There was only fear for a long time.

He knew of nothing else as it clawed at his throat, scratching his voice until even his whispers died out in the shadows. He didn't have a heartbeat but he could've sworn that something was pounding in his chest, desperate to escape this blind terror that had seized and refused to let go. It was agonizing and he didn't know how he could cling to his sanity in such a state, but somehow he did. There was something every present at the back of his thoughts, just out of reach, that led him onwards through the fear. It was only until later that he could discern what it was.

He didn't know how long he had been in that state until the fear had slowly starting to ebb away and he could make sense of the world surrounding him once more.

The first distinct thing he could remember was the smell of rotting flesh and the idea of it being his never truly left him as he faded out once again.

The second thing he remembered was a pair of yellow eyes watching him excitedly. They were so close that he had mistaken them for the sun and cried out in pain from heat that did not exist. He didn't stay for long as he faded into darkness once more.

The third thing that came was not a sense but a memory. A memory of things that had once been and things that were still to come, and in a desperate attempt to cling he called out a name, "Pitch Black," and was released once more into darkness.

The fourth thing was an emotion. Something that boiled under his skin, that sang in his veins. It was hot and blind and it allowed him to stand on his feet. It allowed him to feel the drips of water falling from the caverns head. It allowed him to move his hands over cool, damp stone and to open unblinking yellow eyes of his own. It allowed him to become once more. And this time he did not fade away.

Years afterwards he gathered strength and the emotion continued to coil in taught muscles and unwavering eyes. The name he had called out before came back with renewed strength as he remembered it to be his own.

Pitch roamed his home with a vigor he hadn't previously possessed and the yellow eyes that had been staring at him long ago became recognizable as his nightmares. The same that had turned on him after the Guardian's War, which he had dubbed himself thinking of the Guardian's newest member, and that had fed off of his fear for a long long time. A time he will never truly remember or regain.

He hated them, hated them for betraying their master, their creator! And the nightmares shrank back into the shadows whenever Pitch looked for too long, for while they are made of fear they can also experience it. They are not ill creatures who seek death so they rightly retreat when they see their master's brighter yellow eyes seeking their own.

While seeing his creatures react in such a way filled Pitch with satisfaction he realized that in order to truly gather his wits he would need them once again at his beck and call. Pitch had discovered that he had been trapped in his lair a couple of years back. There was a form of magic placed over the openings, no doubt the Sandman's handiwork, and Pitch realized with a burning anger starting low in his belly that he was not leaving anytime soon. If he had any hope of leaving he would need his nightmares.

So within time Pitch stopped letting his gaze become one of hatred and became one of obedience instead. The nightmares started to come from the shadows and one brave one that Pitch had always liked named Onyx braved her master's anger and came close. Pitch's hand wavered with that emotion still circulating through his blood but at last it came down to rest on her mane and combed gently through. Onyx neighed in contentment and the other nightmares approached cautiously in future weeks, coming once again to trust and obey their creator.

Now with his nightmares by his side Pitch had time to plan. He holed up in his library for a year studying the Sandman's magic, hoping to find a way to break it but his magic as he had discovered during the Guardian's War had persevered despite being struck down. He had to find a way to completely dismantle it if he had any chance of escaping. With a dejected sigh he closed one book and turned to another when a loud crash echoed off the cavern walls. His head shot up when he realized one of his nightmares hadn't been the cause of the sound. He traveled through his shadows to the main foyer and stepped out, large yellow eyes as round as saucers as he watched an angel descend from the sky.

An array of white fell swiftly but to Pitch time had slowed down. He could make out a shape underneath the white mass he had mistakenly taken for wings and with a sense of familiarity realized that it was snowflakes covering the body. As the snow started to dissipate he could make out a face and a shock of white hair before it all came to a halt with a sickening crunch as the body connected with the floor.

Pitch stood in shock for what seemed like hours. He watched fallen snow turn red and a twisted smile graced his face.

He approached the body slowly drinking in the sight. Lacerations decorated the arms and torso like a misconstrued Jackson Pollock painting and white hair was slowly turning red with blood. The bottoms of the feet were burned to a charcoal and some embers still glowed hot when Pitch looked closely. A blue hoodie was torn apart as tatters of fabric lay across a bloody chest as remnants. A Sheppard's crook lay a few feet away with blood flowing down the cracks, staining the floor. Pitch bent down next to the body and turned the face towards himself to confirm what he knew to be true with a racing desire.

He knew that beneath those closed lids were magical blue eyes the color of a frozen lake and that the lips slightly parted with shallow breaths were just filled with sarcastic comebacks waiting to be unleashed. And Pitch's twisted smile grew as he combed back the boy's bloody hair and said with all the glee in the world, "Jack Frost… it seems we just can't leave things where we left them, can we?"

And then Pitch placed a name to that thought that had kept him from insanity during the fear so long ago. How could he have forgotten the name of what was singing in his head, pounding in his chest; tightening his muscles. But looking down at Jack's frail form he remembered now. He remembered the word as it wormed its way into every crevice of his body till he felt like a God… It was revenge.

Pitch scooped up the boy's broken body and without another word walked through the shadows with the Guardian's newest member. The only sound that echoed through the cavern was the sound of a coarse tongue being dragged over the cavern rocks as the nightmare's cleaned Jack Frost's blood from the floor.