(Burgess)

"It doesn't snow in spring, Frost. Especially not after Easter, so go and process that through your thick, frozen cranium." A dark voice drifted from the shadows of an alleyway in Burgess.

If any had been awake, they would have seen the passing figure of a wandering shade as he grumbled to himself through chattering teeth. If any had cared they would have felt pity for the spirit now leaning heavily against a wall for support, rubbing his freezing arms with a false vigor. The sky above looked on in sympathy at the scene, for this man had once been great…had once been noble…now he was reduced to wandering the night like a lost soul…the once great Pitch Black, now reduced to hiding in alleyways. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

Pitch's body was weak and his soul dim, his clothes tattered and his hair matted. From his waistline down, he had begun to fade and crack like the earth during a drought. He was so far gone, his feet had faded to the point that they were invisible to the naked eye. Not that there were any eyes to see him at all, of course- he wouldn't be so low if he still had believers. However, his downfall might also save his dignity. It wouldn't do for children to see his dishelved hair and red-rimmed eyes (although it might have the desired effect...), and where there were no children, there were no Guardians to mock his miserable existence.

What had once been the lair of the Lord of Shadows had been over-run by the Nightmares, and thus he had fled to a broken, pitiful shack outside the town. But taking his home had not been enough for the fear crazed equine; no, they continued to pursue him in his waking hours- Pitch could hear the unsettling clip-clop of their hooves in the distance even now. They stalked him relentlessly, his own creation, turned against him, a Nightmare Mutiny. The shadows had deserted him, leaving Pitch nothing but his invisible feet to travel by, which by effect meant around this one city. Things could be worse for the infamous Pitch Black, but he had no idea how…or when... or if, things would ever get better.

With a troubled sigh, Pitch turned down the alleyway back towards his temporary home.

The garbage reeked, only made worse by the puddles of melting snow they drowned in, so he made special care to avoid the filth at all cost. It didn't really matter, if there was no one to see him, they certainly couldn't smell him either. Nobody ever seemed to think that maybe spirits liked basic necessities for some reason, as if since they did not ever really need them, they never wanted them. But Pitch quite enjoyed a steaming hot shower, though he could not remember the last time he even had felt warm water against his skin. Or when the last time he ate- as a spirit, it wasn't necessary to eat, but it aided in the healing process, something that needed to hurry along if he wanted his revenge.

Oh yes. The very thought of dragging the Guardians into this filth was enough to make his dry, cracked lips curve into a desperate smile. Oh yes, yes, YES, he would make the Guardians suffer for bringing the Nightmare King to such an all-time low. Maybe he would skin the Easter Bunny, which would make a wonderful coat. Plaguing North's elves with sugar cookies would be worth a good laugh. Oh, and if only he could tie Frost to a mast and strike a fire under him! Now THAT would be fun-

Pitch abruptly came to a stop. He had made it to the wood's edge by now, a dry breeze rattling the dead branches eerily.

What had HAPPENED to him? Even his revenge ideas had become low. When had such pathetic, childish thoughts become acceptable…- he paused in his self-loathing when something ahead caught his attention. Golden eyes gleamed when his brain registered what it was…

A child.

Before he knew his feet had moved, Pitch was by the child's side, the spirit scanning the young one with scrutinizing eyes. There, a small boy with silver hair and brown, tattered riding cloak laid absolutely still in a snow drift just inside the woods, barely ten feet from the footpath Pitch had used to get 'home' time and time again. He was obviously a spirit, his attire from another time, and his hair possessed an unnatural glimmer to the already unnatural silver colour.

Without thinking the spirit knelt to one knee, his shredded cloak spreading out on the white snow like oil. Hesitant fingers reached towards the still child…abruptly Pitch snatched his hand back, almost as if he had just realized what he was doing.

"Pitch!" He scolded himself. "What in the nine realms, he is no concern of yours."

However, the spirit couldn't help another glance, the child was so young! How could anyone be expected to just turn and… the spirit's eyes narrowed into slits when something around the boy's neck caught his eye. A feeling of ice settled in his stomach as he gently lifted the cold face (his frost-bitten nose infuriated Pitch tremendously) out of the snow and inspected the child's throat better. Yes, just as he had thought…a silver collar was fitted tightly around the boy's Adam's Apple, blank except for three ancient runes, the meanings of which Pitch had long forgotten.

Pitch rocked back on his heels and bit his lip. Of course he knew of the child slavery black market of the spirit realm, for it had been around as long as Pitch could remember, probably as long as spirits had been around. He had never participated, even thought of it a barbaric practice for that matter- however, it was impossible for him to ignore its effectiveness.

The only people who owned slaves were high up on the social ladder, so high that sometimes the peasants didn't know they existed. Each had its own set of mercenaries, and anyone who protested or openly accused them of slave abuse were sentencing themselves to be found dead on the side of the road. Of course slaves were abused, even though it was illegal to do so, but when the law is funded by the law breakers, there becomes a gap in what is right and wrong. Orphans, usually homeless, were swept off the streets for a show of bravado and popularity raise, then collared and sent to work. With no one to claim the children, no law was broken and legalities were left at that.

Beyond that, Pitch had no real idea of the ins and outs of this side of the Realm- he simply avoided it and left it at that… His thoughts returned again to the child, and he panicked slightly when he noticed the boy's chest was still…was the child even breathing anymore?

Only by laying his head on the boy's faded, threadbare shirt could Pitch detect the faint rise and fall of his chest. Screw a pulse, it was invisible as Pitch's two feet. There was some sound beyond the heartbeat though, a faint sloshing sound, almost like-

Pitch's head shot up in alarm.

Water. There was water in the boy's lungs.

How long had the child been laying in the snow? Had he been there when Pitch had passed by some three hours ago? How much longer was Pitch going to let him stay there?

"WHOA whoa, whoa!" Pitch stood up and stepped away. "Slow down Pitch." The spirit scolded himself since no one else was around to do so "You're not doing ANYTHING. He belongs to someone. Law is that slaves that are found are to be turned back in." Now wholly berated the spirit looked around the empty forest "Hey!" Pitch shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Waiting a moment with no response but his echo, Pitch turned east. "HELLO!?" Then west. "I FOUND YOUR- uh, KID!" Nothing but his echo called back- kid... kid... kid...

"Maybe the kid escaped?" Pitch exhaled…that 'complicated' things.

Pitch turned back to the boy. It was almost impossible to see his chest rise and fall. His nose, fingers, and bare toes were turning blue. The water in his chest was settling. Too much longer and this boy would DIE.

Contrary to popular belief, Pitch Black, King of Nightmares as he may be- or, at least, once was- did not hate children. Pitch was an embodiment of fear. Taking advantage of their malleable minds could not be avoided. It was not his fault that children's vivid imaginations were more vulnerable to fear than the rational minds of adults. It was not his fault that children feared him- in fact, they hated HIM, not the other way around.

For that reason, Pitch knew there would be no gratitude from the child for saving his life, only terror. He should just walk away and let someone else take care of it...

Where's a Guardian when you need one?

Yes, where WERE the Guardians, now that a child was in life or death peril? There was only Pitch and this boy. All that protecting they did when reasonable fear was around, but now, now that a child was about to die for no reason, there was not so much as a flutter of wings or a speck of dreamsand to be seen. No one but this boy. And Pitch.

"I should just walk away." Pitch made it to the top of the rise before he bailed, rushing back to the boy and muttering again "I should just walk away." Ever so carefully, Pitch cradled the boys head under one arm and the crook of his knees with the other. The boy weighed nothing, not even to a weak Lord of Fear. He could feel the tiny ribs through both of their shirts.

"What am I doing?" Pitch hissed through gritted teeth, annoyed and disappointed in himself for going soft. "I am the Boogeyman- I couldn't care less for the wellbeing of a child." Why was he so drawn to the tiny spirit in his arms?

Now that he thought about it, the sense of attachment was an actual, physical call. It was an intoxicating feeling, and the longer he held this boy- whose physical appearance did not trump the age of eight- the stronger it felt, spreading from his chest to his arms and legs, to his fingers and toes, and finally to his head where he drew in a relieved breath- it was fear. The boy in his arms was unconscious, but even with no sense of awareness the boy was shrouded in a multitude fears. Not just a thin sense of paranoia either- deep, strong fears. With the boy being smooth knocked out, there was no way to identify what the origin of these fears were, or just how powerful they were- but for fear to cling to the very threads of person… The lives of those few were always tragic.

And Pitch could not help but feed from the boy's fear. Already he felt less tired and able to think much more clearly. He was starving of fear, and to find it so easily available without any sort of resistance, he was feeding ravenously, a feral beast within his soul taking no mercy at the expense of its own survival- He inhaled sharply through his nose, staring down at the tiny boy in his arms. A mixture of guilt and wounded pride clung to his mind, ashamed of feeding off a soul unable to defend itself- it was low, it was cowardly, and it was disgraceful. He would NOT feed on a helpless being. Pitch traveled at a brisk walk, neither him nor the boy uttering a sound the whole way.

It wasn't much, just a set of four walls, a small, trifle, fragile structure of an old, abandoned hunting lodge. But it was enough for now. Enough to keep it's one (now two) residents dry and safe from the harsh winds. The door was unlocked, it's deadbolt having fallen off some years ago, and its bloated form slouched against the doorway. Pitch shoved it open with a shoulder and closed it behind him with a nudge of his hip. In the dark, Pitch waited a moment and fell into deep thought- what could he POSSIBLY offer this child, as weak and poor as he was?

A chance.

Which was more than what the Guardians were offering at this point.

However, even with his pride, Pitch knew beyond a shadow of a doubt…he was going to need some help.