a servant comes to call him when the sun has fallen from its cold perch in the clear sky. “dinner,” she says. her heart rate is elevated - her hands tremble.

pitch rises from where he had been sitting on the bed, perfectly still. “...dinner?”

“the queen and the high priestess have invited you to eat with them,” the servant says. “i will lead you to the dining hall.”

“no need,” pitch says. the servant bows clumsily and exits. he hears footsteps going away, quick and scared. pitch rubs at his arm, where the flesh has turned a lighter burnt shade. he flinches at the thought of encountering the blinding ice outside.

the snow spirit has reappeared by his side. <they prepared clothes for you>, he says. a dark cloak is draped over his arm.

pitch allows the spirit to drape it around his shoulders. he tugs it tight around him, pleased at the feeling of the cool fabric.

<what did hain do, master?>

“nothing,” pitch says. “she was of help to me. that was all.”

<is helping you bad?>

pitch gives the spirit a long look. the spirit’s obsidian face stays impassive.

“i suppose not.”

<i see.> the spirit pauses. <dinner?>

“i do not eat,” pitch says, as if reprimanding him. but pitch approaches the door anyways - it swings open for him, quickly and soundlessly. he steps outside. the light no longer burns him.

**

when the queen sees them enter the room, she looks at his spirit and smiles. pitch dislikes the smile - not the queen’s, but this new smile, full of some emotion yet unknown to him. delight? no. perhaps relief.

he doesn’t understand. but there is much he does not understand.

a servant pulls out two chairs - pitch pushes one back and takes a seat on the other. the spirit dutifully stands behind him.

“he is merely snow,” pitch tells the servant. to emphasize, he puts his hand right through the spirit’s chest. he doesn’t flinch. the servant nods, and trembles.

the priestess sits at the head of the table. her violet eyes search the room then settle on him, piercing and narrow. the queen sits on her left, a warm smile on her face. “i’m glad you were able to join us, darling boy.” she pauses, as if waiting for a response. pitch gives none. “i understand you might not have eaten for a long time,” the queen continues, voice unwavering in its kindness. “i will have dishes laid out for you - feast as you see fit.”

serving girls - young, sprightly children with hair as white as the moon - set plates and bowls and platters down. pitch waits. his eyes scan over every dish - they all look so saturated with millions of varying shades, different from the blacks and whites and purples and blues of the snowy forest. he reaches forward for the first thing that catches his eye - something round and shiny with an aura that glows like blood and fire. he hears the priestess suck in a quick breath. the queen’s eyes are fixed to him, her mouth open in a silent ‘o’.

pitch raises the apple to his mouth, and takes a bite.

the world explodes into color.

the apple blooms with tinges of sweet on his tongue - pitch coughs, winces and closes his eyes. his vision is bright behind his closed eyelids - bursts of green and yellow dot the black expanse.

“pitch?”

pitch blinks his eyes open. he hears the queen gasp.

“pitch, your eyes. do you… do you feel any different?”

“what’s wrong with my eyes?” pitch says, not allowing fear to bleed into his voice. his breath is strangely quick - he rubs at his eyes, each new color bleeding into a growing headache.

“they’re gold,” the serving girl breathes, forgetting her fear to look close at pitch’s face. pitch snarls, scaring her off, then pockets the apple. he tugs his cloak tight around himself and stands, to the queen’s dismay. “i will rejoin you tomorrow. thank you for inviting me.”

he whirls out of the dining hall, eyes closed, trusting the snow spirit to lead him back to his room. he doesn’t breathe until his hand touches the silk of the bed.

pitch sits down. the door slams shut. he takes out the apple and turns it over in his hands. it is a bright, bright red - the color of warm blood and fire. he hasn’t seen it in a long time.

he dares a peek into the hallway - the walls are as blue as when he first saw them, but now the chandeliers are the yellow color of gold. he closes his eyes - when he opens them, the yellow looks dimmer.

the snow spirit gently tugs him back into the room. his eyes are starting to hurt. pitch looks at the apple again. it has returned to grey.

he takes a bite. then another. when the apple is gone, his eyes burn and cry golden tears.