Chapter 7: Sandy Keeps a Secret (and His Friends in the Dark)


If I were the owner of the lists Naughty and Nice, you'd take the first page of the former.

Pitch snorted softly, careful not to wake his victim, "I'm flattered." He quipped and then bent down to the boy's ear. But just as he was about to start his work, he heard MiM sigh heavily. Pitch let out a huff of annoyance and turned to the moon, "Well you're certainly not helping, Man in Moon."

Pitch, you know you don't have the ability to stoop that low, even if it was a new moon.

"And what makes you say that?" he challenged, arms crossed, "I've been doing it for hundreds of years alre—"

You were tainted, greedy for revenge. I'm sure you were only doing it to spite the Guardians of Childhood.

"Also because I was starved, fear starved." Pitch added, bending down again with a silent prayer Manny wouldn't cut him—

When you were first born you used to feed on fear in other ways.

A look of annoyance crossed Pitch's face and he curled his hand into a fist and shot an annoyed glared at the moon, "Yes, but the world was different then. The world has changed."

But you can still

"Alright! Fine, I'll do it!" he snapped as he whirled around to the window, forgetting of the child. There was shifting behind him and Pitch froze in panic, mentally cursing himself for being so careless.

Bleary mumbling ceased as the boy became aware of the figure just inches from his bed, his fear came full-force at the sight of a stranger in his room.

Though it pleased Pitch that he would've sighed in pleasure, he was pushed to his rather short limit by the glowing rock. Quickly, he spun around to the child with a stern glare, "Go to sleep, Vincent. Now."

The child nodded fervently, "Yes, Mr. Boogieman." He mumbled quickly, too frightened to do otherwise, and buried his face in his pillow.

Pitch kept down the noise of anger (from such an infernal name) and lowered down to the boy, "That's not my name, Vincent."

But the boy was already asleep—or too frightened to reply; either way, Pitch shot through a shadow that portaled him to the street below.

See? That wasn't so hard.

Pitch crossed his arms and eyed the Moon, which was an increasingly easy task, "It was more boring, if you ask me."

You're just rusty, you'll get used to it in time. With this age and era, there are many things to your advantage.

.

.

.

He knew he wasn't the best one in 'stealth' for various reasons, yet the fact he'd been undiscovered this long was surprising to him. But it wasn't surprising to find Pitch walking down the street, throwing glances over his shoulder every so often as though he expected an attack, and then talk to the moon as normal as one would talk to themselves. It was a strange sight to find someone talking to a thing in the sky with a voice loud enough to be heard.

"I'm afraid I don't agree with that idea," he said, staring up at the moon, "though it is tempting, I can't use the excuses they call 'frights' as an outlet. If I am to receive fear, it must be real, it must be pure." Pitch folded his arms and mumbled, "Besides, if I do, the Guardians will be upon me before I can blink."

Sandy watched his counterpart shake his head at the moon and turn to a shadow, flying over a wall and into a child's house. He prepared his whips for the worst and crept to the window with narrowed eyes, watching the man appear in the child's room, glancing around warily for any intruders. Fear of being caught, Sandy ducked just as Pitch's eyes swept over the window, he waited a few moments more before peeking from his hiding place.

Pitch took a deep breath and then bent down to the child, touching her head gently at the forehead and then the back before raising his hand in the air over her heart with his eyes closed before snapping them open and taking his hands away. Tentatively, Pitch extended his hand over the child's head and moved it, grappling lightly at the air; with it, little tendrils of shadows started to appear, gathering together, morphing upon themselves even after their master pulled his hands away and settled on surveying.

The shadows morphed into a scene with said girl clinging onto a really high branch of a tree, apparently unable to climb down. The sleeping girl's face wrinkled in discomfort and she turned in bed, hugging a pillow closer to herself and curling around it.

Quickly, Pitch thrust his hand at the shadows with a quick command, "Enough." The shadows, behaving in such a liquid way, dissipated like water evaporating.

Sandy watched in shock; he couldn't believe it, Pitch hadn't done that for over five hundred years—the last time Pitch balanced out a fear in someone was just before the Great War.

A slight gust of wind blew at him, making Sandy cross his arms to keep out the cold—dreamsand was not the best in keeping out the cold. The wind managed to blow a good bit of dreamsand from his clothes to ride in the air, making it sparkle like Tinkerbelle's pixie dust. The magical sand made the familiar tinkling, shifting sound as it sailed in the air which Sandy didn't take much notice of until Pitch's eyes idly swept over the window only to freeze there as eclipsed met amber, dilated.

In the time it took Pitch to dive into a shadow, Sandy had already formed a tendril of sand that already shot towards his counterpart. The tendril shot into the shadow Pitch went in and stopped, Sandy kept his firm hold on it and then gave a strong tug, pulling harder and harder on it until the thing on the other end relented and came zipping out of the shadow to crash into Sandy and both landed down in the frosted garden of the house.

Sandy sat Up and shook his head, taking note of the whip a few inches away from his hand; he travelled its length with his eyes, noticing how it started to get darker until it was a dark black with hints of purple, the darkest part wound around Pitch's chest and upper arms.

The dark man let out a groan and opened his eyes, taking note of the uncomfortable thing binding his chest, then remembering it was dreamsand. Pitch quickly scrambled away when he noticed Sandy sitting not very far, forming shadowy claws and slashing at the black sand that was around his chest; he rubbed quickly, making sure there was no remnants of the nightmare sand, which greatly confused Sandy—wasn't this the same man who had a whole army of sandy horses? Why was he now acting like the black sand would give him the plague?

Pitch turned to Sandy with a venomous glare, "What in the Moon's name possessed you to do that?!" he snapped then thrust his finger at the piles of black sand in wilting grass (winter was near), "Do you even comprehend the danger if that infernal substance grew anymore?! Change it! Change it now!"

A bit panicked by Pitch's crazy attitude, Sandy quickly touched the black sand and let it gather in his hand; Pitch visibly relaxed, Sandy thought he heard him sigh in relief. He thought of asking him about his little tantrum, but Sandy had more concerning matters to discuss; the Sandman, instead of using sandy symbols, moved his hands in rapid shapes that would've muddled anyone else—but not Pitch.

Said man stiffed and then clasped his hands behind his back, "Nothing." He said flatly before narrowing his eyes, "Why?"

"Don't be an idiot. I know you were doing something. Spill." Sandy signed, his face matching his words. If her were speaking, his tone would've been accusing.

It seemed Pitch located the tone through his signs, "Nothing that would concern you, Guardian."

"I'm a Guardian of Childhood. You were messing with a kid. I think you can do the math."

"Oh, you don't have to rub it in, traitor," Pitch snapped, "Just because you're a favorite of MiM doesn't make you a better Guardian than I am."

Sandy winced; oh, right, how could he forget? Pitch was once a Guardian—the first, actually, and it was no secret what happened after that.

His counterpart sneered, "Have I opened old wounds, little star?" Pitch dropped into a shadow, "Perhaps . . . brought back painful memories?" his whispery voice echoed, rising in anger, "Painful memories . . . of the past . . . ? A far away . . . chaotic past? A past in which you and your little friends were involved in, stripping away from me the only reason of my existence?!" At that, a rush of shadows, like gushing liquid, spew out of a dark shadow towards Sandy's direction. The small man deflected them as he thrust his hands, palm up, from down to above his head, summoning a wall of bright dreamsand.

Pitch stepped out of the shadow he had attacked from, a piercing glare set on his face, "You call yourself a Guardian, a bright and noble title, but in fact you are," Pitch thrust his hands from his sides to Sandy's direction, throwing attack and liquid-like shadows to engulf the man like a tsunami wave, he hissed as his eyes momentarily glowed, "A traitor!"

Sandy spun, leaping into the air with his sands spurting and forming a sort of hurricane with him in the eye, the glowing substance evaporating the shadows like water. He landed back on the ground and quickly signed without even bothering to stop for ending his sentences, "I'm not a traitor the Moon chose me I had no choice but to comply."

"Yes, of course, but there wasn't anything that said you had to ABANDON ME!" Pitch screeched as a massive wave of liquid-y shadows came pouring from the darkest corners towards Sandy. The golden man countered with his own attack of waves of golden sand coming to crash into the shadows.

The effect was immediate, as soon as the two opposites clashed into each other, the shadows and sand exploded, sending their creators flying into opposite directions. Golden particles and drops of shadows rained down all over the compound in a mock imitation of rain.

Sandy managed to catch himself before crashing into a large truck at the last minute, commanding the sand to support him, but Pitch was not so fortunate. The poor man was thrown so hard from the explosion he was stuck in a tree in the rather small park of the city they were in—pretty deep too. If Sandy hadn't noticed the black foot sticking out from the thick leaves of the tree Pitch would've spent some time in there, and the golden man told this to Pitch as he gave him an end of a branch to pull him out with (Pitch had cringed from the sand rope he offered earlier).

Pitch fell out of the tree, landing awkwardly on the ground in a way Sandy felt his joint were severely dislocated, but he brushed the thought away when Pitch got up, slightly staggering while holding the side of his head and shot his glare at Sandy.

"I didn't abandon you. You hated the Guardians of Childhood so much. You spent all your time trying to best them. Trying to make them look bad. But they were just doing their job."

That did not sate Pitch's anger, if anything, it fueled it if one counted the writhing shadows that always clung to his being, "And is it in their job description to take away my believers?"

It was true, with the coming of the Guardians of Childhood's they were convinced in eradicating every shadow from every corner. Unfortunately, Pitch was their first target.

"They were deluded, Pitch. We fought a great evil that abused the shadows and turned them from a necessity to an impurity. But unlike me, they did not get to know you well."

Pitch's tense shoulders fell slightly, "And you never thought to, oh, convince them I was not the enemy?"

Sandy frowned at this, "You are aware how hard it is to talk to people with shapes, right?"

"You could've used a bloody pen and paper."

"I don't know how to write any Earth Language. I'm —well, was— a wishing star. And they wouldn't understand me. Tooth was still learning the languages. Bunny could only speak English but never knew how to read or write it. And North is, well, Russian."

Pitch sighed heavily, sitting down on the ground, suddenly looking tired. There was some silence, only filled with the winds that occasionally flitted by, and the rustling of leaves; the Nightmare King opened his mouth to speak when Sandy quickly cut him off with quick hand gestures.

"I can't fix what I did before. And I know you'll never forgive me. But the least I could do now is keep your return a secret."

He snapped his eyes at the golden man, clearly not expecting such a thing.

"You can keep doing your job and I'll try covering up for you. I just want to ask something."

Though he didn't say anything, Pitch stayed silent and gestured for him to ask.

Sandy took a deep breath, "What made you act like that with the black sand?"


In the majestic Craik forest in Scotland, with its many trees and waterfalls, its protector strolled through it. With her skills with every weapon and every form of martial arts, no one could match her bravery. A deep chocolate horse with a white mane and white fur at its hooves walked next to her. But instead of a cheerful aura or a brave one, there was nothing but gloom and cowardice, which was ironic because she was the Guardian of Bravery.

A shadow flitted by them, making them both stop in their tracks. Sky blue eyes —dulled by the loss of believers— darted around, looking for any threats, her hands already grabbed her bow and fixed an arrow.

A screech filled the air, her eyes widened and in no time the spirit was one her horse and was running as fast as the wind. Black, shadow creatures followed them, the girl aimed her bow and shot down a few, new arrows filled her quiver as fast as she took the out. Suddenly, she was jerked off her horse and flew to the ground; when she looked up she saw the shadow creatures slowly dragging the neighing horse. The girl scowled before letting out a bloodcurdling roar and transformed into a deep black bear. She charged at the shadows and slashed her sharp claws.

They screamed and let go of the horse, flying towards the bear. Her eyes widened and before she so much as blink, the shadows blasted at her so hard she lost her concentration and reverted back while falling to the ground in a heap. She shot up and held up a staff with two pointed ends, ready to puncture her enemy. Suddenly, black things grabbed at her ankles and wrists and a dark hole opened in front of her. The tendrils started to pull her closer to the hole, she fussed and tried to break free, only resulting in the tendrils going faster—

All that was left was the staff, her horse, and a bear amulet.


She could have no more, the girl was frustrated—from the shadows. For the past few days, Willow had been attacked by the Fearlings at least a handful of times, and though she would come victorious, it was doing a number on her.

For one, Willow was tardy—at least she felt so; she had made it a habit to visit a lucky person everyday in person, changing between the continents in a pattern and then chose a country with her eyes closed. Now, she'd barely make it, with the Wisps behind schedule because of the Fearlings, she had to balance her visiting habit and constant surveying—it made her feel stressed. With so many fates popping up in her head, she was bound to feel overworked.

And it irked her even more when some dumb idiot decided to point it out to her.

"You look . . . ill."

That was the first thing her mentor told her, and it made her fight the urge to roll her eyes and go 'D'oh'. Honestly, how else was she to appear when she had flown from the Sahara desert leading a group of Bedouin to an oasis to the North Pole —again— and fight off a horde of Fearlings that had actually managed to get closer to the location of her castle from last time they tried?

Willow nodded, "I kno', thank ye fer statin' tha' obvious." She said in the calmest voice she could muster, a mistress and former noble's daughter must be calm at all times she heard her mother's voice ringing in her head.

Pitch regarded her warily, as though he were expecting her to throw a shoe at him in anger, and when he was sure she would attempt no such thing, started their lesson.

"After you've bonded with your steed, it's time for you to ride it." He glanced at her expression, "Don't worry, it's honestly rather easy."

Willow and her Wispmare, who had yet to receive a name, shared a knowing glance, easy indeed.

"I heard that." Pitch snapped, when Willow gave him a questioning yet annoyed look, he sighed in exasperation, "I spend most of my time talking to horses I created, what do you expect? Now, anyways, to get on your horse requires you to remain calm."

"But I am!" She protested indignantly.

He raised a supposed brow, "Then why are we practically drowning in nervousness?"

Willow folded her arm, "Ah'mno nervous."

Ah'mno: I'm not

Pitch dismissed her reply with a drawled, "We'll see." He came to

stand next to her, gesturing to the Wispmare as he explained, "Getting on your horse is an easy process, for starters, you need a stirrup, heeled shoes—"

"Ye dinna ave heels, jus' socks." Willow pointed out.

He cleared his throat and tilted his head quickly downwards, to which Willow looked—no wonder he looked taller.

"Alright, stirrup, heeled shoes, and the horse's mane to hold on to."

Remembering the North Pole, Willow relayed, "She hates it whin I hauld her mane."

Pitch shook his head, "No, she doesn't; the horse knows that you're going to ride it, she was moving her head to help."

"I almast fell."

"Get used to it," he replied emotionlessly, "you won't learn anything without taking a couple of falls." Gesturing to the Wispmare, a pair of stirrups appeared on either side of her stomach, "Traditionally, most riders will get on their horses from the left side—" ("Why?" "I don't know," he snapped, "I didn't invent riding. Now pay attention and follow my orders.") "—Hold the mane in your left hand, and turn the stirrup towards you with your right—yes, like that. Put your left foot into the stirrup—" ("I can't reach, ma' shanks ar too short." "I'm not lifting you up there.") "—hold onto her back—good, bounce gently in the stirrup, then swing your right leg over the horse—go on, you won't fall, and sit down."

Willow looked down at the ground, tensing up every time the Wispmare's muscles shifted under her thighs.

Pitch touched her shoulder —which was with ease as he was quite tall—, "Relax, don't be nervous," he advised, trying to sound at least civil, "it'll only rile her up more. They smell fear, you know."

She deadpanned at him, "It that yer catchphrase? 'Cause Jack mentionet yew sayin' that t'tha' Guardians befoor."

He let out a disgruntled sigh, "That is true, but it is a fact with not just the Nightmares, but any equine." Pitch explained, then said fondly, "They are more than what meets the eye."

'I agree.' The Wispmare said with a small neigh, spooking the rider and made her fingers curl tighter in the mare's mane. The Wispmare nickered softly in annoyance, shaking her head to get her to let go.

Trying not to seem harsh, Pitch pulled the girl's hand gently away from their curled position, "Horses will get annoyed if you do that, they don't appreciate having their hair torn off."

Willow couldn't help but breath out a small laugh, then shrugged stiffly, "That sounds lyke the Spring Sperit, May Queen."

"Well, they are quite vain creatures." Pitch looked over his shoulder, saying to the Nightmare teasingly, "Isn't that right, Onyx?"

The mare huffed and kicked at the ground, flicking her head in what could've been a scornful expression.

Pitch chuckled and turned back to Willow, who was trying to calm down the short, quick breaths that had started as soon as he told her to get on her mare—she wasn't fairing very well, if she continued with this, the poor girl would faint.

He frowned; no, he didn't care, The Nightmare King won't care of some girl—a girl that just so happened to be the only spirit that treated him civilly in the past six hundred years and actually cared for his wellbeing.

Mentally checking off his lesson checklist, Pitch smirked as he came to realization for the next part: Riding.

Willow didn't even get a warning as Pitch urged the Wispmare to start walking, all she felt was the muscles tensing under her and then the wind was blowing in her face and rustling her hair. Her breaths caught in her throat and her fingers grasped desperatly at the Wispmare's mane.

'Don't worry, Mistress, I won't let you fall.' the mare's voice echoed in her head.

Willow tried to keep her body relaxed, but with every shifting movement, it brought back memories of her past life; men falling off horses and breaking their necks, their own steeds running over them, her own little accident . . .

She didn't know what had happened, one minute she was on her trusted horse, Shona, who was galloping away in the forest near the area of her home, the next minute said horse was on her hind legs with a frightened neigh, throwing the rider to the ground.

The girl didn't even need to glance at her arm to know it was in excruciating pain.

Voices made their way to her ears from behind the thick doors of her room (the medic must've left it a bit open). "Well?" Her father's high-strung tone was heard with the smooth accent, "How is she?"

The medic was heard, clearing his throat a few times, "It's . . . no' veery good, m'lord."

Her mother's soothing voice came next, "Whit de ye mean? She hasn' last tha' arm, 'as she?"

"Nae, nae, dinna fret, tha' lass'll keep her arm," he cleared his throat again.

Impatiently, her father demanded, "Then what's the matter?!"

"She, uh, 'as her arm dislocatet an' fractured a' tha' wrist, goe a crack in een o' her ribs, an' 'ad a pretty ugl' hi' on her top."

Her mother let out a whispered, "Och, nighean!" (daughter)

The girl herself winced, all the wounds sounded quite bad—her arm throbbed in pain and this time she couldn't hold back a moan.

There was silence at the other side, probably registering her moan, and then her father asked, "She's awake?"

"Y—Yes, but I wouldna recommend—"

Her mother came through the door, tear streaking her pale face and her blond hair fanning behind her. She sat at the bed and scooped up her daughter's hand, "Darlin'? Ma' wee bairn, ar ye alight?"

The words flew from her mouth before she could hold them, ". . . hurst all ova', mama, it hurts."

The woman shushed her quietly and scooped her up to her chest, rocking back and forth with her, she kissed her crown (the girl could feel her mother's tears on her black head), and murmured little talk to soothe her.

A few minutes later, her father came in, looking worried and quite displeased; She looked at him with slightly wide eyes, frightened and not knowing what to do. He sat at her bed, holding her other hand carefully as it was the one that was injured, "How are you doing?"

She nodded faintly, still in her mother's embrace; her mother let out a small noise, "Oi, nae now, Euan, canna' ye see she's in pain?"

He ignored her, instead sitting up and folding his arms, "What were you thinking…? Going in that area of the forest is strictly forbidden for you."

The girl opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by her father. "If we hadn't found you, you would've been dead now!"

She buried herself more into her mother's chest, "Am sary—"

"I don't know where you got the fancy people can ride there, but—"

"Keiron!" Her mother snapped, cutting him off.

The girl took a deep breath to calm her heart and get a grip on her nerves, "I . . .wantet t'impress ye, Athair."

Her father's angry demeanor was gone, replaced by surprise, and he stayed silent for several seconds. The raven-haired man sighed patted her shoulder in parental manner, "I already am, darling, you already accomplish what takes my men months to years to master, and you're a leader of your own troop, there's no need to impress me further."

Would her father be the same now? Or was the man he once was long gone?

" —llow, Willow!"The girl snapped her head from the horses mane to the side to find Pitch keeping up with her on his own horse, looking very irritated. She glanced down to find the ground whizzing from under her, it seemed she had been squeezing her calves too hard unintentionally, making the Wispmare take it as a sign to canter. It made her a bit dizzy as the memories of her worst fall came to her—it was that fall that made her stop riding altogether, only riding when it was dire.

Pitch gave a sharp jab to her side, "No, Willow! Stay awake and don't look down."

Willow gulped, "Pitch . . . I dinna kin whit t'de!"

"You're doing fine," he said quickly, then pressed on her back, "just lean a bit forward, don't tense up."

"I'll fa—"

"No, you won't, I promise, you're gonna be . . . fine."

The girl glanced at him from the corner of her eye, stunned of the Nightmare King's sudden reassuring demeanor. She took a deep breath and gave a nod before looking in front of her as Onyx started to slow down, falling back until the Wispmare was running through the field with the confident rider on her back.

'I'll puke,' the Shadowmare commented 'this is too much.'

Pitch ignored her never-ending pessimistic attitude, instead watching the girl on the horse with trained eye though his mind was somewhere else; concerned thought filled his head, wondering why he decided to show the girl some encouragement—if anything, he should've nudged her hard enough to almost make her fall. But when the image of the girl falling off the Wispmare and then having said mare accidentally trample all over her, breaking her body, it filled Pitch with worry that was strangely not for himself, but purely for couldn't be because of her warm attitude she used around him, nor because of her stranger claims.

He was a cold, harsh, selfish man.

He was a lonely man.


shanks : legs

Bairn : baby