Not one of my best, but meh. I got the idea for this while drawing Pitch in an ugly Christmas sweater. I used that pic (cropped to fit) as the cover image.

Once again, this was on Tumblr first. Just reposting it here to add to the archive.

~o~

I am Pitch Black. The Boogeyman. The Nightmare King. My name has been known the world over for five thousand years. I bring anxiety by day and terror by night. On more than one occasion, I've made the most terrifying mortals in history tremble in fear.

I do not give in. I do not submit. And I most certainly do not wear ugly sweaters.

So why am I pulling this itchy, coarse fabric over my head?

The Last War ended nearly ninety years ago, but it feels more like twenty. I don't remember much of that first decade following my defeat. I know the Fearlings turned on me completely that evening. They pulled me back into my realm and tore me to pieces again and again. It was an endless blur of agony, and even now, I wince thinking about it.

It was Jack Frost who saved me from them. I know not how he came to be there, or what led him to pull me from my former-minions' claws. But he did. It's likely the only reason I'm here now, and not in a million pieces at the bottom of the world.

Examining the red-orange sleeve of the sweater, my frown dissipates. I remember that he took me here first, to North's workshop. The Sandman, though, was the first to truly accept me. North and Jack followed soon after. Toothiana was thirty years later, and Bunnymund another thirty after that. My most recent reconciliation was with the Man in the Moon, not ten months ago.

It was a slow, grueling process. Almost ninety years. But, strange as it is, I feel that it's better this way. I no longer have the Fearlings or Nightmares, but I'm able to continue my work as the Boogeyman independently. I no longer have to hide in dark alleys and beneath beds; I've earned enough of the Guardians' trust that they do not hinder me.

I almost chuckle at that thought, before leaving the dimly lit room. North's yearly Christmas party ended several hours ago, and all of the other immortals are long gone. I stick to the shadows, entering the sitting room unnoticed. The Guardians are draped across chairs and couches, trading stories about the year past and musings about the one to come.

Hardly realizing what I'm doing, I slip out of the shadowed corner.

"Hey, there he is!"

Drat. With but a few words from Frost, ten eyes fall on me. If they were menacing, or accusing, perhaps I'd be able to take it in stride. But no, of course not. They are warm. Welcoming, even. I hold back a wince. Even after ninety years, I'm not certain how to deal with such things. Companionship remains an understandably foreign concept to me, given the thousands of years I went without it.

Just as the silence seems to stretch a bit too long, Sanderson gestures for me to join the group. I do so after a moment of hesitation. I'm quickly absorbed into the conversations and stories, as if I were there from the start. It's a strange feeling, belonging. Stranger still when I remember how bent on destroying them I was not a century ago.

And yet, it feels… right. As if something has been put in perspective. Some little nagging imbalance I never knew was there. I smile softly, taking the mug of egg nog presented to me by an elf. And for a moment, I think to myself, "This is something I could get used to."