Author's note: This story continues What Frightens Fear, in which the Nightmares tormented Pitch. If you're reading(though not required) Of Nightmares & Guardian's-How a hero became Pitch and a priest the Sandman, there might be one or two little spoilers ahead concerning events in chapter 8 & 9. They shouldn't be too surprising considering how that story has to play out in the end, and if you know what happens in the books, but I thought I should warn you. Also; minor references to events in the books. Enjoy.

All Hallows' Evening-The Night of Samhain

He could feel the ground beneath his fingertips, rough stone, hard and cold. His body felt empty, enervated and in pain. Every single muscle hurt, felt sore, though he wasn't sure why. For a while he just kept lying there, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling and the dimming light. His lair looked unchanged, but the gothic cages were now empty. There was this unnatural silence, the one he was all too familiar with. Pitch didn't have the strength to move, but that wasn't the fault of the lack of belief in him. Sure it weakened him, had so for centuries, but never to this degree… no, something else had caused this. His head turned when he heard the neighing of a horse. A Nightmare stood concealed in the shadows, watching him, and more were certainly around.

He now had a pretty good idea of what had happened. The Nightmares had dragged him back into his lair; he remembered their teeth tearing at his flesh, their hooves trampling on him. His fear had riled them up, driven them into a frenzy. Like him they needed fear, and they had quite literally fed off his.

Suddenly Pitch sat upright, ignoring the pain, his eyes widened. The Fearlings, they had fed off the Fearlings. For the first time in millennia he thought of them and himself as separate entities. His thoughts turned to the visions, the dreams…he thought of his family. The Fearlings hardly feared anything except their own annihilation, but Pitch's human side was still surprisingly receptacle to fear, a weak spot for the Nightmares to exploit. And there was nothing more painful or horrifying than certain memories.

Never had Pitch forgotten them; Amina, Emily Jane, but the Fearlings had suppressed any sympathy, his love for them, snuffing it out like a candle, banishing it into the deepest darkest corner of his mind. He had remembered without caring, as if it was a chapter in his life concluded and of no further relevance, something to be ignored. Slowly he buried his face in his hands, a tear running from his eyes. To long for a family. Back then he thought it had been little more than just something to persuade Jack Frost, but now it seemed to have a meaning even he hadn't fully grasp at the time.

He cared now. Old feelings, long imprisoned, hidden deep in the back of his mind surfaced again, like a drowning man taking his first breaths again. The Fearlings were too weak to keep them at bay. He was Kozmotis Pitchiner, used by them for their own gains. Rage built up inside him, returning life into his body, and the Nightmares retreated further, out of sight.

What the Fearlings had turned him into, what they'd done to him and his family, and what they had made him do. Gods, what had he done? As the incarnation of fear, he had brought it upon humans with sadistic pleasure, with little to no regard to the consequences. He had cared little for humans, he had needed and lived off their fear and their belief in him, and it had been quite enough. Only his survival, his dominance mattered. He was just grateful that he hadn't caused them any physical harm like the Dream Pirates once had. Not since the end of the Atlantis anyway…

All of the sudden, Pitch felt like suffocating. He needed to get out, leave this rotten place. On weak, trembling legs, he stepped into a nearby shadow, and merged with the darkness…

…reappearing in a small town.

He just wanted to see people, hear them talk. As he stood there between two houses, leaning against a wall for much needed support, he saw that it was autumn, red and yellow leaves covering the lawns, walkways and streets alike. Halloween decorations could be seen in every window, pumpkins with smirking, fanged faces next to doors and on staircases. It was evening, and small groups of dressed up children wandered through the neighborhood, accompanied at times by their parents or older siblings. Pitch could hear laughter and joyful screams, and for the first in a long time he actually didn't mind. Strange, he thought to himself, and wondered how long he'd been out. Apparently half a year, if it was still the same year.

For a while Pitch simply watched, trying to ignore the pain from countless bruises and other injuries, or the dark, almost black blood, running down along the side of his face, chest, and his arm before it dripped from his fingers to the ground. Then there was a scream, one he knew all too well; a scream of fear. A flicker of strength returned to him, and to his great distress to the Fearlings as well. He could feel them like a numbing, dark veil upon his mind, which he could still shake off for now, and he realized that staying here, near humans with all their emotions, especially on this night was unwise. Quickly he stepped back into the shadows…

…and reemerged in a forest.

The first frost of the year was forming; a thin layer of ice coated the fallen leaves, which rustled under his feet as he began to walk. He breathed in the cold air, feeling it filling his lungs, clean and refreshing. Usually on this night he would bring fear to children around the world, on this special night when the plains of the dead, spirits and men were so close that everyone could see him, even those who didn't believe. It was the one night when he almost enjoyed the same influence of centuries ago, the one night that could tie him over for the rest of the year, not giving him all his power back, but keeping him alive. But tonight he would stay away from humans. The Fearlings were weakened, and he could think more freely, his thoughts were his own, and he wouldn't compromise that.

As he wandered through the night, his ears picked up a noise in the forest. Pitch looked around and spotted a pack of wolves in the distance. Most animals were always able to see him, but usually they would run away. These wolves however watched him, curious, vigilant; what little fear they had of him only made them cautious. Their fur was grey and silver and it triggered an old memory in Pitch's mind. Once, millennia ago, a grey wolf had been the sigil animal of the Constellational House Sagittarius, a great noble house of Atlantis during its Golden Age. Amina had been born a Sagittarius; his beloved wife.

He had seen her in a vision created by the Nightmares, the last moments of her life through the eyes of a Nightmare Man. He could not forget the fear and defiance in her expression, and thought it had been directed at the shadow, not him, it was painful to recall. After all, was there much of a difference these days? Had he not been Pitch Black far longer than Kozmotis Pitchiner?

Pitch also remembered Lykos, her brother and his friend, even after her death…and how he had killed him in cold blood. Always had Pitch remembered slaughtering him, but for the first time the memory filled him with sorrow, guild and remorse. As Pitch's scythe had buried itself through his old friend, Lykos had stared at him in disbelieve and fear, breathing the Nightmare King's original name weakly, just before life had left him. All who he'd once known and protected had looked at him with fear, and how he'd relished it before slaughtering them. Quickly he pushed these thoughts away in disgust.

Pitch turned his head to see that one of the wolves was still following, probably making sure he stayed away from the pack. The grey-blue eyes were fixed on him, almost intrigued. The Bogeyman continued on, downhill and over old, thick roots, until he reached a shallow river. Tired, exhausted by the events of the past half year, Pitch sat down, the moss beneath his feet fortunately being soft and dry. He leaned back against the tree behind him, closing his eyes as he did. It was for just a second, but when he opened them, the wolf was standing directly in front of him. The animal looked at him timidly, but was no doubt curious. Not having the strength to do anything really, Pitch waited to see what it would do next. Very carefully, the wolf came closer, the grey-blue eyes fixed on Pitch's silver-golden. It sniffed along his arm, until its snout had reached his bloody hand. The wolf tilted its head a little, before it began to lick the blood off the extremity. Pitch was surprised by this friendly gesture, but accepted it, welcoming any company that wasn't made of nightmaresand. For a minute or so, the wolf was busy cleaning his hand, fingers and wrist, until it seemed contented. It lifted its head again, looking into his eyes once more, while licking the last drops off its snout. Then without giving any indication, the gray wolf left him again, disappearing somewhere behind the tree Pitch was leaning against. For a moment there was a rustling of leaves, before it was silent was more. Pitch was admittedly glad it had decided to clean his hand and not his face. Weariness slowly overcame him, and he was comfortable enough where he was resting. Pitch closed his eyes anew, drifting away.

When he opened them again, a little frost had formed on the hem of his coat, but it was still the middle of the night, though hours must have passed. Over the water now hovered a small light, a little orb of blue-white fire. A will-o'-the-wisp. Apparently he wouldn't be getting any time for himself tonight.

The wisp came closer, and casually he offered the palm of his hand. It flew up and circled around his hand, comforting warm, but not hot, reminding him somewhat of Toothiana's little fairies, though less annoying. As he watched it, he wondered if he too would end like this; most wisps were all what remained of forgotten spirits, those humanity did no longer believed in. Had fear not been such a prominent force, he'd faded away or into one of them a long time ago. Somehow the prospect didn't dread him any longer, if he got to take the Fearlings with him. He was so sick and tired of who and what he was, especially when he was little more than a marionette. Then again he had no soul left to turn into a wisp; millennia ago the Fearlings had seen to that.

It was not surprising that the wisp had appeared on All Hallows' Evening, the night of spirits, both living and dead. He remembered that some other wisps were the souls of humans, either those who'd been deeply attuned with magic in their lives, or had still business with the living and a great power of volition, which prevented them from finding peace on the other side. Other than the wisps of spirits, which could appear whenever they wanted, they were visible only on this the Samhain and the Imbloc, the beginning of spring. Wisp in general were often kind and playful, though even more were mischievous, bitter from having been forgotten and let people astray; they had developed a fondness for guiding travelers into swamps, where they got lost, even drowned. This wisp thankfully seemed to be friendly.

The wisp left his hand and settled on the ground next to the tree. A little puzzled but curious, Pitch watched it. Something like soft, blue glowing smoke rose from the little flame, and he realized it was doing something wisps, regardless of origin, were only capable of doing on this very night; it was taking its original shape, something people liked to call ghosts or apparitions. Never had this happened to him. The ghostly shape of a woman appeared, wearing a rather slim-fitting dress, her long wavy hair framing her lovely face. A very familiar face.

"This is but a dream again, isn't it?" He asked his velvet voice somewhat raspy from a long time of disuse. "But the Nightmares would hardly treat me so kindly."

Amina smiled softly at him, her expression so full of warmth. "Do you often dream of me?" To hear her voice again, after so many years, just as he remembered it.

"Not as much as I used to." Pitch admitted.

She sat down next to him, the blue smoke washing over his one outstretched leg. "Further prove that this is no dream."

He wanted to reach out, touch her to assure himself she was real, but Pitch hesitated, fearing she could fade away. "How can you be here?" He wondered aloud, as much pleased as he was confused. "Why now after all these years?"

"Well, because today is Samhain, and I can cross into this world once more now that all three plains have moved together, and secondly." She paused briefly, placing a hand upon one of his on the ground. "For the first time in millennia I can speak to my husband again. Before tonight there was no point in seeking you out."

Even though he could see her hand, he barely felt its touch. "I'm afraid your husband died the day he carried you out of the water." His voice was little more than a whisper. "I've changed even before the Fearlings took me over."

"You grieved for us, Kozmo." He hadn't been called that in a long time, and to hear her say it again. "If what happened to me had happened to you…I might have taken the fleet and hunted them all down myself."

For the first time Pitch smiled. "You would have made an excellent High General; scolding all the soldiers for not being in bed on time, or brushing their teeth."

She looked at him rather approvingly. "Ah, look who found his sense of humor."

"It drove you mad at times." He remembered fondly.

"Though I'll have to admit it was not without its charm; not to mention that somehow you managed to settle our quarrels with it on a few occasions."

To his surprise she leaned her head against his shoulder, light as a feather. After a long break he spoke again. "I though you would despise me, after what I've done." Pitch began slowly, his voice low and serious. "I killed your brother, our friends…I destroyed Atlantis." Torn by these memories, he rose to his feet, supporting himself with a hand on the tree's trunk. "I've haunted the people of this world for millennia, only bringing darkness and misery." Shuddering his mind went back to the 16th and 17th century, when he'd been at his most powerful, when religious war had split Europe and the fear of witches was at its peak. Especially in protestant countries, without intuitions like the Inquisition demanding actual prove, thousands of innocent had been burned. Not that the Inquisition was without blood on their hands; Spain just a century prior came to mind.

Slowly Amina stood up, the sympathy in her eyes confusing him. "Don't you think I see how these deeds plague you? You did not bring this evil upon mankind; it was there long before any of us lived, even before the Fearlings, and it would be in this world even without them." She argued fiercely. "If anything it made the Fearlings. They are fear at its most destructive, and maybe now you have a chance to change that."

"What do you mean?"

"Once before the Fearlings had been weakened, almost allowing you to break free." Amina reminded him. "Since then they have never been as destructive as during the Golden Age. Despite controlling you, they could never destroy you completely, and perhaps you have actually moderated them."

He scoffed mirthlessly. "It might also have something to do with the separation of living world into the mortal and the spiritual plains thanks to the cataclysm." It was due to this separation, during which Atlantis had been destroyed, that only believers could see spirits. "Who knew that Nightlight's little dagger could hold such power. Tsar Badr Lunar really outdid himself that day, though I hardly think it was his intention." The Man in the Moon had actually hoped the enchantment would kill Pitch, and end the war against the Fearlings, saving Atlantis, but when Pitch's and Lunar's powers had clashed...

"My point is that maybe now that they are weakened again, you could finally defeat them, free yourself of their influence. Your body might be weakened, but your mind is still human. Remember how you once told me about your fight with a monstrous shadow, towering over you like a dark titan. You defeated it with a blade and your courage alone."

Pitch shook his head. "It is different when you share a body with ten thousand Fearlings, and who knows how long I can keep our minds separated. Even if I was victorious, would I fade away, die, or still be the Nightmare King?" He looked rather defeated as he stood there, shoulders hanging, gaze fixed on the ground.

She thought about her answer, and then lifted his face with a hand gently placed under his chin. "You once told me that fear is necessary. What if, without the Fearlings, you could finally have fear do what it was always meant to do?"

"You want me to be the Bogeyman?" Pitch stared at her surprised, momentarily being sure he'd misunderstood her.

But she nodded. "There will always be fear, and something to represent it, and you Kozmo, have the compassion, the humanity to use it wisely; use to keep people save, teach them through fear." There was a break, and sorrow now filled her strangely bluish eyes. "Besides, should you die you…"

"Will be gone, as if I'd never existed." Long ago when the Fearlings had invaded his body, they had destroyed or at least devoured his very soul; if he died now there was nothing to pass over to the other side. Slowly she nodded, and absentmindedly, Amina let a hand run over his chest. "How is the other side?" Pitch asked her, very carefully stroking her transparent cheek with two fingers.

She looked up at him, mustering a sad smile. "Lonely; there are two people I've been missing dearly."

The fingers stopped. "Emily." He breathed. "What she had to go through because of me…"

"Was just as much my fault." Amina interrupted him, framing his face with her ghostly hands. "I jumped, pretending she was with me; because of me the shadows believed her dead. They could only tell you what I let them believe. Maybe if I hadn't you could have searched in the right spots, and found her, saved her. I am as much to blame as you or the Dream Pirates."

"You only did what you thought was right, you acted fearing for her life." He told her, wanting to free her from this guild. "Have you ever appeared to her?"

Once more she nodded. "Once, a long time ago, shortly before she became Mother Nature. I explained what I had done; I sought her forgiveness and to ease her pain."

"What did she say?"

"She stared at me for a long while, but she forgave me. Divines, I was so grateful I would have cried if I could have…and then the light of day came and I faded back to the other side, as the plain of the dead separated from the others." Briefly she pressed her lips together. "I think at that time, she didn't know what had happened to you. As far as Emily was concerned the Fearlings were free and Atlantis destroyed, you along with it."

He sighed heavily. "Not too far from the truth. I've met her three times; she didn't recognize me at first, but once she knew what had happened to me, what I had done she was bitter, full of hate for me."

"How did you react?"

Tilting his head back, Pitch looked at the sky, recalling the events. It was difficult to remember what he'd felt, now that half of the mind he had at that time was separated from his. "When I found out that she was still alive I began to fight the Fearlings, but I wasn't strong enough. And yet, even after my defeat, a small part of me, deep inside was grateful to have seen her again, to have heard her voice after so long. The overwhelming part however, thought of her as nothing else but an enemy, a force to be reckoned with, quickly drowning out the other completely." He confessed bitterly. "Thanks to the Fearlings she wasn't my daughter anymore. Emotionally she could have been an utter stranger as far as I was concerned."

"Are you sure? You gave in to her demands once." Amina noted digging deeper. "And she remained neutral ever since."

Pitch looked back at her, uncertainty in his expression. "I'm not sure, I'm not sure of much right now. Maybe the Fearling couldn't suppress my true feelings for her entirely, or I simply judged myself just too weak to face her back then…I don't know. All I know is that I lost her that day." Pitch closed his eyes, not capable meeting his wife's. "That day, I think, she broke completely with me; I was beyond redemption."

Strong and determined, Amina's voice reached him. "Prove her wrong Kozmotis, for her, for yourself…for me. Do what you always meant to do and destroy the Dream Pirates, take their place in this world. We cannot change the past, as much as we wish we could, but you can still fight."

Weakly he smiled at her, brushing a ghostly strand of her wavy hair out of her face. "Thousands of years and you still haven't given up on me?"

Her smile returned, pure and comforting. "I believe in you."

"Interesting choice of words." Pitch replied somewhat darkly.

A soft chuckle however lightened his mood. "Intentional choice of words." Then she threw her arms around his neck, as she'd done so often in the past, her head resting on his chest. At first is body stiffed, having grown unaccustomed to such gestures, but he quickly relaxed putting his own arms around her as he always had, one arm across her back, and hand resting on her shoulder, the other around her waist. It didn't quite feel the same; there was no warm and soft skin, or the fine cloth of her dress, only smoke and light given form. He could feel the outlines of her body, but very little compared to a real body. Still he held her, thankful to hold her one more time in his arms, and somewhere in the back of his mind he felt the Fearlings shiver, uncomfortable with his feelings, which now roamed free like a wild beast that had been caged far too long.

For a long time they stood there in each other's arms, savoring the moment. He could almost pretend they were back in their home on Atlantis, while his eyes were closed. He could almost hear the ocean outside, washing against the coast and the cliff, the horses down in the stables and on the meadows, and just outside the window, downstairs on the terrace, Emily was swinging her wooden training-sword, scaring the hell out of the butterflies, living in their garden.

Then Amina slowly removed her head to look at him again. Alarmed he opened his eyes. "Dawn is coming, my love." She said, smiling weakly; she didn't want to go either.

"There is no happy end for us, is there?" It was hardly a question.

She shook her head. "No, not likely, but don't despair. Perhaps one year, when I have gathered enough strength I will visit you again, if you are still around." Amina told him, framing his face with her hands. "So promise me you will fight, promise me you will vanquish these shadows for all they've done to us."

"I will not dare to fail you again, Amina."

She kissed him then, her ghostly lips, a light touch on his, but it was the most beautiful thing he'd felt in a long time. Once more he closed his eyes, as he tried to kiss her back as best as he could. To his distress he felt her fading slowly, the smoke running away between his fingers, and quickly he opened his eyes again, seeing how the bluish smoke of light condensed back into the orb it was before.

For a moment the little wisp floated over his palms, and for a moment he wanted to grasp it, to keep it with him, but then it ascended into the air, until it reached the leafless treetops and disappeared in the first light of day. Pitch looked after it longing and wistfully. "I promise you, my love." He whispered though she could surly no longer hear him.

Amina was right. He was Kozmotis Pitchiner, he was Pitch Black, the bogeyman…but not the Fearlings and the Nightmare Men that had possessed him, and turned him into this. He was the embodiment of fear, but no unchecked monster like them. Yes, maybe somehow he could tame the darkness and use it for something more than just his own gain. Once, an eternity ago, he had protected the people, willing to give his life to save theirs, and if he was destined to be the Nightmare King, why not find a nobler purpose for such powers? Perhaps he could even find some redemption.

The first beams of sunlight made it through the branches and it made the Fearlings shiver with pain, especially now that they were so weak. Even though it hurt Pitch the same, his mind enjoyed the warmth upon his face. "Once I told you I would not submit to you." He spoke quietly, his eyes closed, smiling grimly into the sun. "I intend to keep my word; my mind will be my own once more."

The silence of the morning was suddenly broken by Pitch's scream of pain. His hands held his head, as he cowered, face twisted in agony, and the shadows of his clothing raging. The Fearlings would not give up so easily. Pitch staggered back into the tree's shadow, and disappeared in the blink of an eye back into his lair. This battle was far from over.

The wolf had been lying and watching close by, lifted its head at the bogeyman's scream. It whined briefly as it sat up, ears tilted back. After Pitch was gone, it howled once into the silence, looked at the spot where he'd disappeared, before returning to its pack on this first day of November.

…Kozmotis' fight will be concluded in One Long Nightmare…

The darkness took,
And the Constellations shook,
But in the future,
He sees an aperture,

A little light,
It shone oh-so bright,
A piece of the past,
He wanted it to last,

But in the first light of day,
It soon faded away,
Alone he once more was,
Still haunted by his loss

Yet the feeling didn't pass,
Instead eager to break the impasse
Within it only grew stronger,
THEY didn't have a hold any longer,

The lonely man went,
Fighing to bring it to an end.
And a wolf with fur shining,
Returned to its canines whining.

-Poem by The Almighty Pickle Lord XD