Chapter 2: A Midwinter's Nightmare

Wow! Thanks so much for all the views, guys! Here's chapter two!

Where we left off:

"…No matter, just tell me all you have learned about the guardians. Starting with the frost child and his staff."

Pitch obliged her with a toothy grin as he felt legs beginning to form. By the time his tale had been sung, they had arrived at her palace on the western isles and the tentative beginnings of a plan had been formed. Pitch smiled as he climbed from her robes and settled into the shadows on her walls, feeding on any loose lives that strayed too far from their mistress.

They began phase one within an hour, Nicholas was long overdue a visit from his ancient lover.

North sat in his great oak chair beside the fire, nursing a cup of warm milk. It was less than two weeks to Christmas and the first of only two occasions a year that he allowed himself these few seconds of silence. After more Christmas seasons than he cared to remember, the Cossack King decided that there were times his stomach just couldn't take the heaviness of eggnog and coco. Warm milk and a few moments of silence were the perfect prerequisite to a well-deserved rest and it remained the light at the end of the tunnel when the weather grew too violent for comfort or his back began to ache on Christmas Eve. But this simple drink, dusted with cinnamon and a few precious moments of emptiness before being thrown into his own festivities and preparation for the coming insanity was his saving grace, because for a few moments, he could simply cease to be, cease to bustle, and curl into himself before recharging and getting back on the horse. His yetis knew of this tradition and it was held as sacred.

The great man settled into the chair a little deeper and wiggled his toes in the thick woolen socks. The boots had been abandoned, the red robe of fur set aside. Even his scimitars sat in their sheaths against the wall while he favored his flannel sleeping attire and a thick blanket. Taking another sip of milk, he let the remnants of his twice-a-year treat remain on his white whiskers and welcomed the embrace of rest and the sting of memories long past but never quite forgotten.

~o:o~

Pitch scoffed at the sight of the Phantom Queen's lavish bedchambers. Tapestries of Cúchulainn and boar hunts hung from the ceiling, the stone floors spread with Turkish rugs. The bed itself was made of goose down and velvet, curtained with a thick purple fabric that was bordered in spun gold.

"What, no porcelain throne, excuse me, chamber pot, my queen?"

"Honestly, Pitch of the two of us you are far more archaic. I prefer to think of this as eccentricity not insanity and you would do well to embrace the world you were born from. Perhaps next time it won't vomit you up so violently next time you force your fear down it's throat."

"Says the woman who drinks soul barf to keep her face pretty."

Morrígan looked as though she were gearing up for quite the verbal battle when Pitch rudely shut her down with the raising of one, shadowed palm.

"How dare you—"

"Hush," Pitch sang. "The fat man sleeps."

"Finally." She drawled.

Pitch sent a grin her way so shadowed it went unnoticed. "He's dreaming of you."

A smile spread across Morrígan's lips. "How very convenient. Come Pitch and lets get this over with, big boy doesn't sleep for long." Morrígan stretched herself out on the bed and lent Pitch enough power to send her mind thousands of miles away to visit the dreams of Nicholas.

"I'll do my best to place you in the correct body."

"Well who else would I be?" She snapped irritably. "Does that mishap arise often?"

"It's more or less a rarity. Just play your part and deliver your message, I don't know how long I can keep you hidden for."

"Fine, fine. Just hurry up." Morrígan took a vial from her bedside table and drank it down. It would put her out long enough to do the job and keep her just deep enough under to dream and still keep her wits about her. As she felt herself drift away, she had just enough time to be thankful that her hearing went first so she didn't have to listen to another remark by the king of snark.

When she awoke she was in a forest on the west side of the Isle of Ireland. She felt the stinging pain of longing deep in her chest, and the stab of starvation curved around her middle and back with such force she vaguely wondered how much of this was North's doing and how much was her addition.

She remembered this time and place well. It was before she had begun to steal what she craved, and this was peacetime so her opportunities for love were limited. She had traveled deep into the wood in the hopes of catching one flighty young barbarian to promise the world in scalped heads to, but in her weakened state she had been unable to find anyone in time and had resigned herself to sinking into the void of utter desolation. Into the place of beings unmade.

The crunch of boots pulled Morrígan from her recollection. A young man in a red suit was crashing through the woods; his footfalls making the forest itself cringe. He stopped when he saw her and with sadness in his blue eyes he carried her to a clearing and set her down on a wooden sled that was laden with giant cedars. He called to his mounts by name, his accent so thick it made it hard for her to decipher the Russian. He was a Northerner to even the inhabitants of the ice shelf. His sleigh took off into the air, frightening her ever so slightly. It was hard to believe that this was all a dream.

They flew for what seemed like a few moments before landing at a long cabin in the Arctic Circle, though she knew the actual ride had taken hours. This was hundreds of years before North invented his ingenious little snow globes. Before she had even received her mist.

He handled her gently, asking her all the while what she needed help with in a stumbling, lurching version of Gaelic. She held back the urge to laugh at his attempts now. Playing her part like a true gem, she didn't speak until he had her on a straw tick bed beside the fire.

"A drink," she mumbled hoarsely. Her vision began to blur. Hurry up, sweetheart, I can't keep ya there all day.

She watched as the fledgling immortal ran about his home mixing up any drink he could think she might want, holding steaming mugs to her ashen lips. "No," she murmured. "From you." Morrígan pressed her lips against his, drawing from him a small bit of his life, his immortality. He gasped and pulled away, clutching at his chest.

"No, please!" She begged. "It won't hurt you, you're immortal, but I am linked to the life of others and I will die without it!" Even the small draft she had taken gave her enough strength to beg with him. He seemed unsure about it, but in the end he conceded to give her a small drink. As history would show, a meaningless kiss and a small draft soon progressed into a love bond that traded companionship for a taste of life-blood. Her drink would cost him his youthful appearance and many lives over many years wasted.

But Morrígan didn't have time to wait two hundred years, even in a dream. So she thrust her hand into his belly and changed him all at once. Gone was his cropped black hair and gentle smile. A bleeding old giant knelt in his place. She gripped under his rib cage and slid him forward. "Miss me darling?" She whispered into his ear. He gasped and coughed a wet, slopping cough. "Don't fret, my pet, I will come soon to pay you a visit. You and all the others you so fondly call your family."

Morrígan laughed as she felt herself begin to fade away. Before she disappeared all together, she kissed him once more and let go.

She awoke with a cackle, pleased with her lovely trick. If they were all as weak as North, this would be easier than she had anticipated.

"Well done," Pitch congratulated. "Now we wait and see if it works."

~o:o~

North awoke with a start, dropping his mug to the floor as he grasped at his stomach with both hands. Sweat had plastered his clothes and hair to his skin. He stood quickly and threw open the door, barreling past yetis who questioned him in their low garbling tongue.

Only one followed him out onto the globe platform and watched as he turned the key to call for an assembly of the guardians. He was still grasping at his stomach when the lights began to fly through the windows. The lone creature posed a question so low it could hardly have been heard.

"Morrígan is coming. I felt it in my belly."

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Reviews make me write faster, so crank 'em out! Jack in the next chappie!