Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians. Dreamworks and William Joyce does.
Summary: They say he hasn't been right in the head since he fell through the ice. They say that the man who is enshrouded in shadows and lives under his bed isn't real. But Jack knows he's there, always watching, waiting to drag this one mortal who can see him into his realm of nightmares.
Ch. 4 Sweet Dreams
Jack ran and all around him the shadows seem to loom everywhere. They were the dark shapes lurking behind the trees and the clouds that covered the moon, and blotted out the stars in the sky. They were his relentless pursuers that nipped at his heels, slapped in his face and tugged at his clothes as he raced down the snow-covered path. He didn't stop running, not even when he reached the village square of Burgess and the weak light of candles shining through the windows chased away any dark corners where shadows might linger. He tripped once and crashed into someone leaving the tavern, but he pushed them away with not even an apology as he turned and continued on his mad race. He felt no relief until he had flung wide the door to his house and latched himself inside. Only then was he able to breathe easy and feel safe.
"Jack!" came a cry then his mother was upon him, petting his face and combing the bits of snow and frost out of his hair as she fussed worriedly. "Jack, where have you been? When Emma came home without you I near died of fright! I—"
Jack shifted his weight nervously as his mother stopped short and stared at the staff in her son's hands.
"Oh, Jack," Lydia breathed out in dismay, cupping one hand over her mouth. "Jack, tell me you didn't go down to the lake to get that."
"I…" was all Jack could say, his fingers gripping the staff tightly lest his mother try and tear it away from him.
But Lydia Overland did no such thing, only backed away from him shaking her head in disbelief. "You went back to the lake…" her voice cracked on the last word as she turned away quickly but not before the wetness in her eyes was caught by the gleam of the fire.
"Mother," Jack said softly, trying to explain. "I had to. Father—"
"Your father is dead," Lydia stated bluntly, cutting him off. "All I have left of him is you and your sister. I nearly lost you two weeks ago, and now you have gone back there all for the sake of some staff."
She stood there with her back to him staring at the fireplace where the flames crackled and danced, making the shadows leap about on the walls. Jack shivered at the sight. He could not escape them even in his own home.
"Is Thomas Grymes right?" his mother asked quietly, more to herself than her son. "Have you gone mad?"
"Mother, mother, I haven't," Jack said hurrying over to lay a hand on her shoulder.
Lydia pulled away from his touch. "Then what am I to do? What am I to think?" she asked, turning to face him with an expression of tightly-reigned anger. "I bid you to go out and deliver Mr. William's coat and come straight home. You left your sister and went off who knows where. I thought perhaps you were simply exploring on the hills; that you were tired of staying indoors for so long. The thought of you returning to that lake never even—" she broke off for a moment visibly distressed, before continuing, her tone cool and firm. "It doesn't matter where you went, Jack. You disobeyed me."
"Yes, ma'am," Jack said lowering his head shame.
"Then you know what I must do," Lydia said, taking the broom into her hands.
"Yes, ma'am," Jack said, resting his staff in the corner and bracing his hands against the table without a word of protest, readying himself for the first blow of a thrashing that never came.
There was a dull clatter as the broom was dropped to the floor. Jack turned in time to see his mother collapse into the rocking chair that rested by the fireplace. Burying her face into her hands, Lydia Overland wept. The sound of her broken sobs echoed around the cabin accusingly.
Guilt blossomed in Jack's chest. He had given his mother cause for grief again. He moved forward to comfort her, the wooden floorboards creaking with his approach.
"I wish… your father was here," breathed the hushed confession that fell from his mother's lips.
Jack stopped in place abruptly. Lydia's sobs died down quickly. She seemed to have forgotten his presence entirely as she stared into the fireplace, her red-rimmed eyes matching the colors of the flames. All was quiet except for the dull pounding of his heartbeat resonating in his ears.
No further words were spoken. Jack went to his room at her silent dismissal. Emma wasn't there, of course. She was probably sleeping in their mother's bed again. He probably had made her worry too tonight. He wanted to talk to her. He realized she hadn't said one word to him all day—not one word to him at all really since that feverish night weeks ago. He wanted to apologize for his behavior, wanted to tell her he didn't blame her for nearly drowning. But he was too tired, too haunted by his encounter with the Boogeyman still… and he did not want to go out of his room and face his mother again.
He thought it might be difficult to fall asleep now that he knew Pitch Black could be skulking in the nearest shadow, yet he found himself drifting swiftly into slumber the minute his head touched his pillow. His last thought before he lost consciousness was that he hoped he would be spared from nightmares in the night.
oOo
His mother had forgiven him for his disobedience the next morning if the raisins in his porridge were a sign to go by. He even had a side dish of butter to go with it. Lydia's gentle hands combed through his hair, trying to flatten down the most unruly parts. Jack caught a glimpse of a wistful smile on his mother's face before she gave up her futile effort, and he wondered if perhaps breakfast was her way of apologizing for herself last night also.
"I need you to go fetch some meat from the butcher for supper later," Lydia told him. "Our supply has run out."
Forget savoring every mouthful, the delightful breakfast had just turned sour in Jack's mouth, but he held back the complaint that was on the tip of his tongue. His mother knew he and the butcher's son didn't along. He knew she wouldn't have sent him instead if she were able to go herself.
"The governor's wife wants her gown before the fortnight," Lydia explained. "If I devote enough hours, I should be able to finish it in time."
Rebekah Hamilton, the governor's wife was a pleasant-mannered woman if a bit vain, always throwing glamorous and lavish parties as often as she could. No one had ever seen her wear the same dress twice. She ordered the material from England and as soon as the new shipment arrived, she sent it off to Lydia to design and fashion. She paid well however. If this gown was finished in time the Overland family would have enough money to be sure that their meat and food supplies lasted throughout the winter.
"Jack," Lydia said, biting the corner of her mouth, an anxious habit he remembered his father teasing her about. "Jack, please don't go anywhere else except the butcher's."
"I won't," he promised and this time he vowed to keep it. It was his own fault for plunging straight into danger yesterday that had drawn out Pitch Black. He had no desire for a repeat performance today.
The door to the cabin opened, letting in a wintry breeze as Emma trudged inside bundled in her coat and boots. Her face was bright pink from the cold and she was carrying the basket of eggs she had gathered from the three hens the family possessed. Their family never ate the eggs themselves. They traded them amongst the other villagers for other things: a candle, a bar of lye soap, and vegetables from people's gardens. Most folks owned their own chickens and didn't even need the extra eggs, but they still helped out those who were less fortunate. That was how the village of Burgess worked.
Jack tried to catch Emma's eye, but his sister refused to meet his gaze, fidgeting listlessly on one foot to the other much like a nervous chick herself as she gulped down two of their mother's cornmeal biscuits.
"It's still early yet," Lydia commented glancing at the morning sky through the window. "Mayhap if you go now, young Anthony Hawkins will still be out chopping wood."
Jack beamed a grateful smile and excused himself from the table. Donning his cloak about his shoulders in an instant, he reached for his staff where he had left it the night before and felt a swooping sensation in his stomach as his fingers closed around the wood. He was happy to feel the familiar weight of it in his hand again.
"Be quick, Jack," his mother said. She had cleared the dishes from the table and was busy spreading out patterns and fabric over the surface. "You can help me when you get back. Four hands are better than two."
Jack grimaced, not fooled at all by her merry tone. "You're going to make me pose as the pin-up model again, aren't you?" he asked.
Lydia giggled in a very school girl-ish and un-motherly manner. "Well, it can't be helped that you and Mrs. Hamilton share the same figure. You're both thin as a beanpole with narrow hips, all skin and bones."
"Aye, Goodwife Hodges says she'll never bear children with hips as small as that," Jack remarked, leaning slightly on his staff.
"Off with you now," his mother shooed him as she pulled out her sewing box. "And don't go repeating such scandalous gossip unless you want Father Goodall to get wind of it. He'll tan your hide with a willow switch."
Jack wrinkled his nose at the thought and turned to go. For single second, his eyes finally managed to meet those of his sister's. Emma's startled gaze clashed with his before she bolted for the door, throwing it open and dashing off into the snow outside still carrying the basket of eggs in her hands.
Jack wasn't sure if she was angry, upset or frightened of him or all three and not knowing made it worse.
oOo
They sky was clear and blue and the sun was shining brightly. The village of Burgess lay nestled at the foot of a forest and the path to the butcher's was wreathed with trees on either side. It was a perfect recipe for shadows.
Jack hurried as quickly as he could, trying to squash the panic slowly starting to rise within him. He half-expected Pitch Black to pop out anywhere at any moment, and this time he couldn't dismiss him as a half-forgotten imagining of a feverish dream. Last night had been very real. He had been wide awake. He had held a conversation with him—he had talked to the Boogeyman. Just thinking about it was enough to make him question his own sanity. So Jack tried not to, tried to dwell on other things like Christmas coming up at the end of the month and what gifts he should make for his mother and sister, anything, any thought except for that of a tall grey-skinned man with golden eyes and who held power over shadows and your deepest fears.
He reached the butcher's in record time with no fateful encounter to mention, however, there his luck ran dry: for it wasn't the butcher who sat in the stall outside his shop. It was his son, Anthony Hawkins.
Thinking back, Jack never could pinpoint the exact reason why he and Anthony Hawkins never got along. It just always had been that way from his earliest memory. Perhaps it had not been one thing in particular. Perhaps Anthony Hawkins was just a born bully, for all his childhood and adolescent years, tormenting the other village children had been his specialty. From name-calling, to fist-fights, to setting frogs lose in the church, Anthony Hawkins was quite usually the culprit. Of course, being the butcher's son did have its advantages and more often than not, did anyone ever rarely catch him in the act of such things. So when suspicion did fall upon him, Anthony Hawkins was quite comfortable in pointing the blame onto someone else. That someone was usually Jack. The fact that people were all too willing to believe the son of one of the most wealthy citizens in Burgess over a fatherless boy whose future was to become the town tailor made Jack angry to no end, but that's the way things worked. Sometimes he wondered if that was why he pulled so many pranks and tried his hardest to make the other children laugh. If he was already labeled as the town's miscreant trickster, he might as well live up to the name.
Anthony wasn't alone. His two partners in crime since boyhood, Henry Pratchett and Nathaniel Jones were there as well, as if they had nothing better to do than to loiter idly beside the butcher's stall like two loutish body guards. Never mind that Henry was the tavern-keeper's son and Nathaniel was apprenticed to the black smith and they both had daily chores to tend to. News of his wandering about the village yesterday must have spread fast. It wouldn't be too difficult to guess he'd make an appearance at the butcher's sooner or later. It was a necessity for everyone.
Jack sighed and put on a false smile. Well, better get this over with then.
"Mornin', Anthony," he greeted in what he hoped sounded like a congenial tone. "Where's your father?"
"In bed. Sick," Anthony answered. Cocking his head of unruly red curls to one side, he stretched back his lips to reveal a smug, gap-toothed grin. "I wouldn't go in to see him, it might be catching. Don't want to fall ill again so soon, aye, Jack? This time your wits might be taken for good."
Jack's smile never wavered. "I never lost them in the first place. I got took by fever, that's all."
"Oh, I don't think that's all," Anthony said in a very braggartly manner. "Oi, Nathaniel, what would you do if you were caught in a fire and nearly burned to death, yet you survived?"
"I think I'd be extra cautious around anything that makes a fire for the rest of my life," Nathaniel replied in a curt and well-versed tone, as if it was a line he had rehearsed many a time.
"Mmm, you certainly wouldn't go dashing off into a blazing forest fire, now would you?" Anthony said drilling his gaze into Jack's to drive home the point. "I mean it would be an utterly, foolish thing to do, now wouldn't it, going back to something that near killed you in the first place?"
Jack's hand clenched about his staff involuntarily: an action that didn't go by unnoticed.
"It's no use denying it. It's right there in your hand," Anthony gestured to it. "Henry saw you coming back from the lake's path last night. You crashed right into him and took off without a word."
"Had a wild-eyed, haunted expression on him," Henry supplied helpfully. "Looked quite mad to me."
"Are you selling meat or just tall tales?" Jack demanded, trying to change the subject, and wishing he had been more careful going home the night before.
"Did you really go back to the lake just for that staff? Does it mean that much to you?" Anthony asked. His tone sounded so genuinely curious, it fooled Jack for a moment. Then the mask slipped and the wily fox-grin had snapped back onto the boy's face once more. "What'd you trade to get it back? Can't have been your soul. You gave that up last time so you wouldn't drown."
"You honestly believe your own story you made-up to frighten little kids?" Jack laughed, trying to make light of the situation. Inside he was seething. He resisted the urge to bring his staff across the boy's face with a sound smack.
"Go on, Jack, tell us," Anthony urged him on. Both his hands were placed on the carving table now as he leaned forward with obvious excitement, looking like someone who was straining to hear the secret that their friend was about to share. "Father Goodall isn't here. What does the devil look like?"
He should have kept quiet. Shouldn't have let them get to him. But Anthony's taunts, Henry and Nathaniel's snickering and nudging each other between the ribs, and most of all, Anthony Hawkin's smug gap-toothed grin made him recklessly mad.
"Grey skin," Jack flung out. "Golden eyes that pierce right through you." They had stopped laughing now. "Teeth as sharp and wide as a bear-trap. Long, spindly fingers like spider legs," Jack said, resting his staff in the crook of his arm as he wiggled his own for demonstration. "He catches you in his web of shadows and if you anger him, he makes you relive every bad experience you've ever had: all your worst memories, all the nightmares you've woken up screaming from."
They were hanging onto his every word transfixed, eyes wide, and mouths ajar. Nathaniel had even begun stomping his feet into the ground as if he had grown cold standing in one place, but the way he was clutching both his arms betrayed his anxiety. Henry's breathing had started to quicken by the amount of warm puffs of air that appeared near his face. A perverse thrill of glee shot through Jack to see them as such.
"You're right, he did try to steal my soul," Jack continued with his tale, the words tumbling from his mouth faster than he could think them up. "But he couldn't touch it. He only can take the wicked ones," he leveled a knowing stare at each of them. Their faces had drained of all color. "The ones who like tormenting those younger and weaker than themselves. The ones who hoist the blame onto the innocent. The ones whose committed such vile acts that it gnaws at their conscience. The ones who carry deep, dark secrets within them… those are the souls he spirits away." He threw his arms up high above his head for a final dramatic flair, raising his staff in both hands. "The last thing you'll ever see is a giant, black wall of shadows swooping down for you like a broken dam tearing through the mountainside!" he shouted, bringing the staff back down and slamming the end into the cold, hard ground beneath his feet, sending pockets of snow into the air.
He couldn't have timed it better. A mighty gale of wind swept up at his last words, blowing through the forest and making the trees bend and groan at its forceful touch. With their branches creaking in protest as they shook off their snow-covered burdens to the ground, it sounded as if the entire forest was slowly coming alive—like a giant yawning into wakefulness.
It was a soft, almost-musical ching-ing sound playing in their ears though that each boy looking around for the cause. Jack spotted them first: thin, delicate, crystalline icicles swaying slightly as they hung down the length of the butcher stall's roof, glittering iridescently in the sunlight. The sudden blast of cold air must have splintered their thin structure. The cracking of ice splitting the air was the warning they gave as the icicles snapped and plummeted towards the ground in a rain of translucent, shimmering shards.
They embedded themselves right at the feet of Henry and Nathaniel, and while the icicles wouldn't have hurt them even if they had fallen on them—a hard conk on the head that was sure to sprout a lump at the most—the two boys jumped so high it was a wonder they didn't tear their breeches and took off running, screaming in a manner Jack had only heard his mother do when she had seen a mouse scurry across her floorboards.
Jack doubled over laughing at the sight, leaning heavily on his staff to keep his balance. Finally catching his breath, he looked at the last boy left.
A silent staring contest was held between them for some time.
"What meat would you be wanting then?" Anthony Hawkins was the first to give in.
Snowflakes started to rain down in a gentle flurry. Jack took them as a sign of victory.
"Lamb," Jack grinned lopsidedly.
oOo
It had been a good day. Lydia had made a nice, juicy mutton stew that the Overlands had enjoyed before she had forced Jack to stand on a stool so she could drape the material of the governor's wife's dress over him to pin the folds down and take appropriate measurements.
Jack had stood there sulking with arms outstretched like a scarecrow, while his mother teased him endlessly ("aren't you looking more beautiful than the Queen of England herself"). But the best part had been Emma looking on as she giggled and clapped her hands, practicing her curtsey in front of him and saying "would you like some more cider, Your Majesty?"
When Jack staggered to his room late that evening, his mother having finally releasing him from the confinements of the gown, Emma was asleep on her side of the bed they shared. Jack smiled, glad that whatever had been bothering her early that morning had vanished. Putting on his nightshirt, he tucked himself in beside her and listened to her soft, steady breathing until his eyelids grew heavy.
Then right before he was about to drift off, a speck of gold flashed in the darkness of the room. Jack bolted upright peering sharply into the inky blackness, certain he had caught of glimpse of Pitch Black's eyes in the shadows.
Another flash of gold appeared, then another, then another, until he realized it wasn't the reflection of someone's eyes at all, but what looked like thousands of shimmering particles of golden dust, streaming straight through the closed window from outside, and drifting through the air towards the children's bed.
Jack looked on mesmerized by the beauty of it, wondering what it could be—certainly not moonbeams—before he noticed it spiraling down close to Emma's head. He shot his hand out without thinking, trying to brush the golden dust away unsure of its intentions. The dust swirled about before condensing into the shape of an odd sort of fish. At least he assumed it was a fish; he recognized fins and a tail, but the rest of its body was rather strange. The gleaming dust-fish leaped around him in circles doing back flips the likes of which he had never seen except for one ensnared on a fisherman's hook. Jack sat back puzzled. This glowing dust seemed harmless enough, although he still had no clue what it was.
He didn't try to stop it this time as it floated above Emma's head weaving and spinning until it finally crafted itself into two small figures: a boy and girl playing hopscotch. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he recognized the sight.
"Oh, how sweet," whispered an all-too familiar silky voice in his ear.
Jack bit back a strangled yelp as he nearly tumbled out of bed in surprise. Clutching the covers and willing his heartbeat to slow down to normal, he scowled at his unwelcome visitor in the night.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Really, I thought we had discussed all this last time, Jack," Pitch Black leveled a mocking, disappointed glance his way. "I patrol the night. It is the best time to utilize my… skills."
"Yeah? I don't see anyone in this room frightened by you," Jack said. He may have been startled earlier by the Boogeyman's sudden appearance, but he felt heartened to see that he was more annoyed in general at him than scared.
"Oh, believe me, if I wanting you shrieking in terror, you would be by now," Pitch chuckled darkly, sending shivers up Jack's spine. "I came to satisfy my curiosity and you have not disappointed me."
"What—" Jack began before looking back at the golden dust. "That. You can see it too?"
"I have always been able to see it, for far and too long," Pitch snarled, curling his lip up in disdain.
"What… what is it?" Jack asked.
Emma slept on undisturbed, a happy smile settling on her face as the two figures above her head continued their game of hop-scotch.
"Dreamsand," Pitch shared. "Courtesy of the Sandman, bringing children peace and reprieve in their sleep after all the harshness and horrors they have to endure while awake."
"The Sandman?" Jack echoed, dimly remembering his mother telling stories about him when he was younger. "He's real?"
"As real as I am," Pitch declared. "I was beginning to wonder if I was the only one you could see. You were ill for quite some time, so let my fearlings feed elsewhere, and you fell asleep too early last night and missed his arrival. But now I know," needle-pointed teeth flashed wickedly. "You can see us."
Somehow Jack got the impression Pitch wasn't just talking about himself and the Sandman. "How many… like you… are there?" he breathed out warily. Golden sand that brought dreams was one thing, but if there were other beings like Pitch, worse than Pitch… Jack shuddered to imagine what they could do.
"Now, Jack, you were doing so well. We were holding a civil conversation. Don't add flavor to the mix so abruptly. You'll make them… hungry," Pitch chided, his tongue flicking out briefly over grey lips.
The darkness in the room seemed to be expanding. The air felt thicker, heavier. The shadows in the far corners began to stir restlessly as they stretched several black tendrils outward in search of their prey.
"Enough," Pitch said smoothly. With a snap of his fingers, the tendrils hastily retreated back into the shadows although the tense, heavy pressure in the air did not lift. "Such petulant children," Pitch laughed throatily, his voice dripping with amusement as he gripped Jack's shoulder with his slender fingers and squeezed. "You can't have this one. Not tonight at least. Not when he's been such a good boy lately."
Jack pushed away the man's hand, wincing at the bruise he felt forming. "What are you talking about? You—you didn't just come here to find out if I could see the dreamsand, did you?" he asked.
"You're a clever lad, Jack. I'm sure you'll figure it out," Pitch said, a smile splitting his face: a truly pleased, triumphant smile.
If the Boogeyman was happy about something, that couldn't be a good thing, Jack decided. What though? What had he done to cause such malevolent glee within him? There was nothing he had done all day that could be the reason. Nothing, except for…
"You liked that I told them about you," Jack stated slowly, trying to comprehend the significance of coming to this conclusion.
"It is always a pleasure to hear someone sing praises about me," Pitch crooned rather smugly. "I do think you over-exaggerated a bit much particularly my features, however, overall it was spot on appraisal of my abilities." His was jutting his chin up high, his chest was puffed out and both his arms were crossed behind his back. With the way his feather-like hair crested to a point, the Boogeyman resembled every inch of a proud rooster crowing about his own ego. It was a ridiculous image, but one he could not un-see.
Something began tickling at the base of Jack's throat. He could feel it trying to work its way upwards and force itself out. Balling his hand into a fist, he pressed it to his mouth and tried his best to fight it back, but it was no use. A strangled snort escaped from his nose involuntarily, and laughter erupted from his lips. He shut them tight immediately to muffle the sound lest he wake Emma, but he could not stop his body from shaking with silent laughter.
"Do, pray tell, Jack, what exactly you find so extraordinarily funny," Pitch sneered, his voice giving off a dangerous edge.
Jack swallowed down the laughter that threatened to bubble over again. He didn't think the Boogeyman would take kindly to him explaining how unintimidating he had looked just then. "Nothing," he said quickly, scrambling for an excuse when Pitch narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Nothing, it's just… are you going to do this every night now? Pop in for a… chat?"
Apparently, Pitch took offense to his light-hearted tone. One second Jack was sitting upright in bed, the next he found himself shoved backwards, his head pinned tightly to his pillow and a grey-skinned hand around his neck applying gentle pressure in warning.
"You seem to be under the mistaken impression that my visitation here is amiable," Pitch stated coolly. "Allow me to make myself clear, these are my orders: you will continue to tell the villagers about me, whether true or made-up, I do not care, but you will," the hand around Jack's neck pressed down harder, "spread the glad tidings of my existence for all to hear. And if you happen to come across any other spirit such as myself, you are not to speak to them. Pretend you don't see them. Ignore them entirely. And I will know if you disobey me. Did you understand all that, Jack?"
Trapped in the Boogeyman's firm hold, like a mouse between cat's paws, Jack felt very small and helpless. He tried to turn his face away to escape those golden eyes burning with such intense malice, but the hand around his neck slid up the length of his throat to capture his chin in crushing grip.
"I need an answer, Jack," Pitch said, dangerous and cruel.
Looking up at the dark, menacing figure hovering over his bed, pinning him down so effortlessly, hearing the faint rustling of the shadows in the corners beyond his field of vision, a surge of anger shot through Jack at being so weak. "What happens if I say 'no'?" he asked, trying to find some footing of control over his predicament.
He expected anger. He expected getting beaten and tossed to the shadows even. That was fine by Jack. He'd rather take any punishment than become the Boogeyman's puppet.
The grin that broke out across Pitch's face—a condescending and terrifying grin—was unexpected.
"Oh, Jack," Pitch sighed, shaking his head. "So troublesome, so rebellious. We'll have to work on that."
Then without warning, Pitch stretched out his free hand and inserted one slim, grey finger into the golden sand that was still swirling above the sleeping Emma's head.
The radiance of the sand began to fade until every last speck of gold had transformed into black as the dream collapsed inwards and a new scene played out. The boy and girl silhouettes had reformed in this new black sand, but they were no longer playing hopscotch. They were reaching out towards each other, yet neither one was taking any steps, and Jack realized in horror what he was watching a split second before the boy figure dissolved into nothing.
A wail fell from Emma's mouth as she began to thrash about on the bed, ensnared by the throes of her nightmare.
"Stop it! What are you doing? Stop it now!" Jack shouted, struggling to break free from his captor's hold.
"I can't," Pitch said simply, grabbing the flailing boy's wrists in both hands. "But you can. Wake her up. Show her you're alright." He pressed his face close to Jack's. "But first you need to agree to my terms."
Broken whimpers filled the air as tears streamed down Emma's cheeks from her closed eyes. The little girl figure above her head was hunched over holding her head as she rocked back and forth in despair.
Jack swallowed hard. "If I do everything you said will you leave her alone?"
"But of course, Jack," Pitch said looking almost offended at the boy's distrust. "There are plenty of other children in this village to frighten. I only ask two simple tasks of you. Keep them and your sister will remain untouched. So, do we have a deal?"
Jack didn't think twice. "Deal," he said sharply.
His wrists were released immediately. Pitch was smiling triumphantly. "That's my boy," he cooed, smacking Jack's cheek lightly in mock-gesture of affection before melting backwards into the darkness. "Remember, Jack," his voice called out, "my fearlings are everywhere. They are always watching. You can't escape them."
Then he was gone and Jack was shaking his sister and calling her name. Emma awoke gasping and shivering violently as if she had been left too long in the snow.
"J-Jack!" she cried throwing her small arms around him and curling up into his warmth. "Y-you were d-dead. Y-you drow-owned…"
"Shhh," Jack murmured, petting her hair soothingly. "Hey, I'm right here. It's alright. It was just a bad dream."
"Don't die," Emma pleaded, her words muffled from her face buried in the front of his nightshirt. Her tiny hand dropped down to clutch his tightly. "Please don't die."
"I'm not going anywhere, Emma, I promise," Jack swore.
He held her close, whispering nonsense rhymes in her ear to calm her, until she drifted back into an uneasy slumber. Once he was sure she was asleep, he scooped up a handful of the black sand leftover from Emma's nightmare and let it sift through his fingers.
"I promise," he whispered into the night.
He would beat Pitch at his own game. He didn't know how just yet, but he knew he was not going to let the Nightmare King have his way.
To Be Continued…
A/N: Five months since I updated. I can't even say I had writer's block since I knew what would happen in this chapter and where I want to go with the story. I scared myself not writing for so long. Sorry for leaving anyone who was reading in the loop for so long. But hey, it's nice to see the ROTG fandom has expanded so much! Wow, look at all these wonderful fics! There's so many! And I love the crossovers with the Big Four! (Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons). Rock on, fandom, you're so creative!
Anyway, foreshadowing! Yay! *wants to say more but really shouldn't* Anyway, you know that statue in the middle of Burgess where Jamie gets hit by the couch? It has a slab dedicated to the founder of Burgess called Thaddeus Burgess in 1798, which I'm pretty sure is a typo, because it is stated that Jack is 318 years old and that math doesn't add up. I think the year was 1698 when Burgess was formed. It fits the time line better as well as the clothing worn by the villagers in the movie. Like I said, last chapter, the year this fic takes places is roughly 1712. I don't know if I'll have Thaddeus in the tale or not. I know some people think he became governor of Burgess, but all the slab says is that he built the first log cabin there. If I do decide to put him in, Thaddeus will just be another villager. I looked up all the governors for the different settlements in Pennsylvania in 1712; way too many to keep track off, so I made up my own governor's name.
And Pitch. Pitch and Jack, I know people are wondering about the dynamics of their relationship. I think at this point, Jack is becoming more relaxed every time Pitch turns up. I guess it's sort of like jumping every time a stray firecracker goes off by your feet, but after enough of the same incident, you get used to it. So, yeah, I wouldn't call it friendship just yet, but Jack was beginning to actually be cordial to Pitch like you would if you saw a daily acquaintance and Pitch went all, "you dare have fun in my presence, fear my power". Pitch, stop that. I really can't wait to show how their bond develops and strengthens.
And I have rambled too long. I'll really try and get the next chapter out sooner. I actually had to cut some scenes out of this chapter, because they would fit better in what's coming next. Hopefully, the next chapter won't be so long in length. I want to update at least once a month. I think I can manage that.
I hope you have enjoyed reading this! Please review and share your thoughts. I love hearing what you liked best and it's the only reward a fanfic author gets. Thank you!^^