Drabble 3: Nightmares and Night-mares

When Elsa is around ten.

NOTE: Contains slight spoilers for More Than A Bird concerning how Pitch had come to adopt Elsa at Chapter 15. If you don't want to spoil yourself, then just give this one a miss. If you do want to spoil yourself, well, then just read the first section of Chapter 15.

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At a quarter to midnight, the shiro was covered with an unearthly stillness. It wasn't to say that it was asleep, for the many of its floors were at the moment still dedicated to answering calls, sending kumi-in to respond to distress situations – whatever kind of distress that might be - and to schedule the Kumicho's itinerary for the following day.

She wasn't aware of such activities occurring around her. In a matter of fact, she had only recently taken residence in this grand building that was built in the style of a 16th Century Japanese castle, complete with gardens, running palisades and watch towers. Even if she did know of such happenings, she may not have complete understood them. She was but a child, after all, feeling rather lost and alone in this very, very dark place.

The young girl with platinum blonde hair and sapphire-blue eyes treaded the lantern-lit corridor with trepidation. She had only gone this road before when the sun rays filtered through the curtains and her steps, hesitant and unsure, did not echo so loudly against the wooden boards. The slippers and robe that she loaned for her stay made her feel oddly vulnerable, for fabric and wooden soles were no armor against the creatures that might spring from the shadows. Not that those were the kind of things that she often had nightmares about.

At last, she arrived at her destination. Timidly, she approached the wooden door and raised her hand to knock. At that moment, a memory stirred her mind, one associated with fear and regret, where a small voice would call for her through the wooden panels only to receive silence in return. This was one made the little girl hesitate, but nonetheless, she balled up the gloved hand and rapped against the wood.

"Enter," she heard a chilling voice hiss from behind.

She slid the wooden door open, letting the handle go as soon as she could. She had managed to keep her ice in thus far, but she still preferred not to touch anything if she could.

"You're letting a draft in," the cool tone said as she stepped in. "Close that door, won't you?"

Meekly, she obeyed the command and pulled the door. Then, straightening out her yukata, she turned herself around and began shuffling forward. She kept her head down as she approached the table in the far left corner of the room, where its owner was knelt. He worked with only the light of a candle, though the girl was sure he could have asked for brighter electrical lighting if he had wanted. But over the course of her residence here, she had come to realize that the master of the castle much preferred darkness and perhaps that might explain the gloominess that permeated throughout it.

As she stopped at the table, she lifted her head with hands clasped together, waiting expectantly to catch his eye. He seemed quite preoccupied with his own task at the moment though, which involved dipping his long wooden brush into the ink well before blotting more colors onto the wooden block.

Then he said, "Well, if you're just going to stand there and stare, you might as well bow while you're at it."

She flinched at his cutting tone, but then, maybe this was one of the many customs that she had yet to completely understand in this big, frightening new place. Flushing slightly, she dropped her hands to her side and prepared to bow, only to be stopped by his interruption – "Arms folded in front of you, above the hip. Were you raised by barbarians?"

That remark instantly searing and it struck an indignant chord in her heart. She had not always been happy with her parents' decisions about her life, but she did trust that they loved her and they wanted what was best for her. The insult was unwarranted. In a matter of fact, it was especially unwarranted from one who had never met the people who had raised her.

Yet wisdom guarded her tongue from offending her terrifying benefactor – who, for all his creepiness, had saved her life. He showed no fear to her ability, and from the little that she had seen, he possessed certain extraordinary capability of his owns.

So she bowed with her hands folded in front of her, a full ninety degrees as she had seen people in the household do whenever they see her.

"Sit," he told her, jerking his head slightly to the mat across the table. So, slowly, she kneeled herself down on the cushion, keeping her head slightly bent forward in what she hoped was a respectful manner. This meant that her eyes were stuck on the wooden block that he had in front of him. The block was carved with beautiful grooves and curves, or swirled shapes and figures that while aesthetically-pleasing appeared incoherent.

Before she could stop herself, curiosity prompted her to ask, "What's that?" Realizing her mistake, she hastily added, "But only if you want to explain, sir."

"A printing block," he answered, still not looking at her as he picked up another brush now, one as large as his palm that reminded her of a floor scrub, and began to rub it against the wooden block in rough circles, spreading the black paint even over the grooves. "It's a dying art – more painful in its preparation than its execution."

"Oh," she said, timidly, wringing her hands together, watching as him as he worked. "Then you made it yourself?"

"Yes," he said, setting down the brush. "I'm bored, wealthy, old man, my dear girl. I need to do something to past the time." He lifted the thin sheet that he had prepared early and with his nimble fingers – fingers that she had thought resembled claws the first time she had seen them – lay it gently over the block. "But I doubt your interest in the aesthetics is what draws you here tonight." "Clearly, something's on your mind."

Unwillingly, yet knowing eventually she would have to admit it, she nodded.

"Well, what might that be? Have you been treated well?"

To that she nodded fervently. The servants of the dark castle had been efficient in meeting whatever little requests she might have, and they were always terrible considerate; like drawing baths for her, bringing her meals and giving her as more gloves than she had asked for. She had to admit, most of them never really talked to her the way her old housemaid, Gerda, would talk to her. It was always about making sure that her needs were met and that she was comfortable and whether there was anything else she wanted. All this pampering was actually a little too much than she was used to and she had begun asking to be left alone more and more. Her powers did not do well around people.

He took a round disc-like object by the handle attached to the back of it and pressed it down on the paper, rubbing it in circles against the wooden block. "Are you lodgings satisfactory?"

She nodded. The room that she had been provided was bigger than any room she had ever seen, with four long posters and delicate silk curtains. The large windows also gave her an excellent view of the city beyond the castle and the starry skies above. Of course, she laced it in ice so often that she had forgotten what it had looked like without the frost.

He peeled the sheet up from the block, gently as to prevent the paint from smudging. Now, she could see the printing on the sheet – black curves and shades that illustrated horses dashing through a dark forest. "Do you have enough to eat and wear?"

She nodded, then swallowed, then said, "Yes, sir, I have everything I need, but-I just-" she twisted her fingers against one another "-I've been having nightmares."

For the first time since she entered, he looked up her. She hadn't seen him that frequently in the past few days, but she could have sworn he looked even more severe than before. There was something about the thinness of his lips and the sharpness of his jaw that reminded her of the criminals and the terrorists that they always talked about in news television. Yet, he did save her life.

One of his brows arched upwards. "Well, I can tell you safely that I'm not responsible for those." "What do you dream about?"

Her voice was small. "The hotel."

He lifted his head up at her and she felt like he was urging her to continue.

"I dream of screams, sir, and I see blood – a lot of blood." She shuddered at the memory. "And I see people glaring at me, and hating me, like they want to kill me."

"That is probably true." His interjection was smooth and emotionless. She jerked her head up at him, eyes wide as he went on, "Think about it. If I knew that you were responsible for the death of someone I loved dearly, I would stop at nothing to make sure that you were brought to justice." There was a tint of vindictiveness in his voice, one that made her wonder if he was thinking of something else.

Her heart was pounding behind her chest as she stared down at herself in horror. She replayed the scene in her head, both from reality and the dreams, and each time she did, a sickened sensation ran up her throat. She then gazed up him, fear gripping her soul. She stuttered, "A-a-are you going to tell the police?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then suddenly, he laughed. It was hearty, yet sardonic; mirthful, yet broken. He said to her, leaning back with an amused smile rising to his lips, "Why would I do that?"

"Because I'm a monster, sir. I've done terrible things, and the police has to put me in a special jail away from the world…," her voice trailed off as he started cackling again.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said after another guffaw. "Oh, my, but – it's just that, well, I haven't anything quite as hilarious before. Who told you such stories?"

Her voice was barely a whisper. "My parents."

His laughter ceased. His expression suddenly turned grave as he turned to her. "So they did, didn't they?"

Not wanting him to think ill of her parents any more, she defended them, "They didn't want people to take me away."

"So you left them on your own accord. How fitting," he murmured with a snicker, but it was void of any humor.

"No, I-" she broke off. Until now. It had never really struck her the severity of her choices. She had run away from home! Her parents would be devastated! They would think that she died. A lump from in her throat. She was not just a terrible person, but too a terrible daughter.

She was at the age where crying was considered babyish and un-grown up, but she couldn't help the tears that tumbled down her cheeks and a sob escaped her lips. She quickly ducked her head down and wiped the tears on the sleeve of her yukata, but the whimpers, she could not hold back.

She heard him groan and it made her feel worse than ever. "Oh, come, what is it now?"

"I-I-I'm, I'm a wic-wicked girl, sir," she sobbed out into her palms quite unable to stop her own tirade. "I'm a wicked, wicked girl, sir." She felt the ground below her starting to turn cold. Vines of frost began to grow below her, turning the marble tiles blue and white. She got to her feet quickly, trying to dry her tears. Getting up to her feet, ready to flee, she bowed and blubbered, "I'm s-s-sorry, sir, so so sorry, sir. I'll-I'll try to stop." She squeezed her eyes shut, then stared up to the ceiling. Clawing against her own gloved palms, she chanted to herself, "Conceal, don't feel. Don't feel. Please, please, j-just don't feel-"

She hadn't known that he had moved until she felt him grab her hand. She stood stark still, stunned by the action so much so that the ice trailing the ground halted its growth.

By her side, standing up, he seemed even more enormous. The black of his robes seemed to hold the very shadows of the night in them, and the pallor of his face reminded her of the still, stiff bodies that one might see at funerals. Yet, there was an odd gentleness in his actions as he slowly removed the glove on her hand and cupped the back of it with his own bony one. Trembling and unsure, her hand still glowed, sprouting sparks of white in the air and a swirl of snow rise from it. She saw him stare down at the odd speck of light that arose, before his own hands curled around hers in a way that was almost painful.

Then, she saw his golden eyes narrow together, and the swirl of white was suddenly joined with a symmetrical one in black – spinning grains of black weaving around the whiteShe tried to pull back, making the swirls jerk about, exploding into little blobs of cold.

"You panic too much," she heard him grumble. She felt him pressed against her joints, trying to loosen out her fingers. "Stop that."

She stiffened and didn't move. "Sorry, sir."

"Stop calling me that too," he muttered he flexed out her fingers. "It's annoying."

"Sorry, s-" she checked herself. In that moment, she was distracted by as the fragment of ice in the air merged with that of the shadow sand, dancing in the air a manner both wild yet fascinating. Together, they fused the form a binary twirl, twisted around one another like a vine and stretching out into a series of crystalline spikes, shimmering and glowing.

And then with a soft 'phink!', the structure disintegrated, making her jump back slightly until she saw what was became of the blackish crystals. They curled in the air, up against the panes of the window, flittering and swimming before joining together. She gasped as she saw the horses in the air come to life, tiny black creatures with streams of white sparkles by their hooves and hair made of silver of threads.

She watched in wonder as the miniature corral raced around her, snorting and beating against the air as if they were indeed alive. As she reached her free hand towards one of the horses, it turned white and into solid, unmoving crystal. She withdrew her hand at once, horrified that she had destroyed something so lovely. But then, he stretched his own free hand out and adding a string of black grains to the frosted structure.

The mare returned back into life, this time pure white save the black sand that formed its hair. It slowed its gallop into a slow trot, before stopping right in front of her. The white creature, with eyes blue beyond anything she had ever seen, considered her in a manner that could be said to be curious, before stomping its hooves on the imaginary ground joining the rest of the corral. Together, the horses merged into a bundle of silvery energy, stretching out in length and shot across the room like a comet, before exploding with a small peal, bursting out to create shining dots above her like constellations in the sky. In a matter of fact, some of the images looking extremely similar to the real patterns in the stars. Then, with a flick of his hand, they all dissolved into shadows once again.

"Control is not the same as suppression," she heard him say. "But then again, I don't expect people who do not understand to know the difference."

She looked up at him questioningly.

"I don't doubt that your parents mean well, but it doesn't change the fact that they're acting on ignorance," he said as he let go of her hand, picking up the glove that he had discarded on the table.

She scrunched her face as she fit the glove back. "My parents don't ignore me."

"That's not what 'ignorance' means," he sneered, a distasteful expression on his countenance. But it turned pensive as he turned to her once again. "'Ignorance' refers to the lack of knowledge, or 'know-how' in the case of your parents, due to the lack of experience." He raised a hand again, forming in the air a spiral shape from the shadows, which morphed itself into a swirl and then into pyramid, then ran around his fingers like a ribbon. "Not like me, I suppose."

"I suppose," she echoed quietly, folding her hands once again towards herself. The tears that had been falling had long dried itself up, stiffened on her face.

Somehow, they had ended up by the window of his office, which like her room overlooked the entire city and the starry universe woven above it. Both of them watched it in content silence, side by side.

Finally, he told her, "You can go back whenever you like. I told you that on the first day we met. The offer still stands."

She hesitated. She missed home, but she knew that he was right in saying that her parents didn't really know how to help her. They loved her, but they couldn't help her.

"However, as long as you're here, I can assure you that no one would take you away – the police or otherwise." There was a slight twinkle in his gold of his eyes – perhaps it was teasing? "That, I can promise you with utmost certainty."

She wasn't sure how [he] felt about her, but she knew if there was anyone that could help her, it would be someone like him. Who was someone like her.

"Could you teach me, sir?" she asked him.

"What did I tell you just now?" he chided, sounding a little annoyed, but from his reflection on the glass he didn't look it.

"Sorry, but-" she bit her lip. It occurred to her that in all her time here, she never really knew his name and he didn't know hers "-what should I call you?"

"Well, you can't call me 'Kumicho-sama', since you're not one of us – not yet, anyway," he murmured. She didn't quite understand what he meant by 'us' or 'not yet', but she didn't inquire into it, lest it'd be impolite. He rubbed his chin as he pondered, then he said, "Perhaps for now you can call me Pitch, I suppose."

"Pitch," she repeated after him. She then drew herself away a little, realizing that being too close might be considered impolite. "Thank you, Mr. Pitch."

He waved a hand at her, which she supposed was a gesture of dismissal, so bowing again, she turned to leave.

"Wait," she heard him say. She halted her steps and spun around to face him. "What's your name, child?"

"Elizabeth, Mr. Pitch," she answered, making a little curtsey as she did the way her mother trained her. "Elizabeth Catherine Arendelle."

"I see." He nodded slowly, before giving her a wane smile. "Good night, my dear. Sweet dreams."

She noted that night that she had no nightmares, though in the future they returned with greater force and strength on other matters. She also noted much later that he had never addressed her by her birth name.

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Japanese Terms (I admit, my use of them maybe inaccurate):

Kumi-in – Foot-soldiers of a Yakuza

Kumicho – The 'Godfather' of a Yakuza. (Where 'Godfather' is the chief patriarch of a Mafia)

Kumicho-sama – A respectful way to address the Godfather in speech

Shiro – Castle

Yukata – Form of traditional Japanese dress that is less formal than a Kimono. Consist a loose long-sleeved robe held together by a cloth belt.

This piece could almost be considered fluffy. Urgh.

At this point of time, Elsa is not really aware of who Pitch is, how he earned his wealth, or why he lives in a fortified castle, or the Nightmare Yakuza's existence. She's just a kid.

More Spoilers below (but if you read this far after what I wrote on top, you must have either be updated on the MTAB storyline or you must be spoiling yourself): It's implied that this probably happened a few weeks after the collapse of the Black Raven Hotel (which was caused by Elsa), which is why she's still pretty guilt ridden about the whole thing and why she refers to Pitch as her 'rescuer'.

Okay, spoilers over.

The thing that Pitch is doing woodblock printing, a kind of Japanese traditional art. One famous such painting is 'The Great Wave of Kanagawa', 18th Century. Usually, a multicolored painting would require more than one block, but I think Pitch only works in one color…guess which.

Thanks for reading. Leave a review if you've enjoyed it or if you'd like more (or both. Whatever.) Prompts will also be considered.