contentment, more than screams in the dark and blood on the snow. They wanted to be feared, seen, touched – and no matter what they said to each other, the lonely company wasn’t simply enough.

“You will see, Jack, they will fear us. Believe in us.” had said Pitch with greedy whispers, his tongue darting between his scissors teeth. Jack smiled, his broken laughter threatening to full the quietness of the night.

Pitch was right (he had to): they will make them believe.

(And he wouldn’t be hollow anymore.)

The sledge was sliding on the half-frozen road, full of full-speeding cars and – was that a truck? The boy screamed (of fear), Jack laughed (of delight) and soon, the snow was crimson red and pitch black, the children were screaming around their silent comrade, the adults coming out of their houses, worried faces and gut wrenching. Pitch’s shadow was following them, dozen of his clutches greedily spreading over clenched guts and closed eyelids.

“SOMEBODY CALLS MRS. BENNET, NOW!”

“Oh my god, there is so much… – is he…?”

“Don’t look, don’t – HELP, PLEASE!”

“JAMIE, JAMIE – WAKE UP, JAMIE, YOU’RE NOT FUNNY, MOVE PLEASE!”

(She was wrong, Jack decided. This was funny.)

Sitting on the statue above the scene, the Frost Spirit didn’t stop laughing. And who cared if this was broken, hollow and wrong? Nobody listened, nobody ever heard his twisted laughter – except Pitch, and Pitch was going to destroy him someday, so who cared?

He had stopped caring a long time ago – nobody had ever cared for him, why should he have?

(He had to stop or he was going mad.)

He had stopped crying a long time ago – nobody had ever cried for him, why should he have?

(Still, he swore his laughter drove him mad too.)

He didn’t care. So he laughed instead when the ambulance arrived, when Sophie cried in her mother’s arms, when the hospital called to tell little Jamie Bennett didn’t survive his encounter with the truck. So he laughed until tears felts on his lips – and it wasn’t because he was sad, he swore to himself, because he didn’t need to be sad.

(Anymore.)

Pitch’s nails were digging into the scarred skin of his shoulder, making appear tiny holes of blue blood and cold water. The ugly black sand crept painlessly on his wound and Pitch’s voice was full of trepidation and utter satisfaction when he whispered to his companion:

“We are ready, Jack.”

The Nightmares around them stiffened in approval and the Moon itself seemed to shiver in the cold night.

(They were ready, indeed.)

Nodding, Jack stretched his pale lips and began to laugh – fear Jack Frost’s cruel laughter, fear Pitch Black’s shadowy nightmares ‘cause they would kill you if you stayed too long outside, fear the Winter Child and the Boogieman, fear us.

(Fear us.)

Still laughing together, the pair launched off to the cold and darkened sky, Nightmares on their heels and the world shivering under their feet.

(Believe.)

Far above, under the veil of clouds, a moonbeam was heading north.