Candlelight.
Hi all! This is a one-shot of Pitch after the events of the Rise of the Guardians. Enjoy!
It was over.
Pitch Black had lost for the last time.
The cave was empty and void of light, except for the tiny light in one corner from a small candle. Pitch lay on the clod floor and tried to remember how his lungs worked.
How to breathe.
It hurt, being alone and unseen. It ate away at him for centuries, forcing him into hiding under beds and in cupboards, bedside drawers and closets because he felt safer in them, able to try and scare the children into almost believing, almost seeing him until the parents came along with loving countenances and words, washing away his work in a few short seconds. Then he was able to look away, to not see their innocent ignorance again otherwise it would only stab him in the chest.
When had he ever been on the receiving end of love and affection?
It's alright, darling, he's not real, he's not there.
He couldn't remember.
Wax dripped in white lumps down the side of the candle as it melted and Pitch found himself staring blankly into the flame, unable to see anything past it. He'd been lying curled up in a ball with his arms wrapped around his thin frame for who knows how long? The Night Mares had not stayed either, fading and dissolving when there was no fear left to be sucked in as energy.
Oh, the dark spirit was afraid, that much was certain. But it became buried under crushing numbness and an ache that robbed him of the ability to do anything. Pitch Black remained alone and he finally accepted that. What was the point of convincing himself otherwise?
Confusion seeped into his mind for a moment. Why had Jack Frost understood and yet NOT understood? Both of them knew what it was to be lonely and forgotten, how even existing felt like a chore some days. Had gaining believers made Jack Frost forget that? Did losing believers not teach the other Guardians anything either? They'd appeared saddened by it, but as soon as they refound their source of strength, the Big Four brushed it aside like it had never transpired.
Dull eyes the colour of tarnished pound coins fluttered under the weight of fever and exhaustion. It was so cool down here normally and now suddenly it felt as though he'd been thrown carelessly into the fiery pits under the Earth's crust. His shock of black hair was damp and matted and he vaguely remembered bleeding at one point. Had it stopped?
Pitch didn't care.
A shadow passing through the universe's history, that's all he was.
A little girl's laughter passed through his head momentarily and he jerked slightly, his eyes wandering and unsure before returning to his sick stupor.
What was breathing?
Had it been so hard to achieve before?
Where did he come from? How had this depressing mess started?
Pitch probably didn't have a past like other spirits.
Born from nothing, lived as nothing and would likely die as nothing too.
The candle flickered and Pitch's hazed eyes returned to it. The black one didn't want to be snuffed out like the candle. But he was too lethargic to fight anymore. Fighting over the years rewarded him with nothing. Nobody cared and nobody saw him suffering.
Pitch acted stupidly, rashly. The not man saw this now amongst the swirls in his vision and the light shivers that racked his sweat soaked body. He was wrong and made war with his hot blood and trying to find redemption was foolish this late in the game. Sandman invaded his thoughts suddenly. His thoughts had grown disjointed and scattered, his brain too fever-addled to remain stable.
Panting slightly with effort, Pitch flopped onto his back, the little candle at the edge of his wavering sight. Perhaps he would become blind; that way he would never see Sandman's gorgeous golden dreams again.
Sandman – his opposite in every way possible. They had been friendly to each other at some point, letting each other carry on with their necessary work. Sandman even visited on his rounds just to give him hints on which child could benefit from a good scare or to say hello.
Pitch did miss that, oddly enough.
The candle sputtered and Pitch knew it wouldn't last, a reflection of him.
The candle waxed and waned until, finally, it blew itself out, plunging everything into darkness.
And Pitch Black went out in a supernova with it.
Sandy couldn't leave him.
It would be wrong, having an imbalance of pure, happy dreams. Who would help teach children what was safe and what wasn't?
Not Sandman – he was physically unable to do so. He also had a sneaking suspicion that Manin the Moon wouldn't choose a replacement for him either.
How ungrateful.
The golden man readied his little plane and began to search for any signs that Pitch was still around. It took a month before he came across a single, almost frantic Night Mare, unable to find her way back to her master, for his call was faded and weak. With a bit of communication work, Sandy persuaded her to go back with him to Pitch's entrance in Burgess, one of many round the world but close to them at the time. It felt strange to the Guardian to discover a Night Mare minion that was loyal to Pitch.
As they darted down the holes and caverns together, Sandy didn't like the feeling that crept upon him the further they descended. The Night Mare likewise grew agitated, going faster out of the gleam of Sandy's golden lantern.
Something was clearly wrong. It was too quiet and many of the cages were crumbled or gone completely. Worse still, the rich black was seeping out, leaving an ill - looking grey behind.
Oh no.
This was worse than Sandy originally thought.
Pitch was dying.
Sand tinkled like grainy bells as symbols that called Pitch's name flashed over and over, begging him to at least show himself. The Night Mare whinnied, trotting off into the darkness suddenly and Sandman followed her this time, lighting his own path.
When he spotted the horse nudging a small ball in the deepest corner, his heart sank and eyes like the sun widened.
Pitch looked dead.
Floating over quickly, Sandy placed his dream lantern on the damp floor beside them and laid a hand on Pitch's burning face. The taller spirit barely breathed, not reacting to his Night Mare's distress at his unconscious state. Half-dried, sticky blood patches were dotted around him. Sandy shook him, feeling a jackrabbit's pulse. The Nightmare King's head lolled away, his face nearly white and pinched with bone deep tiredness, the shadows under his eyes more pronounced than ever. Drawing his counterpart into his lap, Sandman felt the Nightmare settle protectively beside her master's scratched and broken form.
Sandman stroked Pitch's wet hair absentmindedly and waited.
He couldn't see.
His eyes parted barely and met a void. Was he blessedly dead?
Pitch dimly felt warm, kind hands patting his hair and found it fairly pleasant. There was a loving aura around him that was foreign and only one person could pull that off.
"S…"
He tried to speak but it came out as the faintest hiss, his throat not working after so long in solitude. Sandy found silvery-gold eyes that were nearly transparent and glazed wheeling blindly under slitted lids, searching, and he patted him carefully. Somehow, Pitch knew it was him.
After all this time too.
The short being smiled in a proud manner.
Pitch let out a cough and tried again.
"Hot…" he breathed and Sandy nodded, the Night Mare snuggling up to the harbinger of fear abruptly with her cool body.
"Oh…" came a whisper that could have been mistaken for a breeze.
One of his Night Mares remained. He felt the chilly grains against his blazing skin move in a familiar way and he realised it was the horse he had invaded Tooth's palace with to confront the Guardians the first time.
She came back.
Her arrival opened up floodgates that had been locked with a rusty key for a long time and a few tears poured down his face, expression pained.
Sandy wiped them away with a dream tissue. A few symbols tinkled out in sympathy.
Pitch buried his face into Sandy's lap and pretended it was the Dark Ages again, battling against a fever that refused to go away. Sandman knew he wouldn't leave Pitch Black this time. Redemption was available and he would make sure he got it. The mistake of abandonment would not happen again.
So the King of Dreams steeled himself for what was sure to be a harrowing journey and sheltered them all in the dark.
My first RotG story! Please regard me kindly.
Love Lily. X