The priestess is angry.

The whole queendom can sense it, in the way the sun shines too bright and the spires of the tower melt, fogging up the skies. When night falls, every few days when the priestess retires to her bed, the fog blots out the stars.

The queen does not dare call on Pitch until the sun goes out. She knows the priestess dislikes Pitch - hates the way he speaks, dead and cold - hates the darkness surrounding him - hates the way his presence dims the lights in the palace. But the priestess is the one who hastens the sun. With the priestess asleep in the royal chambers, the sun sleeps too. The queen tucks her in, then beckons for a servant.

“Tell him to find me,” the queen tells her, and gives no further instruction.

**

pitch wakes up, and finds the room dark. no light peers through the drapes. the door creaks open - he flinches in anticipation of brightness, but only a pair of eyes await him.

“the queen wants you to find her,” the servant says, then disappears back into the darkness outside.

pitch rises slowly. he refuses the cape when the spirit offers it to him, preferring to let the blackness outside gloss over his skin and soothe his mind. <find me>. the queen’s voice echoes in his mind. he closes his eyes.

suddenly, a bright spot appears in his head. pitch flinches, eyes flying open. he looks around - no light seems to be anywhere near him.

<the queen>, the spirit says. <she is reaching out to you>.

“i can find her without her help,” pitch says. he closes his eyes and snuffs out the bright spot. then he takes the hallway to his left, the spirit trailing behind him.

the halls are silent. nobody of skadi dares venture out into the dark. pitch scours the rooms with his mind - perhaps it might be due to the fact that his skills are not honed, but he senses no presence other than the bright blue spot that is the queen. pitch chases it this time, not wanting the queen to lead him to her - rather, wanting to seek her out himself. pitch follows it despite the brightness, keeping his eyes closed until he enters the garden once again.

the queen stands in front of him in a muted nighttime robe, her hair loose and flowing like a clear, cold stream down her pale shoulders. “you have done well,” she says, warm.

pitch stands still. he looks not at the queen’s face, but through her. the sky is completely ink black, with no hint of light.

“are you seeking the sun?” the queen asks. “i’m afraid you won’t be able to find it. my wife, the priestess - she is the master of the golden orb. while she rests, the sun rests also.”

“i see,” pitch says. “so she is not always strong.”

the queen pauses. “i wouldn’t say so,” she says, after a moment. “you haven’t seen her flail when she has night terrors.” she smiles, as if telling a joke.

pitch doesn’t understand. he does not have night terrors. he tells the queen that. she laughs at him, not unkindly, and pats his head. “you are the night terror, darling boy,” she tells him. “now come. i have much to teach you today, while the priestess sleeps.”

“does she hate me?” pitch asks again. he doesn’t know how to feel about that. but he knows that the priestess must sleep, and that people are unaware of the outside while they sleep. the thought that she has a weakness reassures him, in the case that something must be done because of her hate.

“you should ask her yourself,” the queen says carefully.

they walk in silence until the garden opens into a delta. crystal sand litters the beach, washing into the black ocean. the queen glows softly in the pure darkness, her icy tresses and pale skin emanating gentle rays of silver. pitch reaches a hand out to her, curious - the light vanishes from the area closes to him, as if sucked into the darkness of his fingers.

the queen notices him and gently takes his hand in hers. pitch flinches, but calms when he realizes the light doesn’t hurt. instead, the queen’s hand turns a darker color. she smiles and moves to pull away, but pitch grips on tightly and pulls an apple out of his pocket with his other hand. he takes a bite, and sees the queen’s hand is the color of a tree’s bark - colored with something like dried blood, or dark chocolate, or a rotten piece of fruit. with a jolt, he realizes his hand is lighter too, the color of a tree’s inside - like baked bread, or yellowed sand, or pale dirt.

“darkness is the absence of light,” the queen says, “as light is the absence of darkness. only when the two combine can we see our true selves.” she lets go of his hand, and it returns to black.

pitch stands on his toes and presses his hand to her cheek, near her brows. the queen’s eyes light up with brown and gold, while her cheek turns that same dark wooden color.

“it’s called brown,” the queen says, smiling. she gently removes his hand from her face - “yours is called tan.”

“tan,” pitch says. he turns his hand this way and that, then decides he doesn’t care. “colors do not satisfy me. i have lived for long enough without them.”

“then what will satisfy you?”

he thinks for a bit. he looks out onto the delta, sees where the inky waves break and shatter into obsidian shards on the crystal shore.

finally, he turns to the queen. “more,” he says, simply. “i will always want more.”