Pitch wound the bit of dream around his finger, tainted it, tucked it away inside himself. He glanced down at the child in her bed as she shifted uncomfortably in her sleep, disturbed by things she couldn't quite see. He smiled, stepped to the very edge of the bar of silver moonlight on the floor. He was careful to stay in the shadows. Out of her sight. He peered out into the night, where he could see just the barest edge of Moon in the corner of the window. As long as he stayed out of her light, she could not see him, would not know what he was doing. But it wouldn't be long now.
He was almost ready to declare himself, to confront the Guardians and reclaim his proper place in the world, to repay them for his defeat at their hands, for the time he had spent trapped in his realm, drawing it in close around him to conserve his energy, gathering his strength for all those years. He was almost ready to prove to Moon that he could not - would not - be tossed aside.
He could not touch her, oh no; she was too old, too powerful, too high above and detached from him and the earth spirits she looked down on. But he could revenge himself on her children, her chosen ones, her Guardians.
This time would be different. Last time, he admitted, he had struck too quickly, panicked at his diminishing power, angry at his supplantation. He had not taken the time to gather his forces, to consider and strategize. He had made a mistake, he conceded. He had miscalculated, especially in regards to Sandman. Despite his muteness, his clownish form and whimsical personality, Sandman was a formidable foe. He was the oldest of the guardians, and the one with the most power. Pitch had underestimated him once. He would not make such a mistake again.
He had even borrowed the idea for his newest weapon from Sandman. He had been collecting bits of dreams, piece by tiny piece, for many years now, twisting them to his own purpose, creating the black sand. Why not, after all, take the power of his greatest adversary for himself, use it against him? This time, Pitch would take back his place, his duties, the purpose that had been taken from him.
Fear was a useful thing; necessary. He was necessary, even if the others didn't think so. He was the one who kept the children safe in their beds, instead of venturing out into the dangerous night, where they could see nothing and there was no one around to protect them from their own foolishness. He was the one who - when a child gathered up its courage and wandered from its warm, golden-lit home - sent him scurrying back again, full of the certainty of threatening things just out of sight. He was the one who breathed caution into their ears when they were about to make a foolish and deadly decision, who whispered of consequences and shame for a crime committed.
If he had enjoyed his work, had enjoyed making the children squirm and whimper in their beds, run wailing home to their parents, well, what of it? He was as he had been made, the same as any of them. Was it not better for him to take pleasure from a task that must needs be done, rather than resenting it and the one who had set him to his work?
The Guardians wanted him to become like them. To limit himself. To reduce his fear into gentle warnings and slight nudges. But it was in fear's very nature to grow and spread, to take over. He could no more temper himself than they could deny their own natures. They could not understand that. Would never understand. They were really only beginning, still naive and foolish, filled with their star-eyed dreams and their rose-colored magic. They had not seen what he had, had not been betrayed and abandoned and left hopeless. They were still very young.
But Pitch was old. Older than any of them; the fairy, the rodent, the sainted Nicholas. Older even than the Sandman. Nearly as old as humanity itself. He remembered each of the guardians' births, and a lot farther back. He'd been powerful once, spreading his dark tendrils over every corner of the earth. He'd gone by a different name then, many different names. Demon. Phobetor. Fear Dubh. Bundle. Clutchbone. Noppera-bō. He'd been respected; known; feared. Not only by gullible children, but by adults as well. All humans had told stories about him. Once.
He shifted his weight, leaned on his staff, stared up at the sliver of moon, remembering.
He knew there was a darker side to Moon, one the others didn't know. Didn't want to know. She was not the kind and benevolent being they all seemed to think her. Moon had created him too, after all, had given him charge over the night and the fears inside it. He remembered the old times, the ones when he'd just begun. Moon had been colder then, crueler. He knew she had been pleased with him at one time, even if she never spoke. He'd had minions then, to help him. His Night Mares and Hell Hounds, Hobgoblins and Imps, Banshees, Pucks and Phookas. His various names were spoken in whispers through trembling lips, his stories told in ragged voices. He'd had power once; recognition. Everyone had known him.
And what was he now? The Bogeyman. A joke! A warning to get disobedient children to eat their vegetables and stop teasing their siblings, easily dismissed as a parent's lie in the harsh light of the sun. He had been diminishing ever since the first 'guardian' had been chosen; since the moon had turned her face from him. But he knew what she was; knew better than anyone. Two-faced. Changeable. Treacherous.
Even the way they referred to her now showed her duplicitous nature; He, the Man in the Moon. Pitch knew she was neither male nor female, really. But the gender she preferred to be known as changed with her changing alliances, her shifting priorities. And the man in the moon; that was worst of all. Showing her preference for Sun's darling humans over her own created spirits in the name she chose. Humans. Sun's creations, his precious pets, coddled and warmed and comforted in his garish light.
Perhaps that was why she had turned from him, had created the guardians for Sun's beloved children, had set them against him. Because he knew her as she really was. She had given him this life, had set him to his task, had granted him his abilities. And then, when he had done all that she had asked of him, she had decided that it was not what she wanted anymore, to be feared. So she had created these Guardians, these soppy spreaders of cheer and goodwill, these benign, gift-bestowing clowns, to fill the night with sweetness and delight.
And she had turned her back on her first creation.
He was left to diminish, forgotten and ignored. Invisible. Those few children he managed to get to were quickly disillusioned by their parents, opening closets, lifting blankets, showing them that there was nothing to be afraid of.
He used to cry out to her, to ask what he had done wrong, to wonder why she didn't seem to want him anymore. But no more. He was done begging her to acknowledge him. If he wanted her recognition, her approval, he was going to take it for himself. He would prove that he was still worthwhile, that he still had his old powers, that he was still necessary. And if he had to do it by going through the others, her younger children, her favored ones, well, then so be it.
He wondered that Moon's newest creation, this Jack Frost, did not know of her darkness. He had spent long enough crying out to her, asking why, mourning his isolation. Pitch had heard him from his own realm, the grief in Jack's voice audible even where Pitch rested far underground, gathering his strength. It had stirred something within his stone heart; a fellow feeling, a pity. Jack's questions were so like his own, asked so long ago. Why won't you speak to me? What have I done wrong? Why don't you want me?
Moon had never answered him, had never bothered. She had created him, then left him alone in silence for centuries. How could Jack not have realized her true nature, the aloof dispassion with which she treated all her creatures? She only ever spoke to them when she wanted something done. They were all like that, the oldest spirits, the elementals. They were so powerful, so old, so concerned with their own great workings, that they had no time for lesser beings. They only knew how to make use of them.
Pitch thought that if - when - he escaped this prison of powerlessness, once he had gained back the strength stolen from him by the guardians, he would approach Jack Frost. Would offer him a place at his side. A partnership. The idea pleased him. After all, what went together with his exquisite darkness better than the icy chill of winter? Winter nights had been his favorite, back in the days when he was still acknowledged. There was always an extra tremor to the tale-tellers voices, an extra snap in their wide, fearful eyes.
The others had rejected him, had believed whole-heartedly what Moon had told them, that he was evil; cruel; unneeded. They never seemed to wonder where he had come from. Why he existed. Moon, their creator, their benevolent goddess, had told them that he was to be destroyed, and that was all they needed to know.
But surely this boy, this lonely child of winter, would understand. Would realize what Moon had done to him; to both of them. Surely he would join Pitch against the others, and after so many long centuries, he would have an ally.
Pitch smiled a sharp-toothed smile at the beam of moonlight. Soon, he promised her silently. Soon you'll remember me. He slid backward into the deeper shadows, and was gone.