Chapter 14: Chocolates, Caramels, and Toffees

Tooth rubbed at her arms and bit her lip as her wings beat behind her, "North, you're sure?"

He nodded, "Spirits are poofing off radar, no signs."

"Tinker Bell?"

"Gone."

"Peter Pan?"

"Gone."

"Nix? Rusalka? Morgan?"

North shook his head, "I cannot find them, I have sent yetis and they come back, bare hands."

"You mean 'empty handed'?" she said.

North chuckled softly, "Vhat I say."

Tooth chuckled before looking at the list, in it had spirits of many kinds, of many jobs. Since the list was made by North a long time ago, it was divided into two, 'Enemies' and 'Allies', flipping the parchment revealed the 'Neutral'. Pitch was definitely the first on the 'Enemies' list, over him was the name of their former enemy, crossed out and written in Russian 'dead'.

Kozmotis Pitchiner, the once greatest general of the stars and father of Mother Nature, reduced to the fear-instilling spirit at the hands of the Fearlings. Not only did he feast on fear, but also the death of children all over the galaxies and their transformation into Fearlings. Luckily, with the help of Manny, Katherine, and Nightlight, they had wiped him out of existence.

So when they returned to Earth after their great battle to start their work with the kids and met this Pitch Black, he reminded them so much of their fallen enemy and automatically took him as one of the evil beings.

Was it just her, or did it seem that once their oldest member, Sandy, actually knew the man? It seemed so in the Trial.

Tooth shook her head and resumed with the list; a whole batch of spirits were circled to mark as 'missing'. Some she knew, some she heard of, and some…wait a minute, Andarta is a real spirit?

Bunny appeared from his hole, "I got the signal, North. North?" he looked around, "Where'd the bloke go?"

"Bunny?" Tooth showed him the list, "You might want to look at this."

His eyes scanned over the paper, "Jack O'Lantern…Leprechaun…Groundhog…" he looked up, "What's wrong if Groundhog goes missing?"

Tooth scowled, "Just keep looking."

"Some pixies…May Queen? Who in their right mind would kidnap a seasonal?" suddenly, he scowled darkly, "There's one person who would."

"Who?" Tooth asked, but she already knew whom he would say.

"It's Pitch." He said, "He's probably startin' another war, stupid drongo."

She cocked her head to the side worriedly, "You're sure? There are other dark spirits out there."

"Like who?"

"Umm…" she thought for a moment, "The Fearlings? Kozmotis could be gone, but they could be out there, wreaking havoc by themselves."

"Or with a new leader."

"Exactly!" she exclaimed.

"Which is Pitch."

Tooth deadpanned, "You're not really listening, are you?"

"Oh, come on, Tooth!" he groaned as he walked idly with the paper, he pointed to one of the circled spirits, "One of them is a Guardian! He's probably trying to get people to stop believin' in them again."

"Another Guardian?" Tooth asked, "We're only five, Bunny."

"No, I mean the Guardians in general, not necessarily the Guardians of Childhood." He pointed to the list, "See? Andarta, the Guardian of Bravery. The Scott one, fiery hair, has a horse, likes bows."

"That must be a very girly spirit." Tooth said idly, imagining a girl riding a horse drenched in bows.

"Bows and arrows."

"Oh!" she snapped her fingers, "You mean that spirit that looks similar to that movie humans are crazy about. Brave, was it?"

"Yep, that one. She's missing." He scowled, "And if a Guardian goes missing, then there's big trouble."

It had been an ongoing conversation starter between them for a while, and a 'conversation' in the sense she would talk and talk and talk, and he'd pretend to be mildly interested (or kick her out when he got a headache). The only time he really did pay attention was when she mentioned something of her past—he hoped he'd get a clue to if she was who he thought.

Her actions had always seemed to be hiding something, and especially yesterday in Halloween. What would she be hiding? Not that he cared or anything, but it would be nice to know of the secret she hid, that would definitely help him encourage her fear. Though any time he prodded in that matter, a look of remorse would cross her face before switching to a different subject.

And after many times of trying to find her secret, he accidentally made her believe he wanted to see her home, and she was more than happy to oblige.

" 'It'll be nice', she says," Pitch mumbled, " 'a good change of scenery'."

Wispioni snorted under him.

Pitch shot the Wispare a glare (even though she was the only reason he wasn't falling to the ground), "Oh, you know as much as I know I shouldn't be here."

"I can hear ye jabberin' back there." She called and gestured for her Wisps to continue the path towards her home, flying back to him.

He gave her a look, "Pardon me, I thought you were deaf."

Willow hit him upside the head, "Stop bein' sarcastic, will ye? This isnae tha' tyme tae take a maddy, this is a tyme tae be joyful!" and with that she threw open her arms, letting the armful of clouds she had gathered rain over them.

"Amusing." Was all he had to say.

They flew for some time, Willow gently tugging at Wispioni's reins every now and then to stay on the right path. He struggled to keep himself from stopping her pulling at the reins, afraid she'd give too hard of a pull and send the wrong signal to the horse, then the Wispmare would speed too fast this high up in the air. Maybe she would, maybe the girl was actually planning to kill him because—of course! That was her secret! That was why she brought the Frost brat!

And speaking of the Frost Brat . . . "Where's the Snow Brain?"

Willow waved her arm idly over her shoulder as she looked ahead, "Och, he's seen tha' place one too many tymes—he practically lives there." She smirked over her shoulder, "Why, I believe he could be there right nauw."

This field trip was getting worse and worse.

The weather started to get cold, Pitch crossed his arms as the cold wind hit him, reminding him to get a newer outfit. He looked down and froze—sitting in the snow and ice with the colors gleaming from it was Santoff Claussen. If he peered close enough, he could see little spots that were probably yetis.

"Ye kno', we have—" Willow looked to where Pitch was staring and squealed, "Oh! We're close! Wispi, full speed, will ye?"

The mare nodded and with a neigh started to speed forwards, Pitch's knuckles had turned white from holding on too hard to the reins. While Willow laughed and twirled in the air as she flew, struggling to keep up with the Wispmare's speed, Pitch had his eyes clenched while willing himself to not throw up. He felt the muscles under him shift much too quickly to keep track, and although he went with faster speeds with his Night Mares, the idea he was riding an animal made of light was unsettling.

He could feel the speeds lessen, but Pitch was not fooled, his muscles were still taut and his eyes were still clenched shut, even his jaw hurt from grinding on sharp teeth. A light hand gently shook his shoulder, Pitch blinked his eyes open to find Willow staring at him with an amused expression.

"Dinna fret, Da, we're on flat land." She said as she removed the harness from Wispioni.

Pitch looked down to the ground for his eyes to pop open—it was glass, blue, smooth glass. He got off the horse, much relieved to be off the animal, and looked up; standing in front of him was a large castle that gleamed with the sunrays.

Willow flew up with a show of firelight and several Wisps, "Welcome to Sop Glinn."

"Ever the dramatic one, aren't you?" Pitch asked with one eyebrow raised over a small, amused smile.

She beamed in response and turned on her heel like a figure skater, with a simple gesture of her finger, the gates opened to reveal hallways with many open windows lined with diamonds, and Wisps flying about to guide those he needed.

But the most intriguing detail was that he was being invited into a place (and a magnificent place at that).

.

.

.

"So," she started as she ran and skidded to a wall, pulling on a lever, "whit dae ye think?"

He wanted to laugh at her excited demeanour, "I've only been here for five minutes."

"Yeah, but," Willow frowned at the lever and kicked it with her knee to get it to move, "am sure ye've goe lot's o' questions."

Pitch's eyes trailed around the walls that were covered with moonstones of blue and white in various pictures, "A few, I guess."

With a battle cry, Willow wrapped a rope of light around the lever and flew up while pulling at it; the lever let out a low groan as it moved in the direction she pulled. In the middle of the empty room (save the Wisp that flew in every now and then) a part of the floor pushed up to be some sort of platform. Her face lit up with a smile and flew onto the platform, gesturing for Pitch to get on, to which he semi-reluctantly responded to—a little part of him feared the platform would suddenly drop with them both on it.

As soon as he got on it, the platform hummed to life and a light inside it lit up, making the platform glow blue. It rose up suddenly, which made Pitch gasp (Willow giggled to herself, though she knew he heard her), the ceiling above them opening up in the shape of circular trapdoors.

The ride was smooth and clean, taking them from the ground level to the first floor where there was much more activity and life. Willow hovered in the air and got off the platform as Pitch stepped off, looking around with awe.

She gestured to the room, "This is tha' Portal Room, an' tha' main area o' this place." She pointed at the Wisps constantly flashing around through seven mirrors, "Nevar gae in their wae oor ye might gae swept into tha' portal."

"Let me guess," he mused, "seven portals for seven continents?"

Willow gasped in mock-surprise, "Ooh! Ye guessed that all by yerself?"

His gaze flattened.

She blushed blue, "Whit?"

.

.

.

"An' this is tha' Library."

"I can see."

"Whit did I sae 'boot sarcasm?"

"I could name out a couple of times you were more sarcastic than all the adolescents in the worlds."

Willow waved off his comment and flew around to one of the blue shelves, her fingers running over the binds. Pitch walked up next to her, looking at the titles, he was surprised to find that he understood the many titles in Gaelic. "Why would you even need a library?"

She looked at him, "Is that so surprising?"

"You didn't strike me as the reading type."

She turned back to the book in her hand, "Well, in order tae guide, ye need whit can be compared to a flashlight—an' that's knowledge." Willow looked at him, "Y'kno, lyke ye need a misery fer fear tae really werk."

"Well, yes, but knowledge can mislead."

"If ye gae too much o' it." Willow replaced the book, "But Jack mostly takes tha' books, which is why they aren' so dusty."

Pitch snapped his attention to her, "Jack? As in Jack Frost?"

With a shrug she replied, "Aye, he nicks those books an' reads them in less than a day!"

The idea that Jack Frost could sit down long enough to finish a book was very strange, Pitch first thought he didn't have the attention span of a gnat. Turning back to the books, one title caught his interest and he reached out his fingers to take it but then stopped himself at the last minute, leaving his fingers ghosting over the book. Willow glanced at him from the Wisps she was talking to and mentioned offhandedly, "Oh, take any book ye fancy."

.

.

.

"What type of room is this?"

She giggled, "It's a memorial."

"Of what?" he inquired as he looked around the room with sunrays tinted blue.

If he was paying close attention, Pitch would have noted the fact that her voice lost most of the joy it held, "Ma' life."

He chuckled, "Your life? I find it hard one would forget their life."

"Well," Willow flew to keep up with him, "that's why I dinna come here veery often."

Pitch stared at the walls, they were empty of any pictures or words one would expect a memorial room; he glanced down at the floor, but it was also void except for colors that—

There.

There was a circle about two meters in diameter, the lines were made of curved lines—only they weren't just line, they were words. Pitch narrowed his eyes on it, the words were mixtures of Gaelic and English, but he knew how to speak Gaelic (or at least read it . . . strangely) so he could be able to decipher it.

But the Moon, ever the warm-hearted being, took pity on the orphaned girl, a lost little girl with a power she did not understand, and offered a chance for a family—a new family.

That was strange, very strange, Willow did not mention anything about the Moon offering anything—unless this happened after the Great War. Pitch concentrated on it and let his eyes trail a bit more, it seemed her story was written on the floor, hoping to find another clue to the girl's mystery. There was a large, dark drawing of something, and Pitch assumed it was himself, that stood on the ground.

"The only wae ye can really see tha' picture is from up." Willow mentioned as she walked back to the exit—it was clear, her message, I don't want you to know.

.

.

.

While the other rooms were somehow strange (like the room with a hundred windows, "Why do you need a room like that?" he had inquired, " 'cause sometimes I want tae see tha' sun!" Pitch chose not to mention she could see it from anywhere else.), this room was making him confused.

"I'm sorry, but why did you say you need a room full of ice?"

"Hey, out of my room, Pitch!"

Jack jumped out from between two blocks of ice, sending a few books into the air, and regarded the man with an annoyed expression as he left the castle.

"Of course it would be your room."

.

.

.

In all honesty, Pitch did not expect the place to be so large; the first time he set eyes on it, it looked rather small for a castle. The Wisps flying through seemed to be in a bit of distress, and Willow was rather oblivious, dismissing them with a wave of her hand.

They were in her 'sitting room' completely furnished with armchairs and coffee tables, some of the furniture was made of the blue glass, and some of less transparent material like moonstones. A window in front of them framed clear skies with a few clouds dotting the pale blue, cool breezes flew in, sending the smoke from the tea dancing softly.

Willow took a dainty sip and put her cup back on the coffee table, she then looked at him expectantly.

Pitch shifted in the armchair he was sitting on, his back was straight not only from his innate instinct of punctuality, but also from the uncomfortableness that resulted from the girl's staring. Not that the armchair was uncomfortable, oh no it wasn't, you can never call soft but firm pillows uncomfortable.

She blinked her familiar eyes at him, probably expecting something, but what it was, Pitch was oblivious. Why wasn't I gifted with mind reading powers?, he thought.

He cleared his throat and reached for another sip of tea, iced tea, not his most preferred type but still delightful. Now imagine if it was iced cappuccino, or even pure Turkish coffee, with absolutely no sugar or sweeteners, yes, Pitch was now mentally drooling at the thought—

The sound of sipping pulled him out of his reverie, Pitch looked up from his lap to find Willow placing her tea down again and noticed his staring, she gestured to the table, "So? Pick anythin' ye lyke," her finger pointed at the various little things on the china plates, "There's chocolate; dark, milk, an' white. Then there's caramels, toffees, chocolate with caramels, chocolate with toffee, caramel with toffee, toffee with caramel, chocolate with toffee and caramel, white chocolate with toffee, dark chocolate with toffee—"

Pitch blinked at the coffee table, he didn't have the pleasure of eating often, and when he did, it wasn't exactly sweets and candies. "Calm down."

Willow stopped talking and looked up, her cheeks flushed blue and she fiddled with her hair, "Sairy, I just . . ." Her grin made a reappearance, "I'm jus' . . . whit de ye think?"

Oh, that's why she was acting like that, she feared he didn't like it—he should've noticed from the beginning, her fear was wafting around them like a flower's aroma. But why would she actually care that much of his opinion? They weren't that close, though some would argue a month in each other's company would make them close, nor did he consider her anything more than an acquaintance (A very good acquaintance) for anyone of them to care of what the other thought about each other. Unless this was tied to her idea that he was her long lost father and that load of rubbish—she didn't even mention that for a while.

Pitch looked back at her face, eyes watching him expectantly, and then he felt he just couldn't stand seeing such an innocent looking face (regardless of the hunch he had about her) look so shattered. With a calmness that betrayed the emotions he felt, Pitch took a sip from the tea he was offered and then said with the same nonchalant air he always carried around her (don't want anyone thinking he actually cared for her, oh dear no), "The place is quite the jewel."

Though it was a small sentence, Willow beamed with pride, "So, I take it that ye like it?"

"You could say that."

She looked like she wanted to hug him, though thankfully she didn't and instead settled on keeping her smile as she took the pot ever so elegantly in her hands, "More te—" A Wisp suddenly flew up to her and sung in distress, Willow's face paled in horror and her hands dropped the kettle, which crashed on the ground, though she didn't pay it any mind, "Och . . . chan, nae here!" (no)

Pitch watched her attentively, but he did not speak Wisp; he swept his legs away as the glass shattered on the ground and inquired, "What's wrong?"

Her panicking eyes turned to him, though her fear had already reached him, "Th—tha palace is under attack!"

"What!"

She hurried to the window, Pitch right after her, and looked out at the blue expanse, her wide eyes darting about for the danger.

Pitch looked as well, but he couldn't help but ask, "Who is it? Who's attacking?"

Willow opened her mouth to say, but then she shouted, "Look oot!" They both jumped to the side as something black shot from nowhere and embedded into the ground, spider web cracks grew from it.

Blue drops appeared on the ground and when Pitch looked up, he found Willow touching her cheek, a line of blue ran across it and her fingers smeared her blood on her skin. But it didn't matter, he reassured himself as she pulled her hand away, he could already see the wound closing up.

Wait, the black thing looked familiar; he looked down at it and found a familiar substance of the arrow weaving its way into the ground. The shadows on it, unlike his, were more like wisps of smoke, or like the smoke one would see from chimneys—he knew that substance, he was very familiar with it, and the memories it brought back were too horrible to bear; for they were memories of his 'alliance' with them.

"Fearlings?!" Pitch exclaimed, grabbing onto Willow's shoulders, "How on earth did you get the attention of Fearlings?!"

She shook, "I dinna ken, they—I..—it.." Her eyes trailed to the window and she gasped, releasing herself from his grasp Willow clung to the window sill, "Losh, those ar too many! Ma' Wisp will no' be able tae fight all those!"

Pitch took one last glance at the black dots that were slowly getting bigger with their advances; she couldn't fight them off and he was not ready to see them. He grabbed onto her wrist and pulled her away from the window as he stalked towards the exit.

"Whit ar ye deing?" She demanded as she pulled her wrist from his hand, "Ye cannae jus'—"

"I'm trying to save yo—our lives while we got the chance."

"No." Willow planted her feet defiantly on the ground of her palace, "Amno' gonna run away like a coward while tha' Wisps defend themselves alone."

Stupid stubbornness, Pitch thought, though pretty familiar. But before he could even plant a seed of doubt in her mind, Willow was already running away, back to the window with her dagger and glowing hand ready. He growled to himself in anger and conjured his trusted scythe, the scythe made of shadows that implemented courage in a person, so he would have a better chance of fighting.

The first few had already come, not close enough for small combat, but close enough for an arrow to surly hit its mark, Willow shot arrows made of the fiery fire-like light as the Wisps used a few cannons. Pitch allowed himself to briefly smirk when he noted her arrows were quite similar in shape to his; brought his own into play rather than his scythe and shot at the Fearlings, pleased that his own shadows could harm them.

Willow allowed her face to lighten up, "It's workin'! They're retreating!" And she was right, the Fearling were screaming in agony and flying away. The Wisps cheered, momentarily distracted of the attacks.

But Pitch noticed it coming too fast for him to shout a warning, instead he shot a tendril of shadows at her and pulled her away from the window, catching her just as Fearling Shadows rained upon the Wisps. They hummed and sung in agony, turning grey and sickly as they fell to the ground; Willow screamed, "Nae! Please!" as she fell to the ground next to them, hurriedly catching one and conjuring a 'flame', but the Wisps only disappeared in puffs of metaphorical smoke.

He didn't have time for this, the more time they spent here grieving, they less time they had to get ready for another at—

A Wisp, one of the few unscathed, rubbed her head its mistress' hair soothingly, humming a message for her to leave quickly. She looked up at it with a tear streaked face, and then she froze looking at the ground; a low crack filled the silence as the spider web cracks grew larger from the arrow like an infectious disease. Pitch grabbed her wrist and pulled as he hurriedly went to the exit.

They walked away from the crack to the entrance of the sitting room, Willow glanced over her shoulder at the area her Wisps were killed, but then gasped, "Oh, crivvens . . ." He looked back to find the window gone, its glass on the ground or outside; a look down found the spider web cracks growing larger and faster.

"Let's go." He muttered, now running through the entrance.

Their freedom seemed keen on slipping them, a horde of Fearlings stood in the hallways with the last of the Wisps dead on the ground, puffing into grey clouds. Willow looked at the Fearlings with enlarged eyes, but Pitch wasn't going to let her break down again here—or fight them, even if they were showering them with arrows that did a very good job at making large holes in his rags. They ran to the elevator, Willow let him stand there with the promise she'd be back and flew to a large horn-looking device, shouting for the Wisps to escape. If there were any left, that is.

They went down to the first floor, and to Willow's horror, the seven mirrors were destroyed as the Fearlings attacked with swords and spears and even bazookas. She lighted up in fury, "HOW DARE YOU?!" her fury-fueled voice echoed as she attacked, "NOT ONLY DO YOU KILL MY WISPS, BUT YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO DESTROY MY HOME!"

"Oh, Willow, don't—"

But she had already coated herself in every inch with light and ran towards them, attacking relentlessly. The screams of agony from the Fearlings did not deter her, nor did the cracking ground that surrounded them; Pitch looked up and found the floor above them gone with jagged glass and jewels flying around them, cutting up the remnants of his robe and skin.

Suddenly a scream of agony cut through his conscious and he snapped his attention to the Fearlings horde to see Willow on the ground, panting shallowly as she grasped onto her stomach tightly, blue liquid pooling on the floor. I promised this wouldn't happen! Pitch gripped his scythe and swung at the Fearlings, but they cackled at the scythe flew only an inch away from them. He burst shadows of his own at them, shadows fueled by courage, and didn't even watch them leave as he ran to Willow, hastily scooping her up. He didn't register the fact she held fast onto his robe, nor that she kept saying many things in Gaelic, the most prominent word being, "Daididh." (daddy)

Pitch ran through the hallways, looking left and right for a window that did not have a group of Fearlings waiting for their prey, but when it was apparent there wasn't any, Pitch jumped out of the window he thought was nearest to the entrance, he just hoped he could make it to that window before the ground under him broke to a million pieces. He could hear the ground cracking, breaking, and shattering to bits behind him while the Fearlings came closer.

' . . .we want Willow . . .'

'….Give her to us . . .'

' . . .the leader wants her . . .'

He conjured his scythe and held her firmly with the other arm (Well . . . she was rather small, and thank goodness for that), a deep frown on his features, "You can tell your cowardly leader this: he is not to touch a hair on her head, or else there will be hell to pay."

They cackled in response, but that was all the time he needed to jump ot the window and slash at the black beings outside.

Landing on the courtyard, he noticed the fact there were no more Wisps, and he was grateful to have Willow barely conscious or else she wouldn't have been keen on leaving. He found Wispioni, neighing frightfully as she watched the commotion around her; hastily he mounted on her and conjured he reins from shadows, surprised it did not fall away.

'What's happened to the mistress?' She inquired.

"I'll explain later." He replied as he snapped the reins and dug his heels into her stomach, sending the mare flying off the castle just as the last floors exploded to many tiny piece of glass that showered on them. Pitch looked down and was in for a shock—there was no ground. "Are you—you built your home in the clouds, Willow?!" He exclaimed.

Her only response was pulling closer at his robe, "Please . . . dinna leave me again."

Before he could say a sarcastic comment on the fact he wouldn't be able to leave her thanks to her grip, something struck from behind, Wispioni kicked her front legs upwards with a frightened whinny and disappeared to smoky shadows.

Which meant, of course, that the two riding her fell down to the ground so far below.

Pitch gingerly pushed himself up, a tiny part of him grateful for the snow (like landing on a pillow . . . a very cold pillow), he looked up as he picked up Willow to find the sky empty of the castle, only cackling Fearlings that left to their master. He looked at the horizon and found Santoff Claussen, but he couldn't ask for help or else they'd come to very stupid conclusions.

And with that, Pitch summoned Onyx before fleeing the North Pole.

Unbeknown to him, a certain Guardian stroked his wintery hair.

If your happy 'cause Willow's dead, clap your hands. . . .

If your scared of the readers watching you murderously, back away . . .

If you regret killing your character, raise your hand . . .

*doesn't raise hand*