Solitude and Darkness

Ch. 21.

A/N~ Originally this was going to be much longer, but because the length got so…well, lengthy, I cut it in half. I was also going to post it on Easter because it had Bunny's karma coming at him, but I didn't finish it in time, and again, too much length. So here is part one!

Edited by The Fallen Angel of Pain!

Enjoy!

~S~

~s~s~S~s~s~

It is often speculated that when a man loses faith in his God, he loses faith in himself, humanity, and the world. To many, a God is what the Earth is to the sun – it is their ocean, their sky, the whole world. And when all faith is lost, that ocean, that sky, that whole world, completely and utterly vanishes. They are left without an anchor, without that stability and sense of self. There is simply nothing left of their world. Nothing but the vast expanse of the unknown, of a universe that man has never once looked at because they only had eyes for their God, their world. Men often lose themselves to this abyss, never to be seen as they once were ever again. Some become one with that vast nothingness, and become nothing themselves.

And then there are those very few men who turn and look at that unknown. But they do not think 'unknown' when they see it. These men see the endless blackness of nothing, and think, 'possibilities'.

In this case alone, sometimes it is worth losing faith in a God. Because then you are free to see so much more than just a sky, a sea, or a forest. Sometimes these lucky few can see a sky within the sea, a forest above the sky, or an ocean of wood and foliage. Sometimes they see so much more, and get to experience more. Sometimes the loss of one's faith in a God is the loss of a chain, the loss of a blindfold. Sometimes, it's worth being free, and to have faith in the unknown, and in yourself.

And it is such misfortune that North, despite his wonder and awe-filled gaze upon the world and possibility itself, cannot see such things. It was simply his luck that, as his faith in his Moon began to dwindle, he was starting to become one of those men who were steadily becoming more and more lost in the void of nothingness. And with time, he knew he would become one with it, and become nothing itself.

A fitting end, he thought, for one whose very existence depended on others' faith in him.

The irony was laughable. But he did not laugh. No, he simply had no energy left to do much other than leaning hunched over his workbench and staring at the partially carved pieces of unfinished toys. A crystal flask, half empty of its amber liquid, sat in an almost scrutinizing loom by North's right hand. His hand twitched, as if about to reach for the decanter, but it was quickly aborted in the same instance. He had not even the energy to take another long draught. It seemed his mood was only lowered by the alcohol, the spicy liquid acting as a paralyzing neurotoxin, rather than the inebriating tonic that it was supposed to be.

North bit his chapped lip, brows furrowing in a confused and lost frown. The window behind him was blocked out by thick drapes, something he would usually never do, especially at night. But the darkness was a welcoming veil. It was a cloak, a mask, the blanket a child hides under when he hears something frightening at night.

If I hide and close my eyes, it does not exist.

Ah, the powerful, yet fleeting, logic of a child. Such folly often made North smile, for there was nothing more powerful than a child's belief. If the child denied the existence of something foul, closed his eyes, and hid from it, then the presence had no choice but to vanish. It was the way of spirits. If one believed hard enough, a spirit would be born, or a spirit would vanish.

So then why was the Moon still there, he wondered. Why do I still feel him looming over me, peering in through my window when I am pretending he is not truly there?

Why was he still here?

'You are not there…' he thought adamantly, yet weakly, 'You are not at my window. You are not looking for me. You are not here…'

The Moon did not leave. Its silvery blue glow continued to try and peer into the room through the crack of the drapes. It could not fully see inside, but the Moon knew North was there. It knew where its favorite Guardian was.

All children know where their favorite toy is. It is always in the same place the child left it – right on the shelf where it belongs, where no one else can touch it.

North screwed his eyes shut, hands reaching up to card into his white hair. His palms pressed over his ears, as if trying to block out the sound of his own erratic thoughts. Thoughts he never even knew he could have, thoughts that mocked, taunted and hissed at him like irritated animals. Thoughts that snapped at his heels as he ran from them. Thoughts that were gaining on him – and they were hungry for his sanity.

"You can't run from them, North…" a young, feminine voice said to him. "They always catch you, like they did me."

North's eyes only tightened though, refusing to open or to look up at the ghost before him – because that's all she was. Just a ghost, an echo of his past. She was nothing but a phantasmal whisper in his ear.

She does not exist anymore. She will be gone if you don't look. Don't acknowledge her.

The ghost placed a small hand on his hunched shoulders. But that did not mean she was real. It was nothing. That cold touch was nothing, merely the chill of the room getting to him. It wasn't real.

"You can deny all you want." she sighed sadly, "But you can't ignore what is right before your eyes. You can't always run."

"Then what do I do?" he rasped.

NO! Don't talk to her, she does not exist anymore! She won't go away unless you ignore her!

North nearly flinched. The ghost did not relent though.

"You're scared," she said, "And that's okay, North. But hiding isn't going to solve anything, and you know it."

But it's safer…

"Is it really though?"

Yes! Yes, it is! What else can I do?!

"You can face that which you fear."

NO! Never, I can't face it! I can never face my fears. To face my fears is to…

"Is to grow up…" North rasped shakily, his hands, his entire body, trembling.

Beside him, his ghost said nothing, and did nothing. Instead, she withdrew her hand – for he could not feel it upon his shoulder anymore – and sighed.

"Do you know what happens when boys refuse to grow up?" she asked.

North made to shake his head, but was startled to find he could not. He frowned – or at least tried to – and tried to open his eyes. His eyelids refused to move though, his sight blackened and blind. Sensation then – or rather, a lack of sensation. His sense of feeling was utterly gone, his entire body turned to stone.

Or perhaps, turned to wood.

Against his will, his eyes shot open, and his head was forced to turn with a creak to face his ghost. He would have gasped in shock and horror if he could, but every inch of his body was no longer his to obey. Internally though, he could not help but scream in agony and despair.

Katherine stared back at North impassively, hands hanging limp at her side, and expression unreadable. She looked exactly as he last remembered her – small, young, yet with an unfathomable amount of intelligence in her eyes. There was nothing wrong with her; she resembled not a haunting, keening ghost one would expect. But North could have handled that. No, what he could not handle was the one thing that horrified every Guardian.

She was grown up. Katherine was no longer a child, but a young adult.

And when she spoke, that familiar, childishly high tone of a small girl was gone. And replaced with the soft, feminine tone of a woman.

"They become toys," she said.

With a lurch, North's body was yanked back. His useless neck cracked as his wooden head was thrown forward from the violent tug. He would have cried out in shock as he suddenly stopped and landed not on his back, but on his front. His wooden forehead collided violently with a polished wood floor, his empty cranium ringing with splintered chips and startled termites.

He made as if to groan, but his voice was completely and utterly useless – stolen from his carved throat. He would have gasped as he was raised up by sharp points at his legs, feet, hands, and arms. Weightless, and raised onto his useless wooden feet, his eyes burned as a bright light overwhelmed them. Unable to blink, his vision only just adjusted and he was able to take in where he was.

No longer was North in his Workshop, or anywhere familiar to him. But he recognized just what place he was in.

He stood upon a stage, red velvet curtains just barely catching on the far edges of his eyes. Before him, an uncountable number of theater chairs lined up in rows to face him. And each and every one of them was filled.

North wanted to gasp and flee, but his body was not but a wooden toy on strings – a puppet. He could not even muster the will to shudder, his cue-ball eyes locked forever upon the numerous eyes upon him.

The spirits – dark, light, element, and everything in between – made no sound or movement, their gazes piercing and scrutinizing North without mercy. Like nails being hammered or drilled into his wooden body, the helpless Guardian could not fight back, or look away.

"Dance, dance, dance. Dance Macabre," the audience chanted.

And right on cue, North's string-bound limbs began to move. His hands were forcibly raised, and out of the corners of his eyes, he caught the familiar glint of his sabers in each hand. The unseen master of the strings had North turn in a sluggish, uncoordinated spin to face the right side of the stage.

He mentally gasped, nearly nose to nose with the very much alive, free of strings, form of Disliber. The Devil snarled, his putrid breath curling the paint of North's wooden face. Disliber opened his mouth, fur bristling, as he got ready to attack. But North – or rather, the puppeteer – moved faster.

It took only one swing, and Disliber choked, clutching his gut. Shuddering, the Devil coughed, his black blood staining the floor as North was made to jump a few paces back. North watched, horrified, as Disliber collapsed, clutching his cut open gut in trembling arms. His red eyes rolled back, and he fell forward, dead and flanked by an expanding pool of his blood.

North would have gaped and possibly gone to the Devil's aid, but he had no time to even feel shocked at his uncontrollable actions. He was spun again, this time to face a spirit he had only ever met once.

Sorrows gasped, but had no time to react otherwise. North's arm was forced up and then down in a wide arch, slicing clean through one of her wings. The winged woman shrieked, crumbling to her knees in agony. She trembled violently, her blood, the same color as Disliber's, spouting from the stump of her wing upon her back. North's arm was raised again, this time with the blade pointed downwards. His puppeteer dropped his arm, plunging the blade through Sorrows' bowed head with a crack.

North spun back to face the crowd, arms held out in a proud display of blood-spattered swords and stained wood. No applause was heard though, and instead, all he could hear was chanting.

"Dance, dance, dance. Dance Macabre."

North was made to bow once shallowly, before turning to his left. His eyes would have widened in horrified anticipation if they could.

'No…!' he wanted to scream, to shout, but he no longer had the ability to control his own body. And he would sooner run away screaming than attack the two spirits that stood before him.

Samhain looked ready to bolt, his eyes – so much like Hal's – wide yet full of a furious fire. His dark lips were pulled into a tight black line, his arms held tight around the young, scared, and helpless Homunculus in his arms. Hal visibly trembled, his arms locked tight around Samhain's neck, yet his eyes could not look away from the murderous Guardian.

'No, no, no…!' North thought, knowing exactly what was to come next, 'Please, no, not them…!'

His mental pleading went unheard. His puppeteer caught Samhain's slight movement in preparation to run. But once more, the unknown master of North's strings was faster.

North did not even have to move from his spot. When Samhain's back was to him for but a split second, his arm was raised, and his blade was thrown straight for the man's back.

North once prided himself on his impeccable aim when it came to his swords. His former Cossack self would have been proud – or perhaps, not so much in this instance. Not when the blade of his sword planted itself stiffly and perfectly into Samhain's back. The red-head lurched, back arching inward stiffly. His mouth gaped open in a strangled gasp, choked and caught in a spurt of black blood. He tripped over his own feet, and Hal was thrown from his arms as he fell forward with a dull thud upon the stage.

The former Monarch coughed, sharp-nailed fingers curling and scraping against the stage, leaving deep gouges in the polished wood. But the puppeteer was not done.

With a few pulls of the strings, North marched stiffly towards the fallen spirit and his apprentice. Hal had scrambled to Samhain's side, shaking and uncertain of what to do. He gasped, eyes swimming in amber, as North stomped beside the dying spirit. He grabbed the sword's hilt, but was stopped as two oversized claws grabbed his hands over the hilt.

North's head was pulled up to look at his assailant. Hal snarled, so very scared, yet unwilling to leave his beloved master at the mercy of the deranged swordsman.

North's body paused, as if his manipulator did not know entirely what to do. But then his puppeteer seemed to realize North had two swords.

With a simple turn of the wrist, North's other sword shot out to clip the hilt against Hal's face. The Homunculus yelped, the decorative hilt clipping his mouth and splitting his lip up the middle. His grip lost on North's hand, the Russian easily kicked the young spirit away in an injured pile.

North turned to look back at Samhain, the spirit's life now faint, just on the edge of extinguishing entirely. Gripping his other sword's hilt, he yanked it out of Samhain's body.

"ACK…!" Samhain choked weakly, his body tensing only briefly, before falling limp once more.

He was still alive though, if barely. And that was unacceptable to North's puppeteer. His heavy wooden foot planted itself over Samhain's back, over his wound. The Fall Herald didn't even have the strength to protest in any way, his vision swimming and senses all but lost. North sheathed one sword and bent stiffly, reaching down to grab the smaller man's long red hair. He yanked it back, pulling Samhain's head up and back in a painful arch. He coughed weakly, his own blood staining his porcelain face.

Pulling up more to get a better angle, North placed the blade of his remaining sword against Samhain's throat. The strings at his limbs glinted and trembled, glistening eerily, as if in glee. North would have felt sick if he had a stomach.

'No, stop! Please, you cannot do this!' he thought.

His puppeteer ignored him, or perhaps he could not hear North. And in one swift motion of practiced ease – practiced ease North was sick to realize he learned as a thief and Cossack – he sliced without trouble through Samhain's neck, and took his head off his shoulders. His headless body fell forward, lifeless. And North dropped the dead man's head without care.

And then there was one.

So consumed by his horror and shock, North did not even register his feet moving his body towards the terrified Homunculus huddled against the stage wall. His upper lip was split clear up to the base of his nose, bloody and red. Somewhere in North's mind, he would be reminded of the odd boy Samhain and Pitch had been following before Hal had been born.

The audience chanted at his back as he approached the Homunculus.

"Dance, dance, dance…"

North stood before Hal, covered in the blood of his master and family. North's head was cocked to one side, as if curious. Internally, North was screaming.

'NO! Please, do not hurt him! You cannot do this! He is just a child! Don't hurt him! PLEASE!' he thought, frantic and pleading to whatever demonic force was controlling his bloodstained limbs.

A pause.

And then he heard a voice.

"But I'm not hurting him," it said, its voice familiar yet in no way recognizable. "You are!"

Without further warning, North dropped his remaining sword, and wrapped both beefy hands around Hal's neck. The Homunculus choked on a cry, mouth open in a soundless scream. His clawed hands clutched at North's wrists, trying to pry them off his thin neck. But it was no use. He was just a boy, with no strength or power to push away the Guardian. He was helpless, he was going to die again.

"Dance, dance, dance…"

North's hands tightened mercilessly on Hal's throat, crushing his windpipe. The thick width of his hand allowed for the sides of his hands to push painfully against fragile collarbones, fracturing them with a slow and painful snap. Hal tried to gasp for breath, his vision blackening around the edges. Amber tears ran down his flushed cheeks, mixing seamlessly with his blood.

North wanted to scream, to plead, to take back control of his body and release the young spirit from his strangling hold. But he could not. No matter how much he screamed, cursed, pleaded and begged, threatened and snarled, his puppeteer would not relent. In a rush of emotions and fear, North could no longer beg for the other's life. All he could do now was pray that it would end for Hal soon.

And with a spastic tightening of his hands, it did.

A sharp snap was heard, and Hal's body went limp. His hands fell from North's wrists, and his eyes rolled back into his head. Dead.

North heard a sharp ringing in his ears, the echo of what felt like a string being snapped in his head. His wooden hands dropped Hal's body to the floor, and he was turned to face the audience once more.

Only, the audience was gone – engulfed in a void of blackness beyond the curtains. They had been swallowed by oblivion, no longer existing entities. But North was not alone.

For at the stage's center stood a single man clad in white, silver, and gold. His full smile was radiant, a kind curve of soft lips. Thick silvery lashes fanned pleasantly over the high contours of pale cheeks, his blind eyes made even more prominent by slightly quirked brows.

Time cocked his head ever so slightly, his arms crossing loosely just above his abdomen. His sightless eyes were somehow overwhelmingly heavy on North's wooden body.

"What a pity," he said. "I told you to make this good for me, Guardian. But you did not even attempt to fight back against your enemy."

'Enemy?' North thought. Was he talking about Pitch? The other dark spirits?

Time chuckled, a delicate hand coming up to partly cover his laughing mouth coyly.

"Oh the innocence of a childish mind." He laughed. "Shame it is such a wasted effort. It has you searching for the monster in all the wrong places. Have you ever bothered to look anywhere besides under the bed or in the closet?"

'Where else is there to look…?' North thought confusedly. Where else would a monster be but in a dark, forgotten place like under a bed or in a closet? It is where children shoved old clothes and toys, where they put things they wanted to forget about. They are the places monsters need to be put into so they may be forgotten. So where else would he look?

Time's smile widened unnaturally, teeth flashing. The hand over his mouth moved to press an index finger against a long canine.

"How about in the mirror?" He purred, pointed tongue touching the gloved tip of his index finger.

North vaguely felt his puppeteer jerk the strings slightly, as if annoyed, or perhaps curious. But North had no time to contemplate the antics or actions of his manipulator. With a simple twist of strings, he was forced to turn around and face the carnage he caused mere minutes ago.

Except, this was not the image he had recalled from those brief few seconds of horror. The bodies were different.

North did not even have the mental ability to scream internally. All he could do was mentally gape and tremble, eyes wide and disbelieving.

Bunny's body lay gutted, his grey and white fur stained with his red blood. His hunter green eyes were clouded and unfocused, infected with Death's fog. Tooth lay face-down just a small ways off, one of her wings forcibly amputated and thrown carelessly at her side. Her head was cracked open, fragments of her skull and brains matting iridescent feathers. A ways off from her, two piles of grey sand lay in a haphazard heap – one larger, the other small, the size of a head; the remains of Sandy's body. And against the stage wall…

'Jack…!' Somehow, North managed a miniscule tremble.

The frost sprite was limp and propped in an upright slump against the stage wall. His head bowed, North could still somehow see within his own mind the dark blue and black bruises forming large hands along his neck. Lifeless milky white and blue eyes flashed in startling clarity in his mind, their spark and light gone.

Behind him, Time chuckled again. The click of his heels was ominous, a sharp crack in North's ears with each step he took. The Russian could pay him no mind though, not when his companions lay dead and brutalized upon the stage floor in a macabre depiction of a bloody pantomime.

"Such a waste…" He sighed, now standing slightly behind and to North's side. "Some say that blindness is a relative term, and I am inclined to agree. To a few, I am all-seeing, but to many, I am blind…"

A pause, and North's wooden flesh could not feel so much as vaguely sense Time's slim fingers cupping his jaw just behind his stiff beard. His head was forced to look to the side at Time, straining against the malicious strings trying to resist the temporal man's pull.

But Time was a powerful entity. His very presence commanded absolute and complete submission in others, if not obedience. His words were of a higher power no one could quite give title or rank to, for he needed no such mortal words. His touch was lethal – kind and cruel, pleasurable and agonizing. His hands broke wills in half, crumbled men and spirit alike, while his very body and power seduced even the holiest and strongest of souls. He was a holy whore. None could resist his body, his voice, his touch, or his command.

Not even the puppeteer could safeguard his heart from the Angel. To deny Time your heart was to deny your very existence.

Time smiled and laughed in the face of such attempts of resistance. Or perhaps he laughed at the fact that the resistance was not so much an attempt to stop him, as it was to try and garner his attention.

North's wooden body trembled, confusing the Cossack. Was it he himself who was shaking, or his puppeteer?

Time's smile quirked to one side, warped and unnaturally wide. A slight peek of his white teeth would have unnerved North, his sharpened canines like the piercing points of a syringe.

A delicate finger came up to press against Time's lips.

"Shh…" He hushed, moving his finger away slightly, as if he were now pointing up. "He's watching you."

North wanted to blink in confusion, but obviously could not. However, Time was not about to play his game for much longer. Gripping North's chin tightly enough to splint wood, he pushed his head up until he was facing skywards.

North finally caught a full profile of his puppeteer, the unseen hand of his fellow Guardians' demise.

And the pure fact that he could not scream only made the sight worse.

The very Moon beamed down at North, dominating the inky blackness that hung above the stage like a failed attempt at a night sky. His strings – the gossamer Moonbeams woven and stretched into threads – seemed to shudder behind the milky white screen of the moon's face. Behind the screen, a form was seen, a shadowy silhouette of a stout man holding the ends of North's strings at his fingertips. His face and expression were unseen, hidden by the frosty pane of white, yet North could somehow tell that Manny was anxious. His hands trembled, causing North's wooden joints to knock and click eerily.

Suddenly, North's confusion had utterly vanished – all sense of emotion, all sense of his very self, were obliterated. Whether by shock or the sudden clarity of a half-formed epiphany was unknown. All he knew was that he now embodied silence. He was no longer the Guardian of Wonder.

He was now just a simple puppet who had his faith in his God snuffed out.

And the void that his once world floated in swallowed him whole…

~s~S~s~

Crash!

North gasped, his throat constricting and collapsing on his very breath. He choked, hands reaching up to clutch at his throat as he struggled to breathe, to wake up.

His eyes screwed shut tightly for a scant second, before he forced them open once more. The haze of his waking panic began to wane and clear, his throat loosening and opening to once more allow the Guardian to breathe. Unaware was North of his entire body trembling, the arms and neck of his shirt ringed with sweat. His ruddy cheeks were only redder, stained with the saltier waters shed by his once closed eyes. Skin flushed of all color, his silvery beard and hair nearly blended seamlessly into his skin.

He was terrified.

And he did not even know why.

North swallowed thickly, blinking once owlishly. His eyes swerved about the room he was in – his work room. A few large blocks of ice on his workbench now sat partly melted and malformed, the workbench top now soaked by the ice's water. His decanter lay open on the bench, turned onto its side, and its amber contents mixing and diluting with the melted ice.

He blinked again, and at first wondered if that crash he had heard had been his decanter falling over. But the crash had been far too loud to have come from the overturned glass container. No glass was seen either.

North was about to get up and look for what could have possibly caused the crash, but was stopped by the sound of a commotion outside his work room. He could vaguely hear Bunny yelling, his words muffled by the wooden walls and minor distance. He could only imagine that Sandy was also making his own gestures and displeasure known.

Legs shaky, his knees replaced with warm jelly, North forced himself out of his seat and onto his feet. Vertigo nearly felled him, but he forcibly caught himself with a beefy hand clutching at the edge of his workbench.

He did not move though, suddenly entranced by the roughly whittled edge of his workbench. His vision blurred, and he somehow could not find the confusion nor the clarity of why he was suddenly shedding tears. All he could focus on was the sudden, gaping void in his heart.

It was as if someone had taken one of his cookie-cutters and painfully punched out a large, jaggedly shaped hole in his chest, where something precious once lay. Something once warm, something he safeguarded with his entire being, never to let it go. Something gifted to him by the Moon himself, something others would envy him for…

But there was no envy. There was only spite, and now, an empty, gaping wound in North's heart. It bled, red and angry and distressed, now exposed to all the elements of painful emotion, and the disease of festering doubts and spite. It left him reeling.

He screwed his eyes shut for a second, then forced them open. His vision only partly cleared, North was unaware of the shaking of his hands, and the weak tremble of his knees.

He felt so old now, like the truly ancient being he was. He had never felt so old in his entire life – not even his decline in power during the Nightmare War compared to this soul-deep age. It sprouted and rooted in his bones, fed off his bleeding and wounded heart, and drove thorns into his flesh. He could feel the creeping vines of internal agony climbing up his throat, their leathery and jagged leaves scraping his throat raw, and obscuring his windpipe. His stomach tightened, now a ball of toxic flowers and thorny vines.

Such a sick, twisted sickness. North had to wonder if the sickness' mother was nearby, her owl-minions watching him, her eyes piercing his form as she planted seed after seed into his gaping heart.

He startled suddenly, another kind of vine about his wrist pulsing heatedly and sharply. He looked down at the binding snake, its red eyes flashing ominously, and its coils tightening in time to his own pulse. Warning though it seemed, North knew it was a summons.

He scrubbed furiously at his eyes with the heels of his hands, the thick appendages still shaking. He paid them no mind though, and without even bothering to check his composure, he lumbered out of his workroom to see what all the fuss was about.

His steps were heavy and thumping against the wooden floors, not unlike his usual lumbering footsteps. Yet to his ears, he sounded like a drunkard staggering back home after an entire night of less than savory ventures. He felt disjointed and adrift, his own home unfamiliar to him. The halls seemed to pulse like the arteries of a weakened heart, his vision just slightly off-kilter.

North could only ignore it though, as the familiar voices of Bunny, Nature, and – shockingly – Tooth were heard. Urged, he quickened his pace, yet the sensations of wrongness did not lift from him entirely. He squinted as he entered the Globe Room, the brighter lights stinging against his already worn and tired eyes.

The source of the crashing sound was suddenly made apparent, as Sandy was working to seal up the broken window of the lounge with a wall of his sand. He kept tossing worried glances over his shoulder, and North could see why.

Tooth had vanished hours ago, and the others had had no idea where she had gone. They were frantic, wondering if she had been taken. But it was Nature who quelled their frantic simpering, her temper flaring at the sudden urgency in the disappearance of someone who, to her, was about as useful as a hammer without its head. She had seen the fairy queen leave of course, but did not mention so to the other Guardians. Instead she told them her vine-snake informed her that she had gone to Tooth Palace. The Guardians seemed to calm when she informed them of this, and the nature spirit left it at that.

But now the fairy queen was back, sat down on one of the lounges with Bunny tending to a few cuts and lacerations she gained from what North could only assume was crashing through the glass of his window. But there was more to her injuries – it appeared as if many patches of her feathers had been ripped away from her body, immaculate cuts and scratches littering exposed skin and trailed by clean welts of blood. Her face was also scratched up, pale as death, and her forehead bruised. She held her arms around herself, trembling and jaw clenching, her brows creased in a confusing mixture of rage and fear.

Off to the side, Nature stood primly and regally, her gaze locked upon what appeared to be a parchment in her hands. She said nothing to North, nor did she even acknowledge him with a look.

He was too concerned for his colleagues though to wonder at the cold-shoulder, and lumbered unsteadily to the others.

"Toothy! What has happened?" he rasped, shocked at his own voice. He sounded like he was only just recovering from a bad cold.

The others looked at North with wide eyes, equally as surprised at the raspy and watery voice. But even more so, they were concerned with North's appearance. He did not look well. His skin was flushed almost white, the color made only whiter by the dark shadows under his red-rimmed eyes, and feverish cheeks. His hands trembled minutely at his sides, and his once confident posture was now reduced to an exhausted slouch. His beard and hair was a mess, his once baby blue eyes glassy and not entirely focused.

He looked as if he were making the trek for Death's door, his entire being reduced to something none of them found the least bit familiar.

No one was able to voice concern though, as Tooth, with a trembling voice, finally spoke.

"S-Sorrows…!" she rasped, snarling down at the floor. "She has Jack…!"

"What?!" Bunny rasped in disbelief. "How…that bitch attacked you?!"

Tooth shook her head. "No…her owls…!"

Bunny swore colorfully and darkly, quickly applying a salve to Tooth's wounds to staunch the bleeding and relieve any irritation and inflammation. Who knew where that dark spirit's filthy owls have been?

North blinked a bit dumbly, momentarily lost. The name registered in his head though soon enough, and the sudden clarity managed to help push away the hazy fog stifling his thoughts.

"Tooth, you went after Jack?" he asked, "Why? And how?"

"It is not obvious?" Nature suddenly piped in, gliding over towards the Guardians, yet keeping a good distance between her and them.

"Your little fairy used the sprite's own tooth box to find him," she said thinly, "As for the 'why', I can only speculate she was acting on idiotic impulse."

"Enough!" Bunny snapped, standing to his full six-foot height. He marched over to Nature to loom threateningly over her, but the nature spirit was not the least bit deterred – nor was she at all impressed.

"Tooth was fucking attacked by that damned demon…" He snarled, spittle leaping from between his teeth. Nature did not even flinch. "And you didn't care enough to tell us the truth of where she was. I bet you were hoping Sorrows would kill her."

Nature's unimpressed expression and tone seemed to aggravate the Pooka further.

"Funny you should say that," she said in a deadpan, yet spiteful tone. "The entire world is falling apart after you harm Pitch, yet you do not care. Your fairy gets into a minor scuffle with some owls, and I don't care. I see no debatable comparison, Pooka."

She held up a hand to silence the Pooka, his mouth opening to roar obscenities at the earthen spirit. She spoke before he could even feel any outrage at her flippant attitude.

"That is not important though," she said, "What is important is Time's parting gift."

Before anyone could question her, Nature revealed the envelope that had held the parchment she had been reading. A familiar green seal was stamped onto it, now broken, but its symbol and initials were clear.

The ominous 'LJ' initials were framed by a simply designed balancing scale, each of its counterweights centering them. Eagle wings flanked the curved, circular form of the border, not the least bit obscured by the more errant form of the excess wax.

North felt himself tense only slightly, eyes flickering down at his feet uncertainly. Sandy and Tooth seemed to withdraw into themselves, while Bunny only pinned his ears back and glared hellfire and brimstone at the envelope, as if willing it to burst into flames.

It figured though. Time did not stick around too long. Flighty as the man was, he never did anything without purpose, and it made more sense that he came to play messenger boy than to have a conversation with Nature at the time. He always had some sort of plan, some sort of outcome he desired to witness and feed off of.

Sandy formed various images above his head, meek and a tad anxious. Nature barley paid him any mind, but answered his inquiry all the same.

"The continuation of your trial starts tonight," she said simply, tucking the envelope into a pocket hidden in the floral pattern of her bodice.

The Guardians cringed, suddenly made once more aware of their precarious situation. Bunny's furry fists clenched into trembling balls, his whiskered lips twitching in a strange mixture of a furious tick and the desire to snarl. Beside him, North swallowed thickly, his throat dry. He looked around for any passing Elves carrying refreshments, but only caught a single Elf marching over towards the coffee table in the lounge. It set the plate of cookies on the table, then scampered away with a giggle. North quirked a brow at its retreating back, but paid it no mind once it vanished down a hallway. He turned his attention back to Nature.

"Nature, I know this is not…" He paused to try and find the right words. "Agreeable time. But perhaps Libra can wait?"

Nature scowled. "And why should she?"

North bit his lip, suddenly very uncertain, and very anxious. His hands, now mostly free of their tremors, still continued to give minute shudders every now and again. The wash of hot/cold through his body was making him feel ill. There was a strange, unnamable thing inside of him now. It sat like a lead weight in his gut, and dangled like a wrecking ball from his heart. Cotton and sand stuck to the back of his throat, his tongue swollen and parched. He so desperately wished for a drink, and mildly wondered how no Elves or Yetis were serving anyone anything. He could not seem to focus fully however, so persistent was this unnamed thing in his heart and mind.

He was missing something. He was craving something. He felt like the drug addict denied his syringes and pills, the alcoholic without his booze.

What was happening to him…?

"We…there…" He swallowed dryly again, his eyes flickering from Nature, the floor, and back. "Something is wrong…"

Nature said nothing, though her eyes did flicker briefly to the other Guardians. Tooth and Sandy, unseen behind North, were giving the Russian very concerned looks. It was quite obvious North was not well, and something he once held dear and jealously guarded was now missing, or destroyed. There was something off about him now.

Bunny, however, was only glowering at Nature, as if he was in a rather one-sided staring contest. Nature almost scoffed; his ugly, twisted scowl reminded her of children after they threw a tantrum and then proceeded to glare heatedly at their parents until they got their way. Though she supposed it was rather fitting, all things considered.

But regardless…

Breaking her eyes off of the Guardians, she gracefully swept over to the lounge area. She ignored the fairy queen sat upon one of the chairs, the fairy tensing as the nature herald drew near. She stopped in front of the coffee table, and seemed to look over the selection of cookies on the platter left by the Elf a few minutes ago. Lips tightening somewhat, she reached down and picked up the single gingerbread man.

She did not eat it though, but merely held it in one hand and seemed to study its icing painted smile and candied buttons. She hummed thoughtfully, still looking at the gingerbread man.

"You do not wish to attend Libra's summons?" she inquired in an odd tone. She sounded business-like, flat in her words, but her tone was lilted slightly in the proper volume of a polite inquisition.

North clenched his fists at his sides – whether to calm his shaking, or as a show of indignation, no one was sure.

"I…believe something may be wrong," he said.

"Oh? And pray tell, North…" Nature drawled, turning to face the Russian, the gingerbread held carefully in one hand. "What is wrong here?"

North made as if to speak again, but no sound or word escaped him. His eyes kept shifting about the room, as if he could not hold a singular focus on any one place for more than a few seconds. His fists started to shake, clenched so tight, their numbness prevented North from feeling Sandy's concerned hand on his arm.

"I…" North swallowed, but found he could not form proper words. Something was wrong, and that something was here in his Workshop.

And it frightened him.

Bunny suddenly marched over to Nature, and without an ounce of ceremony, snatched the gingerbread man from her hand.

"Enough of this shit!" He snapped, pointing the man-shaped cookie at Nature accusingly. "We don't have to listen to you, you're not one of us! You're not some great deity! And you are certainly not better than us!"

He threw the cookie onto the floor and crushed its head under one foot. Seething through his teeth, he twisted his foot until the gingerbread man's head was nothing but crumbs and shattered icing. Once finished assaulting the pastry, he snarled back at Nature, eyes blown into indistinguishable pinpricks.

"We're not going back to that bitch's Court…!" He snarled, a dribble of spit darkening one side of his chin as he seemed to lose all sense of control over his ire. He pointed a retracted claw at Nature, pricking it against her collar.

"You can just go screw yourself, and tell all those bumbling little freaks to give up and die already! We don't have to do anything! We didn't do anything, and you better get it through that thick head of yours that we sure as hell are not going to fix something that should remain broken and dumped in the trash!"

Behind him, his fellow Guardians could only watch on in stupefied horror, faces blanched in terror. They were speechless, terrified of Nature's own retribution in the face of such insolence and ire. The Pooka held no such resolve though, his hands shaking in fury. To anyone else, the gesture would be perceived as fear. But Nature was not fooled. No, she very well knew the name of what poison laced the rabbit's blood, what caused his hands to shake and his eyes to blaze. She knew what his ire had turned into, its once fire now diminished into a toxic pile of ash and soot that stained his mind and polluted his very soul.

It was in his eyes, the dark stain upon glassy green orbs. It wracked his very limbs, a parasite of the mind that turned words into acid and thoughts into caustic sludge. Evolved from his doubts and anger, born of his inability to believe and to see, his was a resolve conceived of fear.

Madness…

It had a funny way of coming from the most human of emotions. Nature almost wanted to laugh.

But she did not. And even more so, she could not. To her, the Pooka was forever lost, having willingly submerged himself in his own madness so as to avoid and hide from the very collapse of their world. It was all too easy, to hide and flee, rather than to face and conquer.

'And this is where you and Jack Frost differ…' she thought.

She shook her head, turning her head down to look past Bunny's claw and at the floor. Or rather, the crushed gingerbread man. Her obsidian eyes hooded.

"You will not go willingly." A statement, no longer a question.

Bunny bore his teeth in what should have been a comical imitation of a snarl. But his buck-teeth and flat molars did not give the impression of a lackluster snarl, not when his very expression could make even the most heinous dark spirit shudder. He loomed over Nature, yanking his paw back to his side in a clenched fist.

"Go fuck yourself," he rasped.

The other Guardians gasped, frozen to their spots in the lounge. Had they not been so stunned, they would have swarmed Bunny to placate him. But the sheer rage and hatred that the Pooka radiated…no, it was not as simple as anger or hate anymore. They could sense it too, the very same thing Nature had foreseen in Bunny since the first trial. His very resolve, once of stone, was now dust. His wall no longer in place, the Pooka had done what any simple-minded rabbit would do in the wild. He fled – from his very mind.

And it frightened them.

Nature was not deterred though. And instead of acknowledging the Pooka any further, she looked back up at them all with a flat expression, and laced her hands delicately at her front.

"Shame," she said flatly. "But not an issue of any matter."

And right on cue with her final words, the lights of the Workshop were cut off cold with resonating fizzles and sparks of electricity. The light of the fireplace behind them all was extinguished by a frigid spill of northern air that blasted from the shattering windows of the lounge and Globe Room. The Guardians cried out in shock and fright, before they recoiled at the blast of merciless winter air being washed over them. Snow and ice flooded the room in a howling roar of blizzard's breath, the very light of their beloved Moon blocked out by the black clouds of winter's storm. Darkness enveloped them all, accompanied by the taunting freeze of the north, and the shrieking roar of silence.

And just before they could even attempt to regain their bearings, laughter was heard. Shrill and otherworldly, maniacal and sickeningly joyous. The pleasant jingle of chains assaulted their ears, deafening in their ominous promises of imprisonment.

Still stood before her, Bunny barely managed to uncurl from his protective ball and look around. His wide eyes tried in vain to take in his surroundings. But it was too dark, too cold. The wind spat snowflakes and dry, frigid air into his eyes, blinding him indefinitely. He heard a scream from Tooth cut off in a short burst of fear, and North grunt and curse, followed by a thud. He thought he saw a brief glimpse of Sandy's glowing gold body. But that too vanished in a split second, swallowed by the dark and cold, the manic laughter and pleasantly jingling chains.

He panted frantically, turning to look back at Nature with a demand on his tongue. But he froze, eyes wide. She was gone, no longer standing before him.

Below him, the snow piled up, surrounding his feet and clumping to his fur. The laughter was gone, and the chains had been silenced. His body shook – whether from cold or his own fear and confusion, he would never fully know. His legs were numb though, their feeling sapped away by the cold.

Stunned, Bunny had to wonder if he was alone now, trapped within the decimated Workshop. He wondered where the Yetis and Elves were, and why they weren't raising the alarm or coming to their aid. He wondered where Nature was, and if she was the cause of all this.

THUD!

Bunny's hackles rose, and slowly, he turned towards the source of the loud thud.

The fireplace mantle rumbled and creaked. The mosaic-like painting above the mantle teetered in its frame, bending down the middle, as if like a creature creeping under a rug. The glass shattered as it was warped further, the painting tearing down its middle. The mantle cracked and crumbled as the fissure crept down its center. Soot and ash fell from the throat of the chimney, and Bunny would actually hear the raspy, bestial breathing of a large, unknown creature crawling through it.

He felt his heart stutter in terror as long, grey-blue clawed fingers curled out of the chimney's throat. Thin and twig-like they seemed, yet they crumbled the mantle as the creature pulled itself out further. The rasp of a large form slithering along the stony interior was heard, along with an almost wood on stone scraping sound. He heard a low, menacing growl.

And with a mighty crack of the chimney and mantle, the large form forced itself out of the fireplace.

Thick, chipped hooves stomped grandly upon the lounge floor, trailed by a ragged, frost-damaged cloak. Overly long, curved horns not unlike a ram's crowned the unseen, hooded head above the hunchback body. Wound around its thick body were chains, and tied to those chains were iron bells that jingled pleasantly with each slight move the creature made.

After today, Bunny would never forget the sound of those bells. He would spend the rest of his life hearing them in his nightmares, accompanied by thumping hooves and the manic laughter of childlike creatures that would dance about with his terror and further his madness.

The figure, enormous in its size, only seemed to grow bigger as it stood from its hunched position and towered over Bunny. Even hunched, it towered over the Pooka without even trying. Fog wafted from its hidden mouth in great puffs, and beady, glowing yellow eyes locked onto Bunny.

Bunny could only gasp and tense, his entire body locked up in horror. He was frozen – both figuratively and literally. The snow had climbed up past his haunches and was starting to touch along his hips. The beast before him huffed, before it lumbered forward towards him, slowly, painfully slowly.

Bunny couldn't distinguish the thud of the beast's hooves from the pounding of his heart. Although he suspected the more fast-paced thumping was his heart, he could feel it stuttering and tripping over itself with each dull THUD the creature took.

Bunny somehow found the ability to at least attempt to take a step back, but found the action futile. His legs were strapped within the snow, now packed tight and almost solid ice. He panted erratically, bordering on hyperventilating. Yet despite the cold air, his lungs burned, he could not catch a single bit of that cold in his mouth to swallow and douse the fire in his chest. His organs jumped and quivered as the beast drew nearer, now mere feet from him.

And suddenly, it stopped.

Bunny could not even gasp. He could only tremble, his wide, terrified eyes overcome by blown pupils and the hazy film of drying eyes. But he could not blink, let alone look away from the hulking behemoth before him. He was trapped, held captive and made into a motionless toy by that eerie yellow gaze.

Those eyes, like the burst of gold of a newly born sun…

The eyes of the Boogeyman.

The eyes of a King.

The eyes of his children…

Bunny could not force words from his gaping mouth. His lungs shriveled and choked into useless sacks. His eyes burned, yet they were as useless as the endlessly staring, painted eyes of a wooden toy. His body was frozen, stuck forever to that one spot, destined to be held captive by this monster in its frigid realm.

Yet somehow, in his muddled and toxic mind, Bunny heard a faint voice tell him to say something. But before he could even make a remote attempt to form words, a stab of painful agony shot up one of his legs.

He cried out, stunned into a stupor at the sensation when he had thought his legs were completely numb. He gasped as he felt something – something – clamp around his foot with jagged teeth. The laughter that was once silent returned in full force, and he felt rather than heard the little creatures approach as chains were thrown over him. He choked as one managed to lasso around his neck and was yanked back. He cried out again as the same thing beneath the snow clamped onto his other leg, tearing through his fur and skin – he somehow knew the snow was soon going to be stained red with his blood.

"Gah…!" He choked as more chains were thrown over him, binding him like a rabid animal. His arms were bound and yanked akimbo.

And he only realized then that he was starting to sink.

'No…!' He yanked at the chains, his eyes unable to leave the beast above him as it seemed to grow as he was pulled further into the snow.

He found some semblance of strength as the snow touched his under-arms. He clawed at the snow despite the chains about his wrists and arms. He only continued to sink though, being dragged under by that unknown creature that had bitten into his feet and legs like a bear-trap. His heart leaped into his throat as the beast bent down over him, the Pooka catching a faint glimpse of a large, gaping mouth* and frostbitten skin.

It reached down with one of its claw-like hands, a sharp nail touching the shallow edge of Bunny's forehead. The Pooka shuddered violently, eyes crossing somewhat as the claw gently traced down his forehead and over his velvety nose. Numb from the cold, Bunny was oblivious to the dark red line of blood the claw had drawn down his nose. He panted shallowly as the beast drew its claw back.

A low, rumbling chuckle was heard from it, and Bunny got the impression that the beast was smiling.

"Gruss vom Krampus…" it rumbled.

Bunny couldn't even gasp in horror as it suddenly seemed to click in his head. Before he could even think of feeling an ounce of outrage, fear overtook him once more as he was swallowed by the frigid blanket of snow.

To be continued…

~x~x~X~x~x~

1.) Well hello, is this a reference to the recent Krampus movie? Why yes it is~ XD Anyways, as it turns out, the Krampus of the 2015 movie actually wears a Santa Clause mask! I did not know this until today when I was looking up images of his face. His actual face is, at the moment, unknown. But, if you go to the Weta shop and look up his collectable figurine, one picture is a head on close up of his masked face, and you can clearly see the edges of the eye holes, and his real teeth behind the fake teeth of the mask. Weta also sells fully functional replicas of his bells! (I am the proud owner of one myself and am contemplating getting one or two more)

I do NOT own Krampus or any of the movies inspired by him. I highly recommend the movie.

Happy belated Easter, Bunnymund. 8)

~S~