Chapter 10: In Which Screw Ups Occur (And Explanations are Revealed)
The next day, Pitch found himself yet again a 'host' to the light spirit, which was irritating him and he had half a mind to kick her out, but decided to keep his irritation to himself—he couldn't bring himself to kick out a child, after all (sometimes, he wondered what possessed him to look at her entry; if he hadn't, he wouldn't be so careful with her).
And it may be due to the fact he was trying to eliminate the last of the Nightmares.
Black, lifeless sand coated the grounds yet again, making the floor easy to slip on; screeches of the sandy traitors echoed off the walls as weapons flew through them—even Pitch's Creatures of the Night contributed, working with the Wisps to create a very unlikely team.
Weapons slashed in the air as quick as though they were vipers, their owners swift with practice, displayed their skill.
The numbers soon dwindled, more black sand covered the floor, until only one was left standing on shaking legs.
Pitch advanced slowly towards the mare with deliberate steps, his arms were half pulled back as though he would end her life right there; the mare eyed his weapon frightfully and drove herself even more to the wall. He stopped a meter or two in front of her and gave her a horrible scowl; she responded with fright, neighing loudly and fleeing the first sign she got. The Nightmare in her rush had knocked down both spirits before flying out of the hole, probably never to be seen again.
He sighed, relieved, and dissipated his weapon, that's it.
But Willow was staring at the hole, looking pensive, and Pitch caught the dagger held defensively in her hand.
"Don't bother." He said, seemingly dismissive, "She won't return."
Willow only glanced at him before turning her worried expression at the hole again, "Whit if no'? Whit if she does?"
"She won't—unless she's very stupid." Pitch replied, turning to the sand-coated ground and waved a hand; a large shadow crashed onto the ground from a dark corner, disappearing with the sand. He glanced at the light spirit, taking in her frustrated attitude; she had something in her, something that was bothering her.
But he didn't care—Pitch was reminded of Jack's sudden drop-by yesterday, and he really wanted to know what happened. Screw her feelings, he was too damn curious of Jack's and Willow's meeting to concern himself with whatever was bothering the girl.
Looking her way, he couldn't help but note how upset she looked; it was as though a war was going through her, tearing her to pieces inside out.
So he helped her with Lady Sylph, but that didn't mean he was suddenly going to go hugging the girl whenever the corners of her mouth twitched downwards!
Pitch was pulled out of his reverie with a burdened sigh from said girl, she looked about the lair quickly and then turned to him, "Aw is fyne, I . . . ah must be aff." She murmured and leaped into the air, towards the exit.
"Just a moment." Pitch called out (thankfully, not like the desperate cry he had uttered the first time).
Willow stopped and simply hovered in her place, looking at him questioningly.
"What happened with Jack?"
Her questioning look suddenly fell into a scowl, but not an angered one—a depressed one. "Naething, we jabbered, we talkt, we left."
Pitch cocked a non-existent brow, "Do I look like I can be easily fooled?"
Arms crossed, Willow didn't turn to him, "I dinna want t'talk 'boot this."
"I'd like to know."
"It isna' yer business." Her tone, though, suggested she would gladly spill out her troubles to the first kind soul that would pay her mind.
"Then whose is it?"
Silence.
"Exactly," Pitch started to come towards her, walking on shadowy steps, "the rainbow woman is not as much of a friend to you for you to tell her your woes; North will just shove a biscuit in your mouth and push you out; the over-grown garden pest is as likely to listen to understand you as ice lasts in fire; and Sandy . . ." he had to stop for a moment, blocking out the memories, " . . . he'll fall asleep before the first word leaves your lips."
She seemed to visibly lose hope with every accusation, until she herself was floating on a fire-light step of her own—which Pitch did not get near to. Her eclipsed eyes snapped to him in surprise, "How—"
"Do I know? I don't, but it seems to me I've got a lucky guess."
Stubbornly looking away, Willow grumbled, "I still dinna want t'tell. It's ma' secret an' it'll sta' that way."
He was losing options here; well then, might as well use her kindness against her. Pitch placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, "Well, look at it this way; you've been thrusting your kindness upon me for two whole weeks —yes, I've counted—, so it's only fair I get a turn in this tormenting game."
" . . . och, an' I's wonderin' why ye suddenl' became soft-hearted."
"Stop prolonging, it won't get you anywhere."
She looked him over, he supposedly looked like an animal hungry for food or a vampire in the presence of blood.
"You know, the quicker you tell me, the faster I could get to Jack and settle it before the Guardians interfere." He goaded, guiding her back to the platform where the Globe glowed gold—he was craving to hear what had happened between the two adolescent immortals.
Pitch was aware of the brief look she gave him of annoyance, it clearly stated 'stop pushing me', but he decided to pretend he didn't notice. As soon as they reached the platform, Pitch dropped his hand from her shoulder and took a few steps away from her (he was still convinced her light would affect him badly).
There was a moment of silence, Willow trying to gather what to say, and then found herself spilling it with nothing to stop her—and with it came the great guilt that buried itself in her gut like a shadow arrow.
As she told her story, with her hands moving animatedly and she paced like the drama queen she was, her eyes flickered to him every once in a while; the light spirit was truthfully surprised to find him listening intently and watching her form move about. Instantly her hopes rose, thinking her efforts finally paid off and he was starting to remember the past, but then she instantly crushed it as she reminded herself of his attitude to listening to her—he just wanted gossip.
(Like an old woman, she thought with a mental smirk)
Willow finally stopped, letting out a deep breath and facing him, waiting for a remark.
"So, basically, this is one of those cliché scenes where one friend tells a fib to the other and then feels the guilt ferment in their gut, churn their insides, and just plainly make them feel like jerks." Pitch examined his grey nails, saying in a rather disappointed tone, "I don't see what's working you up."
Willow let out a groan and covered her face which she was sure had flushed blue in exasperation, "Ye dinna unnerstan!" She exclaimed.
"Not really, no, it was rather bland," he looked at her with half lidded eyes, "You're just making a big deal out of something insignificant."
Her hands went to her hair roots and pulled, the poor girl just wanted to scream till her throat was raw; she had two major issues here, she lied to the closest person to her and—
"Ye dinna gae it, eejit?" she shouted with a venomous glare sent his way as her Scottish burr bled away to reveal her rolling one, "He knows you're alive, he knows you're up to something, and if he goes to the Guardians, they'll be upon your throat faster than a vampyre craving for blood!" (one tiny, snarky part of her remarked her overuse of analogy between her father and vampires).
Eejit: idiot
Pitch's bored expression had changed subtly with more of the eclipsed irises revealing with the drawback of his eyelids, his hands became tense with them in the crooks of his elbows. "Why would you care?" Pitch replied after recovering, his eyes now narrowed down at her.
She looked him over and then huffed, feeling her energy seep out, being replaced with gloom and despair.
He could feel the worry and fear radiating off her—fear of him being hurt by anyone, which was quite ironic as he had the same concern over her (because he'd lose his main source of fear, he weakly excused, but Pitch knew it was a lame excuse).
Pitch watched her back slump as she plodded on the platform towards the edge to leave, and then he felt a bit guilty; he was the one who put her in this mood, or at least he made it worse, and he had sworn to himself to be a bit gentle with her with the new knowledge of the light spirit really being a child. Apparently, he needed to earn the magical ability to be gentle.
Then he got an idea, it was probably a failure, but it was worth a shot (he was afraid she would stop visiting).
Quickly, he grabbed her wriste, "Let's go."
"Whit?" She squeaked out in surprise, "Where ar ye takin' me?"
"I'll show you something—something you'll quite fancy."
.
.
.
Contrary to his earlier belief, Willow's former grief had been washed away as soon as she saw it.
She leaped into the air, giggling, and flew a bit with the shadowy being chasing her, "Loch, Da, he's adowable!"
Well, that was irking him a bit (Dobermans are not 'adowable'—especially ones made of shadows!), but Pitch decided to keep his opinion to himself, not wanting to spoil her mirth. He made to the shadow canine and ran a hand through its shadowy coat, relishing the liquid like texture, and said fondly, "Actually, it's a Hell Hound."
Willow's face contorted to confusion, "Hell Hound?"
"Yes, and this particular one is called Kerberos."
"Why the 'otherworldly' name?" She asked.
Pitch groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, "Don't you start with horrible puns."
"Suuure." She drawled and looked at Kerberos for a few minutes before asked with a smirk, "So am guessin' ye'll be callin' tha' next een Orthrus?"
"I'm going to ignore that." He muttered, summoning shadowy tentacles and going to the room's exit.
Willow noticed far too quickly, "Where ar ye gauin'?"
"To tie Jack's mouth closed before he babbles his secret to anyone."
She took a few steps towards him, and worried expression returned. "I dinna think that's a good idea, Pitch, he—"
"What? He's stronger? I'll be overpowered?" Pitch bit.
Willow rubbed her forearm and bit her lip before giving a light shrug that sent the hair resting on her shoulders on her chest and back. "Basically, aye."
He gave her a bored and flat look, his scythe appearing in his hands just to get his message across to her.
She panicked a bit when Pitch turned around and disregarded her warning, Willow held out her hand, creating a wall of blue light in front of Pitch. The man stopped quickly and eyed the wall briefly before sending a nasty glare in Willow's direction.
"Jus' listen tae me!" She exclaimed, bringing down the wall, "If ye go now and supposedly win him over, Jack wonae sta' put fereva' an' eventually he'll go t'tha Guardians." Willow pulled at his wrist and dissipated the scythe with a bolt of light, "Ye might think yer dewin' somethin' bonnie, bu' yer jus' puttin' yer—ourselves in dange'."
He looked her over, realizing she had a point, but he wouldn't back down so easily; besides, it had been a while since he pushed her buttons. Pitch folded his hands behind his back and looked her down his nose, "Very well, Willoweena, as you wish, darling." He relished the anger visibly rising to flush her face with a blue tinge. Pitch started to walk back to the Hell Hound, giving Willow a glance and remarking, "But we all know it's because of your crush on him."
Willow's face was stricken in shock and her jaw slightly unhinged, Pitch couldn't help but laugh at her expression. Soon she blushed furiously, painting her face a light blue, and balled her fists, stomping her foot on the ground; did he just manage to irk her in less than five minutes? "Jack is not ma' crush!" Willow said defiantly.
"Your face is telling me otherwise."
"I dinna love him!"
"You hate him?"
"Ay—..whit? Nae! He's ma' friend."
Pitch chuckled, letting his hands idly run through Kerberos' hide while lounging on the armchair.
Willow, who was daintily perched at the side of a table, swung her legs for a bit and gave him a glance which he did not see; honestly, she had always felt pure hatred after the Great War towards him, but there was always a little part of her that pitied him. Pitch Black was one of the most highly revered spirits in existence with his royal title and crucial job, everyone knew Fear was necessary and accepted it that way, and although Willow would never admit it, Manny's Guardians were one of the main causes for the Great War.
She pitied the man, who was once worthy of his royal title and was now reduced to a slinking shadow. But what made her pity him even more was the events that occurred about six hundred years ago.
Angry chatter bombarded against her eardrums as spirits from all about shouted to each other or stretching to see the one standing in the middle where it was empty save for that individual and the four others standing on raised platforms a couple of meters from him.
Willow hovered upwards a bit, seeing the Nightmare King in the center of the giant room in an embarrassing position; on the ground with bonds of gold sand around his wrists behind him and his black staff carelessly on the ground near him. His head was bent downwards whether in humiliation or guilt or exhaustion, the Will o' the Wisps did not know.
The Guardians of Childhood stood at the platforms; Bunny with his feet shoulder width apart and his paws behind his back, Tooth in an elegant pose only she could pull off with her feathered hummingbird-like wings folded behind her back to resemble a queen's cape, Sandy with his feet next to each other and his hands clasped over his stomach, and North with a parchment in his hands.
"King of Shadows and Nightmares, Guardian of Fear, Balancer of Fear and Courage, Pitch Black," North started, glancing upwards once or twice, "You have committed despicable acts."
Pitch's eyes were clenched, Willow imagined, as she could not see the familiar glow from his face—or he had lost the glow from his eyes. She saw his lax hands clench slightly.
"Ya 'ave been charged with murder, torture, stirrin' havoc," Bunny narrowed his eyes, "messin' with tha humans."
"Do you plea innocence?" Tooth asked in a cold voice that made Willow not recognize her friend.
The shadow ruler did not move from his position, the spirits that had been quieted down with the start of the decreeing were now shouting around her, "Guilty! Guilty!"
She did not say anything.
With no response from the reduced King, North said in a booming voice that quieted the spirits, "With no plea, you are labeled guilty."
Willow saw Pitch's shoulders shake and his hands balled to tight fists.
"You are danger to the world, both spirits and humans," he glanced at Bunny, "Read out the decree."
The Pooka held up the list and started, "First, yah shall be branded an enemy t'all; second, all spirits have the right to attack yah on sigh'; third," he took a deep breath, "by the power in the High Guardians of Childhood, you, Pitch Black, shall be stripped of yer Guardianship."
The man's head snapped up in horror, "No! You have no right—"
"Silence!" Toothiana's sword was brandished at him.
"And yah will be banished from the sight of yer believers."
Oh.
Pitch looked at the four guardians with a mixture of horror and rage; the whole room was silent. Everyone knew what that meant—every believer alive would lose their belief in the infamous Nightmare King.
The former guardian shook his head, "No, you can't—" he forced himself to stand, but one knee gave out. Pitch looked desperately at Sandman, "Sandy, please! Explain to them! Tell them!"
But the golden man did not look at him, Sandy looked away in guilt, sending the message clearly with no use of figures or language. Their friendship, and Pitch's honor, was history.
Her heart clenched upon itself and she stared at Pitch with a sorry expression; how could she let the Guardians of Childhood do that? They had no right to do something that severe without the consult of Manny.
The man noticed her staring and looked up from the Hell Hound, "Is something the matter?"
Willow blinked, digesting the question, and let out a small sigh, "I feel pure dead guilty."
"Is this still about Jack? I told you, the problem is overrated and it will solve itself soon—"
She shook her head furiously, "Nae, it's no' that."
"Then what is it?" he asked a little too gently, Pitch cleared his throat and gave her a nonchalant look, "Not that I care, of course."
Willow couldn't bring herself to reply with her own snarkiess and settled with murmuring loud enough to hear, "Remembe' tha' Trial?"
A transformation happened; Pitch's light attitude was gone, as well as the nonchalant manner he exhibited. His face went blank and his hands balled into tight, white knuckled fists, the atmosphere became heavy as Willow dreaded ever reminding him.
"No, wayt, Pitch? Am sary, truly, I dinna meant t'remind ye o' it—"
"Get out."
"Wh—whit?"
"Get out!"
Willow was suddenly in the shadow of the looming Nightmare King, his eyes were shining brightly in anger and the shadows writhed messily around him. Two pairs of similar eyes locked for a moment, one in anger, one in fear, until a scythe appeared in Pitch's hands greatly sharpened at both sides. He slashed it just a hair's width away from cutting the girl in half, to which she reacted with a gasp and floating away.
She flew to the door, taking a moment to look back at Pitch before flying out the door before he could cause to her more damage.
Pitch looked at the door, breathing out in fury; none of the shadowy beings he had created dared to get near him in fear of their master's anger.
In a fit of anger, he shot his hands towards the table, shadows flew towards it like sharp arrows and tore through the old wood, sending splinters and jagged pieces around the room.
But it only lasted a few moments until the adrenaline drained away, he looked at the door with sagged shoulders and a look that truly revealed his ten centuries of life. The scythe dissipated at his command, Pitch clenched his eyes shut as the memories of that horrid day returned to him, the day his life had been taken away and replaced with this.
The events of the past moments returned, and one detail shook him—
—if he didn't know any better, Pitch would dare say he saw the Will o' the Wisps' eyes glistening.
.
.
.
Moonbeams from high above lit the snow covered ground, with the trees casting shadows across the pure white, most of them had lost their crowns of golds and reds.
Pitch was leaning against one of them, he could feel the scratchy bark through the flimsy material of his robe—he didn't know why he even kept this robe, god knew how many times it had been torn and he always either messily fixed it with his limited sewing skills or just patched it with shadows. The robe didn't even have sleeves, just little rags that at most reached his elbows, so he had to cover his arms with shadows to complete the look.
But his concern at the moment was not his poor fashion-sense; his eclipsed eyes were cast at the moon.
"Why hadn't you interfered?"
The moon was silent this night, unlike all the other times he talked to it—and it wasn't because of communication problems.
"They took everything dear to me away and left a shadow in its place. They left me weak, hated, and vulnerable."
The moonbeams seemed to get weaker.
"Why couldn't you have done something?"
Silence was the only answer.
"And Sandy . . . he left me to them without even an explanation." Pause. "Well, granted he gave me one —albeit a lame excuse— but it still won't justify the abandonment of six hundred years."
I am sorry, Pitch.
"With all respect, Manny, but a simple apology won't make up for whatever happened."
Then what will?
"An explanation."
. . . I . . . I knew only too late.
Pitch regarded the moon for a moment, clearly not buying it.
It had been a while after the Great War and I hadn't heard from you, so I assumed something was wrong. I asked them, with exceedingly limited communication, mind you, and to my surprise they tell me they held a Trial with you.
Silence.
They told me of stripping your Guardianship and believers, and of course I was devastated because I was never told, as well as furious, but I couldn't really do much.
"What do you mean? You were their leader!"
Yes, but with poor communication, and your sudden ignoring of me, I had no one to tell the truth to.
"Truth?"
You see Pitch . . . only I have the ability to strip away Guardianship from a spirit, and, well . . . I never did do that to you.
A lone, sandy mare through the sky in pure fear, fear of her former master retaliating; black sand residue trailed after her, sparkling as moonbeams hit the particles. She knew where she was going.
It was stationed just next to the Earth, literally, its master had it anchored down to some mountain until the master's plan was complete. Completely in black, with windows that let the moonbeams through to ghastly lit the place inside.
She ran in, greeted by Fearlings that rose from the shadows like gunk, and started to go down the hallways and stairways, reaching the largest room; the mare kneeled down on her knees and bent down her head.
"Ah, finally." A shadowy voice echoed.
The Nightmare nickered softly in reply.
The shadows shifted, only instead of the neatness the Nightmare King managed to hold upon them, they appeared to be like goo. The owner of the voice appeared, with two ghastly eyes not unlike the Fearlings. "I've waited for so long, how has it gone? Have you pummeled that traitor?"
She shook her head and the Fearlings that had arrived with her started to speak.
'We've brought news.'
'It's very bad news!'
'About Pitch Black.'
'That man we made an alliance with.'
'An alliance he broke.'
"QUIET!"
At once, all noises ceased.
"I know it's about Pitch Black you bilitharana feuoole!"
'Y-Yes, master.'
'He's done something very bad.'
'It will ruin our plan.'
It, the person in the darkest place of this dark place, growled, "ENOUGH!"
The Fearlings ceased and stared up at their master.
"What is the news you want to tell me?"
'The Nightmare King has managed to destroy every sand creation.'
'We've lost our spies of him.'
'He's too strong.'
"Really?" a shadowy hand shot from the darkest area, grasping a Fearling in its grasp, "That's a shame, isn't it?" It said slowly.
The Fearling started to freak out.
'No, master! Please don't kill me! I'll be good! I'll do whatever you ask! You can use me as a decoy, anything but don't kill me, please! I beg you!'
It stared at the Fearling for a while, "I won't kill you, Shadamen . . . for now. I sense . . . there is more news, is there not?"
Shadamen, the Fearling responsible for instilling the phobia of shades, nodded eagerly, 'Yes, yes, there is more. The man has started to return.'
'He's returned to his former.'
'He thinks he's still a Guardian.'
'And . . .'
"Go on."
'He's become too caring.'
'The block we created to keep Prince Lunar has deteriorated.'
'We're losing our control over him.'
The person in the darkest shadow stayed silent in thought, "And it's all because of that light spirit, isn't it?"
'Yes, master, she thinks she can return him back.'
'She wants to undo our work.'
'She wants him to remember.'
"And you waueke lot couldn't get her out of the picture like I said!" It hissed.
They cowered further into their hiding places, 'A-At least we're making her lose believers…?'
'We can try and kidnap her, Master.'
'Like we did with the other spirits.'
The master shook his head, "No, it would be too sudden. They'll notice too quickly. We must first exclude her from the rest and then take her."
'And then we'll take Pitch Black for ourselves!'
'And rule this world!'
'And many others!'
"Silianciea!" It yelled, shutting up Its minions, "No, we're not going to take Pitch Black, that man is useless. What we are going to do is something much, much better."
The master turned to the Nightmare, "I sense more Black Sand . . . in that place Pitch Black was defeated. I want you to bring it back for me."
She nodded her head and ran off to obey her master's command.
The Fearlings watched as their leader rose from Its seat, strolling casually towards the window. The shadows still clung to Its being, like water does when you spend too much time in it. But there were still bits here and there that they could make out; a red sash for a belt, a waistcoat that was at least half the length of Pitch's. Intricate designs at the edges (with shadows of course) and all over the shadowy cloth. The perfect look only fit for their leader.
It stared out the window to the round, white, gleaming shape in the sky, "Be prepared, young Lunar, there's not much time left."