A/N: All right, so I started this a while ago, but I hope that those of you who had asked that I write something with Pitch and Susan find this to be well worth the wait. It's mostly set before Trust but makes the events of that one-shot painfully plain, so if you happen not to have read it I would suggest you finish off that one first. Standard disclaimers apply, as always.

In spite of the insufferable Jack Frost, Pitch liked winter—especially long, cold winters where people wondered if they'd ever see spring. The cold didn't claim as many victims as it once had, but he still relished the delectable smell of fear and dread that wafted off those who knew that death was coming, that it was only a matter of time. And though winter was by no means the only time such thoughts were inspired in the minds of mere mortals, it was by far the most dependable time.

Nothing satisfied him quite as much as the taste of a child's fear and, despite the best efforts of those blasted Guardians, it hadn't taken him long to regain his footing after the last…. He wouldn't say defeat, but he had to admit that it had been a setback. Still, stories of the dreaded Boogeyman could not be stamped out, and all it took was one innocent child to listen to his whisperings, to fall prey to his fears, to pay attention to the cold prickle of fear on the back of his neck, for Pitch to begin his inevitable return.

That was the beauty of it, really. The Guardians would never be able to win, never be able to stop him for good, because fear was an integral part of childhood. It was part of life, one which couldn't be removed, for fears were never quite forgotten and childish ones were always replaced by new ones. And, unlike the Guardians, he didn't depend solely on the whims of children. A cowering adult or two would do in a pinch until he could send shivers down a child's spine.

The Guardians naïvely thought that if they managed to protect the children, all would be well.

Pitch knew better.

Because adults…. Children tended to be more fearful if they knew their protectors were afraid. Those children might have different fears than other children, but the fear itself would be the same, and it was that upon which Pitch drew.

Pitch made frequent rounds—night and day, more often than not—across the world. The Guardians could not be everywhere at once and, while they were so painfully predictable, he made sure he wasn't. But he had learned much about the Guardians by watching their patterns. While they'd never admit to playing favourites, Pitch knew it happened—especially where Jack Frost was concerned.

He'd been frequenting this particular English village more often than not in recent years.

Of course, having haunted all its children repeatedly, Pitch would have to admit he wasn't quite sure which one had caught the attention of the Guardian of Fun. None of the children he'd seen had appeared particularly brave or otherwise deserving of special attention; they'd all been easy enough to break, one way or another, and had cried themselves back to sleep more than once since he'd begun his more attentive visits.

Then again, it was Jack Frost. He had so very little confidence in himself and consequently tended to dote upon any child who began believing in him.

But Pitch was sure that this was different somehow. Frost's visits had been too…regular. Deliberate. He'd extended himself, purposefully staying later than usual—risking the wrath of that intolerable Guardian of Hope, no doubt—and coming early. It wasn't just that he was so plainly ignoring the admonishments of the others. He'd been doing more than just seeking attention and delighting in receiving it. This was something else.

And no matter how hard Pitch tried to crush the belief of each and every child in this village, no matter how often he succeeded (if only temporarily), Frost returned.

Whatever the something else was, it was strong.

Certainly strong enough to warrant further investigation.

Especially since he had caught traces of a particularly rich scent of fear, one which had made him leave behind a pair of rather promising children whose steadfast belief in the Guardians was a mere hair away from being shattered into irreparable pieces.

It was this trail which Pitch was currently following and it was one he quite honestly hadn't expected to end outside Jack Frost's favourite village on this side of the pond.

Although, as Pitch eased his way inside the house and got a better look around, he had to concede that it was possible the village might merely be near Jack's favourite spot as opposed to being his favourite spot.

Whichever child was here—whichever child feared that this might be the end of her own life—was undoubtedly the object of Frost's—

Pitch stopped cold just inside the room. Inside the library, to be specific.

The library whose only occupant, tucked away in the far corner and only visible to him because he knew precisely where to look, was most definitely not a child.

He'd been sure he'd detected a trace of belief in the woman's fear but perhaps he was mistaken once more, for unless she had a grandchild hiding among the stacks which he couldn't sense…. That notion was absolutely ridiculous, of course, as everyone feared something and he was always knew what that was.

This woman, for instance, had realized her own mortality. She had finally opened her eyes to see how pathetically frail she was, how soon her own pitiful existence on this Earth would come to an end. And a part of her was afraid.

Interestingly enough, however, it wasn't her greatest fear.

No, she feared not being accepted. Not being forgiven. That her idea that she was being a silly old fool and that she hadn't anything to worry about was absolute poppycock. That perhaps she wouldn't be reunited with her loved ones after all because of what she'd done.

It all seemed rather repetitive, to be honest. She certainly wasn't the first aging soul he'd come across to fear all that. But the strength he felt from her gave him pause. However ordinary she seemed, there was something different about her, something he couldn't put his finger on even as he moved to examine her more closely.

The woman took a loud, shuddering breath, but it wasn't enough to stop her chest from heaving, nor to stay the tears from rolling down her cheeks. Again she did it, and again, and by the time Pitch had concluded he couldn't see whatever was special about her, she'd composed herself.

And then she raised her eyes from the old photograph she'd been looking at—her family, he assumed, though he'd not looked closely at any of the four children in the picture—and fixed her gaze upon him. Before he had a chance to write it off as mere coincidence, she said, "You must be Pitch Black."

It wasn't until then that he realized she was indeed special.

He would have such a delightful time ridding her of that particular quality, leaving her nothing more than a withered husk of what she now was. The strength he'd get as she was consumed by her fears would far exceed that of stamping out the belief of each and every child in the nearby village for good.

Pitch was quick to compose himself, of course. He wasn't one to be caught unawares, and it never took him long to recover if he did happen to misjudge the situation. He may not know the name of the woman in front of him, but names meant nothing. They only held power if everyone else allowed them to.

But he wasn't known as the Boogeyman, as the Nightmare King, for nothing.

He made quite sure that his name meant something to everyone else, this…woman included.

The slight waver he'd heard in her voice, the one she'd clearly tried very hard to mask, was proof enough of that.

Pitch drew himself up to his full height and smiled at her. It was not a particularly nice smile, but he didn't intend it to be. "And you're the one little Jack Frost has been so desperate to visit," he sneered. "I wonder what he is going to say when he comes back one day and finds out you've left him forever?"

The woman tilted her head slightly and fixed him with a look. If he could not have felt the fear which continued to roll off her in waves, even he might not have known how scared she was.

But she wasn't afraid of him.

Not really.

Not yet.

"I expect," she said crisply, "he'll be glad to have known me. And as long as he carries my memory with him, I'll have never left him at all. I have no intentions of forgetting him once I return home, and he ought to know that by now."

"Then isn't it a pity," Pitch said, lifting one hand to examine his nails to determine their sharpness as if he hadn't a care in the world, "that you never will be returning home?"

The woman caught her breath and was unable to hide how her grip tightened upon the black-and-white photograph in her hands. "You've forgotten it," she accused softly. "You wouldn't say such things if you hadn't. Not if you remembered Him."

Humans. Always clinging to their miserable beliefs. He'd destroyed entire galaxies. He certainly didn't need to put up with a lecture from some old woman about something he knew didn't exist, no matter how special she might be. She was merely ignorant. She hadn't seen a fraction of what he had. How could she? She'd lived only a fraction of his years.

And now she was drawing ever closer to the end of them and realizing that she wouldn't be able to do quite everything she'd thought she'd be able to do or had come to believe that she needed to do.

What a shame.

The woman had gotten to her feet and was glaring at him now. Glaring, as if he could be defeated by a mere look! She looked so indignant that it was almost amusing. "Did you think," she said coldly, the words dripping off her tongue, "that I wouldn't be able to recognize your work now? I've opened my eyes, Pitch, and I'll thank you not to prey upon me any longer. I've learned my lessons."

She made it sound as if he were a tiresome teacher. "Lessons?" he jeered. "My dear girl, I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else."

The woman scoffed. "For whom would you have me mistake you? Jadis? Any of the other undesirables I've met in my time or the ones I've heard spoken of in fearful whispers, like Tash? Do not flatter yourself. You've ice in your heart, and I can recognize why. You've been listening to your fears."

"I've been—?" Oh, this was amusing. "I do not listen to fears. I spread them." He fed upon them, gaining strength from fear, growing more powerful as there was less belief in the world….

But the woman was shaking her head. "You simply don't realize it anymore, do you? You've been doing it for so long. Who were you before this, Pitch Black? Who were you before you assumed the title of the Nightmare King?"

"I've always been the Nightmare King," Pitch shot back. "I'm the one who terrified you in your sleep, who would set you—" he darted a quick glance at her picture again "—and your siblings screaming and crying out for Mommy and Daddy in the middle of the night, who would—"

The woman, who had caught his glance and looked at the photograph herself, cut him off. "You don't know who I am," she said, a trace of wonder in her voice.

He wasn't about to let her get the better of him. "Of course I do," he replied sharply. "I know everything about you, right down to your deepest fears. And I must say, you are right to be afraid, because you won't be welcomed home with open arms. They left you, didn't they, your family? Just like you left them. There's no point hoping for a happy reunion that you'll never see."

"You're wrong," she said softly.

"On the contrary," Pitch said, "I'm right. I'm always right about this sort of thing." He didn't like the way she was looking at him, as if he was wearing a mask that she was determined to look beneath, so he continued, "You, my dear, will be forever lost. You chose the wrong path and now you'll have to face the consequences. I daresay they won't be pleasant ones. They never are. Not when the situation you are in is entirely your fault."

"Death is a part of life," the woman argued, but the slight quaver in her voice was back.

Pitch smirked. "So is rejection, though I expect you're used to that by now, aren't you? After all, you can't expect to just be accepted after everything that's happened. Not after what you did. You missed your chance." Leaning closer, he taunted, "You're too late."

She was staring at him now, and he could see the fear in her eyes. She didn't want to believe him, no. But he knew she could hear him all too plainly, and who was she to argue with him? She was the one trying to cling to false certainties.

"If only you were more like your sister," Pitch sneered, "you wouldn't be in this situation, would you? You'd be with the rest of them. You wouldn't be cut off, left here by yourself. Left to die alone."

The woman's grip tightened on the old photograph, bending it out of shape.

"But you never fit in with them," Pitch continued, gleaning what he could from the woman's fears. "You always were the odd one out. The one who tried to be so grown up that you wouldn't even make time for your family. It's a pity they died before you realized that, isn't it? You never got to say goodbye. You never got to say you're sorry. And you never will." Pitch leaned in closer, as much to get a better look at that blasted picture she was still holding as to send another shiver of fear down her spine. "Because you're wrong, you know. This is it. All you've got. You missed your last opportunity. There's nothing more for you. No second chance."

The woman closed her eyes, but she couldn't close her ears.

"You put all your hope and belief and trust in something that's not even real. You're not going to see anything from all your years of faith. You've just been fooling yourself. You don't even have any proof that what you want to happen will."

"I don't need proof," she argued, but it was said with delightfully little conviction.

"You'll always need proof," Pitch countered effortlessly. "You always did. You can't change so easily. That's why you never belonged with the rest of them, and that's why you're still alive now and they aren't, isn't it? Because you need proof to believe in something?"

"No. I don't."

Pitch chuckled softly, mockingly. "You can hardly convince me of that if you don't even believe it yourself. And you don't. I know it. Don't think you can fool me. I can see behind your little mask. You're going to die alone and full of regrets, wishing you'd done things differently and never knowing how it would all have turned out if you had. You might want to think you're different now than you were when you were a child, but you aren't. You're the same."

"I'm more than I was."

Pitch snorted. "You're older. You look it. But you're just the same as you were when you were young. You might have wanted to change, but you didn't, did you? Maybe you managed to convince other people you changed—maybe even Jack Frost—but you haven't."

"Don't bring Jack into this."

"No? But he'll be so devastated when he comes here and finds out you're dead. He can get so attached. And it'll be even worse for him when he realizes that you were wrong."

"I'm not wrong."

"Oh, but you are. The only part of you that is right is the little voice in the back of your mind that you've been pretending not to hear for all these years. It was all fun and games, but it never was anything more than that. You've managed to delude yourself in your old age, trying to comfort yourself with a lie instead of the truth."

The woman's eyes snapped open. "No," she said, with the most conviction he'd heard out of her yet.

But that wasn't really anything to worry about. There was still a tiny part of her that was afraid he was right.

Pitch paused. "No?" he echoed.

"No," she repeated. "You're wrong." And, stronger still, "I'll not listen to my fears. Not again." She took a step forward, likely in a futile attempt to get him to step back, though he stayed where he was because it would make her more uncomfortable. She looked him straight in the eye and said, quite plainly, "You've visited me so many times before, Pitch Black, that I'm almost surprised you don't remember taunting me when I was younger. You said such similar things."

Her fear was beginning to fade away.

That certainly wasn't right.

"You would know me as Susan Pevensie," she bit out. From the fire in her voice, he expected her to continue.

She didn't.

She just waited.

He'd placed the name almost immediately, of course. Perhaps he ought to have put two and two together before, particularly once he'd begun drawing on what he could see of her childhood from her fears of seeing things being left unresolved or seeing them repeat and how it must all be her fault, but he had whispered in many children's ears over the years. Even someone as wonderfully guilt-ridden and uncertain as young Susan had been didn't exactly stand out in the crowd. Not based on her fears.

In that respect, she was just like everyone else.

But he was becoming rather uncomfortably aware of how she was not like everyone else.

She was rather good at using silence to her advantage, with a practised ease he knew now to be born from many years of experience where it had been an absolute necessity.

But she had far less experience than he.

"Susan," Pitch drawled, as if he were trying to recall the name. "Susan Pevensie, you said?" He titled his head as if considering it. After a moment more, he let a smile cross his face. "Oh, yes," he said. "Little Susan Pevensie. The one who was afraid she was a freak who'd never fit in in this world."

Susan said nothing, but her eyes narrowed.

"The one," Pitch continued blithely, as if he were unaware of her reaction, "who was afraid she wasn't good enough to belong in Narnia like the rest of her siblings. The one who couldn't bring herself to believe in that world when she didn't have any proof of it. The one who felt guilty when she couldn't quite recognize her parents when she first saw them again and was afraid of what that meant. The one who was afraid of living in the shadows of her siblings who seemed to see things she could not. The one who could never quite adapt and desperately tried to mask it. The one who wanted to forget and hated herself for that. The one who managed it and has regretted it ever since."

Susan remained silent, so Pitch continued, "You left them alone, all the ones you knew in that world. You promised them you'd come back, but by the time you returned, they were all dead. And when you clung to that pitiful certainty that at least you remembered them, at least you'd never forget, you suddenly found you couldn't recall as much as you had before. And it was easier to push that life away and forge a new one than to try to live it again, and live with all that guilt and regret."

The photograph looked dangerously close to tearing. With a bit more goading, her hands might just slip, and then she'd feel all the worse because she'd destroyed one of the things that had lasted.

"You chose your own death, didn't you? And that's why you're so convinced the others should have lived instead of you, because they were still willing to live, and you were already dead to them, dead to that other life. You were a clever little girl, Susan. You realized that those who chased down dreams just got themselves killed."

"They didn't."

Her voice was weak—too weak to be properly convincing, even to someone who wasn't as good at reading people as he.

"Oh, but they did. And that's why you're alone now, isn't it? Because you knew enough not to trust yourself again. You knew any happiness you found would be destroyed. Just like it was the first time, when you were told you could never return to the place you'd begun to fancy as your home. You realized that life isn't full of light and laughter, but tears and loss and fears and darkness. And you know how much you have to lose, how much you're about to lose—again."

"You're so confident, aren't you, thinking that you know who I am?" Her voice had recovered some of its strength, though not nearly enough to be properly convincing. She took a small step closer to him, closing the little distance that had remained between them. It was an attempt at intimidation which of course had no effect on him. She was good; he'd give her that. But he was better, and he knew more than enough to spot all the tricks. "You seem to be forgetting that a person's fears do not define them."

"Is that so?" Pitch asked, idly flicking an imaginary fleck of dust off of himself. "I beg to differ."

"You'd be wrong again," Susan countered. "A person's deepest fears are but one facet and should not be used to judge someone as a whole, as you seem inclined to do." Susan swept past him, leaving the little corner in which she'd taken refuge, before rounding on him as if in an attempt to trap him.

As if she could ever dream of trapping someone as accustomed to the shadows as he.

"You seem to be acting on the assumption that I haven't changed. You seem to think that my fear is the only thing which defines me. But I have changed, and my faith defines me more than my fears."

Pitch glided to the nearest shadow, laughing, and came around behind Susan. She was making the grave mistake of underestimating him. "Can you really call it faith," he asked, his breath chilling her neck as he leaned in to whisper in her ear, "when you're so full of doubts?"

As he'd expected, Susan was silent. Pitch circled around to face her. "You aren't as different from that young girl as you like to think you are, Susan. You're just the same. Alone. Afraid. Uncertain. I can see behind your masks. I can see who you really are. And you aren't the person you pretend to be."

"Perhaps not," Susan agreed softly. Pitch stopped in surprise, though he made sure none of that showed on his face. "But I never was. I always did try to be braver than I am. I'm sure you know that."

Of course he did. That was why he'd mentioned it. But it wasn't having quite the effect he'd intended.

"I'm afraid now, yes," Susan admitted. "I'll never rid myself of it entirely. Not while I'm here. And that's a good thing. It'll keep me…me. It'll keep me human. Fear's necessary. It keeps me sharp. It keeps me on my toes. It keeps me careful." She cocked her head at him, then said, very deliberately, "But I make very sure now that I do not listen to it and let it overwhelm me, a mistake I'm afraid you made a very long time ago. Long enough ago now that, I daresay, you haven't very much human left in you."

Pitch laughed softly. "You know nothing of me."

"I know little of you," Susan corrected, "but I know far more than nothing. You speak with a tempter's tongue, Pitch Black, and I, like my younger brother, am well able to spot the signs of one who has been tempted. Need I tell you what you do not know of me? The things that make me me which you cannot detect through my fears?"

"You seem to forget," Pitch drawled, turning her own words back on her, "that you of all people are simply the sum of your fears. Perhaps, since you fought against them, you see those acts as triumphs? Perhaps you think you truly overcame some of them and became stronger for it? If you were as sure of yourself as you'd like to be, my dear, you wouldn't be so afraid of what's in your future, and I wouldn't be here. That nice little picture I've no doubt you've painted for Jack Frost and his friends is nothing more than a lie." He smiled at her. "But this isn't the first time you've lived a lie, is it?"

She was silent for a moment. Then, "The pot calls the kettle black. If I am not who I make myself out to be, neither are you. Even the deepest darkness can be chased away with light, yet you pretend this is impossible. You are ignoring it within your very self, Pitch. Somewhere inside of you, a spark burns brightly, and no amount of darkness can smother it."

She lied, but for some unknown reason, her words made him the tiniest bit uncomfortable. Not that he'd allow her to know that. "Light can be swallowed up in overwhelming darkness. You make the mistake of thinking you have escaped it, but you walk a very fine line. You should be careful you do not fall."

"Aslan is guiding me," Susan returned immediately, and Pitch nearly recoiled at the name. It made his skin crawl, and it was an effort not to do so much as twitch. "I've no need to fear."

Pitch smirked at her words, for she'd just handed him control again. "Yet fear you do." She could not deny it, not when they both knew it to be true.

Susan squared her shoulders. "I know I am a fool to fear. Aslan will guide me home. I will be safe with him; I always was."

Again, Pitch had to steel himself so he didn't flinch. The name seemed to stir something deep inside of him, and it was an unpleasant sensation. "You're going to have to embrace the darkness, my dear. It's all that will be waiting to greet you."

"I won't listen to my fears." She spoke the words softly, uncertainly, as if she were trying to convince herself. Then, stronger, "I won't listen to my fears! Faith is stronger than fear, Pitch Black. It's the reason Lucy was the strongest of us all. Hers never wavered, not for a moment. Begone! You are not welcome here."

She'd pointed to the door, and Pitch looked at her in amusement. "You've already invited me in," he said, "with your weeping and your worry." He reached out one hand to trace the side of her face. She stood very still, glaring at him, and pointedly did not pull away. "And I don't feel like leaving yet."

"But you'll go." Susan sounded like she entirely believed he'd leave just because she said so. How childish. "Because you're right: fear weakens people, but overcoming it makes them stronger. That's one reason why the Guardians cannot be rid of you, Pitch; you stimulate growth in children, in all of us, warning us away from going too far and giving us obstacles to overcome. I know that all too well. I've been crippled by my fears before and I'm not going to let you do that again. I trust in Aslan, and I trust his judgement. If he has decided to call me home, then I won't spend my last days wishing it were otherwise and thinking I've not done enough here. Perhaps a part of me will still fear what I do not know, and perhaps I cannot will that part of me away, but faith triumphs over fear. I will go, and gladly, because I believe in Aslan more than I've ever believed anything I've heard from you. Begone!"

Despite himself, Pitch stumbled backwards a few steps before he was able to regain his footing.

"It's funny," Susan said as she walked toward him. "I should almost be thanking you. I wouldn't be nearly as strong as I am today if it weren't for you. You do more good than you realize, even if that isn't your intention. You give all of us reason to move forward, to move past you and overcome what we now fear. You help teach children respect for boundaries. The threat of your very presence is sometimes enough to convince young children to think twice about disobeying their well-meaning parents. Fear of consequences can be a factor in teaching right from wrong, after all."

Pitch sneered at her. "You know well the fear I specialize in, and nothing good comes from it."

"Nothing?" Susan arched an eyebrow. "Fear and doubt is what kept me from Narnia and kept me here, behind the others. Have I done nothing in the time I have been separated from them that has not worked towards the very things you try to prevent? I am a light in your darkness, Pitch, a light that shines brightly in spite of you, and I've seeded enough sparks in my time that will continue to shine in my absence. I have you to thank for that, Pitch, for I'd not have had the opportunity if it were not for you. I would be with my siblings."

"Your light fades," Pitch snarled, "and whatever sparks have flown from you will wither and die before they truly take hold. I will make sure of that."

"But you'll never truly succeed in snuffing all of us out." Susan smiled. "Don't you see, Pitch Black? You are doing as much for children as their Guardians, albeit it in a way you do not intend. A belief that overcomes fear is stronger than one which has never faced the challenge of doubt. Your actions have two sides. You think you are guided by darkness, but I ask this of you: if that is true, then what is that small spark of light inside of you that ensures so much good can come from your actions?"

"You lie!"

"Why would I lie? You can see through the lies we tell ourselves, the masks we build. You can see through all of them—except your own. You've forgotten your true self, tried to bury it behind something else. You've done precisely what I once did. Reclaim yourself, as I did, and you will be better for it."

"You know nothing," Pitch snapped angrily. She spoke nonsense. He would not even entertain the notion that she did not.

"A quick defence reveals the truth," Susan said softly, infuriatingly. "I can recognize a kindred spirit when I see one. Stop listening to your fears, as I did."

She still wasn't afraid of him, and her defence now was far stronger than it had been when he'd first arrived. She did not fear his evil works, did not heed the poison in his words, and dared to try to batter him down in her stead! It was utterly ridiculous.

But she'd convinced herself of her own words, if not him, and she'd accepted her fate. Her faith, as she so neatly put it, was stronger now than her fear. Whenever her thoughts strayed to doubt, to the fear of not meeting what was expected, she deliberately put them to rest, relying on faith—trust, belief—to allay them. She took comfort from that false hope of hers, anticipating love and peace to be found in her end.

He'd not be able to twist her mind if she didn't listen to him—at least not in her waking hours.

But something Pitch wouldn't entirely acknowledge told him it would be a very bad idea indeed to try to defeat her with nightmares, for her subconscious felt firmer than her waking mind in her petty belief.

"Aslan will guide you, if you let him."

Pitch spat at her and, with a bit more effort than was usually necessary, created some Fearlings to step out of the shadows and surround her.

Susan didn't flinch.

"Begone," she ordered, her voice heavy with command and with something else, something Pitch couldn't quite identify, and the Fearlings burst apart. Susan fixed her gaze on him and continued, "You as well. Leave this place, and do not return to try to tempt me again." And then the steel in her gaze softened, just slightly, and she added, "And remember that you are not just guided by the ill you inflict."

Pitch had not felt this unnerved—and by a mere mortal woman!—since the last time the Guardians had vanquished him to the shadows.

"You are a fool, Susan Pevensie," Pitch growled, although he stepped to the shadows just the same. "Do not think I am leaving on your command. I simply feel my time is better spent elsewhere."

Pitch didn't manage to flee—strategically retreat—quickly enough to miss Susan's final words: "There is a light in every darkness. Even yours."

He did his best to bury those words and the rest of them, but it was a long time before he realized he might never shake the feeling they'd stirred inside of him, and though he cursed her, he could never forget their last meeting.

Susan's light had shone too brightly for him to engulf it as easily as he had in the past.

Even when he finally dared to return—much, much later—and found her house dead and empty, he couldn't rid himself of her taint.

Like a dead star seen from across the galaxy, the echo of Susan's light would shine brightly for a very long time to come, and though he was loath to admit it, she was right: by the time her light finally dimmed, the others it had touched and inspired would be shining brightly in her place.

And though he tried, he may not be able to snuff them all out any more than he had Jamie's, when the brat's belief alone had been enough to reignite others in spite of his rising.

There was a blasted light in every darkness, and the best he could truly hope for was to block it out, shielding it so its light didn't spread.

But the first time he looked into a child's dream, ready to turn it into a nightmare, and found that Jack Frost had been retelling Susan's tales…. He'd wondered, then, just for a moment, if he'd succeed when he was forced to black out more than just the moon's watchful light.

He'd quickly shaken off his own doubts, however, for he didn't fear defeat, and he didn't fall prey to his own fears—as if he had anything to fear—like Susan had implied. Darkness was his territory, and he was the root of all the fears in this world. He understood what those who forever walked in the light, like those insufferable Guardians of Childhood, never could.

But Susan had been one of his own, swallowed by darkness and full of fear and despair, and she'd found her way back to the light. She understood better than those who had never left the light at all. Her words carried more weight, more truth, than the empty boasts of the Guardians.

And try though Pitch might, he couldn't forget that.