Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians. Dreamworks and William Joyce does.

Ch. 7 Between Awake and Asleep

When Jack woke up, it was without warning and lack of the usual sluggishness that clung stubbornly to his body. One moment he was asleep and the next, fully conscious and alert, upright in bed, any dreams he might have had in the night not just faded but erased entirely.

The first thing he was achingly aware of was the coldness.

It spread along his limbs and torso in a brutal, chilling way, like one who had been out in the snow for too long. Jack lifted his hands up on instinct, examining them in the pale, grey light of the early morning, not sure what he would find. Little pinpricks from mishaps with sewing needles dotted all over his fingers and his nails were a bit scuffed with flecks of dirt clinging to them (his mother would scold him if she saw), but they looked normal.

Jack exhaled slowly in relief…

And a white puff of air burst from his lips, cool and crisp as a breeze on a wintry day.

Jack stared at it wide eyed, even as it evaporated and then turned his head to stare at the fireplace in his room, which was still kindling, albeit low, but nonetheless, still doing an adequate job at putting heat out.

It was him. He was cold, not the room.

Something in the deep recesses of his mind whispered for him to touch his windowpane so Jack did watching trance-like as frost appeared around the edges of his fingertips, then slowly spread out across the glass in a shimmering blanket of ice crystals, the pink flesh of his fingers looking as if he had dipped them in his mother's blue cloth dye.

Jack jerked his hand away and scrambled away from the window, off the bed.

The floorboards under him transformed into magnificent ice carpets the moment his feet touched their surface.

Jack flung himself down in front of the fire, throwing more wood onto the dying flames in a frenzy, urging it to burn faster, stronger, burn the unnatural right out of his body.

As the flames rose, so did Jack's fear. He could feel the warm blaze of the fire, knew it should feel hotter than it did; knew he should be sweating by now, but there was nothing. The fire's heat felt like the kiss of the sun on a pleasant summer's day on his skin. His body was cold enough to emit frost at anything he touched—he should be freezing. But he felt normal and there was no explanation for how this monstrous irregularity had awoken inside him.

You can see spirits because you fell through the ice, Pitch's words floated back to him.

Pitch. Last night! What had happened last night?

Jack struggled to recall, but there was a wide gap in his memory between now and then. The last thing he remembered was the frost crawling up the length of his staff. He had thrown it down and then… then what?

My dear boy, as I have been also, you too, have been cursed.

oOo

"C-Cursed?" Jack stuttered.

"Mmmm, you can thank the Man in the Moon for that," Pitch hummed as he bent and picked up a fragment from the clash between his and the boy's powers. He held it up to night sky as if beckoning the moon to see its handiwork, noting with interest a small splinter of his shadows was trapped with the ice. "How curious…"

"I d-don't und-ders-stand," Jack got out through chattering teeth. There was a different type of coldness other than the chill of night running beneath his skin, coursing through his veins, strumming to explode if he wasn't careful.

"Oh, it's quite simple, Jack," Pitch said tossing the fragment up and down in the air with a flick of his wrist. "Think of it as one of those bedtime stories all you children love to hear. Once upon a time, there lived a Man in the Moon who fancied himself guardian of the people on this world. So he granted powers that be to any particular individuals that caught his attention. Those with a noble heart and good intentions; those that put others in peril above themselves; those who possess a strong devotion to friendship and spreading happiness," Pitch grimaced at the last word before smirking. "I'm not sure why he thought you would fit that role. Your loyalty is limited to a few."

Even though his fear and panic was overwhelming, Jack couldn't help but be incredulous. "And he chose y-you?"

The look on Pitch's face was somewhere between appalled and indignant. "My curse was granted another way," he hissed. "But our fates are still the same. Do you know what the catch is being a Guardian? To be granted these miraculous abilities? After all, you were placed on this earth to protect people, to guide them when they're lost, to be their steadfast light and hope in times of darkness. You can't just disappear on them now, can you?"

Pitch sounded almost giddy. Dread knotted in a lump at the back of Jack's throat. He thought he might know the price of the moon's power, but he feared to speak it out loud lest it come true.

All those tales his mother loved to tell, about the ancient myths…

The Arthurian Knights and the Holy Grail.

Nicholas Flamel and his alchemy.

Enoch in the Bible, of which Father Goodall praised as a figure one should aspire to, one who walked straight up to Heaven with the Almighty Himself.

Ino, Psyche, Dionysus, even Hercules, and many more of the ancient Greeks whom the gods favored and granted…

"No," Jack whispered.

Pitch nodded in satisfaction at the horror on the boy's face. "Sometimes I wonder what they all felt, watching those they loved grow old and die, go to somewhere that they themselves can never follow. Then again, they can't have been too distraught the way they carry on with their duties so faithfully. In being a Guardian, you eventually lose your past self as well. Another unforeseen consequence."

"Oh," Pitch laughed, glancing up at the moon then back at the shivering boy standing in the snow, looking wraith-like in the silvery light bathing down on him. "Forgive me if I've overstepped my boundaries, but since it has been several weeks from your Choosing and he obviously hasn't informed you of the repercussions should you be lax on the job, allow me." A malevolent grin spread across thin, grey lips. "Not only will you have to watch those around you fade from time and out of your life completely, you yourself will never die, whether or not your youth remains or you age up—that depends on your heart. And on top of that, Jack," Pitch crooned. "If enough people stop believing in you, turn away from that wondrous center you were Chosen for, little by little, you'll fade away too. Only it won't be the sweet embrace of Death that comes for you. You'll just be erased, like you never existed entirely."

Despair was a sharp ache, stinging and deep and twisting inside Jack, constricting his lungs so it was difficult to breathe. He felt like he was suffocating and all the while, the frigid coldness beneath his skin burned accusingly. He imagined there was ice in his veins, every beat of his heart allowing the shards to travel further within him until he would slowly freeze over and become an ice statue, a translucent and hollow monument for all to see.

The shadows around Pitch stretched forward hungrily.

Long, spindly fingertips and the smooth palm of a grey hand slapped his cheek lightly, snapping Jack out of his morose daydream for the moment.

"None of that, Jack," Pitch's voice rumbled in warning. "You still have to carry out your part of our bargain."

Jack heaved a giant breath back into his chest. The coldness seemed to dissipate somewhat. "Did you know?"

"Know?" Pitch echoed. "Did I suspect you might have been Chosen when I found you could see me? No. I thought you were a mortal that had caught a glimpse of the Elysium Fields and whose eyes had now been opened to the other realm. It happens occasionally."

Jack recalled Farmer Pratchett who was struck by lightning and to this day, still claimed he could see angels. He wondered now if it was true.

"No, I had no idea really that you had been marked for this cruel fate until you created this," Pitch said, curling his free hand over the black ice fragment covetously. "This is a thing of beauty, Jack, terrible and wonderful all at once. Why," he chuckled. "They'll believe in both of us—anyone who sees this." A dark gleam shone in his golden eyes. "The things we can build together—"

"I'm not working with you."

The words fell off Jack's lips faster than his mind could react to stop them.

Pitch only smiled amused. "Jack, you really don't have any choice in the matter now, do you?"

"That pact was for me to spread tales so people could fear you—you," Jack emphasized with a low, growing anger that was beginning to blot out the despair. "If we use that," he pointed at the shadow shard. "People will fear me too and that's not what I want."

"Really, so tell me, Jack," Pitch said, his voice ringing with petty arrogance. "What is your center? The trait you were Chosen for to be a symbol of light and hope. Do you know? Because unless you do, and unless you act on it swiftly, you will start to fade. That's what comes in the contract, the small print at the very bottom. Then again, maybe it will be easier for you this way. You'll fade first before anyone you love, and that way you won't have to watch helplessly as they grow old and cross over. And the best part is, you won't have to worry about them grieving wretchedly for you—they'll have forgotten you were even part of their lives."

"Shut up!" Jack shouted, wishing he hadn't cast his staff aside. He wanted to swing the crooked end down and smash Pitch's face in for the horrible lies he was spouting.

Everything he had said so far—it had all been a trick to rouse fear in him. To make him do what Pitch wanted. This was all for Pitch's gain.

But Pitch hadn't even known about the creation of shadow shards before tonight.

Jack ran a hand through his hair, a myriad of emotions: anger, fear, denial, all churned inside him with such intensity he felt ill. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to find temporary escape from the present—there it was again, that white light from before, pale and vulnerable, yet flickering stubbornly in the same way a freshly kindled fire's flame would.

Was this too a part of his curse? It felt so familiar…

A hand gripped his chin roughly. "Don't shut me out, Jack."

Jack's eyes shot open.

Pitch stared down at him in the oddest mixture of shock and confusion.

What must he look like? What did he see?

Jack had a fast and loose tongue. His father used to reprimand him for always speaking before thinking.

"Did it happen with you?" he asked, remembering the golden locket and smiling portrait of the young girl. "Did you forget who you were… your family?"

A low, guttural snarl of fury was the only warning he received before he was slammed backwards into the snow with enough force to knock the breath out of him, then hauled upright from the front of his shirt by a pair of massive shadow claws, and left to dangle a good few inches off the frozen ground.

His head was reeling, the world spun dizzily, and the collar of his shirt was digging uncomfortably into the skin of his neck, making it more difficult for him to draw air back into his bruised chest.

"I don't need your pity! Do you think yourself all so noble and above me now that I've given you some insight regarding what has happened to you ever since your broke through the ice on that lake? You think you can find your center without me?" Pitch demanded, shaking the boy for emphasis. "You couldn't even protect the children in this village from their darkest fears and nightmares without crawling to me first! Even then, you had to carve out an angle for yourself… selfish, ungrateful brat!"

Jack was dropped unceremoniously in the snow… his staff only a foot away.

He reached out his hand, fumbling for it in the snow, not quite sure what he was going to do with it—he just wanted the security he felt when it was in his grasp. However, he was still short of breath and bit dazed. His motion was sloppy.

A long, overbearing sigh sounded over his head and he felt the material on the back of his wool cloak bunch up as a hand clenched it tightly and hauled him to his feet.

"Stop this nonsense, Jack, it's tiresome," Pitch drawled. "I can see this was all too much for one small mortal boy to handle in one night. I should have broken the glad tidings more gently." Needle-pointed teeth curved into a wicked grin. "Why don't you sleep on the offer instead of rejecting it outright? Take some time to think on it. Pitch Black and Jack… Frost. Has a nice ring to it, don't you agree?"

Jack saw the slim, grey hand reaching out towards his face, knew it was futile, but continued to kick and struggle, determined to make things as punishing as possible for Pitch in the long run.

"Impudent boy," Pitch said almost affectionately, the tip of his forefinger coming to rest on the crown of Jack's head.

It wasn't so much as falling asleep as it was slipping into unconsciousness. First, his limbs became heavy and numb before going limp completely. He would have fallen down where he stood except for Pitch's firm grip on him. Next was his mind slowing down—all the chaos and fright bouncing around in his head settling into a quiet calm. Then it was difficult to think or care in general that he was totally at Pitch's mercy.

He could see the fearlings from the corners of his eyes darting out to nip at his skin, their whisperings for him to sleep mingling with the low crooning reverberating from Pitch's throat. For a moment, what little vestiges of consciousness Jack had left made him think the spirit was purring.

No, he was humming something. A song… no, a lullaby. Was he even aware he was doing it?

The tune was so familiar and if he only had enough time, Jack could probably recall what it was, but his vision was darkening and reality was dissolving into oblivion.

His eyelids drooping, Jack's gaze lowered with them and spotted the tiny tooth fairy curled up in shivering ball in snow. It was going to freeze. It was so helpless… like him.

The lullaby's humming stopped as Pitch followed the boy's gaze. "Ah, never fear, Jack. I'll give it a special place as my guest for awhile, that's all."

"Not the shadow cage…" Jack slurred. "Not again. Too dark…"

The last thing he saw before falling into the beckoning blackness was the startled face of the Nightmare King shaken for some reason by his words.

oOo

That night Jack dreamed though he remembered nothing in the morning.

He was floating in the sky, not flying, but riding a cloud. An honest to goodness fluffy, white cloud! He rolled over on his back, enjoying the cushiony softness, and gazed at the twinkling stars above, trying to spot the constellations his father had pointed out to him so long ago.

A shimmering glow from the edge of his vision drew his attention away and he turned his head to see a spectral boy standing on the opposite end of the cloud staring back. He glistened brilliantly in the moonlight and his hands he held a staff with a glowing white stone at the end. He raised one arm in silent greeting and Jack tentatively returned the gesture not sure what to make of the newcomer.

"Hello?" Jack called out. "Who are you? Do you want to come closer?"

The spectral boy shook his head as his soft laughter split the air. Billowing curtains of mist rose up from the cloud to cloak the figure away from Jack's prying eyes. A lullaby drifted from behind the veil of mist, one he had heard many times before. It was a gentle melody, wistful and full of hope at the same time.

It was important, but Jack had forgotten the words and he yearned to know them once more.

"Can you tell me what I need to remember?" Jack asked.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhh," came the quiet chastise of the spectral boy. His silhouette, illuminated by the moonbeams shining down, could be seen holding a finger to his lips.

Then Jack's end of the cloud was sinking down to earth and he cried out in dismay, reaching back to the shimmering figure above. The mist had disbanded, the moon had drifted behind a rolling blanket of clouds further up, and the spectral boy looked more like a ghost now: pale and gaunt, a wisp of fog in the dim light, like he might be

blown away

by even

the slightest breeze.

To Be Continued…

A/N: Me writing this, "am I writing Pitch too dark? He's evil but like I'm making him diva shadow villain evil, idk. Does he monologue too much? Am I just headcanon-ing how possessively twisted he is?"

Also me, rereads Bk2 of Guardians and bursts out laughing at this scene: Pitch smiled malevolently at the spectral boy. "I'll turn you into my Fearling Prince," he threatened. "Now you will be mine. You kept me imprisoned for centuries. Day after day, year after year, I dreamed of revenge..."

Pitch plz. Pitch, shtap, omg.

It's all true, kiddos. All those fanarts and other fanfics portraying him as obsessive stalker. He is. It's in all the books, not just 2. Canon bby. The only other character who can out-diva him in dramatics is Maul from Star Wars Rebels. Lmao. Their personalities are so similar I CANNOT.

Rabbit-trail aside, ok, this chapter became more meta than I imagined and I might have a bit more Guardians in this fic than I thought. My muse does what it wants. But srsly, you'll be ok if you haven't read the books. The next couple of chapter is back to Burgess and the people. Christmas is coming up in this tale soon so yay, maybe we'll see Jolly Ole St. Nick!

The Elysium Fields Pitch was referring to are what the ancient Greeks thought of as the afterlife, their special paradise where those who were moral, heroic or chosen by the gods to dwell there got to live in contentment to their heart's desire. You ever heard that saying, "each man dreams his own heaven?" Bam! Elysium Fields, 10/10 Greeks would recommend.

Can anyone guess the lullaby (well, it's actually a nursery rhyme) that Jack is struggling to remember? You'll learn next chapter.

If you want to leave a review and can't think of what to say, I love hearing what your favorite parts were so far. Until next time!