draco dormiens nunquam titillandus

[silvermists]

He's young and small again, a little scrap of a boy drowning in a sea of sickly green light. The smell of decay fills the air, choking him.

There's. A dragon. The dragon is source of the smell, rotten all the way through. He can feel the creature, made of greying meat, hating him with all its soulless might. He can't move his body. He can't release his magic to cleanse the thing to death. It's roaring words at him in a language he doesn't know and understands perfectly. Murderer. Dragon-killer. Mankind-killer, brother-killer, Dark Messenger, destroyer of all Terra's hopes, Angel of Death.

He laughs and laughs and laughs, for imagery of this little boy's future flash through his mind and it is all pain--

He sits up with a start, going from dreams to reality in a fraction of a second. This man never sleeps all that deeply, anyway. There's a shadowy figure in the corner of his room.

It grins at him, golden eyes glowing and meeting his blue. He grins back. Little boy fears. It hardly made his nightmares worse by lurking, and all of those things were real. Not fantasy.

It's going to die anyway. Again. Too stupid to have learned from the first encounter? How tragic. In the time it takes for the Nightmare King to open its mouth and say one word, the Angel of Death has already called up a spell and flung it, filling the room with deadly white light. Goodbye, Pitch.

The Boogeyman is flung out the door shrieking, already dying of the light that's meant to kill. The door wasn't open before he made his exit. A large jagged piece is snapped off by Kuja as he follows the shadow into the hall. Garland taught him to murder with more than magic and oh, does he have pent-up tension...

He finishes the gurgling creature by plunging the stake through its chest, sending thick black blood spraying. (But not far, for it's tarry stuff.) Then he seems to come back to his senses, straightening his back and inclining his head so his hair falls over his eyes...

Well. That just happened.

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[mettaton_rex]

There's a clash of metal against stone, from further along the hall. Mettaton looks like he's still trying to back away, pressed against the wall as though he could still phase through it and disappear, if he tried his best.

He's not here. He's not here and he didn't see a n y t h i n g. There's no need to shut his mouth for him this time, he'll be good.

He hasn't realised who it is on the floor yet.

[silvermists]

That's just lovely. He drops his weapon, done with it. More where that came from, if need be. Not that he really has enemies here besides the one he just murdered in less than sixty seconds--everyone else he's apathetic towards. They're not causing him any trouble.

The way his eyes narrow when he turns toward the din speaks of terrible possibilities, though. It's not reassuring. A machine with a humanlike head. He's seen this one before and passed him (it?) by, but to see him now when he's already been tipped over the edge... It fills him with fear and rage both.

"What. Do you want."

[mettaton_rex]

Terrible possibilities indeed. That look makes Mettaton try even harder to shrink away. He barely even contemplates running, sure he'd be chased down and punished. Running away from what you deserve is bad.

The question doesn't make any sense though, it's all upside-down and backwards. Why ask what he wants? Is this a trap?

"I - nothing! I don't want anything!" Is that the right answer? Please let that be right.

[silvermists]

The machine... couldn't be acting less like Garland, honestly. Too emotional, and afraid on top of that. Terra's Master was never frightened. This damps his rage and private horrors, leftover from the nightmare, just a bit.

"Oh, please. Stop acting like you're next. I'm not going to cover this up. Nobody will miss that creature. They might even give me a few medals."

Pity it won't stay dead longer than three days. It'll be back.

[mettaton_rex]

And that reaction is enough unlike Adam that it takes the edge off Mettaton's terror, in turn. Enough for him to think a little more. (Even enough to be dimly aware that if he wasn't so petrified right now, he might feel affronted. Who the hell wouldn't assume they were going to be next, in this situation? What a jerk. What oddly familiar behaviour.)

He's not moving away from the wall, though. The wall is keeping him from collapsing into a trembling heap. It's a good wall.

"What -" he begins, as he lets his gaze shift to the body on the floor. The first thing he sees is there's not enough blood, not human blood, human blood is bright bright red and there is far too much of it -

- then he realises exactly who he's looking at, thankfully before his mind has time to shut down again. The dark clothes, the grey skin. Understanding dawns on his face.

"...oh."

A good person wouldn't think well, you're not wrong, darling, would they? As if there was any doubt that he's the furthest thing from one.

[silvermists]

Cry him a river. The metal man could be next, easily. Anything (anyone) who looks like Mettaton does is on thin ice simply for existing. Life is cheaper in the castle than in reality, so the fact the glambot is still in one piece after making himself even a mild irritation is a miracle.

"Yes. He won't be missed."

[dustless]

"KUJ--!"

Frisk's voice breaks off immediately into violent hacking, leaving them doubled-up and clutching their stomach a few doors down the hall. (Diaphragm pain, though they don't know what that is, just that it's weird their chest isn't the thing that doesn't hurt the most half the time.)

[silvermists]

He runs a clean hand through his hair, exhaling. Not a drop of the black tarry stuff on him. Good work. Flawless. Killing is what he was born for, killing is all he's done, and yet no one's ever praised him for it.

Just himself.

Then someone is calling his name, before hacking like him on his final days--how strange, hearing someone else sound that miserable makes him feel... something.

It's the Frisk child again, because his luck is wonderful. He sighs again, leaving the corpse to rot and heading their way instead of simply trying to finish out the night's sleep.

[dustless]

Eventually shoving their hand over their mouth, Frisk swallows the blood back down once they can breathe again. It's not healthy (according to Kotetsu), but they don't care about healthy at this point. Besides remembering to disinfect the cuts the shackles made in their wrists and ankles. They've been on top of that well enough.

It's fine. They're fine. What Kuja just did is not fine, as they try to indicate by flailing at Pitch's body with their unoccupied hand.

[silvermists]

He crouches in front of them, completely ignoring what they're waving at. He knows perfectly well. The one exception, the only one who would object to that thing dying just had to be right down the hall, didn't they?

Oh, well, they won't be the first to rage at him. This is an old little drama. He's good at it.

"You need healing, it looks like."

[dustless]

They get their breath back eventually, stop coughing. "'M fine. Just sick." Ignoring what a complete oxymoron that is, they straighten up and give him a less-than-steady glare, made properly steady once they lean against the wall.

These stupid fits are getting longer and longer, hurting more and more. They wonder if that means the end is coming soon.

"Why'd you do that."

[silvermists]

"Again?" Just like last time. He cured them, then, and they haven't asked him to do it a second time. What does that say about them and their drive to live?

Probably exactly the same thing it does about him. They don't care. They'll throw themselves over the Edge rather like he does... and he'd be a hypocrite to stop them.

So he won't.

"That thing... should have learned the first time around to let me sleep. I have nightmares enough as it is."

[dustless]

"No--ye--something else. If you find a big diamond in a room that says don't go in on the door, don't go in." He doesn't need to double-die...though they can't say there's not a flicker of curiosity for what might happen if he did get infected by her.

People are worried about Frisk enough already. They're not looking for a cure themselves, but maybe if somebody else finds one for them, they can see if it might help Kuja somehow. If it's something magic. Just 'cause his own doesn't work doesn't mean some other kind kind.

"You coulda just scared him off! 'S not that hard."

[silvermists]

"Oh, I already know about that. I take it you'd rather I let it live too?" Stupid child. What else is he good for but death and destruction? He could kill her. If someone asked.

"Didn't I, though? I didn't think he'd have the nerve to come back and 'visit' me."

[dustless]

They shake their head quickly. "She's--she's big and scary but she's...somebody, so you don't need to. She won't be dangerous to you if you don't try to find her either." No reason to hunt him in particular, unlike Pitch.

From nowhere, they pull out a stick. Not the one they used to fight with, just a piece of branch they snapped off while climbing for fruit, and they shove it in their mouth. Something to gnaw on instead of scraping scores into the side of their cheeks and tongue.

"Not right, and killing him probably isn't gonna work either." Probably. They don't really know how the boogeyman's mind works. He's scared of them, but for unique reasons they're not going to give away easily.

They slip from anger to something more businesslike. "...did you fight anybody else?"

[silvermists]

"Her." he says, marveling. "You've made 'friends' with that too?"

What. What are they? He thought Zidane was on the wrong side of understandable. Frisk may as well be on the moon.

"Probably not. It didn't work the first time, as I said. Save your breath, nothing I do is right. And no, I haven't. No one else has given me reason."

[dustless]

"Yeah." It's extra weird and they don't care.

"Meant correctly. But you can do better." Listen to this humanized motivational poster. "You should just...make a light. Leave it. By your bed." And it's only as they say it that they finally realize nightlights are actually for. Hm.

They nod. "Did...somebody blond with glasses try to...do anything? With you?"

[silvermists]

"Why do you care? I haven't murdered someone people will miss. Don't say you will, I know that's a lie."

Because wanting 'it' to be left alone and wanting to spend time with it are two very, very different things.

"No. Why do you ask?"

[dustless]

They exhale, pretending their throat doesn't catch in the middle of it. They're not going to go into another coughing fit now. Later. "Just 'cause it's...not forever, or he's not liked, doesn't mean...you need to. And killing just makes it easier to do again." LOVE, not love--Frisk wonders if they could check him, but he's not a monster and they're tired.

"There was...a man. Adam. He was pretending to be Barnaby, kidnapped him, did bad things to him." Their voice is crushed flat to keep from shaking. "He...messed with some other people."

[silvermists]

(They could. Should. It would certainly be a shock.)

He completely ignores their latter statements, chuckling darkly and mirthlessly. So young he is, honestly. "What reality do you live in that you haven't realized I've razed entire cities? You read my biography. It's as easy as it can be."

[dustless]

(Another time, perhaps. When they think they can focus on the SOUL.)

"I know you did that, but you're already not the same as you used to be."

Good. They don't want to get into the rest.

[silvermists]

"That doesn't erase what I did and that it's still easy to kill."

Obviously. He waves a hand back at the corpse, if it wasn't clear enough. All done in under a minute.

[dustless]

"I know. But you can be better." Their teeth worry at bark. "...You're not just a weapon."

[silvermists]

"I was. I dreamed of it. And so I woke up and killed the one forcing me to." He stands up from his crouch, shrugging and tilting his head slightly again. "That thing wouldn't be upset if you died. Maybe you should let it go."

[dustless]

"He might," they say. They think it could be the truth, but it's said more for the 'he'. Pitch isn't a thing, he's a person.

"...don't want people to die, or get hurt, when there's other...ways. To fix things." They flash back to swinging at the nightmare king and drop into another coughing fit.

[silvermists]

Person, hell. It barely seems like more than an animal... more because of behavior than anything else. A madman, at best.

"Alright. I understand that much, if not why. And?"

[dustless]

They're getting a headache. Stupid coughing.

"An' what?" they croak.

[silvermists]

And nothing. What can they really do to stop him?

"Forget about it. Him, if you insist. I'll clean up the mess and he'll be back in a few days."

[dustless]

They scrub at their mouth again, looking towards the corpse. If they were feeling better--

Actually.

Who cares.

"I can help. 'F you want."

[silvermists]

"You're not in any shape to do much of anything." he says, dryly. He is, for once. He reset the clock not too long ago, actually.

(And he doesn't want to admit he's only going to toss the body over the edge. That won't go down well.)

[dustless]

"Aren't you gonna be going back to bed?"

He's right, they know he is, but they're in an especially mulish mood.

[silvermists]

With a tad more irritation in his voice, a sliver more than in theirs: "Not yet. You couldn't carry that on a good day. Don't be an idiot."

[dustless]

"Could too." They're sticking their tongue out at him again.

...but whatever. As soon as they decided to argue, they decide to let it go. They're tired too. "Fine. Gonna...sit." They wave back towards the nearest stairwell.

[silvermists]

"Good." he says, not caring a whit, really. Behind him, Pitch's nasty corpse has already started to glow blue and levitate. There's no way in hell he's touching it.

[dustless]

They don't know what he's going to do with it.

...they should be getting upset, maybe. He might be setting it on fire or throwing it off the edge or all kinds of things--he doesn't care at all about burying him.

They feel guilty for not.

Frisk doesn't say anything when he leaves. But when he's back, they've somehow got a couple of glasses of chocolate milk. The Castle provides helpful rooms for them sometimes.

[silvermists]

Definitely over the edge. Burning... people would notice that. The heat, the light, the char left behind, that would be too much effort to hide.

He and the corpse wink out in a flash of blue. When he returns, he returns alone. And blinks at them. What is this, why are you still here.

[dustless]

Frisk holds one out.

It's too warm for hot chocolate, or at least they're too warm to bother messing with fire, and normal milk isn't that good. Hopefully this is a good substitute.

[silvermists]

The flicker of sheer bewilderment he shows once he realizes they're offering him one is probably very sincere. Not, for once, him putting on a perfectly calculated act. It passes in the blink of an eye.

"You're an odd little thing, you know that?" What a thing to do right after he's murdered their 'friend' and all but dropkicked him off the floating island.

[dustless]

They take a sip, once they're sure they're not going to cough it all out.

Frisk saw something, maybe, but there's no reaction.

They can't fix the Nightmare King's death. They might apologize for Kuja later, and maybe doing that'll keep him away for real this time. Getting mad would be useless, and exhausting, and they don't feel like they even can. Not a lot of people outside of Pitch can really get them feeling a lot of bad things.

"Kinda strange," they agree.

[silvermists]

He takes it. The thought occurs to him that they may have dumped an entire saltshaker into it, or something else obnoxious--poison wouldn't occur to them. Being an annoyance would.

And he sips it anyway. It's... chocolate. And sweet. That's nice.

Manners.

"Thank you."

[dustless]

"Welcome. Milk's s'possed to be good for sleep," they say seriously.

Of course, chocolate isn't, but what kid actually thinks about that?

[silvermists]

"I've heard."

So is having no Nightmare King around. And he's wondering...

"Does he bother you when you sleep?"

[dustless]

"Prob'ly. But he's good at hiding from me."

Frisk really can't be sure, since they already have nightmares a lot. They know they haven't found him looming in ages, though.

[silvermists]

It's looming that got the moron killed, really. If he'd stayed in the shadows... well, Kuja rarely has pleasant dreams. He wouldn't have suspected a thing.

"Enjoy a few nights of rest, then."

[dustless]

Their brow creases, and they lean back against the stairs. Kind of makes their back hurt, but it's fine.

"You will more," they say neutrally.

[silvermists]

"I'm used to nightmares. Him watching me, not so much."

Best not to do that without his consent if you want to live.