Mend
Awareness

Silent upon the descent, no sound left he or his friends. Not even the wind dare sing in this place. When was the last time he'd been here, he wondered? Was it before the quartz and onyx had begun to crumble? Perhaps it had been before the iron globe had rolled off of its grand pedestal- or maybe it was when the shadows still permeated the very air of this place. He could not remember.

Lost was he in his exploration of the sunken palace, and he pondered at how the rays sunlight that had broken through warred with the darkness. He dreamt of days long past, of the battle, of himself, and of him. His skin crawled with something- anticipation, apprehension, disgust? He did not know. But he would not have to wonder for much longer, as he closed in upon the location he sought.

The cold greeted Jack as a friend, nipping at his heels as he came to a great door. Perhaps he should go- turn back, this was not his place. But despite his wishes there was a purpose to this task, for he had brought them to the maw of a slumbering beast not to take pride in having set it to sleep, but rather to wake it and raise it to the state it once was. Nonetheless he feared waking it- would it snap at him, he wondered. Tooth tapped upon his shoulder, reminding him to keep moving, and he placed his hands tentatively on the cold handles of the door. He opened it wide, heart beginning to race as the first sound since their descent squealed out. Their cringe was collective and they readied their weapons for the waking of monsters within. But there were none- only the settling of dust and the foul scent of decay met them. The feeling was back, more powerful than before-his skin felt hot, too much so, as he came through the threshold and into what was once an impressive hall. He remembered this place, in a dream he'd gotten many, many years ago- but now, where once there had been a breathtaking visage, sat a large crater with tiles slipping down into the abyss.

He crept up to the edge, Tooth, Aster, Sandy and North beside him. With caution, they stared down to the center of the crater. There lay the subject of their search, or rather the shell of him at least. Covered in a thick layer of old leaves, dirt and other muck that had likely fallen in when the ceiling had collapsed. In fact, the only reason they knew it to be him, was the smattering of black sand all across the crater. However that was the only sign of life, no breath came from the crater, and not even the usually sentient shadows swayed. None of them felt particularly compelled to see if he was alive- would he be strong enough to act, they wondered, and if so would he try to harm them- would he even remember to? But it had to be done, so Jack stepped up and used the wind to sweep himself down to the slumbering spirit below. With a cast of his hands, the leaves and dirt were blown away, and with caution Jack touched the thrumming shadows which shrouded their master protectively. They were wary, slowly fading back. The air left Jack at the sight which greeted him.

He briefly remembered the name of that emotion from earlier not apprehension, but fear.

Most surely Pitch should be dead, must have been- but the very fact that he even laid there was testament to his survival. How long was it since the war? Years, decades? Jack had forgotten the passage of time. Surely after all of the years of being forgotten, Pitch would have been lost to the dead. Instead here he rested, just as Manny had said, yet healing from old wounds. Jack caught himself staring at the Nightmare King, what horrors led to the scars upon him, Jack wondered.

"North," Jack called when at last his breath returned to him. The spirit of wonder looked sick as he peered down.
"Should we move him?" Jack whispered. They were apprehensive at first, wary of even being near him much less having to carry him. Nonetheless, North and Jack resigned themselves to the task. It felt wrong, the way Pitch's skin felt paper thin. How the bones in his body felt loose, disconnected and broken in places. Jack frowned when North set Pitch down at the lip of the crater. Despite all that was wrong with his body, Pitch lay as if asleep. It was a wonder he'd not woken yet, given the raucous movement he'd endured.

"Pitch, are you ok?" Tooth muttered, crouched near the ground, she turned his head in his hands examining the damage there.

For a long while there was no response and the sun drifted over them as the afternoon began to draw to a close. They had begun to wander and only Jack remained near Pitch. The last rays of light fled the room when Pitch began to stir. He scraped against the ground as he forced himself to move, but his strength failed him, and Pitch's arms gave out beneath him. Jack turned around at the sound and locked eyes with the fallen spirit. The sound he received was positively feral as Pitch lurched forward in rage. Something in his side splintered, and Pitch collapsed once more at the blossoming of pain.

"North!" Jack called, never taking his eyes off Pitch's prone form he moved back, further from the writhing spirit.

With the knowledge that more Guardians were near, Pitch scrambled to get away but the shadows would not bend deeply enough for him to slip through, nor would his legs bear his weight. He tried to stand despite that, and collapsed with a low keening whine. North ran in with Tooth and Aster close behind with worry in their eyes and caution in their movements. They followed Jack's gaze to the smudge of darkness that Pitch had formed around himself, searing gold peered out, the only sign of life from an otherwise black void.
Pitch made no sound, only watched with calculating eyes as the Guardians searched for what to do. They had not expected Pitch to be alive either, much less active.

He dare not speak; his throat still ached from his curses- why had he woken again? Had his death not been ordained? His mind raced with both questions and agony. He wondered why they had come to his grave- Lair, whatever it was now. His questions racked his mind until at last he could not stand the silence, or the Guardians watching him like a caged animal. He hacked out the filth in his throat, a disgusting conglomeration of dried blood, sand and dust, and spoke.
"Have you at last come to finish what you started?" His voice was dry and each word scathed his throat like sandpaper; he coughed again and more of the phlegm settled on the floor.

North frowned at this, he looked to the others, and began to move forward. Pitch curled back against the wall even further, his eyes darted between North and the other Guardians in something akin to terror.
"Why would we come to end you? We are not monsters, Pitch-"North began.

"No, no you lie, they all lie! This is exactly how it always starts!"
He was tugging at the shadows with increased panic, North stood towering above him for once, he reached down to- to do what? His hand was in his space, so close to touching him. It was too much, far too much. North's hand touched his back and the fallen spirit squealed, a harsh, grating sound. And he tore into the shadows, breaking through the barrier with the remainder of his power and fell through to the void. The cold swallowed him up, bringing alertness to his groggy mind- but at least here he could stand. Thus he paced there, at last in his true domain, where he could walk amongst the darkness without pain or distraction.

No sand dwelled here. But he was not free, as a smarting headache made itself known, and soon he felt himself being dragged back out of the shadows and into the world again when the power to sustain failed him. There he lay upon the chilled ground- who knows where- under a star lit sky. He tried, in futility to call the shadows, but he lacked even the power to lift his hand. He closed his eyes-at least when this nightmare was over he'd be able to rest a bit more. He expected to wake soon, but rather than the hasty whispers that ended his dreams, or the hungered loud whinnies which ended his nightmares there was nothing. Strength failing and yet nothing came to taunt him, or feast on the lingering fears of the unknown?

"Come now, I know you're watching- I know this is but an illusion. Is this not enough?"

Pitch watched, expecting black sands to lurch up around him and for his all too familiar nightmares to pounce from the darkness. He waited, with bated breath but still nothing came, save a creeping suspicion that this was no dream. A renewed sense of panic came to him when he could see through his skin and to the ground, but there was nothing he could do, and he was rapidly growing tired. He had no want to plea, nor hope of mercy. What more could he do, he wondered and his eyes closed. Why would he want to do anything- the sleep was nice, cool as it called to him.

Rest, yes rest, and come night he would try to regain himself.

What was that sound?

Edited 6-27-2016