Consciousness resumed. Aching eyelids stuttered open. Pitch Black gasped in a shaking breath that arched his back, lifting his stomach off the dry, cold floor. His body convulsed and he coughed out the dirt and dust that invaded his lungs. He was meant to be the king of nightmares, striking fear in all he met. He lifted his face off the filthy ground, the grit still embedded in his grey skin and sticking to the fresh blood from the deep gash on his cheekbone. He was meant to be the victor. His body eased back onto the ground as his breathing settled into shallow reluctant breaths. His victory over The Guardian's was meant to be grand, it was meant to be glorious. He slowly, painfully, rolled himself onto his back, the marrow in his bones screaming out their protest. His head pounded as if someone was taking a bludgeon to his skull. It wasn't meant to be like this.
It was now he lay in this dark, empty place that a sinking realisation crawled in through the pores of his skin.
He had failed.
Utterly.
Dismally.
Ultimately.
His best wasn't good enough. It wouldn't be the first time. Pitch snorted in indignation, only to find pain in the sensation of sand grating the inside of his head. He heaved his body up to support himself on his elbows. He didn't hold the position for long; his throbbing muscles gave up the fight and he found himself thumping to the ground once again. The nightmares were gone: gorged on the fear he had allowed The Guardian's to infect him with. He allowed himself an animalistic snarl of distain. He found that over his years of constant torture his fear had been drained away, replaced by rage. It had begun small at first, nestling itself in Pitch's mind while his Fearling's were still feasting upon this terror. The anger had made itself comfortable, and then it had multiplied within the folds of his mind like bacteria in a loathsome, unclean place. How long had he been down in this damned lair, once refuge, now turned prison? Just how many years had he been subject to this torment? Over a decade now. It had to be.
Pitch's breath hitched in his throat as his thin lips curled into an ugly, animalistic snarl befitting the monster that hid under children's beds at night. As long as there was blood in his veins and breath in his lungs he'd make The Guardian's pay; one way or another he would make them pay for what they had done to him. The hatred that they had given him would fuel the fire that would make them pay. His bubbling fury pushed him to his feet, numbing the pain as he seethed, fists clenched tight at his sides as he swayed slightly on his feet. Drunk with rage, he soon found himself crawling back to the surface through the same hole he was dragged into by his minions. Dirt dug in between his broken nails as he hauled himself upwards, blackening them like burnt tree stumps as his tongue found the gap between his molars reminding him of the white gravestone the fairy had uprooted. He continued his ascent, for if angels fall then surely demons must rise.
Silver light. A cold breeze. The sound of wind teasing the branches stripped of leaves. Pitch crawled up onto solid ground and collapsed onto his back. He opened his eyes and was greeted by the sight of the moon meeting his gaze. He laughed a weak, humourless laugh. "Didn't think you'd be seeing me for a while, did you, Manny?" The dazed smirk on Pitch's face fell. Of course. The Man In The Moon never spoke to him, not since he the night he had first became Pitch Black. Fine, be that way, he inwardly thought as he smoothed his hands over the shadows at his sides. He waited to sink into the shadows, for that familiar pull like a thousand tiny hands tugging at his clothes and skin. Nothing happened. He felt a tiny jolt of fear that he quickly smothered lest the Fearling's smell him out. He tried again. Nothing happened. In place of fear, he elected anger to take centre stage.
There was a quick belt of noise, meant to be a laugh. He had had his powers drained after years of being a living fear donor to his own creations. He was weak. It could take months, or more likely years to grow as powerful as he had before his battle with The Guardians. Revenge would have to come later, but for now, he needed to build up his energy, make people believe again, spread the fear. He would start of small, and then work himself up.
Ideas didn't light up in Pitch's head as they did in others'. Instead, tiny black holes like little black pennies began to consume all the light around them, manifesting into a dark spot in his brain. The ghost of a smile flitted across his angular features. Oh yes, Pitch had an idea.
A/N: Hey everyone! This is the first chapter of my first ever fanfiction story (yay!) and I hope you all enjoyed it. Apologies for my British spelling if you're an American reader. Ah, don't you just love Pitch as a character? Feel free to drop a review, they'd mean a lot to me and I'd be happy to hear your thoughts and opinions on this or anything you'd like me to add into this story sometime down the line. Constructive criticism is very much welcome. Have a great day (or night)!