A/N: If long chapters aren't your thing, I apologise. Cause this thing is long. I really need to give myself a word limit. Just think of it as a parting gift while I knuckle down over the next few weeks!

Reviews:Please keep dropping them in, I love hearing from my readers. Holler if you're still out there!

Crossover Junkie: Well that's a relief. If everything is making sense, or is at least believable then I can run this off a happy woman. Yes! I love playing Jack and Pitch off each other. I think Jack keeps making an appearance just because I like their dynamic so much. 'I Fought the Law'... yes that just about sums both of them up, especially North.

Skyress1: Big shout out to you, lovely!

The roar of this destructive wind was deafening. It intruded on what had become a sanctuary, bringing with it hale, sleet and snow that reduced the homely retreat to chaos. Pitch instinctively tried to shield Valentina. He buried his face in her hair, clutching her to him when an icy blast fired shards of glass from the broken window their way.

Around them, everything came crashing down. First the music box clanged apart in a smattering of gears and screws, then bottles of L'amour were dropped one by one to the floor, and Pitch was helpless to stop it. His nightmare sand was useless against the forces of nature. It could only provide him with a means of not letting the furniture of all things crush them to death. The bookcase that loomed above where they were sprawled teetered and almost toppled on to them. It would have done so too, had he not conjured a makeshift support beam. The books, however… he was willing to wager whoever was of the opinion that sticks and stones were all that could break bones had obviously never taken an encyclopedia to the head.

The blows just kept coming - quite literally. The wind was more powerful than either of them would have thought possible and it seemed to ebb slightly, only return with a vengeance. They braced themselves for yet another onslaught as the wind drew breath, taking a moment to build upon itself.

Seizing the opportunity this lull presented, Valentina broke her arm free and threw it out blindly, commanding Cupid to protect them. The vaporous soul fragment spread and solidified, creating an impenetrable barrier that kept the storm at bay. It was a bubble of tranquility in the tempest, though the wind could faintly be heard trying to batter it down. Valentina flexed her fingers and the shield expanded, driving the gale back out through the open window and sealing it up. Drawing her arm back in to her chest to conserve heat while she trembled from the cold, she maintained the magic by will of her concentration alone.

In response to the silence a sense of resignation settled over Pitch, and with it exhaustion. In all his years he'd never been one to back down from a fight, not by choice at least. But this attack had been something personal with a motive that ran deeper than mere spite, and in light of everything he now knew he could take an educated guess as to who the perpetrator might be. The thought of it hurt him. More than his aching body, and more than his stinging eyes. This pain was a sickness that writhed in his stomach and gripped his cold heart. It tired him, wore him thin like paper. He tried to convince himself on a whim that if they stayed still enough on the ground, if he closed his eyes tight enough, he could cling to Valentina and everything else would just go away.

"Pitch?"

Unfortunately such whims held no place in reality. He opened his eyes to meet Valentina's concerned expression as she gently shook his shoulder. She'd recovered from the shock more quickly than he had, but it didn't stop him from brushing the disheveled hair from her face to ensure there were no signs of injury.

"Are you alright?" he asked, reluctantly releasing her.

She gave a small nod and replied, "I'm okay," though she winced when she tried to sit up. "Just cold. What about you?"

"Slight headache," he admitted as he also tried to prop himself up, "I'll be fine though." He'd been cradling his forehead the entire time, taking little notice of the damp beneath his fingers. He was yet to register the extent of his injuries, having acquired a deep cut dangerously close to his temple. It was noticed by Valentina, who was alarmed to see him bleeding.

"No, you're not. You're hurt," she gasped, moving his hand and pushing the wayward strands of hair that had fallen in his face back to their raven crest.

Catching a glimpse of the dark fluid smeared on his fingers, he recoiled in a panic before she could take a closer look. "No!" He warded her off and covered the gash. When she narrowed her eyes at him he tried to regain his composure. "No," he repeated, more calmly this time, "don't. It's nothing."

She fixed him a stern look and squared her shoulders. "That is not nothing. Let me see."

"Valentina, I swear it is, I'll deal with it later."

"Pitch."

"Just leave it alone!" He snarled when she reached out again. The resulting aggression was enough for Valentina to snatch her hand away, wide eyed and afraid he might just bite it clean off. He realised how he must have looked to her and immediately regretted lashing out, but he couldn't let her see this.

Her shoulders sank in regret of her own as she concluded she'd pushed too far. Again. "Okay," she said, demurely, "I will." Having being distracted, Cupid wavered and she flicked a hand out to reinforce the barrier.

Though there was trepidation between them they did help each other to their feet, with Pitch making sure his hand stayed to his forehead. They glanced around at the decimated room and took stock of what remained. A few bottles were scattered here and there, but for the most part everything Valentina had been compiling for the past few weeks was destroyed.

"It's all gone," she whispered, collecting pieces of shredded notes. Picking her way over to the desk, she saw the once organised clutter was now in turmoil. She sifted through the mess to find anything worth recovering (there was none), and had to take care not to cut herself on the assorted broken glassware. The drapes that had hung by the window were strewn over her chair, and she gathered them to a disorganised fold in her arms to better see what might be hidden underneath.

With a splintering crash the door was forced open. Valentina yelped and jumped behind Pitch who responded instantly by firing off a barrage of nightmare sand at the intruder. His attack was deflected by a sabre carved from ice.

"Stop! Stop," came the gravelly command through the black cloud.

"Pitch, it's North," Valentina realised as the disgruntled toymaker was revealed in the doorway. Two or three yetis crowded behind him, acting as back up.

Though North had made himself known to be friend rather than foe, Valentina still clutched the bundle to her. For some irrational reason she didn't want to let it go.

"Was that necessary?" the cossack demanded.

"Was that?" Pitch retaliated with an aggravated gesture to the chipped door. "Had you actually tried the handle you would have realised it wasn't locked, and I wouldn't be wasting my energy."

"There is still no need to maim or seriously injure," he retorted.

Pitch gave a mirthless chuckle. "Well, barging in here minutes after we're attacked means you obviously feel like testing my reflexes and have a death wish I'd only be too happy to assist with."

With a quick glance around the room, North made a proper assessment of the destruction. "Katastrofa," he murmured, then turning to Pitch he said coolly, "I did not know it was attack. I heard explosion, I thought Jack or Val was in trouble so I came. I did not think you were still here." His roving gaze settled on the Guardian of Love. "Val, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she answered meekly, "but I won't be able to keep the shield up much longer." Behind her, Cupid flickered again.

He responded with an empathetic grunt. "And what is wrong with you?" North asked, eyeing the Boogeyman who still had a hand over his wound. It was obvious he was indifferent, and Pitch wasn't about to give reason for that to change.

"Nothing you need concern yourself with," he growled.

Content to leave their cold exchange at that, he went over to the window, crunching debris underfoot. He peered out, seeing nothing but the snowy, mountainous vista. "Val whatever was here is gone, you can take shield down."

More than a little relieved and perhaps a bit too recklessly, she allowed Cupid to vanish and leant against the desk while her strength returned. The gust that entered the room was still icy, but was by no means as strong as before. They were safe for now.

"What happened here?" North asked as he prodded the overturned furniture with the tip of his sword.

"There was a storm," replied Valentina wearily, "it was so strong it came through the window and took everything down with it."

"How is that possible?"

"Because it wasn't just a storm," came Pitch's lowly grunt. "There was someone controlling it."

Both North and Valentina looked sharply to him. "Why would someone try to attack Val?"

"It wasn't her they were after. It was me. Apparently, not only is my daughter alive and well, but so are her grievances," he hissed through the infernal throbbing of his head.

"Was anyone else hurt?" Valentina inquired of North. "What about Jack, was he down here?"

"No, he…" North realised he hadn't seen hide or hair of the winter sprite for several hours. "I don't know where he is."

He glanced at Valentina. It was hardly unusual for Jack to do as he pleased. He often came and went by Valentina's room, giving her a friendly holler (and a snide teasing to him if he happened to be there) on his way out or in. But for Jack to be out and about when Mother Nature was on a rampage did not bode well - he'd only just started to get used to the little git too.

"You said you saw him before we left," she reminded him.

"I did. But I didn't see him when we got back, did you?"

"No."

"Where have you been?" North interrupted, his suspicions mounting.

"Just to Paris, and back," Valentina told him, "Pitch convinced me to try doing what you said.

Eyes widened beneath bushy eyebrows. "You helped her?" He openly gaped at the fear spirit, who scowled faintly back.

"Yes," he confirmed snidely, "shocking, I know."

In a benchmark occasion, North's appraisal (which had only ever been stony, guarded and even loathsome in their long living rivalry) became something undeniably grateful - much to Pitch's chagrin. He stood stock-still, wondering at the Boogeyman who had done something to favour them. "You told her to take my advice?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?" He snapped, "I did it because I've been thinking the same thing and I wanted to help her, it had nothing to do with you or your advice." But nothing he could have said beyond this point would lessen that irritatingly jolly twinkle in the man's eye.

"Pitch, I never thought I would say this, but thank you," North said earnestly.

"Don't get used to it," he jibed.

Taking no notice of Pitch's displeasure at his amicability, North strode back over the upturned furniture to the door. "Get yourselves cleaned up, the others will be arriving soon. I am going to signal for them now."

"Oh, for the love of-" Pitch's lamentation broke off in an unintelligible groan. "There's no need! She's my daughter, I will handle it."

"We don't know who it is for sure, and if they are attacking North Pole, they attack all of us. Bathroom is down hall," he called as he left.

With an exasperated sigh, Pitch clenched and unclenched the hand that wasn't glued to his head. Just why the imbecilic team of Guardians had to be assembled when it barely concerned them was beyond him. Hadn't he endured enough already?

"Do you really think Emily Jane would do something like this?"

He turned to see Valentina slumped against the desk, surrounded by the mess of her work that he couldn't help but feel he'd had a hand in destroying. "It's possible," he evaluated in all seriousness. "Are… are you okay?" He felt like a complete ass, just standing there pathetically while she recovered, but he'd barred himself from getting any closer.

"I should be," she said, righting herself. She tried to stand tall, even physically keeping her chin up as she took a deep breath. But there was no mistaking that the entire fiasco had left her dispirited, made even worse by the way he was suddenly giving her the cold shoulder. "I don't think I can say the same for everything else."

She trudged past him and his lips set in a line as he silently cursed himself.

"Valentina?" he called before she reached the door.

She turned back around and her brow rose hopefully. "Yes?"

"The drapes."

"What?"

He gestured to the large bundle she held securely to her chest. "What are you doing with that?"

She looked down at it and seemed to snap out of a trance. Genuinely surprised to find herself still clutching it, she pulled the wad away and let it unravel to the floor. "I'm not sure," she admitted, and with a confused shake of her head, she turned to keep walking. "You better sort that cut out, I think the others are going to be here soon," she suggested coldly, before leaving him alone to determine if he'd sustained a concussion.

He couldn't get that image of her out of his head though. It stirred something in his subconscious, just out of reach. With the way she'd been holding it, the bundle it almost looked like… No. He shook his head and kicked aside a cushion as he stalked out of the room.

No, he was definitely concussed.

Valentina was making her way up to the globe room when Jack tumbled in through the sky light high above. Picking up her pace, she reached the landing just as he touched down.

"Jack!" she called, and he whirled around in a flurry of snowflakes to face her.

The first thing she noticed was that the frost spirit looked even more inspired by his namesake than usual. His white hair and eyelashes were encrusted with an abundance of tiny ice crystals, like he'd just been caught in a blizzard. There was snow collected in the hood of his jumper and the hems of his trousers were soaked through.

Before she could ask what on earth he'd been up to, he beat her with his own inquiry.

"Val? What happened to you?"

He was pointing to the frazzled disarray of her once neatly curled hair, no longer elegantly styled to the side, but pulled and tangled in all directions. Looking at her closely, he found minor grazes on all her limbs and even bruising that was beginning to show up.

"Was that Pitch? Damn it, I told him to do something fun, not something that would nearly kill you."

"This wasn't Pitch's fault," she sighed, brushing off her skirt and smoothing down the bodice, "not technically. Someone tried to attack him and I just got in the way."

His jaw slacked open. "While you were out? You're kidding, who was it?"

"No, it was here," she corrected him. "My room is completely wrecked, as is everything else I've been working on. We didn't see who it was, it was just a storm that came right through the window and took everything with it."

Jack stared at her with what she perceived as a vague sense of unease. "A storm? What, you mean like someone was controlling it?"

"Possibly. Pitch thinks there's a chance it might have been Emily Jane's doing, but we don't know for sure. I was worried you'd gotten caught up in it as well. But it would appear I was wrong," she observed, frowning slightly at his weathered appearance.

Ignoring her suspicious glance, he continued his bombardment of questions. "Do you mean as in his daughter, Emily Jane?"

"The one and only."

Jack looked askance for a split second. He twisted his staff between thumb and forefinger, eyes lowered as he pondered something that seemed to trouble him. "She would have to be really powerful to do something like that," he inferred.

"She is," Valentina agreed grimly, "I would say the amount of damage caused wouldn't be a stretch if you were someone like Mother Nature."

Jack had a naturally pale complexion, to the point where it was almost spectral, but at Valentina's utterance of that name it dulled and became ashen. He gasped as panic appeared to grip him.

"Are you hurt?" he asked urgently. "What about Pitch?"

Giving him a strange look, she informed him, "I'm sore, but nothing too bad. Pitch on the other hand…" She scowled. "The only thing he's worried about wounding is his pride, apparently,"

Surprised by her bitterness, and suddenly eager to change the subject, he asked carefully, "I take it the date didn't go so well?"

Her expression softened and in recollection she hugged her arms to herself. "No, it was wonderful. He was wonderful - and considerate, and a gentleman," she gushed.

"So what happened?"

"After the attack, it was suddenly like I had the plague and he wouldn't let me near him." Her expression then reverted itself back to the hardened scowl. "I don't know exactly how hurt he is, but if he doesn't want my help, then fine. He can deal with it himself," she huffed. "Enough about me and Pitch though. Where have you been? You look like something the wind blew in."

"Nowhere," he replied quickly. "Just out stirring up a blizzard in Norway."

She was sharply aware of how Jack shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting anywhere her's wasn't. "It's a bit late in the season for a blizzard there, isn't it?" She interrogated.

"Oh, you know," he laughed a little too forcefully, "I thought one more to last them a couple of weeks." This earned him a dubiously raised brow.

"Right," she nodded, unsure what to make of his strange behaviour, but none the less concerned for him. "Jack, is there anything you want to tell me?"

He seemed to shrink back under her scrutiny, but this time he met her eyes when he answered.

"Nope, nothing."

Jack was lying, she could tell. He was usually so open and forthcoming, and for him to be acting guarded immediately roused her suspicions. But she also knew there was no point in trying to push things further. He wouldn't divulge anything he didn't want to.

"Okay," she appeased carefully, "but if there is you can tell me. If you want to, that is. You know that, right?"

He appeared to be in two minds, and she wondered for a second whether or not he would take up the offer.

"I know." He replied after consideration. Apparently he was opting for the latter, and aside from doing nothing to settle her unease, she couldn't help but feel a little disappointed.

He was about to take off and find North, but not before he offered her some advice of his own. "Val, if Pitch is acting weird, it's probably not because of anything you did."

"Really?" She shot him a dubious smirk. "He seems to think so. Why else would he be acting like such jerk after being so… dare I say it, lovely?"

"Cause it's Pitch and kinda his job to be a jerk," he reminded her with a wry grin. "Also, he thinks his kid attacked him."

She could have kicked herself. Of course that would have to have something something to do with it. And here she was being self-centred while it was probably tearing him up inside. All because she was bitter over having come crashing down from the high of being enraptured by him

"Look whatever's going on, you don't have to worry about whether or not he likes you," Jack reassured her, seeming to read her thoughts.

"I'm not-"

"Even if you did do something, it'll figure out. He's got it bad for you, Val. Promise. I had to insult him even more than usual just to get his attention this morning; He couldn't keep his eyes off you." he snickered.

She was rendered speechless. Slowly, a blush began to brighten her cheeks, and she found herself smiling, much to her dismay. I'm supposed to be angry, not… swooning, she scolded herself. Jack shot her a mischievous grin and she almost laughed at how the tables had turned for her.

"You're going to put me out of a job, Jack Frost," she quipped, shaking her head at him.

"Nah, not really. I just like seeing Pitch happy," he chortled. "It's like watching a dog walk on its hind legs."

She guffawed as she made to go and find the aforementioned Boogeyman in the hopes of making amends, but was stopped.

'Val, just be careful. Alright?"

Her laughter subdued at his vague warning. "Of course," she assured him, despite her bafflement, "I always am."

"Right," he agreed, "I forgot who I was talking to."

She shot him a sarcastic smile, but then added sincerely, "Thank you, Jack. For everything."

When she walked away, Jack's friendly grin fell into a troubled frown he did not intend for her to see. He raked a hand through his hair.

"Don't thank me just yet," he murmured under his breath.

As Valentina approached the bathroom she was startled to hear pained grunts and hushed cursing coming from behind the closed door. She frowned as the noise became more distinct. It was definitely Pitch. She'd know that indignant voice anywhere and by the sounds of discomfort emanated, his head was giving him grief.

She just wanted to run in there and help, not twiddle her thumbs outside the door like a meek little mouse. Surely she was better than that? She stood at the end of the hall, her feet sinking into the plush carpet as she debated what to do.

It didn't make sense to her why he was trying to put as much physical distance between them as possible, when only an hour ago he'd been… well, all over her. As soon as she tried to reach out to him, he'd given her that look. Like something of a caged animal who had no qualms over biting the hand that fed it.

It always seemed to happen this way. As soon as she thought she was getting closer to understanding him, he'd contradict it all. And she would be left to mull things over and re-evaluate just how she'd managed to fall head over heals for the man. The Nightmare King no less! Apparently fear was a far more powerful aphrodisiac than she'd first thought.

As the Guardian of Love she should have known better. But she would be the first to admit that her heart had a way of ruling her head almost to a fault. Even in times such as these when he'd made himself perfectly clear that he didn't want her help…

She couldn't bring herself to leave.

"Pitch?" She rapped on the door. "Pitch, are you okay?" There followed silence a beat too long before he answered.

"I'm fine. Everything's fine."

Yeah, right, she thought to herself. "You might have a shot of convincing me if you'd open the door."

She could almost feel his scowl through the timber. "Valentina, for the last time-"

"Hiding in there isn't going to make anything better," she insisted, crossing her arms and leaning against the cold wood. Why did he have to make this so difficult? Honestly, he could be the most prideful, resolute-

"Please," came his muffled, indignant retort, "I'm the Boogeyman, I don't hide from anything. People hide from me."

How ironic. She almost spluttered from sheer incredulity. "So open up," she demanded, having enough of his brooding.

There was no response.

"…Pitch?"

Valentina flinched as a particularly loud yelp sounded from behind the door. Trying the handle in a panic, she found fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) he'd forgotten to snip the lock. She wrenched it open. And froze.

What in Manny's name…

What she found in the cramped amenity was nothing short of grotesque.

The side of Pitch's face was smeared with some ghastly tar-like substance in a dismal cleaning effort. The basin was similarly coated, as was the wash cloth that hung limply in his hand. This gunk was oozing slowly from the gash on the side of his forehead. At the sight of it she felt the contents of her stomach churn.

"Shit," was all she could say. A justified, if not completely helpful response.

Pitch was livid. He bristled and glared daggers at her, if only to compensate for the fact the he felt completely exposed. It just made him look all the more frightening.

"What did I tell you?" he hissed defensively as she gaped at him.

Of course she had to. Why he thought for a second that Valentina would relent was, in retrospect, a mystery. It was all he'd asked: Just one moment to sort out this bleeding - and he was bleeding quite a bit - mess he'd found himself in, knowing that for her to behold him in such a state would likely send her fleeing for the hills.

Her face blanched, and he could not tell if it was out nausea, repulsion, or both.

This is it, jeered his glum cynicism. This is when she finally understands the horror of what she's dealing with. Really, he was only surprised it hadn't happened sooner. There was no question she was going to run away, disgusted and abhorred.

Until she didn't.

To his astonishment, Valentina strengthened her resolve and marched right up to him. Her determination disarmed him completely and he stumbled in an ungainly fashion back into the wall.

"May I?" She asked, holding out her hand for the cloth. He gave it to her in a stupor.

She rinsed it out in the basin under warm water, and proceeded to gently try and clean from cheek bone to temple what he'd missed.

With the way he arched back from her - as though she were the one gushing bodily fluids - she had to lean over him just to reach. She planted a hand on the wall behind him so to steady herself, virtually pinning and trapping him there with no way to run and nowhere to hide.

And Pitch - poor, bewildered Pitch - could only stutter a breath as he tried to make sense of why she hadn't fled screaming like a banshee at the sight of him, let alone why she was now touching him. Granted, he had seen a moment of hesitation, but she'd snapped into action so quickly thereafter that his brain was still clunking into gear just to process exactly what had occurred.

"What…" he rasped, "are you doing?"

She shot him a wry smile. "You know, for someone so intelligent, you ask a lot of obvious questions. What does it look like I'm doing?"

He blinked at her, unable to come back with some snarky retort. Instead he chose to rephrase his question. "Why are you doing this, then?"

"Funnily enough, I don't want to see you keel over just yet, and while you've given this a gold star effort I think I can be of assistance," she answered drily.

She chewed her lip as she tried to scrub without taking half his face off; something she was sure he wouldn't thank her for. Pitch winced from the roughness of it, but to Valentina's surprise he did not complain. In fact he seemed rather shellshocked.

This stuff was incredibly difficult to remove and when it did, it came off in clumps as though it was trying to stay together, latching on to the cloth before she quickly rinsed it down the sink. The look of it made her skin crawl.

"Pitch, what exactly is this?"

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to avoid her gaze, a difficult task when she was inches from him.

"It's everything I am," he revealed reluctantly, "the manifestation of fear and darkness combined. It's my lifeblood, as are the shadows it's akin to."

She tilted her head in morbid fascination as the jet black raced down the plug hole, not quite moving with the water, but rather of its own accord. This was why he was acting so strangely. He had recoiled from her, not because he suddenly despised her, but because… he'd assumed the opposite?

"Is that why you freaked out before? Did you think I wouldn't be able to handle it?"

"Can you blame me? I thought you'd take one look and be away faster than I could blink." He crossed his arms over his chest and met her eyes with his sullen gaze. "If you cut me I don't exactly bleed. It hardly makes for an appealing trait to most."

In truth he was correct. This dark matter came very close in compelling her to shy away from Pitch in his distressing state. But stronger than whatever repulsion she could muster was the fact that she cared much too deeply for him to let it get the better of her.

"Spare me the melodrama," she tittered, picking up the bottle of antiseptic he'd been using and pouring a little on the cloth.

When she glanced back up she saw his dejection. The way he seemed to find a sudden fascination in his feet told her this was really something that bothered him. It made her heart twinge just a little. And for what? It wasn't like he could change it. It was just… him.

Oh Pitch, what am I going to do with you?

Forming an empathetic pout, she sighed and set the bottle down. "Pitch, it is what it is."

His mouth formed a cooked line and he glanced back at her beneath hooded eyes.

"Come on, do you really think I'm that superficial?"

He only quirked a brow in response. It wasn't that he thought that at all. No, he'd only been certain that she'd take one look at what was really inside him and throw any belief in his good nature aside. For how could light exist in pure darkness?

She raised her hand to his cheek, coaxing him to look at her, "I don't care what you're made of. What I do care is that you trust me to not be so fickle. I mean honestly!" She smiled wryly. "At this point I don't think there's much more you could do to really scare me off."

Perhaps that was the wrong thing to say.

Ever unpredictable, and renowned for his temperament to shift as unexpectedly at the shadows themselves, there emerged in Pitch a devilish smugness at the ambiguity of her throwaway comment. He gave a low chuckle. Striking quicker than a snake, he encircled her waist with one hand and pulled her to him swiftly, entrapping her with minimal effort. He leered down at her, a fiendish smirk playing on his lips.

"Is that a challenge, my dear?" He purred, tracing her jaw with a slender finger.

She told herself that she wasn't the least bit frightened. That despite her racing pulse, he was only reassuring her that he was regaining some semblance of his normal, quick-witted slyness.

Though, that fluttering could have more to do with the way he'd pressed himself to her.

"No!" She laughed, however this was tarnished by a nervous tremor.

Which he noticed. His teeth were revealed in a wicked grin.

"What I mean is…" What did she mean? All coherent thought was lost as he dazed her with those sulphuric eyes.

"Yes?" He urged her teasingly.

"I…"

"Do go on, darling," he drawled, throughly enjoying having her flustered, "I haven't got all day." He was hardly above enacting a little harmless payback, especially after she had insisted on so rudely barging in, and the blush that crept into her cheeks more than satisfactory.

"I… I don't mind your shadows."

His brow shot up and his hold slackened. He was not expecting her to say something like that, and as a result he shrunk back from his playful domineering.

She chanced a brief triumphant smirk. Instead his hand now merely rested at her hip, allowing her to twist around so she was facing the mirror hanging above the basin.

"I mean, look at me," she elaborated, "I'm nowhere near perfect. I look like a chipped teacup and the reason why is nothing to be proud of."

With his hand still lingering at her waist, he stood next to her and peered into the reflection. After such an ordeal, they really did look a frightful pair. His gaunt, grey face stared morosely back at him, his hair spiked up in an unruly shock, and he was now the proud owner of a gash that promised to leave a very obvious scar - a prospect that settled oddly with him.

Glancing at Valentina, her own face was drawn, tired and stressed now that she was back to square one. She was slight in comparison to his tall, lithe figure, and he could have sworn her fractures had darkened just a little. Yet she still captivated him. No matter how she looked, she would always be kind, stubborn, loving Valentina who still found ways to infuriate him, who hadn't written him off as something to be done away with.

"But if you managed to see past that," she said craning her neck to look up at him, "the least I can do take you for what you are. I'm not running anywhere. So would you let me take a look at that cut. Please? Before the blood loss goes to your head?"

Though her earlier boldness had left him somewhat impressed in a stunned sort of way, he was reclusive and self-preserving. As strange (and slightly hypocritical) as it might be considered, it was rare for him abide unsolicited contact, and her asking permission set him far more at ease. Slowly, a thin smile graced his lips.

"If that's what you really want," he conceded as he bowed his head to her. "But only because you do make for a rather fetching teacup."

She swatted at his arm with a begrudging smile before retrieving the cloth. "This may sting a little," she warned as she wrapped it once around two fingers.

Before he could dwell on it too much she dabbed the wound with the dreaded antiseptic. He gave a half suppressed yowl and sucked air through his teeth as he winced, which only made his already tender head throb even more so.

"I think… it's on fire," he rasped, and spat a string of colourful curses to follow

Although she didn't enjoy inflicting such discomfort in a process of necessary evil, Valentina did find herself suppressing a small laugh at his vulgarity.

"Sorry Pitch," she apologised, trying to clean the last of it, "but whatever Emily Jane was aiming for, she really managed to pull a number on you."

"I shouldn't be surprised," he groused, "she's become incredibly impulsive and highly unpredictable."

Valentina hummed an amused agreement. "Just like her Father, it would seem," she observed with mirth.

It wasn't until he slumped against the wall that she realised he'd been rendered catatonic.

Just like her Father… The words reverberated around his mind. The throbbing in his head increased tenfold.

Like her Father…

"Daddy!"

The raven haired girl came running down the hall towards where he was standing in the grand foyer, hazel eyes bright with an elated smile. He dropped to his knee and caught her as she leapt into his arms and hugged him tightly.

"I thought you were gone," she giggled as he picked her up, clinging to him like a monkey.

"And leave without saying goodbye? Never!" he exclaimed, planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Mummy said you had to go quickly," she reported with a pout. She looked mournfully over his shoulder to the beautiful, regal woman who watched them from a step behind through intelligent green eyes.

"I'm afraid Mummy is right," he confirmed sadly. His little girl looked positively heartbroken. Her eyes pleaded for it not to be so, and her quivering lip tugged at his own heartstrings. He wondered just how he was going bring himself to leave them both; Again.

"But you just got here," came her dejected sigh as she rested her cheek against the cool, armoured shoulder plate of his military uniform.

"I know… I know."

It never got easier, and in an instance such as this where he was called away so urgently it meant there was even less time to bid their farewells. His only consolation was keeping them safe. With a sombre look at his wife, he found solace in the reassuring smile she offered even though it pained her all the same. Closing the distance between the three of them, she gave his arm a comforting squeeze.

"But I'll be back just as quickly," he promised her.

"That's right Emmy," reassured his wife, taking her hand, "he'll be home again before you know it."

"And when I get back, you can take me out on your schooner and show me how you've been getting along. Like we were going to do tomorrow. How does that sound?"

Her head perked up from where it had been laid against his shoulder at hearing this and a beam stretched across her face.

"Okay," she agreed, nodding vigorously. Then, abruptly, she clasped a hand to her mouth. "Oh! I almost forgot!" she gasped, and wriggled in a way that told him she had to be put down right now. This very instant.

He set her back on the ground and she grasped his hand to insist that he look to her. "Don't go anywhere. Don't move an inch," she ordered, her face utterly serious as though it were life or death.

The woman's ears had pricked up. "Emily Jane, where are you going?" Asked her mother with a slight frown. "Your father has to leave soon."

The girl gently tugged her down to her level so she could whisper in her ear, and in hearing the secret, she smiled and nodded. "Be quick, darling."

Without another word, Emily Jane raced off back down the hall, her dark hair fluttering in loose waves behind her.

"What in all the worlds is she on about?" he asked her, his gaze following the retreating little figure before it disappeared round the corner

"Just wait a moment, you'll see," she alluded quietly, straightening herself up and sweeping the drag of her skirt behind her. She fiddled with the lustrous fabric, fussing over it far more than necessary, and it was then he noticed that her eyes were brimming with tears.

He knew this was hard on her, as it was for all of them. But she always endeavoured to save face for their daughter. It was only when they were alone that she allowed the strain to show - and even then she tried to keep it discrete. He took her in his arms and she curled her fingers to his chest as her own rose and fell with a deep, stuttered breath.

"Now, now. None of that," he coaxed gently, brushing the stray wisp of hair that often fell in her face back to its elaborate twist.

"I just wish you weren't going, Kozmotis," she told him with a small sniff, "at least not right now."

"As do I. But I'm afraid, my dear, that is one luxury we cannot afford." He sighed wearily. "You have no idea how difficult it is for me to leave you both so soon."

She gave him a sad smile. "I do," she said, "because it's even more difficult to see you go."

And it would have been. There were any number of untold dangers that he might encounter on the voyage, each plaguing the family with worry in anticipation of the next call to arms. He and his command were usually triumphant against the Dream Pirates, but their enemies had become more brazen and ruthless of late. Though he was hailed as one of the greatest and noble warriors the Golden Age had seen, nothing was ever guaranteed.

"Promise me you'll be safe," she implored of him. She fixed the high collar of his uniform and smoothed down the gold and red embroidered lapels of his coat.

"For you," he said, tilting her chin, "anything." And he kissed her, savouring it for all it was worth.

"Will Emily Jane be alright?" He asked, glancing down the moonstone pillared corridor from which his daughter was yet to reemerge.

"She will," replied his wife, following his gaze. "She'll miss you dearly - we both will. But she's brave." Her forlorn expression lifted with a proud smile. "If there is one thing either of us can count on, it's that she is nothing short of courageous." Her hand came to rest over his heart. "Just like her father."

"And joyful - like her mother."

Sound of running feet traversing the stone floor reached them before their owner did. Emily Jane was sprinting back, a little out of breath, and in her hand she held something that glinted silver in the soft light of the villa foyer.

"I found it!" She gasped, and screeched to a halt right in front of him as he broke away from his wife. "Daddy, Daddy look!"

He dropped to his knee once again, smiling inquisitively at her. "Emily Jane, what do we have here?" He drew her close with a one armed hug while she pressed the thing into his other hand.

"I made it for you," she said excitedly, evidently proud of her work.

The small, shiny object was a locket. It was threaded onto a delicate, long chain, and graceful swirling patterns adorned the metal casing. He recognised it as one of his wife's own pieces, and shot her a confused glance when he thought she might miss it. But the smile she returned assured him this was her contribution to Emily Jane's gift. When he opened the locket, the picture of his daughter gazed back at him, and he felt his breath catch.

"Do you like it?" Emily Jane asked quietly, concerned now that he didn't when he was yet to say anything - There was a lump in his throat that he had to swallow.

"Yes. Yes, it's wonderful," he said, giving her shoulders a tight squeeze. "Thank you, my darling girl."

He placed it around his neck, tucked it beneath his collar for safe keeping, and kissed her forehead. Above the family, their clock struck the hour informing them that all too soon their time was up.

"Kozmotis…" his wife urged and he nodded, turning back to his daughter.

"I'll be back soon," he told her.

She looked to him with pleading eyes. "Promise?" She said.

"On my soul." He replied…

"-tch-Pitch-PITCH!"

"Agh!"

He gasped, cradling his head at the searing pain that felt akin to being blinded by the sun.

"Pitch? Oh, thank the gods."

He glanced up and Valentina came into focus. He must have given her quite a turn as she looked pale with worry. She was on her knees, placing a hand to his forehead and it was then he realised he'd ended up on the ground somehow, seated up against the wall. The drag of his cloak was strewn open, with one knee propped up, the other extended out so it nearly reached the opposite wall.

"I lost you for a minute there," she said, taking his pulse.

He made a non-committal noise in response, still woozy and not quite ready to form complete sentences. He brought a hand to his head finding not only was the wound clean, it was also wrapped in a gauze that encircled his head. A fashion in which he suspected made him look something like Frankenstein's monster.

"Pitch? Talk to me, are you ok?"

Talk to her… comprehended his brain. Talk to Valentina.

Valentina.

All he could see were her eyes. Deep green eyes with subtle flecks of earthy brown he should have seen before now. Eyes that were so uncanny in their resemblance he almost spun himself out yet again. He remembered now. He remembered her. He remembered everything. "Valentina, how did you know that dance?" He muttered the question before he even knew what he was saying.

She was taken aback and her startled expression betrayed as much. "I'm sorry?"

"The dance!" he repeated urgently, almost feverish as he grabbed her forearm with a burning hand. "Before, when that music started playing you took my hand and it was like you'd been doing it for years even though you only just learned a basic turn."

"I… I don't know," she stuttered, somewhat alarmed by his grip, "I told you that already. You led the way, I was simply following."

"No, you have to learn those steps, no one is that good on their first try," he rebuked, shaking his head - an endeavour he immediately regretted.

Valentina was at a loss. She had no clue why it happened, nor had she the opportunity to dwell on it since. And with the Boogeyman's current state, it was a wonder she could even think of it at all. "Well maybe I did once and I just don't remember," she pondered, hoping that answer would be satisfactory enough. "All I knew was that the music seemed familiar and I just knew what to do. I can't explain it."

Pitch's gaze lowered as he tried to piece it all together. "But you shouldn't know it. That music is not only from a different place, it's from a completely different time… But you did. You even knew my name as well."

"Of course I did." She threw hands up exasperatedly. He was sounding more and more unhinged with every word. "Pitch, I knew about you before we met. You're not exactly subtle when it comes to scaring people"

"I'm not talking about Pitch Black," he corrected impatiently, "I mean Kozmotis. That was my name and you knew it somehow, even before I remembered it myself." His eyes narrowed searchingly. In fact, there were many things that Valentina seemed to know or preempt - things that occurred that he couldn't explain. They were not phenomena as strange as was her affinity for nightmare sand, but rather little occurrences that he found to be anything but inconsequential. On occasion it was a slip of the tongue, and at other times it was something particular that caught her interest. They were things that left him with questions. Such as why, in all his years of solitude, had he been so drawn to her, and her to him? Why, when he looked at her, did he see an answer to his yearning for a family? Why had she learned to care for him? Why did she refuse to fear him?

He stalked towards her on hand and knee slowly. His headache was barely registered, dulled to a nagging discomfort but nothing more than white noise as far as he was concerned. Suspicious and scrutinising, he stared down as he drew closer and not once did he break that hold. She stumbled back, finding her self pressed up against the wall opposite to him with nowhere else to go. It was a very small bathroom after all. Her heels scrabbled and scuffed the floor as she brought her knees up, instinctively shrinking back from the Boogeyman.

"What else do you know, Valentina?"

Heart pounding, his face inches from her own; Valentina had seldom been afraid of Pitch Black before. But as he leered at her, into her very soul it seemed, she was conscious of the fact that these things she had been keeping close to her chest had the potential to either placate him or send him into a rage. At this stage, she wasn't sure on which side of that coin he would land. What would he think of her if he knew? The answer to that question frightened her above all else. It frightened her because, moon above help her, she was going to tell him.

"Do you want to know what I know?" She asked, voice trembling. "All I know it that ever since I touched that sand of yours I have been loosing my mind every night to dreams that I can't explain."

Dreams. He fell back on his haunches and blinked slowly, considering this. It was certainly strange that of all the things that might disconcert her, Sanderson would be the one to bring her most unstuck. "But that's not all," he deduced, sifting though her fears that trickled over to him and through her. "Among these dreams there are nightmares, aren't there?"

She nodded. "Just one. I'm-"

"No, no. Don't tell me," he dissuaded, "let me see it." He closed his eyes, peering into the depths of her subconscious. As he concentrated his brow twitched. "Yes, just the one. A recurring nightmare indeed. In it, you are falling, are you not? Tumbling through the air, with no way of knowing which way is up?"

"I don't particularly want to relive it, Pitch," she shuddered as he inadvertently coaxed the fear from her.

"Forgive me. It's been quite some time since I've had the pleasure," he said silkily. "While this is hardly anything original, being the only one out of so many of your fears that could manifest as a nightmare, for you it is oddly specific. Especially since most others are only concerned by the sensation of falling. You, on the other hand, seem to anticipate certain deat-" His voice cut as soon as he realised what he was saying. He felt his breath quicken in his chest. Surely not. But he couldn't reject the thought when little coincidences were piecing themselves together one by one, forming the skeleton of a startling conclusion. "What are you dreaming of," he asked softly, "in these unexplainable visions?"

Valentina hesitated, her hands forming a knot of anxious fingers. "I dream of her," she said. He didn't need to ask who of. The look on her face said it all. "And all those things you told me. I see them like I was there and more. They're vivid. There are times I think they're almost real. You're with her sometimes too."

He felt something writhe deep in the pit his belly and there was a ringing in his ears that intensified. "Why haven't you told me this?" He demanded fervently

"I didn't know how to!" she cried, breaking her fingers apart only to clench her fists. "I wanted to say something but you already had so much to consider, I thought knowing about my dreams was the last thing you needed."

He reached desperately for her, clasping her shoulders. "What does she look like? When you see her, what does she look like? Tell me." He had to know if what he was thinking might be true.

"Dark hair, hazel eyes," she described almost wistfully, "and the most wonderful smile I've ever seen. She's never older than six, but she's wild, adventurous and brave, and she loves you, Pitch. She loves you so, so much."

Yes, she had. Once. A very long time ago. His grip on Valentina's arms had by no means lessened, and now he was clinging to her as though she were a life-raft. Wide eyed, heart pounding in his ears, he was vaguely aware of a tear slipping down his cheek. When did he start crying? She was staring at him, with pools of green he could drown in, and he knew where he had seen them before. How could he not have seen it before?

"Valentina, what if there is a reason my wife hasn't found me?"

He looked at her intently, to the point where his meaning was lost on her. "I-I'm not following," she stuttered, looking utterly bewildered.

Even in the face of her confusion he could barely contain this feeling, this hope that was unlike anything he'd ever known, that squandered his fear if only for a second. "She said she would find me some how. And all this time I've been waiting..." there was an uncharacteristic breathless quality to his voice, verging on what otherwise might be mistaken for madness. "...But what if she already has?"

Her reaction, however, was far from reassuring. A light bulb seemed to flicker on in her head as she finally understood what she was implying. "No," she denied. She broke free from his grip, and scurried (as best she could being floor bound) away from his reach. "No, Pitch-"

"Why not!" he cried, in-between a state of elation and despair. "You can't deny it's the only thing that makes sense."

"Because what you're suggesting is impossible," she rasped, "I can't be… No!"

"But what if it is possible? What about the boy, what about Jack," he reasoned desperately, "he was brought back just like you were."

"Pitch, you know my story. I died two hundred and thirty odd years ago. Your wife perished a long time before that. Our timelines don't even have a chance to converge-"

They were interrupted by a knock at the door.