A/N: Well here we are, on the anniversary of my pathetic claim to fame known as Dear Fanfiction Writers, not with a special tribute or whatever kinda crap you were expecting but rather with an insanely strange fic whose origins even I can't trace and whose growth is mainly due to the help of other people, namely:
- My amazing beta-reader-for-fifteen-chapters Mystichawk
- My little sis to whom I dedicated Insanity the unspoken Thirteenth Nightmare Child (dude seriously I love you but you really gotta stop freaking out every time they mention one of the twelve kids in church)
- My totally-not-biological sisters BlackAngelDarkLife and the girl known as Amelia Selene in Legends of Awesomeness
- My accidental plot-bunny-maker ParadoxalPaladin to whom I spoke maybe once
- and all you other guys who hit on at least one thing from this tangled mess of ideas in your reviews. You know who you are.

I wish I could have done you guys and your contributions to this story all the justice you deserve but alas, here are the days when I hate everything I write and post it with shame. Abby, I love you and you blew me out of the water with your awesomeness for these first 15 chapters, but since we were forced to part ways I bombed chapters 16-end. So…past 15, don't expect as much. T_T

Well I suppose I'll just shut up now and let you read the freaking story already. Enjoy, cry of embarrassment at my poor attempts at revising what was already (Mystichawk's) perfection, and be confused to Manny and back because sure as Hades I am too.

XXXXXXXXX

Children of Fear

.

They are almost ready. They are almost ready.

The thought continued to roll through his mind as he glided smoothly, without a single sound, through the corridors of his cavern home. Stalactites dripped black water from deep underground rivers and springs and the walls glistened as he passed, sending ripples of shadows throughout the caves. A pair of golden eyes encased in black darted out from a crevice, and he raised his hand to call it closer. The black horse, massive in size and terrifying in demeanor, trotted over to him and whinnied.

"Are they ready?" he asked.

The horse spoke to him in a shadow-language only he could understand, whinnying and stomping its hooves for emphasis.

"Good, good," he replied, stroking the horse's mane. "You are a noble servant, Onyx." He then dismissed the shadow-horse with a snap of his fingers and headed down the echoing corridor, eager to see what fruit his months of research and work had yielded.

From the minute the Guardians had set his own Nightmares on him, sending him tumbling back into this hole in the ground, and from the second he had somehow thrown them off and regained conscious thought, he had been thinking of only two things: justice and revenge. He deserved a chance to be believed in, didn't he? After thousands of years of being alone? That Frost brat had dealt with only a few hundred years, and he had been welcomed into the Guardian fold with open arms!

Pitch Black felt his hands clench as he walked stiffly and purposefully towards the cavern where they would be waiting after recovering from their transformations. A measly three hundred years! That was nothing! Nothing compared to how long he had been in the dark, cursed to live only in the shadows!

He let out a slow breath to calm himself. But that is all about to change, he thought as he entered the room where his greatest masterpieces lay waiting. Waiting…for him.

They all lay in one row, side by side. All he could see were their pale faces as the black sand writhed and curled around them like living bonds. He bent down to look at one. She was about six years of age, but there was something timeless about her. The hair that wasn't hidden by her blanket of nightmare sand was a dark shade of silver-grey and her face was the color of ashes, just like his. Their transformations had been successful. If even their real parents were to see them now, they would be utterly unrecognizable.

"They are beautiful," he said softly, staring at the pale faces one by one. "And they are now mine."

He stood and clapped his hands sharply, and the nightmare sand cocooning the twelve small bodies detached itself smoothly to float back several feet, returning to their normal horse shapes.

The children were all still asleep. Pitch bent down again, taking the silver-haired girl's hand in his.

"Wake up," he crooned in his best attempt at gentleness. "It's time to wake up."

The girl's eyes fluttered open, then they widened with confusion and fear.

"Don't worry," said Pitch before she could cry out. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Who — " she croaked. As softly as he could manage, he put a hand on her shoulder.

"Relax. Your voice will come back to you in time." He helped the girl to her feet and dusted the remnants of nightmare sand off her shoulder. "I am your father." The lie slipped as easily off his tongue as a drop of rain from the sky.

"Father?" she repeated in confusion.

"Yes. And these are your brothers and sisters." He turned her around gently so she could see the other eleven children, still fast asleep. She just stared at them blankly. Her blue-grey eyes traveled down the line once, twice, taking in their almost identical clothes and ashen faces. Then those eyes darted up and met his, letting him see all of the intelligence and curiosity in their depths before they once more averted their path.

"Can you tell me your name?" he asked.

"My — my name?" she repeated, as if saying the words for the first time in her life.

"Yes." If she told him her name, her real name, then all the trouble of the magic would have been for nothing and these children would be thousands of times more difficult to manipulate.

"I…I — " she stuttered. He felt the fear flare up inside her and the satisfaction flare up inside him. "I don't remember!"

"Calm down, calm down," he soothed, turning her around to face him. "I'm not going to — "

"I can't remember my name!" she cried, a clear note of panic resounding in her voice. A small drop of satisfaction touched on his cold heart. The magic had worked.

He knelt to her level and gripped her shoulders gently but firmly. This was his first test. "Girl — "

"I can't remember anything! Not my name, nothing!" She started to cry then. Tears started running down her cheeks and she covered her eyes with her tiny hands as she wept.

Then a small smile crept up Pitch's lips. "I think I know your name," he said, laying on the gentleness thick. How long had it been since he'd comforted a child like this? Centuries? Certainly. He hadn't even been seen by a child for over a thousand years, other than those brats at Easter.

"You do?" the little girl asked, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Yes." He straightened up. "You are Shame. The fear of humiliation." She was not ashamed; she was Shame. The physical embodiment of it, so to speak. He'd thought even this part through and it made sense that the children of Fear himself would have odd names to fit their personalities. The next part was to ease some of the more personified fear-magic into their systems.

She did not seem distressed by this. Quite the opposite, in fact. The learning of her name seemed to give her something to hold on to and she managed a weak smile, bowing her head.

"Now, go sit over there while I wake your brothers and sisters," Pitch instructed, gesturing towards the area that his Nightmares had set up for the children. Twelve black blankets had been neatly folded and placed at the steps of his throne, right beside the iron globe. Of course, these blankets were only a temporary measure; after he woke all of the children he would escort them to their separate bedchambers. Now he watched Shame tiptoe tentatively to one of the blankets and sit down, all the while staring at the glittering globe with wide eyes.

Pitch allowed himself a small smile, then he turned away from Shame and towards the next sleeping child in line. This one was a boy of about a year older than the girl, with smooth, shoulder-length black hair and deathly pale skin. The instant Pitch made contact with that skin with his own hand, the child's eyes opened and locked with Pitch's. Amber with amber. Pitch smiled.

"Hello," he greeted, letting go of the boy's hand. He had a feeling this one would be a bit easier to handle.

He looked up at the Nightmare King with a blank, indifferent gaze. Pitch's smile broadened. "My name is Pitch. I am your father."

The boy nodded and got to his feet without a sound. His amber eyes flickered around his surroundings, taking everything in with a single glance. First at Pitch, then at the Nightmares, then at the other children lying peacefully behind him with their hands folded over their chests.

"Do you know your name?" Pitch asked. He knew for sure that the magic had worked for Shame, but it never hurt to double check.

The boy considered the words, then shrugged indifferently.

He was a bit annoyed by the boy's lack of verbal response and, for a second, he contemplated giving the boy a taste of nightmare sand. Then he thought better of it.

I must be a good father to these children, he scolded himself sternly, gazing down at the unnamed boy. To convince them that I am on their side.

He took a deep breath and appraised the child. His golden eyes were bright with intelligence and his thin mouth had a small quirk to it. For a few minutes, neither spoke. Pitch continued to watch him for any signs of what his name might be. He had figured out Shame's name from her personality, so why couldn't he do the same for this boy?

Let's see, he mused silently, scanning the boy up and down. He won't talk, and he's indifferent.

"Do you fear me?" Pitch asked, looking down and meeting the boy's unblinking gaze once again.

To Pitch's surprise, the boy didn't flinch under the glare. Instead he smiled evilly, revealing two rows of sharp, white teeth. Then he shook his head crisply and the smile melted back into indifference.

Pitch smiled in turn. "I know your name," he said confidently.

The boy cocked his head, waiting for the answer.

"You are Death," replied Pitch after a small hesitation. "The fear of passing over, whether it be oneself or others." At this, the boy nodded and smiled again.

Death is silent, thought Pitch as he gestured for the boy to sit next to Shame and then moved to the next child. Death is also indifferent. Who else could he be?

The next child was another girl, small and slight even at her six years. She had short silver-streaked black hair and she clutched a small toy against her chest. Pitch bent down and reached out to touch the toy, but she sat bolt upright and scrambled back before he could.

"Go away!" she cried. Oh, she sounded just like him. Commanding and expecting to be obeyed on the instant.

"Listen, I'm not going to hurt you," Pitch said as gently as he could. Even though he was the Boogeyman and it was his job to be the bump in the night, he still jumped a bit when she sat up and spoke so quickly.

"This is mine!" she snapped, hugging the toy. He could see now that it was a small, dirty doll with a grimy black skirt, black yarn hair, and black button eyes. It looked well worn, yet loved.

"I'm not going to take it," he said slowly, reaching out for her hand. "My name is Pitch, and I am your father."

The girl stopped trying to escape him and froze, staring at him with her stormy grey eyes. "F — father?" she repeated, still clutching the doll like it was the most important thing she'd ever owned. Considering who she'd been, it probably was.

"Yes. And I think I know your name," he added.

"My name?" she repeated, frowning.

"Yes. Your name is Loss. You are the fear of the temporal things of life being taken."

Her eyes widened, then a small smile crept across her face and those deep grey eyes began to glow with a mischievous, yet cautious light that gave the impression of a thief. Pitch gestured over to where Shame and Death were sitting. "Your brother and sister are over there. Would you like to sit by them?"

Loss shrugged and sprang up lithely. He watched her as she stepped up to a blanket and plopped down, glaring at Death and Shame. Oh, this would definitely be an interesting few years.

"Don't steal my name!" she called to him as he turned to the next child in line.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Loss," Pitch said, smiling humorlessly. Now, onto the next one.

The next boy, who was about seven years old like Death, also had black hair, but it was curly and pure black, not even reflecting the barest hint of any light. Pitch reached down, brushed aside the kid's bangs, and put a hand on his pale forehead. Even after that it took several seconds for the cold contact to register in the boy's sleeping mind and for him to wake up. When he did, Pitch saw that his eyes were coal-black, devoid of all color and light — even the whites of his eyes looked somehow dark — and, for a moment, he considered giving this one a plain name, like Coal. But he dismissed this thought as soon as it appeared. That would be ridiculous. The child had to have a name that explained his personality and his specific brand of fear.

He smiled stiffly, helping the boy up. "My name is Pitch. I'm your father." He was getting used to repeating the lie so many times, and he knew that he would have to say it many times more.

The boy nodded thoughtfully. "Okay. Do I have a name?" he asked. His voice was smooth and inquisitive, so much like Pitch's own that it slightly unnerved him. His mouth was set in a blank, curious smile, which actually looked kind of cute with the sprinkling of freckles on his cheeks.

"I'm not sure what your name is yet," Pitch confessed. "Do you have a preference?" He hadn't asked the others this because Death would have said nothing and Shame and Loss probably would have picked girly names like Princess or Bella or something else completely unsuitable for ones of their kind.

But this boy was different. "Dark," he said seemingly without even thinking about it. "My name is Dark."

Pitch nodded. "Dark. That is appropriate. That is what all human souls fear, after all. In the deepest, primal parts of their minds they all fear the dark."

The child seemed satisfied with this. Pitch told him to sit with Shame, Death, and Loss on the blankets and he did so, without question.

Pitch then turned to the next child. This one was a five-year-old girl, with very long, thick black hair that almost reached her knees. It was spread beneath her like a nest and Pitch was briefly reminded of another child whom he'd known with hair like that. He saw her face, laughing and smiling up at him. Then her face faded away like the wisp of a distant cloud and he dismissed the thought.

Can't stand around daydreaming, he reminded himself, bending down to wake up the long haired girl.

Her skin was the color of burned bread, blackish brown, and when she opened her eyes Pitch was a little surprised to see they were the color of bright, fresh violets. The contrast made her look quite pretty. She grinned at him and jumped up, ignoring his hand, gaping at the room like it was the most amazing place she had ever seen. Her eyes, just like Dark's, took in the entirety of the chamber. The globe, his throne, the other children, and finally him.

"Who're you?" she asked. "What's your name? Where are we?" She then caught sight of one of the Nightmares and whirled around, letting out a delighted squeal. "Horsey!" And before Pitch could stop her, she ran towards the Nightmare and started chasing it. "Can I ride it?" she asked over her shoulder as she skipped after the panicked prancing horse. It was obviously a rhetorical question. She was going to ride it even if he said no. Which he did.

"Wha — no!" Pitch was a little confused. This child was a bit different than the first few. More energetic and child-like. It was a little distressing.

"Tough!" she called. In one swift motion, she leapt into the air, grabbed onto the somewhat disturbed horse's mane, and pulled herself onto its back in one swift motion. Pitch was about to run over to her and get her off the prancing horse the hard way, but something stopped him.

"I know your name!" he called to the girl on the horse.

She froze, as did the Nightmare she was "riding". Then both of them slowly turned their heads to face him. "You do?" the girl asked.

Pitch nodded. It was obvious, really. "Come here and I'll tell you."

She grinned and clambered up until she was standing on the Nightmare's saddle, then she jumped off the horse, almost breaking her neck in the process by getting her foot caught in the stirrup and falling towards the hard stone floor. Pitch unintentionally winced, but the girl twisted before she hit the ground and Pitch caught a flash of her bright violet eyes. There was an exulted and faintly insane light in those eyes and as she fell, she landed on her tiptoes, balancing on them for a few seconds and then tipping forward. Again, Pitch felt his heart leap into his chest and he took a step to stop her, but then she flashed him a smile and he stopped to watch her.

She effortlessly turned the tip into a smooth cartwheel, then another. She was cartwheeling around the room now and Pitch watched in amazement as she twisted again and turned it into a back handspring, rocketing up into the air like a cannonball.

She's some kind of acrobat or something, he thought, somewhat impressed. She will be an excellent warrior…once I get her to listen to me.

As she flew through the air, she wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her body into a small, black-haired ball. Then gravity took over and she fell against the ground with force that would have shattered the bones of a normal person, but she bounced up into the air again almost like a rubber ball. The momentum carried her towards him, and, just as he was about to dive out of the way, she rolled to a stop about a foot away from his foot.

Hesitantly, he bent down and poked her head. "Um…"

She didn't reply, didn't even move for at least five silent seconds, then she unfurled lightning-quick and hopped to her feet, wearing a wide grin. Her eyes were still alight with that faintly insane look, but she wasn't even breathing hard. Not surprising, for some reason.

Pitch sighed. There could be no doubt about who she was.

"Well?" she asked, smiling happily. "What's my name?"

He reached down and brushed a strand of black hair from her face in a way he supposed a caring, loving father would. "You are Danger. The fear of risks and chance."

Danger gave him the pouty lip. "That's not much of a nice name," she said, crossing her arms. "And I'm not scared. I'm not scared of anything!"

Pitch shrugged. "Well, it suits you," he remarked. Part of his mind was still thinking about that stunt she'd pulled with the Nightmare. It was true. She didn't look afraid in the slightest. Then why —

She considered this. Then her pouting face vanished and was replaced with a smile. "Okay. I'm Danger."

Pitch resisted the urge to say, Yes, you certainly are, but he instead told her to go sit by her siblings and wait. She obeyed, cheerfully skipping off to join the others. He watched her go and then cast his eye to the other children. Death and Shame were both silent and indifferent. Dark was rolling his eyes as if there were ten million other places he'd rather be, and seven billion people he'd rather be with. Loss was staring at Danger with a confused expression on her face. As the long-haired girl came to sit beside the others, she started talking about how fun it was to ride the "horsies".

Sighing, Pitch turned to the next child. Danger would be a bit of a challenge to handle, but he would manage. Eventually.

The sixth boy in line, one of the oldest at the age of eight, had hair the exact color of Pitch's own and styled in the exact same way. Pitch snorted. The child looked so much like him that it was uncanny. The only detail of his face that wasn't like Pitch's was his nose. Whereas Pitch's was rather large and somewhat hooked, this boy's was slender and rather unremarkable. The transformation magic, which once it was cast worked on its own, had a sense of humor.

Pitch touched the boy's forehead and he immediately jerked awake.

"Go away!" he shouted, striking out with his feet and fists wherever he could.

Pitch jumped back in surprise. Then he regained his composure as he felt the boy's fear, masked by his blustering, burning inside him. "Calm down," he said in the same gentle voice as he had used with the other children. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The boy's eyes were fierce and bright orange, almost red, and they glowed with the angry light of hot coals. Pitch involuntarily took a step back. Those eyes were just as unsettling as Danger's manic violet ones, but somehow Pitch kept his emotions in check as he smiled.

"My name is Pitch," he continued as kindly as possible. "Do you have a name?"

The boy's eyes blazed with fury and he nearly shouted, "No! I don't!"

Over on the blankets, Shame flinched, Death just sat there, Loss stroked her doll's hair somewhat creepily, Dark — who did not seem to be paying attention in the least — played shadow puppets on the wall, and Danger rolled her eyes and muttered something about anger management.

"All right, all right, no need to shout," Pitch chided somewhat anxiously.

Determinedly but unsteadily, the boy got to his feet and continued to glare at him. Pitch sighed for the umpteenth time that day. "Well, your name is evident from your actions."

The eight-year-old blinked, momentarily losing his livid expression. "Say what?"

"Your name," repeated Pitch. Every time he told them their names they seemed to calm down. Hopefully it would work for this furious boy. "You are Wrath. The fear of others' anger and hatred."

He blinked again. He seemed to be considering this. The silence in the cave was only broken by Danger's incessant chattering and the occasional flat input from Dark for her to shut up, even though and especially because no one was listening to her constant rambling.

"Wrath," said the boy after a while. "I think I can handle that." He took a step closer to Pitch. "Where am I?"

"You are in my lair. I'm your father," Pitch answered. It was a lie he'd have to live for years to come, he knew, but it was necessary if his plan was going to work.

Wrath smirked. "Right," he said slowly, obviously not believing it. Those fiery eyes had dimmed down to a gentle, pulsating flame as they traveled around the room, taking in everything. Pitch watched those eyes widen in curiosity at the sight of the Nightmares and then narrow as he saw Danger and the others. "Who're they?"

"Your brothers and sisters," said Pitch.

The indifferent smirk on Wrath's face turned into a full-out smile, which slightly unnerved Pitch with its unintentional wickedness. "Ah. Well then, I'd better go and say hello." And, out of his own accord, he walked towards the other children with a brisk, purposeful stride.

Pitch watched him go, a pride swelling in his chest that he hadn't felt since…since some time in his distant past, a time that had been lost in the memories of an immortal. It was a good kind of pride, though. A kind that he could get used to, even enjoy.

The girl following Wrath was also about eight and also had black hair, though hers was long and smooth. She was very, very pretty, even in sleep and at this young age, with flawless cinnamon-colored skin, perfect lips, silky hair, and a cute little button nose. And when Pitch woke her up with a simple touch to her cheek, he saw that she had fiery eyes as well. But these eyes were darker, like the deep crimson shade of fresh blood, and her hair was streaked with the same color.

"Hello," he said.

"Um…hello," she replied, sounding somewhat doubtful of her own voice. He offered her his arm to help her up and she took it, bracing against him to stand herself up. But when she got to her feet, she let out a cry of anguish and sank back down to the ground.

This one's name wasn't hard to figure out.

"It's okay," he soothed gently, stroking her hair and taking hold of her hands again, just like he had seen other fathers do to their beloved daughters. Somehow it was easy, as if he'd done it before. "Just bear through the pain, Pain."

She gave him a strange look but did as he asked, trying to get to her feet again. When she did, this time she stayed up.

"Thank you," she whispered gratefully.

It had been a while — no, eternity — since he had heard those words spoken to him with such sincerity. So it took him a while to recover the correct response. "You're welcome," he said as he helped her limp over to the blankets where the other six sat. "My name is Pitch. I'm your father."

"My — my father?" she stammered, gazing up at him with wide eyes.

Always with the wide eyes, he thought. "Yes. I am your father, and you are my daughter Pain. You are the fear of harm, physical or mental."

She didn't seem to hear the last part and, if she did, she obviously did not care much. After giving him a small and grateful smile, she sat down next to Danger and started talking shyly with her, glancing every so often over at Wrath.

Pitch shook his head, then he headed back to the children. This eighth one in line was a six-year-old boy, skinny and pale like the rest. But contrary to all that he had seen so far, he had long dark brown hair and when he awoke at Pitch's touch, almond-shaped green eyes stared up at him.

"Hey," he said flatly.

Pitch blinked. The kid sounded tired, of all things. He had been sleeping for months! How in darkness could he be tired?!

He cleared his throat. "Are you all right?"

The boy nodded without comment.

"Well, I am your father. My name is Pitch," he said, trying and failing yet again to sound gentle.

The child nodded, again without comment.

They both sat in silence for a few endless moments. The boy had folded his pale hands over his bony knees and propped his head on his knuckles.

Pitch coughed uncomfortably. "Do you know your name?" he inquired, trying to move things along.

Without taking his eyes off the Nightmare King, the boy shook his head once.

Pitch blinked. Well, he didn't really know either. This child gave no hints about his name. If he didn't already know better, he would have said that the boy was Death. But that was ridiculous. Death was right behind him and honestly, he didn't think that a soft-looking boy with such vivid green eyes — like the green of fresh grass — could ever be Death.

"Well, er, would you like to go sit with the others?" asked Pitch, gesturing to the seven children sitting by the glittering globe.

The boy shrugged and slowly, steadily, sluggishly, got to his feet and drifted over to the group of children. He sat on the farthest blanket away from the other children, pulled his legs towards his chest, and stuck his thumb into his mouth.

Interesting, Pitch thought.

And then Danger had the folly to scramble over to her new brother. "Hi!" she greeted cheerily. "What's your name?"

The nameless boy just pulled his legs closer and turned away.

Pitch knew he should be trying to wake the other children, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the boy with the green eyes. Now Danger was tapping his shoulder, trying to get him to talk to her.

"Hello, hello, hello," she persisted, poking him on the shoulder when he didn't say anything. "I'm right here, you know. You can answer me. What's your name?" She took the following silence as an answer. "He didn't give you a name? Wow. He gave me a name. I'm Danger, but that's a bit long. I'm thinking of shortening it. Dang…nah, that doesn't sound right." Dark snickered and whispered something derogatory about Danger to Death, which the former didn't seem to hear. She just kept talking. "Maybe Ger. But that doesn't sound right either. Dannie, maybe…?"

The boy mumbled something and Danger tilted her head, cupping her hand against her ear. "I didn't hear that. What'd you say?"

"Go away," the boy said tiredly, plucking his thumb out of his mouth with a wet pop before he spoke and then sticking it back in after his two words were uttered.

Danger blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I said go away. I just want to be left alone," he insisted, closing his eyes and leaning even farther away from her. She scootched a few inches closer.

"Danger!" Pitch called. "Leave him alone. Oh, and boy." The green-eyed child looked up. "I know your name."

For the first time since he'd awoken, those eyes lit with interest. "Really?"

"Yes. You are Solitude," said Pitch from across the room. "The fear of being left alone, and the fear of total and complete independence."

Solitude's face split into a smile and he inclined his head respectfully. He still never took that thumb out of his mouth. Pitch took a note of which hand it was on and reminded himself never to let the kid touch him with that hand. It was his right hand.

So eight down, four to go.

The next girl, the ninth, looked a lot like Shame, except that her hair was grey instead of silver and obscured her face entirely. Even though he could not see her face, she seemed, to him, somehow older than the rest.

At his touch she sat up slowly, keeping her head bent forward.

"Hello," greeted Pitch uncomfortably.

She did not speak.

"Can you talk?" asked Pitch.

She nodded weakly and emitted a raspy sound that might have been a yes.

"Don't worry, your voice will return," he assured her. "Here. Let me help you up."

Frantically, she shook her head, still keeping her face hidden behind her veil of hair. Pitch was confused.

"You can walk…can't you?"

She shook her head again.

He bent down farther to inspect her feet. They were thin, grey, and bony, like the rest of her, and they didn't look damaged too badly. Dirty, callused, and cut, maybe, but not enough to stop her from walking.

"Why can't you walk?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Can't."

Pitch leaned back and frowned. She couldn't walk, she kept her face hidden, and she could barely speak. But even through this afflicted shell of low, blatant misery and affliction he sensed a hidden power within her, an angry flashing core hidden inside. Well, that pointed to only one name. But he had to be sure before he told her.

"Can you push back your hair?" he asked.

She shook her head more violently than when he had asked her to walk.

He hesitated before uttering the next word. "Please?" It felt strange and new on his tongue. He hadn't said it with an honest truth for a long time.

But the girl only shook her head again.

Pitch sighed. He knew she wasn't going to do it of her own accord, so he snapped his fingers and a cord of nightmare sand trickled from his palm, writhing and wriggling until he knelt and released it by the girl's ear. It hung limply for a few seconds, entangled in that mat of hair. Then, before she could do anything about it, the cord twisted around her hair, behind her neck, and back around. It looped her hair into a loose ponytail and pulled it back so that Pitch could see her face clearly.

"Oh," he said, once he had gotten over his initial shock at seeing her. Her eyes were closed and Pitch saw a tear running down her cheek. "I'm sorry." This, like the please, was actually genuine.

The girl's seven-year-old face was mottled with bruises and her lip was swollen. Scratches and cuts ran across her sickly grey face — the transformation magic had refused to touch them. Pitch had known how she'd gotten the wounds, but he had never seen her face clearly until now. He somehow knew that these wounds would never go away, just like Loss would never allow anyone to touch her doll and Danger would always take risks. It was the same thing, though he wished he could clean it up for her and she would heal.

But then she wouldn't be who she is, he thought sadly.

"I'm…" Pitch stopped. Trying to get the words out to this silently agonized child was hard. He could not take his eyes off her flawed, scarred face. Just because he was an egotistical fear spirit with plans of world domination didn't mean that he would ever physically hurt a child — and such a display of meek, helpless suffering went against even what few flawed morals he had. "I'm your father."

"Who — " she stammered in her hoarse voice, "who — did…this — to me?"

Pitch lowered his head. He could not tell her who'd done it; he wouldn't dare mention them at all. But that spark of light inside of him, that shred of goodness buried and trampled on by the demons that made him who he was, was still persisting, and it had told him on the day that life with him would probably be better than life with the family that didn't care for her. That was why he had chosen her as the ninth of his new children.

"I don't know," he lied. "But I know your name."

For the first time her eyes opened, but with a struggle, as if she didn't know if she should or even could. They were a washed out shade of nondescript grey and, like Solitude's, very tired. But this was the exhaustion of defeat, of torment, of suffering…

"My name?" she rasped. Pitch reflected that her voice seemed less harsh and afflicted now, though it might never completely clear.

"Yes. You are Suffering," he said finally. "The fear of abuse, physical or mental, and of hardships."

The girl nodded and the cord of nightmare sand broke, letting her hair fall loosely around and over her pockmarked face like a grey curtain once more.

"I understand," she whispered from behind the veil.

The Nightmare King turned his gaze from her hidden face down to her cut and bruised feet. It was clear that she could not walk, so he picked her up as gently as he could and carried her to one of the last blankets by the globe.

"There you go," he said awkwardly, setting her down. She was as still and quiet as a stone.

"Danger, leave her alone," he ordered over his shoulder as he walked to the next child.

Danger pouted, "Why?"

"Because I said so!" Pitch snapped. Oh yes, he was going to have trouble with this one. It was going to be a long next few years.

It wasn't the first time he had thought it, nor would it be the last.

The tenth child was a boy, abnormally tall for his seven years, and had neat grey hair combed over in a style that a much older man would have approved of. His nose was large, almost as large as Pitch's, but his face was squarer in shape. Pitch stared at this child long and hard, then he shook the boy's shoulder. He sat up hesitantly, rubbing his eyes with his fists.

"Hello," Pitch said.

The boy did not answer for a while, still yawning and rubbing his eyes.

Pitch tapped the boy on the shoulder again. "Hello?"

His hands dropped and he stared at Pitch with something akin to curiosity. "Hello?" he repeated slowly. His voice was surprisingly deep for one so young and lined with a distinctive British accent.

Pitch smiled stiffly. All of this smiling was making his face sore — how the heck did those peppy Guardians do it so much? "Hello to you, too. I'm your father, Pitch."

Something akin to shock flashed across the boy's face, and he blinked. "What did you just call me?"

Pitch stiffened. He'd heard all the jokes about his name, but they'd never been this direct. "What? No, no. I wasn't…I wasn't addressing you. I was saying that my name is Pitch."

This strangely serious-looking boy raised an eyebrow and frowned. "You…are aware that it is usually used in the derogatory sense…?"

"No, not — that," the Nightmare King groaned. He could literally feel the blood rushing to his face. "Pitch, with a P, as in Pitch Black…"

Over by the blankets, Wrath, Dark, Danger, and Shame all burst into laughter. Death even cracked a smile. Pitch sent them a loathing glare and they instantly shut up.

"Ah," said the boy, completely poker faced. "I see. You're my father?"

Pitch nodded, still a bit frazzled by the recent beginning-consonant-sounds episode. "Er…yes." He offered his hand to help the boy to his feet. They got up, but Pitch found that when the boy stood straight, he was only two feet shorter than the Nightmare King. Interesting. He hadn't been like that before.

"Do I have a name?" asked the boy in his low voice.

"I'm sure you do," his adoptive father replied. "But it will take some time to figure it out.

"How long?"

Pitch hesitated. "I don't know."

The boy looked him up and down for a while, then, when Pitch was getting a bit annoyed and uncomfortable with the close scrutiny, he asked, "Why is your hair like that?"

Pitch's hand instinctively flew up to his head to check his hair. This was the only one of the children so far who had made a personal remark like that. "It's naturally that way," he insisted, patting the black spikes that stuck out like a crest of feathers.

"Huh. And what about that outfit?"

Now Pitch was just getting annoyed. "You're the one wearing rags."

The boy looked down at his tattered pants and torn shirt. "Ah," he sighed. "But at least it's not a dress."

Pitch smiled wryly, too preoccupied to protest as to the technical name of the dress/robe thing that he always wore. "Now I know your name," he said. It had been the personal remarks that had given the name away.

"Really? What is it?" the boy asked, for once not scornful.

"Judgment," Pitch said proudly. "You are the fear of facing punishment and of the thoughts of others."

Judgment inclined his head, seemingly satisfied. "I was thinking of just that. Is there somewhere I can sit down?"

Pitch gestured towards the blankets and the abnormally tall and old-looking boy nodded, reaching the other children in three long strides.

Two more to go, Pitch thought happily. Then I can start preparing them for their parts in my plan.

The second to last child in the row, a five-year-old girl who also had black hair, took a little longer to wake up than any of the others so far. At first, she yawned and rolled over, mumbling something about sleeping in before going stone still again. When Pitch finally managed to wake her by shaking her shoulder and yelling into her ear, she stared at him with blue eyes so vivid they almost seemed purple.

These eyes blinked in surprise. "Um…hello," the girl said hesitantly before he could.

"Hello," Pitch replied stiffly, hunkering down to her level. All of this stooping was making his back hurt. If normal fathers did this as much as he had just done in the past twenty minutes, no wonder that elderly people suffered from chronic back pains. And this was coming from someone who was…um…oh, just forget it. Darkness knew how old he really was. "I'm your father. My name is Pitch Black."

"Oh. Hi Dad," the girl said crisply. This one was the American, that much was obvious. He was somewhat fascinated as to the change that had occurred in her — it was almost eerie how many scars could be washed away like this.

He smiled stiffly. Oh, his poor facial muscles burned like the blazes. "Do you know your name?" he asked. By now he was relatively convinced that the memory magic had worked, but it never hurt to double check.

The five-year-old frowned as she thought before shaking her shaggy head. Her hair was short, almost to a boy's length, but choppy and unkempt and all in her face, as if she had cut it with safety scissors and had never heard of the invention called a headband. "Nope. Sorry."

"Oh, no need to be sorry," said Pitch dismissively. "I am sure we'll figure it out."

The girl's face suddenly turned dark and angry, as if storm clouds had suddenly gathered. A strangely familiar kind of light flickered in her eyes — no, not light. Lightning. Pure electricity crackled in her sky blue eyes, causing Pitch to almost flinch with its intensity.

"Of course we'll figure it out!" she snapped, crossing her arms. "I'm not going to live the rest of my life without my name!"

"Easy. Easy," he blustered, like he would do with a riled-up Nightmare. Except that this wasn't a Nightmare, this was an independent, very angry human girl, albeit a human girl with the endurance and powers of an immortal. "I just meant that — "

"You just meant that I would have to live without a name!" she cried. "But I won't! I'll find my name! I will!"

Pitch sighed. "I'm not trying to say that you won't."

The girl's face suddenly went blank. Then she smiled. "Oh. Sorry about that," she said apologetically. "I didn't mean to be rude. You were saying?"

Frazzled, Pitch blinked. "Um, okay," he said uncertainly. Then the little invisible lightbulb blinked on above his head. "Oh, I think I know your name."

"Really?"

"Yes. Your name is Tempest, the fear of the raw power of earth and nature."

Tempest grinned. "Cool!" she exclaimed, getting to her feet. "Then, ah, I think I'll go over to those other guys over there."

Pitch swore he felt the calm damp air in the cavern begin to whip up as she got up and he was almost positive that she was walking an inch above the stone floor. But that was impossible; they only had some of their powers right now and he could remember nothing about giving her powers over the wind, because he didn't really have any of his own. Oh well. Who knew, maybe she'd had the powers before he took her in. Hades had said something about kids like those once. Shaking his head, he turned his eyes away from the Eleventh and towards the Twelfth.

This last child was tiny and curled up into a tight ball, hugging his knees close to his chest. There was a faded greyish-yellow blanket wrapped tightly around his body and over his head, hiding his face in shadow. If Pitch had not selected the children individually and did not know that there were exactly six females and six males, he would have been challenged to figure out what gender this child might be. The only things visible of the boy outside of the nondescript blanket were two tiny bare feet so pale that the bluish-grey veins could be seen spiderwebbing underneath the nearly translucent skin.

"Um…hello?" Pitch said hesitantly, nudging the boy's shoulder. As Pitch waited, watching him carefully, there were no signs of movement or even life and he was getting a bit worried. Could the transformation magic kill a person…?

"Wake up," commanded Pitch, shaking the child's shoulder. But he stubbornly refused to wake or even move. "Boy!" he snapped, more insistently this time.

There was nothing. Not even a twitch.

He was getting worried. All the children had been perfect, or capable of being fixed to perfection. Not a hair had been out of place — figuratively, of course, as Suffering's covered her entire face. Selective mutism, antisocial qualities, anger management issues, and weak legs could all be fixed. But a dead child…

In a flash of anger, Pitch clenched his fists. He knew that this had been too good to be true! Twelve was too many! He knew there were bound to be some small problems with such an advanced plan, but he hadn't anticipated this! The boy refused to even move, let alone talk to him. He was obviously the weakest of the twelve; the runt of the litter, as it were. At least, if he was even alive. Of course, being immortal and physically incapable of showing vital signs, Pitch was unaware as to how to check if someone was alive or dead.

"BOY!" he bellowed a final time, tearing the blanket back. "Wake — " Then he froze, staring at the shaggy head beneath the blanket. The hair was pure white streaked with silver, like freshly fallen snow.

"FROST?!" he nearly shrieked, shoving the child onto his back.

No, no, no. It wasn't Frost. He wouldn't dare come here! Not only that, but this boy was too small, young, and skinny. Small, young, and skinny as the winter spirit was, he wasn't…this. This was someone else. Something else…

Pitch scrutinized the boy's four-year-old face. His eyes were closed and his face was the color of powdered milk. His features were unmemorable — no, not just that. Unmemorable would be an understatement. Every time Pitch blinked, he had to try to remember what he looked like. Hands nearly shaking, he stepped back a pace, wondering if the Twelfth Child could possibly be dead. His skin was cold enough that he could have been. The plan would work fine with just eleven, but…what would he do with the body?

No. It was impossible. He couldn't be dead. He'd been very much alive that night, and that magic couldn't have killed him. He was strong enough…right?

Long moments — no, minutes — passed and still the boy did not move. Pitch was getting agitated.

"All right, that's it. I am sorry that I have to do this, but he just won't wake up." Pitch summoned a strand of nightmare sand and knelt next to the limp form on the ground. Taking the boy's chin in his free hand, Pitch forcefully opened his mouth and sent the tendril of sand down his throat. There. That would wake him up for sure.

And sure enough, as soon as Pitch closed his mouth, the boy began to thrash.

Pitch smiled, but it wasn't the stiff, fake smile he had been using with the children. This was a sinister smile, his vampire smile, the one that literally struck fear into hearts. "Finally. A result."

The boy squirmed and gasped, then he curled up into the ball again and moved no more. Pitch stared, confused. The sand should've — no. That was when another spasm shook the boy's whole body and jolted him out of his position. He lay there on the cold stones of the floor, coughing and gasping for breath, but still not opening his eyes. In fact he now seemed determined to keep them closed as he balled his tiny fists and squeezed his eyelids shut.

"Come on," Pitch snarled. "Wake up!"

As the boy tucked his head in as if to hide his face, the black sand began to pour out of his every orifice. His nose, his ears, his mouth. There was even some leaking out from beneath his eyelids, like he was crying. But this was not the strange part — the truly strange part was when Pitch saw that as the sand made its way back out into air, it was tainted with grains of silver and shimmered like a mirage.

He bent down. "Come," he ordered the silver sand. After a second of hesitation, it obeyed, curling up into an orb that quickly darkened to its usual black as he regained control of it and disappearing as he crushed it in his fingers.

"Wake up," he ordered, more gently this time but still firmly. "Come on. Wake."

The boy just shuddered and tried to curl up again, but Pitch would have none of that.

"Open your eyes or I shall send the sand in again," he snapped, gripping the boy's thin arm.

He did not move, and Pitch released him and turned away in disgust.

"Useless," he spat as he strode towards the other, wide-eyed children, intent on getting them to get this last child up. "Too afraid to even move. He can't even see — " Pitch froze at his own words. "He can't see…can he?" he repeated slowly, turning around to stare at the boy again.

The child was still curled up in the same position, trembling uncontrollably as if invisible beings tormented him.

"I know your name," Pitch said, knowing he could hear him.

The boy shivered and stiffened, but he didn't raise his head or uncurl as Pitch had thought he would.

He sighed and crossed the stone floor, back to the boy. He knelt down one more time.

"Get up, Unknown."

That was his name. Unknown. The fear of things invisible and unknown. At the sound of it, the boy jerked again and uncurled partially from his strange position, finally raising his head as if curious to find out what the strange noises outside the darkness meant, but was too scared to look. His eyes were still closed, so Pitch commanded, "Open your eyes."

Unknown obeyed. But to Pitch's surprise, the eyes were not dark, nor were they light. They were colorless and clear and filled with a strange, unidentifiable glimmer of intelligence that disproved his former theory that the child couldn't see. Not white, like a blind boy's, nor were they any other color in the spectrum. They reminded Pitch of twin pools of glass, reflecting his own face in their depths, along with fear, confusion, and a tiny light of hope.

"Unknown," said Pitch, "I am your father. You don't need to fear me."

The child stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights. Those unusually large, reflective eyes were wide, as if he couldn't imagine that something so wonderful as a father might be his.

"Come. I must introduce you to your brothers and sisters." Pitch reached for the boy's thin hand and pulled him up. Surprisingly, Unknown balanced and walked perfectly fine on those frighteningly thin bare feet. He didn't speak the whole time Pitch introduced him to his sisters and brothers and he only raised his head once, when Death's name was called. The two boys shared a look and, for the briefest instant, Pitch was sure that Unknown had let a smile flicker across his face.

It makes sense, he mused to himself. The unknown and death go hand in hand.

When all was said and done, he escorted the children to the rooms that had been specially prepared for them and told them to make themselves comfortable, maybe clean up a bit before their first family dinner. It would be in an hour and specially catered by Gluttony, who was well known throughout the spirit world as not only an amazing eater but also an amazing cook. (Pitch knew that the selfish embodiment of that deadly sin would hold it over his head for centuries to come, but he had to feed these kids somehow.)

He reclined in his throne after the last door had been shut, listening to the faint sounds of the children as they explored their wing of the lair. Now that they had all been awakened from the transformations, he could begin planning in earnest. All of them had powers, he knew, and all of them had potential for evil. Well, he reconsidered, possibly not Shame or Danger. They both still seemed so…human.

"Well, no matter," he dismissed aloud, looking at the globe beside him. So many lights…he just wanted to blot them out in one rage-induced sweep of his hand. But the time was not yet right, and he himself had not the strength to wield such power. That was what the children were for. "I'm sure they will grow out of it."

Yes, they would, but what about Unknown? Pitch had a very, very bad feeling about the boy — or lack of feeling whatsoever. He'd felt his own power in each of the others, but not this last one. And when he had been brought to his room he just stood in the center, unmoving as his mirror-like eyes took in everything around him.

"Unknown will show his power soon," said the Nightmare King confidently, pushing aside his doubts. The magic was guaranteed, after all. He had put just as much of his own power into that scrap of a boy as the rest of them. Possibly more.

Involuntarily he let out a low chuckle. This time, things would be different. Oh, so different. He remembered when he'd relied entirely on his own creations — the dreams he'd turned into Nightmares. It was a bit different to turn children into soldiers.

My children are ready, he thought as he stared up at the ceiling where the Man in the Moon watched from high above his caves. Are your Guardians, old friend?

I have a really bad feeling that this thing's going to have more puns in it than The Pun War of '13…

Don't try to memorize all twelve Nightmare Children right now. Seriously, it's a whole lot easier if you just go with the flow and learn them as the story progresses.