So I've been wartching and re-watching Rise of the Guardians over and over again because reasons, and every time I get a little more annoyed at how Pitch is defeated. Fear is necessary in order for there to be courage, and fear of the things that should be feared is what keeps children's innocence intact. Combine that feeling with reading about Pitch's background and other things from the wiki, and suddenly I have this in my hands. This completely ran away from me though, becoming something that I'm not sure even I'm comfortable with. In any case, it's my baby and the plot-fearlings refused to leave me alone, so here you all go.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, save the idea.

Warning: This is probably the darkest thing I've ever written. According to my test reader, this made her angry and depressed and unable to think any kind of happy thoughts for hours. Proceed at your own risk.

The darkness was suffocating. It pressed tightly against him from every side, sealing all movement, air, even sight. This wasn't how it was supposed to be! He could hear nothing but the crazed whinnies and violent hoof-beats of the nightmares surrounding him, dragging him further and further down through the hidden passageways between the shrouded places of the world. They were ecstatic, driving him occasionally against the unseen walls with sadistic glee, his robe tearing and skin scraping.

He fell, what little support the nightmares had given him in their enthusiasm to see his downfall gone, and finally was granted back his sight. The countless ornate cages swung slowly, empty and foreboding as he plummeted past them. The denizens of this realm were gathering, a mass of fearlings and nightmares denying him any shadow that might have taken him in otherwise, or slowed the fall. The hollow globe shone with an expanding cluster of offending bright lights, even the older fearlings giving it a berth in disgust. It was into that tiny open area that he fell, hitting the crooked walkway with enough force to shatter every bone in nearly any mortal or immortal body in existence.

Bruised and battered, he groaned, too weak to stand up just yet. Damn it all, he was the King of Nightmares, not some second-rate charlatan selling cheap tricks!

Ah, but that is where you go wrong. You are second-rate. As we are, we deserve no better.

A dark, familiar chuckle echoed in the dim light of the shadow lair, mixing with itself and multiplying until it formed an entire twisted choir. Pitch froze as if glued to the spot. That voice, that tone. It couldn't be... could it? A feeling of overwhelming, crippling terror washed over him, a feeling that he loathed above all, and needed the most from others. This time though, it felt oddly familiar.

No words of defence? No meaningless excuses? And yet we have been disgraced…

Pitch mustered all the courage he could find, all the pride and egoistical confidence he could gather, and raised his head. It was like looking into a mirror, a dark, twisted one. Sharp features, his features, chiselled out of pure darkness, eyes shining ominous yellow. Wearing fear and terror like an emperor's mantle, the other him reached out, a finger so black it seemed a hole in reality lifting up Pitch's ashen chin.

What have we been reduced to? Hiding under beds, scaring meaningless, weak, ignorant mortal children? How the Man in the Moon must have laughed. A just revenge for his kin, were that fool not incapable of hatred, even for us.

The boogieman straightened himself by the globe, grasping Canada for support and stood tall as he faced his mirror image. The lights on the five continents weren't quite as numerous as they used to, but more flickered to life every second. Forcing himself to stay upright without the support, he snarled.

"I've been trapped here for millennia. Let the Man in the Moon have his laugh! Fear is never forgotten, and eventually it will grant me the power to triumph over the guardians. Nothing will be able to stop me!

Remember Nightlight. We lost to that boy at our strongest. Imprisonment and weakness was forced on us.

Pitch flinched. He had been so powerful once, feared by the entire cosmos. There was barely a single memory of that time left though, all burned away save that one agonising loss. The painfully shining boy had sacrificed his own freedom to trap and seal him. The boogieman hated the very memory, not just for the defeat, but the haunting familiarity of it, one he could never place.

"That boy can frolic in the clouds all he wants. In time darkness and fear will consume the world from underneath him and then, once he sees what has been done to the precious little protectorate of his moon friend, I'll break him."

Dark laughter echoed in the lair, the twisted pathways and empty cages resonating with the sound, fearlings and nightmares alike backing away from the sheer force of it. The image of darkness circled Pitch and the globe, the sound of its mirth like funeral bells.

Oh, but we already have. You have.

"What?"

The snow boy's resemblance with him was no accident. And whatever it lead to, that day on the Antarctic you broke him.

Jack Frost was connected with Nightlight? It seemed impossible; the boy couldn't have even met that disgusting light sprite. Unless… The moon had chosen the boy from death, hadn't he? That same annoying instinct of self-sacrifice, to always do the right thing. Perhaps some of Nightlight was copied into Jack Frost. The boy thought himself a guardian, but if this was true he was nothing but a weapon meant to defeat and re-seal Pitch. A cruel smile snuck onto the Nightmare King's grey face. How would the revelation affect Frost? It was a trump to save for later use.

By breaking the boy's staff and will at Antarctica he'd triumphed over one of his old enemies. The realisation felt good, although the winter spirit had pulled through and become a guardian afterwards. The momentary triumph of his will over the boy's should have been enough however, which explained the presence of the mirror image in the depths of his lair. Still, something was missing. Something vital.

A thin tendril of shadow caressed the side of Pitch's face, more gathering slowly, drawn to him. The dark reflection had ceased its circling and stood now in front of the boogieman, just a little closer than was comfortable. A frown made its way onto the blackened lips, sharp teeth peeking from underneath. Fear was the key to everything, fear and desperation. Without great mental anguish to use as a tie-in, the powers that had granted Pitch the ability to single-handedly end the Golden Age aeons ago would remain forever out of reach.

"Where can I find or instil such fear, in this time and age…" The boogieman muttered, lost in thought until void-black hands cradled his chin and cheeks. Featureless golden eyes bored into his own and Pitch found himself unable to move a muscle, restrained by his own minions. The shadowy reflection laughed again, more cruel and gleeful than before.

We do not need things of this age. Awaken, our treasured enemy, and remember who you are.

…

The little girl squealed in delight as she was spun around in circles. The tips of her toes brushed against the flowers of the meadow, scaring clouds of butterflies into flight. Sunlight glimmered on her long black curls, striking golden highlights at odd angles as she soared through the air. She was wearing a high-collared and long-sleeved light green dress, one of her favourites.

He set her down carefully and was rewarded immediately by thin arms wrapping around his waist, tightly like only a child's can. A deep, content chuckle escaped his lips, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. To him, she was like the sun itself. She was what he fought for, his precious little angel, along with these moments of peace and happiness.

"Daddy." She looked up at him, her eyes large and earnest, and he kneeled to match her level. The flowers were swaying lightly around them and there were loose petals in her hair.

"Daddy, will you have to leave again? I don't want you to go."

There was a sharp sting somewhere in his heart, deep within his centre. All the things he'd do, just to keep her happy and safe, and still this one wish, this one thing she told him every single time he visited her, he couldn't give her. Again and again he had to leave her to lead the Golden Armies. But soon, soon the bitter fight would be over.

"Just once more, sweetheart. One more time and then I'll never leave you again." He refused to let the sadness of having to disappoint her again be heard from his voice, and brushed a stray curl from her face. A flash of self-loathing shot through him at the way the light in her eyes dimmed and her smile grew strained before settling to a look of determination.

"One more time, but never again after? Promise?" Her unflinching, open, innocent eyes trapped him, and he took a deep breath, picking one of the gently swaying flowers to tuck behind her ear, before scooping her up to his arms and burying his face in her hair, voice not betraying the tears which threatened to overflow. It was all right, after this battle the fearlings, dream pirates and nightmare men would have no place save for their fortress. And the Golden Armies would turn that into an inescapable prison. She would be safe from them forever, her innocence and that of all the other children as well, protected.

"I promise."

…

He ran a thumb over the crystal keeping the icon underneath clean and safe. In the picture she was wearing her favourite dress, modelled after one of her mother's, and her face was captured in an expression between happiness and curiosity. He'd been away from her for months already, and only the need to make things reach their conclusion so he could keep the promise he'd made still drove him to stay.

Maybe he was a fool to have volunteered for this. But there was no one else with the required willpower, no one who knew the enemies' tricks better than him. The creatures of fear and darkness were constantly whispering threats and promises, pleading for their freedom, and a lesser man would without a doubt fall. It was just a matter of time. He couldn't let that happen, so he'd stepped up. Just until they found someone willing to replace him, a small group to take shifts standing guard. They'd shook on it, a promise.

More and more time passed. He made sure no light surrounding the prison went out; no shadow gave the fearlings a second's chance for escape. He stood guard, ever plagued by the whispers and pleas of the monsters locked behind the metal doors and within tight cages, sometimes hearing familiar voices among them. Friends and allies, people he'd protected, fought alongside, or seen fall in battle. Only the pendant and the picture within, and the memory of his daughter's laugh made him stand his ground.

The loneliness was overwhelming, forced solitude with only the maddening voices and his own thoughts to keep him company. He couldn't sleep, no matter how weary he grew and how long passed, or how temptingly the memories of happy times and golden moments beckoned. There was no rest, not when the dream pirates were trapped so close. One look into his dreams would be enough for them, one tiny window of opportunity to twist everything he held dear into something unrecognisable.

Whenever a messenger came, which was rarely, he'd ask of any news. Had someone been found to help share the burden? How long would his vigil still last? All the messenger ever could give him was short letters, and even those he had to destroy after reading. Never even a word from the war council. Just those few and far in between letters, once in a year or less, which made his heart wrench. The first were bitter under a forced facade of happiness, but eventually they grew milder in tone and he cried openly in front of the messenger while reading.

She never sent a picture, understanding how dangerous it could be. The letters never came through official routes either. She spoke of her life, her birthdays, of growing up surrounded by peace and light. Of how she missed him. And in the end of every letter, just after 'I love you' and before her signature, she wrote two words.

'You promised.'

…

Years upon years, and with them less and less letters. There was nothing to keep him company but memories, the words of old letters committed to memory and his locket. He couldn't help but wonder how she'd grown up to look like. Did she take after her mother, or him? It had been so long and he missed her bitterly, most when the shadows' murmuring and whispers grew deafening and the only shield he had against them was the memory of a promise that still burned, the one he never got a chance to fulfil.

Had his vigil been forgotten by all? Were no people prepared to take his place, even for a little while, found? He was as much a prisoner here as the monsters he guarded. Was there nothing left for him anymore, truly, save to stand guard eternally here, keeping the lanterns lit and the great doors locked? He'd counted three years exactly from the last letter, the longest time yet. Surely a messenger should come today, the last day when the space between the Golden Realms and this place was navigable this year. Thinking such, he could ignore even the most persistent of the fearlings' whispers; the one that could have sounded like his wife, if he ever made the mistake of listening or remembering.

He had filled all the lanterns, made his rounds, and stood proudly guard now, his back to the great doors. The day was drawing to a close; it was the last chance for the courier to appear. All was silent, even the constant murmuring of the prisoners settling to a breathing-like pattern of anticipation.

Nothing. Nothing came, nothing happened. Only the wave-like muttering of the fearlings beyond the door, and his never-ending guard. Perhaps it was better this way, as the monsters beyond the door couldn't chip at his will with their promises as they were wont to do with each letter. But gods, how he missed her.

"Daddy?

He froze, reason telling him that no, his little angel couldn't sound like that anymore. She'd grown up. Still, he looked around, searching for the source of the voice, impossible hope blooming in his heart.

"Please, daddy…" The voice, as light and melodic like that day she made him promise to leave for the last time, seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. And still, it was tinges with an unmistakable tinge of fear, wrenching the very foundations of his soul. "Please, please, please open the door."

His mood plummeted, hope crushed brutally. Of course it was nothing more than a fearling trick. It was more of a wonder they hadn't tried this one ages ago. He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. There was no one else to do this, so he had to play the warden.

"Daddy!" The voice cried, wrenching his heart with loss and worry. "I'm trapped in here with these shadows, and I'm scared. Please open the door. Help me, Daddy, please!"

This was beyond simple manipulation by droves. Torture, tugging at his very heartstrings, digging them up raw and bloodied, that seemed to be the fearlings' newest weapon. Still, he couldn't stop the irrational fear and hope from rearing its head inside. Clenching his teeth, he squeezed the silver locket around his neck like a lifeline. He couldn't listen to them. He couldn't let them fool him. She was an adult by now. She was…

"Daddy! Please!"

He spun around on the spot, facing the doors. He'd failed her once already, he'd promised to never leave her again. He'd promised! The keys clinked in his shaking hands as he struggled with the great lock. He'd promised, and now the fearlings had her! The lock fell with a loud, metallic sound and he pushed the doors open, frantic for the safety of the only light in his life. Masses of shadow tendrils surged forward, trapping him within their hold, invading his mouth, ears, eyes. He didn't even have the time to scream. He was freezing and burning at the same time, losing coherency and control of his own limbs and even thoughts. Just before everything went black a single thought floated against the surface of his mind, only the faintest touch of relief smothered by anguish, defeat and all-encompassing loneliness.

She wasn't there.

…

Tears flowed down ashen cheeks, the long face contorted to a silent scream of agony. He remembered. He remembered everything. Leading the armies of fear and darkness across all creation, hunting down those he'd sought to protect, ending the Golden Age. The Lord of all Fears. And who he'd been even before that.

Eyes glued to the malice-dripping golden eyes of his fearling double, he stood tall in defiance, refusing to bow down in the face of all the shame and horror. Suddenly there was no Pitch Black and no shadow mirage, but General Kozmotis Pitchiner, old, tired and dragged down to darkness, and an ancient and powerful fearling beast.

"What… have I done…? What have you turned me into…?" His voice was barely a whisper as thousands of years of history crashed down. Hundreds of stars, thousands of worlds, uncountable dreams, Sandman's realm, the Lunaloffs. All gone, twisted and tainted, by his hand. He shuddered, falling to his knees as his legs failed him. He could sense his fear, his anguish, strengthening the creatures surrounding him as they feasted on them, calling forth his every failure, his every sorrow and secret, every fear plaguing his soul.

He fought, but this form of his was fear incarnate, growing weaker and more insubstantial with every bit of emotion the monsters devoured, as surely as if they'd torn chunks of his petrified flesh. The fearling that had adopted a form much like his grasped his head with both hands, forcibly turning his face up, to face it and the devouring darkness far above in the cavern. A whimper escaped him, the battle against succumbing to fear once again nearly lost, and no, no, not again.

Please someone, anyone. Please. He couldn't keep his word, he couldn't save her and how could he save anyone when he was the Destroyer of Worlds? The fearling's fingers pressed against his mouth, forcing their way inside and down his throat, shadows and darkness and taint following them, invading his being, thrumming with life and delicious fear. Tears poured down his face, clear and then slowly growing murkier, slower, leaving trails of black ichor in their wake.

It lasted an eternity. Silence followed for even longer, stretching to nothingness until he rose. Not tentatively, but in a single fluid movement, taking a deep breath and observing in wonder how the slightest shadows curled around his fingers adoringly. The last time darkness danced for him on its own accord had been long before this world. A deep chuckle echoed in the empty, twisted hallways. Who knew the boy was so important?

A frown twisted thin black-stained lips. There was something new now, something odd and sickeningly familiar though he couldn't place it, something trapped inside, just beneath the surface. It fed him with exhilarating fear and despair, but he knew it was also a risk, a vulnerable spot, whatever it was. No matter, a weakness was to be buried, and buried it would be. He took a deep breath, and smiled like a shark, all teeth and danger. He felt thousands of years younger, as powerful as when he was born, no, more powerful.

He was Pitch Black, the true King of Nightmares, the Nameless Fear, all things that make sounds in the night and the very end of all hopes and dreams. And this time that fool up in the sky or his Guardians wouldn't even realise the danger until it was far too late.

So you read all the way to here? Do you feel hollow? Drained maybe? I know I did once I'd finished writing. You deserve a hug.