After the guardians had beaten him and his nightmares chased him back under a beaten, rotted bed, Pitch lied still in his empty lair. His body ached and strained and hurt all over, his mind in a similar state of disrepair. Everything had been torn from his grasp just as his fingers had gotten to brush the possibility of accomplishing his goals.
Without a friend in the world, Pitch lies broken on cold, hard, stone. A spark of anger and hate still coils in his heart, a dying desire to take back what had never been his. His heart snarls and growls with the need to get back up and fight but his body and mind is so, so tired. We're not done here, his heart seems to shout. Get back up, we're not finished!
Pale blue light spilled across the dark cave walls and Pitch knew then that he was well and truly beaten. His fall from grace had been rough and ugly and not undeserved. He had finally pushed too hard, gone too far, and been countered. The arrival of the familiar blue light is just the final nail in his coffin. Pitch opens his mouth to speak, no longer clinging to ideals, such an empty and broken thing he has become.
"Why are you here, old friend?" He listens as footsteps softer than silk draw nearer. "There are much kinder people waiting for you." The footsteps cease and a chilled warmth lights the room.
Nightlight kneels beside the battered bogeyman, placing a hand over the burned, broken heart of his. "There is no one kinder waiting for me," he denies quietly. His voice is weak and unused, he hadn't needed it in his millenia of isolation. "I am believed to be dead and gone, my dear, and you are all that I return to."
"How strange," he says, "That you would come back to your jailor." Nightlight frowns and shakes his head. Pitch carries on before he can reply. "You nearly killed me once, couldn't you ever dream of doing so again?"
"We could be kings," he says, hollow and not at all honest. "We could join together, nightmares and cosmic fires, powerful, revered," He worries his lip. "And beloved, too." He doesn't mean a word of what he says, his lies a safety net of a complex code. But he doesn't worry, because he knows that his message is received. Nightlight looks sick, and how dreadful of a thing, isn't it? That such an angel is tainted when evil lies in goodness's arms.
"Nightlight," he says at last, his voice hoarse. "We could have been great."
"Kozmotis," he says, the name rolling off his tongue, familiar and sweet unlike all else. Pitch locks gazes with the star child as blue fingers wordlessly lace with gray. "We were never meant to be, and we both know this." Nightlight's eyes are empty as he denies the unasked request.
Pitch says nothing, merely closes his eyes and sighs. Nightlight watches with his too sad eyes and too sad heart, mourning everything that was and could have been.
"We're done here," the soldier whispers, setting down his spear. No longer caught in shadows and firefight and evil things, Pitch can spot slivers of the person Nightlight used to be shine through. Though, the spirit had never stopped being those things, had he? He had never been anything more than a too tired lover cast out to the battlefield armed with but the tears of an infant.
"We don't have to fight anymore," Nightlight says. And Pitch hopes against hope that it's true, because he is tired of seeing his shadows in such an undeserving face.