Disclaimer: I do not own Pitch or Rise of the Guardians. I do own my interpretation of Cupid and Mortis however.

Okay. First things first. I know. I should have updated a loooooooooooong time ago. But in the midst of traveling to Nebraska to see my nerd herd, I also celebrated my daughter's very first birthday, and began the second quarter of my PharmD program. However, shortly after, my daughter had to have surgery on her ears (nothing real major but still….) and it was incredibly stressful on me and my school work and this story couldn't have been further from my mind and I'm so sorry. That really wasn't fair to you guys. Any of you. Again, thank you all for your incredibly patience with me, I got a lot and I mean a lot of favorites and followers over this terribly long hiatus and I can't even begin to express the gratitude towards you guys. I really mean it when I say that I wouldn't have been able to make it this far without you all. It's been a long, painful, and incredibly stressful summer and I'm so thankful it's over.

Thank You. All of you.

Please R&R.

Chapter Nine

Confrontation

"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time." – Mark Twain

His long silver hair was tied loosely behind his back into a thin ponytail that dragged silently alongside his maroon cape. The steps of his black boots echoed in every direction as his right hand tightly clutched the revolver on his hip with anticipation but without fear. The air was stale, cold, and silent. The air was dead. The cages didn't swing and the shift in the atmosphere hadn't gone unnoticed by the ruler of this kingdom. It had been years, hundreds of years since Death had seen this underground palace. This maze of twisted metal and curved stone. An illusion for the unprepared and he never was. Mortis was always one step ahead of everyone. Even fear himself.

"I'm a little starstruck, Mortis." said the voice sitting atop the highest cage. It was the voice of nightmares, the voice that haunted so many children, the shadows in the dark, the whispers under the bed. It was voice of Pitch Black. And it was coming from everywhere.

Above him. In the darkness.

Death was cunning. And Mortis did not fear the unknown. He was the unknown. He was silence.

"What's the occasion, old friend?" the voice spoke again.

To his left. On the wall.

"Your attempts to frighten me are rather amusing, Pitch. Still recovering from the beating all those years ago? Go on, humor me some more." The Reaper's deep baritone mocked against the cages of metal and walls of stone. It was unusual. So highly unusual to speak to a fellow immortal that wasn't his goddess, his Cupid. He wanted to pretend he didn't know the exact number of years that had passed since he had spoken to another male. But he did. And it had to be Pitch Black. His fingers danced across the trigger of his revolver. Just in case. He would not hesitate. There was too much between them. Too much history, too much to be settled. Pitch's relations to his precious friend would mean nothing to him if the opportunity arose. Mortis would not hesitate to kill him. He wanted to. For the damnation, for the centuries of loneliness, for the millions upon millions of humans who hid from him because of Pitch Black, because of that idea. That small, destructive idea. That death was to be feared.

And fear himself was silent.

To his right.
No.
Behind him.

The Scythe was raised and The Revolver was withdrawn. Pitch was fast, but not fast enough. Mortis' polished, porcelain finger was sturdy against the trigger. His stance proper and confident, with one arm extended out to Pitch's head, his weapon an inch way from the grey skin between the Boogieman's eclipsed eyes. And the Scythe was frozen in midair, paralyzed in the hands of its owner. Nowhere near the Grim. Death was faster. Death was prepared. Always.

"If you have the nerve to set foot in my kingdom without an invitation, have the respect to at least arrive unarmed, Your Highness." Pitch muttered, his weapon disappearing before he bowed respectfully. His thin lips forming a deceiving grin as he did so. Mortis was so tempted. So very tempted. He could see the back of his enemy's head and his silver, dead eyes focused on their target. It wouldn't take much. Not even a second. He was fast. He would not address Pitch by his self-proclaimed title as 'King'. He was no King. He was no Majesty. And Mortis would not bow. Fear was not above him.

"Pitch." He calmly spoke, retracting his gun back to his hip and taking a step back to allow some distance between the two immortals. While he was no King, this was his domain, his kingdom, his part of the Earth that the Moon had given him. Underground. Away from the humans, away from the other immortals. All except for one.

The Guardian whose kingdom sat the very highest, just above the clouds and just beneath the stars.

"To what do I owe this incredible honor, Mortis?" The Boogieman inquired, leaning against a cold wall with his arms crossed, smiling his jagged teeth to the immortal whose honor had been stripped away. And Mortis hated him for it.

"I have recently been informed of your current relationship with Ms. Bowenaro." Death replied, his lips twitching as the honest words of this very real, very bizarre, and very unfair situation were brought into the limelight.

This was not a conversation Pitch wanted to have, not with Death, not with anyone. What he and Cupid had…whatever it was they had, was no one's business but their own and even then, they danced around the subject themselves. Avoiding it for the sake of regret and rejection. There was something there and there was nothing there. Intense feelings and no feelings at all. This wouldn't last forever. It couldn't. Summer days began to move faster as the summer nights grew shorter. The leaves would soon change and she would have to back to her life as a guardian. It would grow harder each and every single day to be apart for so long. The nights would belong to them, yes. But how long until that ended? How long until this underground palace of shadow and darkness would leave her unsatisfied? Leave her with uncertainty? It would only take one time. One single moment. Perhaps she would be too overwhelmed with work, maybe she would miss the stars. Maybe in a hundred years or so, a new guardian would be knighted and he would be the man of her dreams, not the underground creature of nightmares. But for Pitch Black, there would never be another. No one could ever compare to her and no one ever would. She was perfect, and right now, in this one single moment, she was his.

"Stay…with me…"

"The relationship between Cupid and I…" He began to say, trying so hard to be strong, to be cunning, to be confidant. To prove to Mortis this woman, this guardian, this enemy by the laws of nature and reason meant nothing to him. That she was a whore. That he had forced her onto him for his own selfish, sick, sexual desires because no one in their right mind, even him, would ever deny her if given the opportunity. That she was nothing but a perverted distraction until he reclaimed his strength. Until he had the chance to try and reclaim this world as his own once more. The way he had always wanted to be. Nothing but darkness, nightmares, and fear. No light. No love.

'Because I…'

'I...'

But he couldn't find the words.
Because they were untrue.
Because he…

And Mortis stood silently, patiently waiting for the truth.

"…is no concern of yours." He finished with a strong sense of defiance in his voice. His masked confidence on show for the Reaper accented with a smile. And the Reaper's patience was beginning to thin.

"This isn't a game, Pitch." His velvet voice stressed, taking one step closer to his enemy. His composure remaining proper and confidant. "We were present the day she died. We both know what she did… Why she became a guardian."

"That means nothing to me." He lied, turning his back on Mortis who suddenly reappeared in front of him. A little bit too close for comfort. And Pitch suddenly remembered why these two immortals could never settle their deep rooted hatred for each other.

It all came back to the tooth.
The tooth that Pitch so very much desired to have in his possession. And when he was denied that possession, it became the tooth solely responsible for Death's eternal damnation. The stripping away of all his honor.
It was the tooth that Mortis still obtained because he was always one step ahead of everyone and no one was above him. Because he trusted no one, not even the Tooth Fairy, with the memories residing within it.

The memories of Lilith Kissinger.

"Don't you dare try to impress me, Pitch. She speaks very fondly of you for reasons I cannot seem to understand. She defends you against me when I question her happiness in this 'relationship', and she never denies you. Yet, you stand before me, insulting her, degrading her to the image of a whore, a useless sex object in your life because you refuse to admit that she is so much more to you. Your selfishness and lack of control is undoubtedly going to hurt her and do you know what will happen if you-"

"Leave me alone, Mortis." Was all he could force himself to whisper against the heavy, honest words that echoed throughout the stale air of his lair. It was too much. He suddenly felt the smallest feeling of regret. Regret that he had ever met that woman, that he had become so taken by her, so attracted to her, so dependent on her, so in…

'I…'

Then he turned away once more.

"DON'T YOU TURN YOUR BACK ON ME, PITCHINER!" Death furiously roared, rattling the dozens of cages descending from the ceilings of the Boogieman's underground labyrinth. That was the breaking point. For both of them. Death and Fear. This would be settled. Now.

Pitch couldn't find the strength to catch his breath. His whole body became numb. That name. His name. His human name. But he would have to turn back around. And face the man, face the monster who stole that name from him, all those years ago…

'How long has it been…since I've heard that name…'

"Do you know what will happen if you ever harm her, if you hurt Ms. Bowe-…Cupid in any way?" The Reaper calmed asked his fellow immortal, readjusting the jacket of his suit that gained a few wrinkles from the sudden loss of proper and confidant composure.

"Oh, let me guess, Mortis. I get killed." Pitch mocked, spinning around to face his enemy, with an eyebrow cocked. Because he was not afraid of Death.

"I will not hesitate to end your immortality, Pitch. Slowly, painfully, so much that you will beg for my release." He hissed through his teeth, his eyes narrowed. His fingertips subconsciously brushing across the top of his revolver.

"Oh, I look forward to that. Is that really the best you can do? Am I supposed to be afraid of you?"

"Then comes the worst part." Mortis continued, taking one small step forward, the moons in his eyes baring deeply into the eclipses of Pitch's eyes. "You'll turn back into one of them. Those pathetic, mindless sacks of flesh that walk over my world. You will lose everything. Every memory of your past existence, your kingdom, your height of glory, every single memory will die. Even her. You will never see her again. You will never remember her eyes, her hair, her smile, her body, her warmth, she will disappear from your heart completely. And I will be there, every single day. From the second you take your first breath until the second your last breath leaves your lungs, I will be there, hanging over you. Torturing you. Plaguing your mind with my presence until your brain turns to mush and your body rots into the Earth. And that's where you will stay. Underground. Alone and exhausted. Until I decide it's time for this planet to die."

Fear himself was silent.
And Death had gained the upper hand.

"Interesting." Was all Mortis said in response to a single, small observation. "The note in your hand, her invitation from Jack Frost."

"What about it?" Pitch hung his head now; he hadn't even remembered the small piece of paper resting in the palm of his hand. The physical reminder that she was not here with him today, she was with…him. The Son of Winter. Because the Boogieman couldn't find the words to say. Because he…

He couldn't look into those eyes. Those silver eyes that had seen so much. That could do so much. That knew everything. He wanted to be strong. But this was Death. This was Cupid's protector, her guardian. And she was precious to him.

But she was so much more to Pitch Black than just precious. And he had just proven it. And Mortis finally saw Pitch's true feelings for the Guardian of Romance expressed in the smallest of gestures.

"I know, Mortis. It just feels…different with him. He's different around me, he acts different, and he speaks different…"
"I remain unconvinced."
"If you're so worried, you should talk to him yourself."

"You tightened your grip on it at the mention of losing her. It is not Death you fear, Pitch."

"Why are you here?" The Boogieman asked. Defeat, exhaustion, and honesty coated his voice. He did not welcome Death's company today. He needed his guardian, his light. She believed in him and he needed her now. So desperately. For the first time in several weeks, he felt alone. He felt weak. He felt defenseless. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to wish, and desire, and dream, and fantasize. He didn't have to for the past several weeks and he couldn't…he couldn't begin to imagine how it would feel if that was ever taken away from him. To have this kingdom. This lonely, dark, broken empire to be deprived of her laughter, her curls, her freckles, her perfections, her imperfections. How could he ever go back to the way it was?

'Cupid…don't go…please…don't go…I can't…lose you…I...l-'

That nightmare.
Her eyes turning grey.

He was scared of losing her.
He couldn't lose her.

His light.

"He's planning on proposing to her. Very soon, actually." Mortis' tone drastically changed. This was the truth and it was painful for him to say. Because he didn't have to say who.

But it was more painful for Pitch to hear. It was shattering. He had suspected, no…he knew for quite some time how much that guardian desired her. They all desired her. But no one more than that…boy. Jack Frost. Would it always end this way? Would that insufferable excuse for an immortal always come between him and what he wanted? Were they destined to fight? To kill each other?

"And you know this how?" Stupid Question. And Mortis had to fight every instinct not to laugh in his face, not for the sake of decency, but because he wanted to. He wanted this man, this monster to feel every single bit of loneliness he had endeavored for himself.

"She told me yesterday, just before I made her tell what was going on between the two of you."

'I bet any day now, the idiot will propose to you and it'll go right over your daft head!'

That clever girl.

"What do you want me to do about it, Mortis?" Pitch shot back harshly, the anger and bitterness of the situation burning fiercely on the end of his tongue. He didn't want to fight, not again, not this soon. He would have to battle her. And he couldn't do that. He would admit defeat against them, to admit shame before he would ever lay a single finger on her.
Not again.

And if that meant her happiness…

"That is not my place to say. However, I would prefer not to be involved in whatever the final action of consequence might be. I cannot act against the instinct of my duties, whoever the unfortunate immortal is on the receiving end." He stated, brushing a few loose strands of thin silver hair behind his ear. Then he looked away from his enemy, focusing his troubled thoughts on something else. Anything else than this creator of nightmares and fears, darkness and shadows.

It wasn't Pitch he feared touching.
And it wasn't Jack either.

"Put her safety before yourself and do not let doubt and jealously guide your decisions." Then Mortis was silent as he looked away from his precious friend who had just returned from her day out. Pitch Black hadn't even noticed her flying into his domain. Too many other thoughts consumed his mind.

"Pitch?" the soft, lovely voice of romance broke through the heavy, stale air. And it was the sweet sound of release and relief. She was here. He could hear her. He could see her. And he was so grateful for her impeccable timing. He couldn't stop it. He didn't want to stop it. The smile forming in the corners of his mouth. And Mortis looked away. Because she chose fear. She chose the night. The kindest of all beings and he could never touch her. He couldn't. Not without losing her. Forever. But Pitch Black could. And it tugged and pulled against his perfect composure that it would always be like this. He couldn't look at her.

But the golden, eclipsed eyes of her lover could.

Her massive blonde curls were pulled tightly into high ponytail, with the exception of a couple loose spirals that framed her face just right. A light blush adored her cheeks. Her outfit of choice was horribly modern, a white romper with thin straps against her shoulders. Her legs were exposed to a degree than what he was entirely comfortable with but right now it didn't matter. She was here.

'You came back…'

"Cupid…" he forced out, taking her in. All of her, just as she was. Because she was his.

"Mortis." She curtsied to her lifelong companion and friend, incredibly embarrassed she was not only unprepared for his appearance in her temporary home, but also that she was dressed so insultingly provocative. Respect of the dead was a given. And she, unlike him, was caught off guard.

"Ms. Bowenaro." His deep baritone muttered over his shoulder before finally turning around to face her. It would never be fair. But he bowed to her, recognizing her as the goddess she once was so very long ago and the guardian she was always meant to be. And the Queen he knew she could be, that he wanted her to be. His Queen. And then with a billow of his maroon cape, he vanished from the palace of nightmares and shadows. To be alone. Always. Alone.

"Why was he here? What did you two talk about?" she asked, embracing her lover with a gentleness meant only for him and was welcome with a small kiss to the forehead. "Finally resolve your differences?" Her eyes were smiling at him, those beautiful breathtaking violet eyes that held all the light of the stars. They were shining for him. Just for him. The threat of Jack Frost's proposal suddenly meant nothing.

"Do you miss the stars?" he whispered softly into her ear. And he heard her breath hitch as her eyes widened. He had to know. He had to know if she ever did, because if she did, he would give her the stars. He would sit atop her kingdom with her, the kingdom so high above the clouds, so far away from his own palace, and he would give her stars every single night if it meant that she would stay. If she would come back.

If she would always come back.

'Because I…'

Oh my GOD! I missed this story so damn much! Again, I'm so sorry for the hiatus. And I really hope you understand the circumstances but deep down, it's no excuse. But thanks to a special reviewer, teeceecee, I was inspired to come back and finish this bad boy! Thank you.

And Thanks to all you for your patience.

ALSO! I'm in the process of creating a music playlist on 8tracks for this story. BUT, I would love your guys' input! Send your suggestions via pm or review on what you think would be some good tunage for this story? What songs remind you of Pitch and Cupid? Or Jack and Cupid? Or even Mortis? I'm open to anything! LET'S MAKE THIS A TEAM EFFORT!

Please R&R Lovelies! An update will be happening soon! : )