Pitch takes a long time to think about where he is and how he ended up here. He sits in the dark, takes walks about his lair, exploring his forgotten haunts. It feels as though he was just walking across this slanting bridge yesterday, yet it has been…thirty years. He tries not to think about that.
He does wander, and he does think, and he comes to the conclusion that he cannot do anything. He wants revenge—he lusts after it, undoubtedly. At least, he wants to. But for some reason, something does not allow him to push his brain to that limit. He cannot focus on it. The part of him that allowed him to scheme is gone.
Therefore, all he can do is pace. He does not know what else he can do. His soul, his heart is empty. He wants to want revenge, but he cannot revenge. And along with that want to want, he wants something else. Or perhaps that something else is the real want. Either way, he does not know what he wants.
Coincidently, Frost visits every day, and that does not sit well with Pitch. For one, the brat invades his lair with an annoying "hey!" every morning. With him comes a burst of cold wind, followed by a small flurry of snow.
"Get out," Pitch grumbles every morning. And every morning, his demand is ignored.
"You should get out, see the world," Frost says one day in early July, while his wind dips down from the entrance and playfully stirs Pitch's robes. The shade is less than amused, and he swipes half-heartedly at the other spirit when he wanders too close. "Hey, c'mon. Why are you so bitter?"
The look Pitch tries to give used to be able to nearly flay the flesh from the living. It used to be able to clench the hearts of children and squeeze all the fear from them until they were mere shells. It used to be able to do many things. Now, all it does is make the boy smile, something nearly unbearable, because he is always smiling when he visits.
"You did not just pose that question. To me."
"I guess I just did. Sorry." He does not look or sound sorry. "Alright. Then I'll have to bring the world to you. Hm. Okay."
"What?" Pitch turns, but the boy is already gone. He stands there for a minute, pondering Frost's last words, then promptly turns to hide in the shadows. He does not want to know what that nuisance intends to bring into his lair, nor does he want to deal with it when it arrives. Therefore, he must hide.
A few hours later, Frost returns with something tucked in his arms. Pitch observes him from his dark corner and ignores the call to come out.
"Aw, c'mon! I had to look all over for this!" He raises whatever is in his arms, but the shade immediately looks away. He does not give a damn about whatever is there, and he does not want to see it. If it has nothing to do with this empty void in his soul, it is not worth his attention.
After a lengthy pause, Frost huffs and obscures the item from his view. "Okay, fine. I'll just set it down over here, okay?" He flies to a ledge jutting from a wall high in the air and places his token there. There is a clink of porcelain, and a bit of scraping as he adjusts its position. Pitch only looks at Frost's expression, which moves from mildly pleased to utter delight. "Oh! Hey, I'll be back!"
So Frost leaves again, and Pitch is left to slink through darkness. He does not look at whatever is on that ledge.
The winter spirit takes a little longer to return, but he is carrying a basket filled with something that Pitch – naturally – does not look at. Frost takes to placing more items on the ledge, and then rushes out without an announcement. He returns in thirty minutes with something else, then leaves. It becomes a very annoying habit, and presently Pitch retreats entirely from the main cavern into the tunnels which wind through the underground. He will leave the stupid boy to do as he pleases.
For two days, Pitch stays in the darkness. Then he sleeps.
He is not sure how long he sleeps, but he awakens to the frigid chill of pale hands at the sides of his neck. He gasps in the darkness, wondering if he has been lying in darkness for longer than he thought. Perhaps years have passed again, and it is his own fault this time.
However, his sharp eyes catch sight of that stupid basket at Frost's side, and he bats his hands away with a snarl. "Get out."
"But you have to come see this." Frost is smiling. "I brought you some of the world."
The hands return, insistent, and curl around thin, ashy wrists. Pitch is concerned when he feels that void in his heart waver ominously, because touch is something he has been deprived of. He was so used to being walked through for centuries, and then he managed to have a little relief during his reigns of terror, and even during the last scheme, he had his Nightmares whose flanks he brushed reassuringly, reminding himself that there was something with life that he could still touch.
Frost's touch draws him out unwillingly, and before he knows it, he is standing on that damn ledge. He jerks away with a sharp intake of breath, only looking at Frost. He does not like this. He should be spearing him with shadows. Does he even have shadows? He opens his spidery fingers and calls to them. With some relief, he sees darkness stir in his palm, and thinks to himself that he is quite lucky. Perhaps, with time, he might be able to drudge up something truly terrifying. If he could just find it within himself to call forth the Fearlings, the Nightmare Men, anything—
Frost has been talking without noticing that Pitch is entirely lost in his own mind, and that is why Pitch staggers under the weight of a Chinese Lucky Cat which is thrust into his arms. He stares at it for a second, with its painted eyes and bobbing hand, then glares at the ledge, finally.
It is covered with items from across the world. Matryoshka dolls from Russia, sports equipment from Canada, toy robots from Japan, a sewing kit from England, rag dolls from Africa. The only reason Pitch knows where these items came from is because they have little labels stickered to them, countries and cities scrawled in hasty handwriting. He looks at Frost, who is watching him proudly. "Well?"
In response, Pitch drops the Lucky Cat.
It shatters everywhere, forcing Frost to leap back to avoid the sharp fragments which skitter by his feet. Now it is Pitch's turn to watch his expression. Surprise, then hurt and sadness, and when blue eyes look at the unamused, thunderous face of the Nightmare King, fear curls up too.
There. That right there. Pitch tries not to breathe it in too quickly, but it is so delicious. For a minute, the void quakes violently within him, because that is what he wanted.
But then Frost seems to quell everything, and settles on a smile. "I'll get you a new one."
Pitch snags his hoodie and draws him close. "What part of 'get out' do you not understand?" He is trying to evoke more fear, but Frost does not look like he'll be frightened again for a long while.
"Um, could you define that? Then give me its origins? Is that Latin-based?"
Pitch shoves him off the ledge. Frost easily catches himself and waves goodbye. "Well, I'll be back tomorrow, okay? Stay out of trouble until then. And play nice with Mr. Roboto while I'm gone!"
Pitch ignores his departure and looks upon the worldly items. He reaches for a teddy bear, ready to rip its stuffing out, when he notices the thing that all of these silly gifts have in common. They have all been used. They are worn out, tired things, things which have been loved and then slowly forgotten and put aside or thrown away. Things that still have a little more to give to whoever wants them. They want to be loved. They need it. It is obvious, with the emotional investments that still cling to them. Pitch can smell them.
He wonders if Frost was trying to send a subliminal message to him. Or if these items are supposed to be metaphors. Pitch feels a little bit of respect for the boy. Clever.
Therefore, with the utmost respect, he proceeds to smash, tear, and burn every item on that ledge, wondering how long that smile on the boy's face will remain when he comes by tomorrow. That brings him to another realization.
Jack Frost is the first person to visit him every day with a smile on his face. (And the first person to give him "gifts", but that does not count because Pitch destroys those. Respectfully.)
