Dans le silence il n'y a que vous
In the silence there's no one else but you.~ Philippe Pozzo di Borgo
A Rise oft he Guardians OneShot by Cameco aka. SerenePhenix
Read "Sensitive" first.
There was only silence. Silence and darkness. A silence so heavy that time seemed to have stopped. A darkness so thick that it seemed to engulf anyone or anything so that only thoughts remained.
There was nothing but silence and darkness in the realm where Pitch Black had been dragged. But unlike any human, be it child or adult, Pitch Black felt not estranged to it for he was darkness and with it came the silence.
Silence brought up by fear and misery. Centuries ago that would have been a human's but after his defeat, it became his own.
The Nightmare King could not recall how long ago it had been since he was cast away into the shadows for a second time. Time held no value in a world that was pitch-black, where life itself had come to a halt.
Vaguely he remembered having been in this position once before but it had been a small diamond dagger in his chest holding him prisoner and not his own fears, his own anguish to fail again.
It was cruel irony that brought that little Moonbeam, the very counterpart to his existence, into his lair and unleashed him to the world again: A world that gave him the name Boogeyman; A world where fear had roamed without guidance; without a clear purpose.
He had been visible to the naked eye when he first set out to conquer a world full of happiness and sorrow, love and tragedy. It was only once he was overmastered time and time again by the Guardians, that he was stripped of his power more and more until he was nothing but a mere shadow and at last nothing more but a myth and a few hushed words.
He rejoiced recalling the times where he had posed a true threat to his enemies and yet inside this darkness and silence where nothing else but his own thoughts penetrated through a thick mist of anguish and wretchedness, a presence, long forgotten, barely alive, was making itself known.
It was old, it was grieving and most disturbing of all – it was filled with kindness.
Whenever Pitch wallowed in reminiscence of what he had achieved and what he had gained from it, this familiar entity, which felt alien all the same, seemed to claw at his very core as if it wanted to dick up something that was lost inside his soul too long ago for him to still know it was present.
And sometimes when he let it do as it pleased, when he did not interfere with its hunt, feelings and wishes he had not wanted to ever let resurface, were brought to light in this endless darkness.
There was nothing before he was Pitch Black, there should be nothing before he was born and yet images came to his mind when the loneliness in his confinement became suffocating. Images so distorted and fluctuating that he could not tell if they were dreams, conjured by his distress or something else entirely, whose origins he ignored.
But there were no dreams to chase away the lifelessness; only nightmares to haunt him.
It mostly was a face. A pale and gentle face with the youth of a child. Sometimes the face was framed with ebony black hair, on other occasions it wasn't. Sometimes it held a smile, sometimes a frown. But most of the time there would be dark and loving eyes going with it.
He could see the images like through a broken spy glass. Many of them were connected to a longing and a sadness that run deep but that he could not understand. It made him want to recoil, to withdraw himself so he would not get tainted with false hope and yet he was fascinated at the same time.
The same applied for the locket he had acquired from that brown haired little girl centuries ago. It held nothing special to him and still it awakened these feelings he did not have any use for, that gave him nothing but grief he found pitiful and repulsive.
The easiest would be to throw it away right here, in this endless darkness where he would never find it again, where it would not torment him. Instead his long bony fingers would hold onto it tighter as though it was his dearest possession. He had time and time again assured himself he could let go of it any time he wanted but by now even he had come to accept that as much as he hated the innocent golden object, he needed it.
The reason was that it brought him comfort. Comfort and warmth he had long since given up. He had not lied when he told Jack that a family was what he longed for. He did not know where that need had blossomed from only that it came up very recently for a being as ancient as him and that scared him more than the prospect of never succeeding.
Feelings he should not know, feelings he should not have, memories he should not be able to recall and yet they were there, ever present and repressed by his denying mind.
And so in this darkness and silence, one question tormented him, just like it had tormented the winter spirit with whose fears he had toyed so recklessly: Who was he?
Was he truly only Pitch Black, the Nightmare King or was he more than he anticipated? Was there more to him than he himself knew?
It tore at the very foundations of his being, leaving him withering in agony for there was no answer in a world where he was all alone; unheard and unloved.
It was while his thoughts were destroying and shifting the debris of his soul into new positions that he saw it: A tiny light shining in the blackness.
He was darkness itself but that longing that the old entity inside of him and the locket had driven out of the deepest part of his soul made him reach out for it instinctively.
Long fingers and cold hands, so unused to function enveloped it with cravenness and care they should not have been capable of. Gingerly he made room for it with his grey hands, letting its glow expand in the dark void.
It was a delicate blue butterfly resting in his palms, cold and glowing and beautiful. And inside his head and a heart that was not supposed to be there he felt something crack, opening an old wound that had never truly healed, unaware that it even existed.
Cradling the only thing that seemed to want to bring him comfort in this indifferent realm, he caved in on himself, ignoring the taunts from the unmoving shadows, the whispers of the locket and the clawing of that old presence.
All that mattered was the butterfly shaped light that soothed him.
Before the night was over, it would give way to more memories than Pitch Black ever have thought he had even if he did not know it yet.
The outside world was just as dark as Pitch's lair. There was no moon tonight to illuminate the woods and to shine upon the one lonely figure staring at the gaping hole which seemed to stand out with its more forbidding darkness.
As though to make sure no one could see him, even with no light to even indicate he was there, the figure had the hood of his blue sweater pulled over his white hair.
His blue eyes looked sadly at the hole, unmoving but searching.
What he wanted here, he did not fully comprehend himself. He had come out of pity and nothing more. But his presence did not rouse the one he was expecting to be here. It probably was for the better.
He had thought that a butterfly, like he had seen swirl over the Nightmare Kings head three years ago, would get him a reaction.
When nothing happened he turned around scoffing at his own stupidity and indecision. He was a Guardian now, he protected children, he had a family, he was happy. So, what did he want more?
He shot one last glance towards the hole where his enemy was held captive by his own fears and by all standards deservedly so. He could not stop his throat from clenching while remembering the loneliness.
Maybe that was why he came. But it was better that he did not wake a sleeping lion. He wished for the peace to last even if he could relate to the one he had not forgiven yet.
At last he took off, not knowing he had brought back things to a man, who just like him was in search of his identity.
.
.
.
Philippe Pozzo di Borgo became tetraplegic after a terrible accident while paragliding. He once stated in an interview that although he had lost function of his arms and legs, the accident also let him find himself, for in a silent room, like the hospital room he was staying at, there is only you and your thoughts.
Philippe's fate became well known in public through the movie "The Intouchables".