/mirror, mirror, on the wall.

who is the strongest of them all?/

The queen steps back from the mirror, waiting. Her icy fingers twist themselves into unnatural shapes, then return to fists as the mirror glows and speaks.

<you are, my queen, so gentle and fair.

you are as strong as the ice is clear.>

“No,” the queen says, despairingly. “Not again. It cannot be.” She looks down at her hands, which are tinged with blue. “I am growing older by the day, and I am getting weaker. There must be someone stronger than me, who can protect the queendom.”

“You’re plenty strong,” the handmaiden says, pausing in the shining of her sword. “There’s nobody stronger than you, ma’am.”

“But I cannot protect the queendom alone,” the queen wails. “When I die, who will keep the queendom safe? Who will keep the continent in peace?”

The handmaiden stays silent.

The queen turns back to the mirror. She has been ruling for centuries, keeping her queendom safe from harm and keeping peace on the continent. She has been the final voice, the ultimate judge of disputes on the continent. The queen has been the Mother of the Continent for centuries - fair and beautiful and loving and strong. But she knows she will die eventually. So she tries again.

/mirror, mirror, on the wall.

who is the strongest of them all?/

“Please,” the queen whispers. “Somebody must be stronger than me. There must.” The mirror flickers.

<skin of ink.>

“What?”

The mirror sputters, the glow fading in and out. A crack appears in the fine glass, threading its way down the face in miniscule branches. A spiderweb branches out from the queen’s faint reflection.

<seek the one with the skin of ink.

the lips of ruby. the hair of snow.

you have pushed me to the brink

in him you shall find all that i know.>

The mirror flickers twice, then shatters, glass flying across the room, hitting the far wall with a clink and then falling to the ground. where the mirror face once was, there is now just an inky black voic.

The queen picks up a shard of glass and turns to the handmaiden. “We must go,” she says. The handmaiden nods. She takes her sword and slices open her hand - her blood is icy blue, dripping out of the wound like plasma. With it, she draws a circle on the ground.

“My lady,” she says, as the circle starts to glow. An image appears in the center - a boy, in a coffin made of crystal. His lips are a bright, bloody red - his hair is snowy like the queen’s own - his skin is the darkest shade of black. No shadows play on his face, even though his clothes are patterned in the shade of leaves.

“You found him. Thank you.” The queen steps in, and vanishes.

**

pitch is awakened by a kiss. not on his lips, but to his forehead. gentle, and slow, like a mother’s longing goodbye.

“if you are not skadi, you will die,” he says, without opening his eyes. his hands itch for blood.

“i am the queen,” a woman’s voice says, softly and warmly.

pitch opens his eyes.

the queen’s skin is as white as the frost that has settled over his body while he slept, unmoving in the deep winter. her eyes are blue and clear, like ice over water. her hair is long and slick, like a blanket of snow over her pure crystal clothes. she reaches out a pale hand to him - her nails are as sharp and long as claws. her smile is gentle and caring.

pitch ignores it. he sits up in his coffin, brushing the snow specks and frost off himself. “you are the queen. do you wish me for your husband?”

“no,” the queen laughs, like bells tinkling. “my wife would be displeased. no, i wish to take you back home.”

“i have no home,” pitch says. he looks at the black blood, dried on his hands and arms and face. “i do not want a home.”

“but my home wants you,” the queen says gently. she touches his wrist, and the blood is all gone. “boy of the snowy hair. the ruby lips. and the inky skin. will you come to skadi?”

pitch jerks into full attention. “skadi?”

“i am the queen,” the queen says, standing up. “i beseech you. come with me. in skadi, you will be safe. and you will keep the continent safe.”

“i will have power,” pitch says.

the queen looks at him for a long time. her blue eyes search his, hints of some emotion in their icy depths. at last, she smiles and says,

“yes, darling boy. you will have power.”

pitch rises out of his coffin for the first time in centuries. he brushes the remaining frost off his clothes and stretches. “will you take me to your home and teach me power, queen of skadi?”

“i will,” the queen promises. she extends her hand again, as cold and white as the snow around them. her pale face is loving and full of hope. “i will take care of you and of your power. i will shape you into something much more powerful than myself. i will be your guardian and your teacher. your partner and your mentor. we will be equals, until one day you surpass me. one day you will rule skadi and rule the continent in your loving hands - hands that will always seek peace. i will mold your until you can turn any enemy in this life. you will be the guardian of this world.”

“then i am clay in your capable hands,” pitch says. he takes the queen’s hand and turns his youthful face up to her. “bring me to skadi, mother.”