Author Notes: Listen to The Song of Wings Playlist while you read! Renegade by Styx

Thomas Pitch was lying on the coarse linens of the twin bed, moving his gaze up and down the bleached plaster of his cell walls. The air conditioning low hum was the only sound reasoning in the painful silence. The bright afternoon light from the small window didn’t cast any warmth on the situation, just an artificial representation coming from the camera.

After being thrown out by his people, not even a small comment ‘thank you for all your hard work, doctor,’ the camera was the only thing he had left to see in the outside world. His captives knew well enough a real window, he could’ve easily broken free.

During his stay at the spacious prison for a day, Pitch had thought of smashing the footage in anger and rage, wanting to deepen his despair and knowing what these days would lead to. However, The High-warlock wished the sunset to lower and the crescent moon to shimmer among the twinkling stars before leading to his death.

Pacing around his impeccable cell and reflecting on his life, his lavender eyes glistened at the sun sinking into the horizon, knowing every night was a step closer to his execution. A hard thump formed in his throat as he deeply thought about the choices he made to get here.

As an immortal, he lived a long life but Pitch wasn’t done with it. He always told his friends that he laughed at the face of death, but realized his demise would befall soon and had him scared like a little boy afraid in the dark. The fact of knowing when and how he would die also played a role in his stifling emotions.

“A merciful slit in your throat,” mocked an archangel before they threw Pitch into prison and sealed the door, in a way, sealing his sentence. He gingerly touched his neck, gasping softly at the thought of a blade slicing across his neck. He imagined a flicker of glee crossing his executioner’s golden eyes and a smirk tugging on his angelic face, defeating one of the most feared Infernals in the world.

One of the most powerful Galas that ever faced the earth, Pitch’s magical powers weren’t the only thing that made him known, but how knowledgeable he was. He had gotten all his important information from reading everything from ancient history to modern spell books.

He continuously told people that history books hold more truth than any mortal could.

The Infernals had called him Dr. Pitch, a doctor of many sorts, such as a general surgeon, pediatrician, dentist, and so forth. Even more so, he had a license as a physiologist and psychiatrist. His Ph.D. degree surpassed well beyond any doctor’s, one of the reasons the Infernals loved him. Also, he concocted healing portions and mastered the art of making potions.

In addition to being the Doctor of the Pit, Pitch had been the Devil’s best friend. No one dared try to break into the Pit or harm any of the Devil’s friends because the warlock could cast a spell on anyone before they could vanish into thin air.

Now, Thomas Pitch was nothing. No one feared him anymore when he appeared in lavender smoke with a devilish grin plastered on his face, ready to create destruction. No one was going to make a grand funeral about him.

Being tossed to the Harmonies by his side was not the worst part of this despairing madness, but dying alone made him shiver. Pitch had told himself he would remain calm; however, he could only hold on to his torn soul until he exploded into a silent sob.

Pitch’s body shook from his crying, his mind screaming: I’m so sorry! He had made a promise to his best friend but had failed to fulfill the promise, and for his cockiness in knowing he was a great doctor and thinking nothing could ever surpass his limitations, someone who glimmered and was precious to the Pit died because of his self-righteous assurance.

Now he paid the price, knowing full well the horrible loss hadn’t been completely his fault; however, the guilt bore down on his soul like a load of bricks. The Devil had relied on him for his expertise in saving the only person that made the Pit shine.

His boss had growled with a shaky breath, his dark chocolate eyes piercing into Pitch’s deepest part of his soul as he was dragged away: “You promised.”

Pitch rubbed his face, knowing his life was over. He began to watch the camera show the sun fading away in the sublime azure sky when he heard a loud, grinding sound of bolts unlocking.

A heavy door slid open. The white doors had golden trimmings along the edges. The only people who would visit this condemned man were priests and creditors. Both classes could burn.

The Archangel entered, his golden locks falling over his shoulders and his stern eyes fixed on the warlock.

Ignoring a tray of food brought to him, Pitch blinked at two girls who were no taller than the man’s hips, clinging to his side.

The Archangel cleared his throat, and Pitch strode to the wall, his hands bracing against it. He slid open a rectangular door that was small enough to let a plate of food go through with a plastic spoon. There wasn’t a knife, for Pitch could quickly try to stab the eyes out and do quite some damage before anyone could retreat.

When Pitch heard the small opening close, he turned around, curious about why the Archangel had brought these girls in.

A girl wearing a white nightgown and black hair pointed to the warlock. Her coal-colored eyes looked at him, and her lips quivered. “Is that the most powerful warlock in the world?”

The Archangel nodded and glared at Pitch. “Yes, Sara.”

The other child, who had brown hair and was taller than Sara, questioned with a suspicious gaze. “The one you will kill?”

Pitch tightened his jaw. He knew this nine-year-old girl with brown hair. Her last name feared the Infernals.

Yet he remained enigmatic about who this other girl was, who became slightly less tensed and released from clinging to the Archangel’s side. “But he’s so handsome,” stated Sara. She stared at Pitch in wonderment.

The Archangel’s expression hardened, and he frowned, “He may be handsome, but he is one of the most dangerous Galas out there.” He explained to the girls, “See that glass wall? It is a magical barrier that prevents him from using his magic and contains any powerful Galas that are toxic to the world.”

If Pitch wasn’t stuck in this ghastly white cell, he would’ve taken the comment about being ‘toxic’ as a compliment.

The girl in a blue nightgown responded, “I knew that about the magical barrier, and also if anyone tries to break the glass, they go into a deep slumber and an alarm rings out!”

“That’s right, Kate,” the Archangel beamed at her.

Pitch wanted to roll his eyes, but the bright lights were giving him a headache. Did the Archangel think he was a monster for the girls to learn from? He didn’t understand the point of him bringing in the children unless he was going to teach them about this damn magical barrier. He looked at the plate of overcooked steak and steamed potatoes and grumbled, “Can you just leave? I’d like to eat in peace.”

The warlock grabbed the plate and poked the cold steak with his fork. He sniffed back tears, trying to swallow away the rocketing emotions bursting inside of him and prevent crying in front of them.

Pitch flickered his eyes up, seeing Sara lock eyes with him. The little girl’s face was full of concern.

She begged, looking up at the Archangel, “Why are you killing him? You always point out to give people second chances.”

Kate remarked, “Just because he’s handsome, Sara, does not justify having an excuse for a second chance.” Before Sara could reply that wasn’t how she meant that statement, she cut in, staring up lovingly at the Archangel, “Besides, you are the most handsome person in the universe!”

This time, Pitch rolled his eyes, “Handsome? I wouldn’t fuck him even if it saved my life.”

“What does fuck mean?” Sara quickly asked, tilting her head to the side of the warlock and tugging on the Archangel’s shirt.

The Archangel gasped at Pitch’s crude humor, reflectively putting his hands on the girl’s shoulders, “Do not use such foul language in front of my children!”

“But I do wanna know,” declared Sara. “Dr. Pitch, what does fuck mean?”

The warlock cracked a chuckle, amused by Sara’s question and her formality. He found the Archangel’s horrified look hilarious. He explained to spite him, “It can mean different things, like intercourse, a bad word, or perhaps excitement.”

“Intercourse, that’s a big word!” exclaimed Sara. She pulled on the Archangel’s arm again and asked, “What does intercourse mean?”

Pitch wondered why the Archangel allowed the girls to tug on him without any protest. He stood in a protective posture and his face showed a fatherly expression.

The Archangel groaned wearily, “I’ll explain later. Maybe when you are much older.”

Clicking his tongue, Pitch leaned his shoulder against the glass with folded arms. “Maybe if you tell them now, you can save your breath later?”

“Agh, no,” the Archangel replied tartly, wanting this conversation to be over. He began to leave, nudging the children to follow him.

“Aw,” chuckled Pitch, “They are too innocent and precious to know about intercourse. How cute. That’s fucking stupid.” Suddenly, the tears he tried to hold back came like an unexpected oncoming freight train. Torment shredded through him like a grinder.

His mind clicked into knowing he was going to die in a couple of days, which hit him like a hard punch to the gut. He collapsed to his knees, stinging tears flooding down his face. What was the point of hiding his fear anymore?

Thomas Pitch lost his dignity the moment he cursed through his screams, trying to pry away from these idiotic people who call themselves ‘heroes’. They tossed him into this asylum of a prison. He had been a wanted man by them for a long time, from the mayhem he had created to how many lives he had taken.

Seeing the Archangel just standing there made the warlock feel embarrassed and powerless. He didn’t feel so powerful anymore. The villainous darkness that sparked his soul and made him flamboyant had blown out.

He cried out with a choking, despairing sound, “I want to live! Please, give me another chance!” His body shook with terror as he asked himself where he would go once he died. He knew Heaven was out of the option, and Hell—that would be so uncomfortable. Would he then go to the despicable Purgatory?

Watching the Archangel’s face freeze up in perplexity, Pitch pleaded, “Give me a second chance!”

However, the sympathetic look was gone in the next instant, and a cold gaze took over the Archangel’s face.

“You have killed countless of my people with no care in the world and many times started up chaos around the world that affected humans. You deserve no second chances,” rebuked the Archangel.

The words stung almost as bad as the pang of sadness taking over the infamous warlock. “Please,” Pitch gasped and fell to his knees, his body smooching against the glass barrier. “I am begging for my life!”

The Archangel halted from leaving the room, the despair slowly choking everyone. He angled his face at Pitch and snarled, “No, you made your bed.” He scoffed, “Even my brother agreed he wanted you dead. The first time we ever agreed on something,” Turning on his heels, he guided the girls along with him, “Let’s go.”

Pitch gasped with the utmost horror, and he gulped back tears. Slumping on the cool floor, his black outfit feeling tight on his sweaty body, the High-warlock stared up, hot tears stroking his face. The last thing he saw was Sara cocking her head sideways at him.

The girl stared right into Pitch’s eyes. Infernals used to tell him his lavender eyes could hypnotize anyone. The powerful warlock looked back, hoping to hypnotize her, to set him free or something. He swore he saw a flicker of understanding in the girl’s coal eyes, yet she broke away as the door closed.

***

The remaining three days were long and tiring. Pitch lay on his bed, letting his mind lead to the most gruesome deaths. First, he dreamed of the Archangel slitting his throat, and he woke up in a pool of sweat, yanking his fingers to his throat.

The next night, his dreams became worse, with the Infernals burning him at the stake. He sobbed himself back to sleep. The last night, he dozed off, dreaming of being in Hell, having a feast with his best friends, declaring war in devising plans to conquer the world, and kissing—

There was a noise that startled him awake. He gasped and sat up immediately. It was woefully black before the lights switched on. He released a fearful, shaky breath from the deepest part of his soul. It had to be time.

***

Heavy chains dragged on the grass. Two men who looked like brothers escorted him to his executioner. Pitch fought with all his might against the Archangel’s sidekicks, but he knew it was pointless because his hands were bound with magic-proof chains. His lavender eyes glimmered up at the Archangel wielding a sword, his face contorted with hatred.

Was the Archangel’s face the last thing he’d see? Pitch prepared himself for what was going to come next. He heard a girl with tangerine hair read off a list of his wrongdoings, which he felt was unnecessary.

He was on his knees on the cold ground, his black pants dirty. His gaze fixed on the stars that greeted him. He refused to look at the Archangel anymore.

With his hands curled tightly around the sword’s hilt, the Archangel spoke, “Any last words?”

Thomas Pitch breathed in the night air, embracing the kiss of death. The silence of betrayal and bewilderment answered for him. His eyes caught the blade glinting in the moonlight as it raised. He fluttered his eyelids close, and a grin twitched at the corners of his mouth before the sword silenced him.