To The Reader,

The following tale tells of one of the many adventures that befell a particular group of children, with whose names I am sure you are familiar: Coraline Jones, Wybie Lovat, Norman Babcock, Neil Downe, Razputin Aquato, Lili Zanotto, and Dipper and Mabel Pines. After a tiff with a psychologically unstable megalomaniac, the eight children formed the club known as the Mystery Kids. Many tales exist of their daring exploits into the mysterious and otherworldly; some are true, others are embellishments. I will leave it to you, Reader, to determine which type of story this is.

Eyes open.

-Mikeyboi

"You can't get rid of me! Not forever!"

The words of desperation were all that the tortured mind could focus on. They had been intended to sound confident, but the way his voice had broken betrayed the fear rising within him.

"There will always be fear!"

He grimaced, clutching his arms closer to his chest against the cold. He had never felt cold before. Or rather, it had never felt uncomfortable before. It was hard to think through the fog, but those final images were still fresh in his mind. He had been on the very cusp of victory, only for it to be rested from his grasp by his ancient foes, and a troupe of children. So there he had stood on a frozen lake, helpless and scared, as he was given a reply.

"So what? As long as one child believes, we will be here to fight fear."

And then he had been taken by his own minions, whisked away to this vast nothing. Pitch Black, the boogeyman that parents had once told their children about at night, shivered as the cold emptiness within his chest grew ever larger. The Guardians had bested him a second time, and he knew in his heart that it would be the last. There was nothing for him now, but cold and darkness. Once upon a time, those would have comforted him. Now they only reminded him of what he had lost.

No, he whimpered bitterly to himself. What was taken from me. Pitch clenched his fists as he thought about what could have been. He envisioned himself in ornate black robes, wearing a spiked ebony crown atop his head, standing at the head of an army of nightmares that would remind mankind why they used to fear the dark. . .

Pitch jolted upright and gasped for air, his eyes wide open in shock. He was awake. He looked down at his hands, and flexed his long fingers. The last thing he remembered was being dragged through the depths of the earth by his own nightmares, his heart galloping with fear as the nightmares galloped to whatever grim destination awaited. Then, everything had faded. He had been sleeping for a long time.

Pitch put his hands down to help him stand. They touched something cold and clammy. He looked over his shoulder to see what was under him. Immediately, he grimaced in disgust. There was a body underneath him, a man in a pinstripe suit. He was human, Pitch noted. His chest rose and fell steadily, so Pitch knew he wasn't dead. The look on his face, however, was still disturbing.

Pitch had seen plenty of unpleasant expressions before. When you walked the centuries spreading fear and nightmares, you tended to encounter those. Pitch knew the look of fear like a husband knew the face of his wife. But the look on this man's face was something else, something almost worse. His mouth was pulled into a tight frown, his brow was furrowed and wrinkled, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. It was a look of pure sadness, and just seeing it caused Pitch's despair to return for a brief moment. He looked around, and to his surprise, the man in the pinstripe suit wasn't the only body to be seen. A few feet away from him was a short man in some kind of blue military uniform. Near that body was another, and another.

Pitch backed away slowly, looking around to get his bearings. He was in some kind of dark cavern with stalactites hanging overhead. A wispy gray fog hovered above the floor, smelling foul and distracting Pitch from his thoughts. The entire cavern was filled with sleeping bodies, each with a twisted look of sadness. There were the bodies of humans, and of fey, and of monsters, and every kind of creature Pitch could imagine. And sleeping in the center of the cavern was one particular creature that made Pitch freeze where he stood. Surrounded by the sleeping forms, huge scaled chest heaving with each breath, gray fog billowing from its nostrils, was an immense gray dragon.

Pitch stood silent and still. He had seen dragons before, in times long past. They were among the highest orders of magical beings, and often as dangerous as they were mighty. In his prime, battling a dragon would have been a challenge. In this weakened, pitiful state, it would devour him with ease.

Pitch stepped over the man in the pinstripe suit, edging his way along the side of the cavern. He wanted nothing more than to leave this place without waking the dragon, but he was too weak to escape through the shadows. He would have to find a way out on foot. As Pitch crept along, he studied the sleeping dragon. It had no wings or legs, and looked more like an enormous coiled snake with a lizard-like head. However, the bony ridges over the creature's eyes and the imposing aura it exuded in its slumber identified it as one of dragonkind, a wyrm.

It was also a very ancient dragon, Pitch could tell. As it snored, patches of its scales would fade away into the gray mist before reforming. The dragon clearly came from a time when shapes were not quite yet defined.

Something made Pitch stop to take a closer look. Previously, he had assumed that the wispy, billowing fog was coming from the dragon's nostrils. He had seen dragons sleep before, and they often billowed smoke in a similar fashion. But this dragon was different. The fog wasn't billowing from its nostrils. It was being drawn into them. The fog that filled the cavern was coming from its scales, wafting its way through the cavern, and then being inhaled through the dragon's nose.

Pitch didn't spend too long watching the dragon sleep. There was no time to. As he stood there with his back to the cavern wall, observing the ancient wyrm, its reptilian eyes opened.

Pitch's breath caught. He flattened himself against the stone wall. The dragon looked directly at him, blowing smoke from its nostrils. A low growl rumbled through the cavern as the ancient dragon began to slowly uncoil. Pitch looked frantically around for a place to hide, or for something to use in self defense. But there was nowhere, and nothing. Pitch could do nothing but stand and watch as the dragon moved.

"Well. . . intruder. . . I can see you there. . . hiding in the shadows. . ."

The voice sounded like the deepest cave that Pitch could imagine was speaking from the depths of the ocean. Pitch had never heard a dragon speak before. His fingers tightened against the stony wall behind him.

"I can sense your fear," continued the dragon, fully uncoiled and stretched out across the cavern floor. Pitch estimated he was at least three hundred feet long from nose to tail. "I can smell your. . . despair. Such a sweet, sweet odor. . ."

The dragon inhaled deeply through his nose, breathing in more of the foggy gray cloud. His draconian features pulled back into a grin of wicked reptilian pleasure.

"Yes, many end up here. . . in my cavern," growled the dragon as he slithered over a few of the sleeping bodies. "They have no hope. . . their despair. . . is my strength. But you. . . intruder. . . you have a different taste about you. . . the sweetest I can recall."

The dragon slithered over another body, and the nameless man's sad face disappeared beneath the scaly mass. The dragon leaned forward so that his snout was only inches away from Pitch's face. His head was as big as Pitch's entire body, and Pitch could feel the dragon's oppressive aura stronger than ever. The former Nightmare King squeezed his eyelids shut as all hope of survival was sucked away. He heard the dragon's tongue flick out, felt it brush the tip of his nose. Then, the silence gave way to deep, evil laughter. Pitch opened his eyes. The dragon had pulled back and was chuckling to himself with amusement.

"So. . . tell me. . . intruder. . . what has brought you to my cavern?"

Pitch stared up at the dragon warily. Perhaps it was toying with him. It was certainly what Pitch would have done if roles were reversed, he thought to himself. Therefore, Pitch knew that the best way to keep himself unharmed was to humor the dragon.

"I don't know," Pitch whispered. His voice broke, and he mustered as much courage as he could. "I woke up here. I don't know how I got here, or why."

"Woke up here? Now that is interesting," replied the dragon, coiling himself up and studying the boogeyman. "Then by all rights. . . you belong to me. But I am curious. . . no one has ever awoken from my spell before. . . you must be very powerful."

Pitch's face twisted into a scowl of humiliation.

"Not anymore."

"Not anymore? Then you were, once. Is that right?"

"Yes," Pitch answered. "Once, I was a king. The Nightmare King."

"The Nightmare King? A lovely title. Tell me," implored the deep, echoing voice, "what changed?"

For a moment, Pitch was silent. His fingers curled into fists as he concentrated. He pictured each of his foes. But most of all, he pictured the smug smirk of the one he hated most, the one who just couldn't mind his own business, the one he would have gladly called brother. He hung his head in utter shame as he answered.

"The Guardians," he whispered. "They took everything from me."

The dragon blinked.

"The Guardians? Now that's a name I am. . . unfamiliar with. Tell me. . . who are they?"

Pitch sneered.

"They're a bunch of do-gooder idealists who watch over the children of the world, giving them whatever they want and spoiling them rotten. And for it they get immortality and renown. And what do I get? Trapped in a cave with a hungry dragon, apparently." Pitch chuckled mirthlessly. "Life isn't fair, you know."

The dragon warbled deeply.

"Yes. . . I do. Tell me, Nightmare King. . . tell me their names."

Pitch scoffed.

"They have the most ridiculous names you could imagine. Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, Sandman, the Easter Bunny, and. . ."

The boogeyman's eyes flared a brighter yellow as he uttered the fifth name.

". . . Jack Frost."

The dragon's eyes flared as well, but not at the last name.

"The Easter Bunny, you say? Tell me. . . what is an Easter Bunny?"

Pitch furrowed his brow.

"He's a big rabbit. About six feet tall, with gaudy purple fur. He's very annoying, grumpy, and above all, full of himself. I would almost like him if he wasn't one of the people I hate the most in the world."

The dragon narrowed his eyes for a moment, almost imperceptibly, before an evilly mischievous grin crawled across his face.

"So, Nightmare King. . . you have a personal vendetta against these. . . Guardians, yes?"

Pitch nodded his head, and the dragon slithered closer.

"If they were strong enough to defeat you. . . I wonder how much sweeter their despair would be. I will make you a deal, Nightmare King. I will give you your revenge. . . and in exchange, you will make them feel. . . sweet, succulent despair."

The dragon's red eyes glinted in the darkness, and he fixed Pitch with a look of hungry expectation.

"Do we have a deal, Nightmare King?"

Pitch looked back at the dragon cautiously. He had heard tales of making deals with dragons in the past. It was risky business, especially with dragons as ancient as the one before him. But he had heard just as many stories of the matchless boons that dragons could give to others. He was promising Pitch revenge against the Guardians. Revenge against Jack Frost. All he asked for in return was for Pitch to make them desperate. To Pitch, they were one and the same. He had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

"We do, oh Great and Terrible Dragon."

The dragon scoffed.

"My name," he growled, "is Lyrm."

And with that, the dragon opened his toothy maw wide enough to swallow Pitch whole. Smoke billowed from the back of his throat, and like a lit match before a fire extinguisher, Pitch was blasted with the thick gray fog. It was different now. It burned his skin and made his eyes water. He choked. He had never choked before. In fact, he had never felt so much pain before this. He wondered if this was how humans felt all the time: fragile and hopeless. Yet, as the pain increased, so did a new feeling. A new strength began to course through his body. He no longer felt weak. Power was returning to him. He set his jaw in a grin through the pain as the dragon breathed new life into him.

When the fog stopped, Pitch looked down at himself. He was clad head to toe in black armor. In his hand he held a sword of dark metal, which he swung experimentally. It was lighter than air. A trail of nightmare sand hung in the air behind the blade, then swirled into Pitch's hand. He looked at the sword with a glint in his eye. He saw his reflection looking back with twisted admiration.

"What is this?" Pitch asked.

"Dragon's Lead," replied Lyrm. "Pure darkness given material substance. No weapon, or light, can pierce it. A fitting gift for a Nightmare King."

A dark whinny cut through the silence of the cave. Pitch looked towards the sound just as a large nightmare came trotting alongside him. It looked at him expectantly. Lyrm gestured with his snout.

"Your steed awaits. Go, my champion. . . and show your enemies. . the Guardians. . . the bitterness of defeat. Let me taste. . . desperation."

Pitch jumped upon the black horse's back, dipping his head to his draconian benefactor.

"With pleasure," he hissed, and he spurred the nightmare. She galloped off into the shadows, towards wherever Pitch would steer her. Towards revenge.

Pitch snickered to himself in the darkness. This time, he was going to win.