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Jack usually spent the dog days of summer in a sort of minimal consciousness. It wasn’t quite a sleep, not in the way mortals slept, but it was a comforting daze that allowed him to avoid the worst of the summer heat. Normally, it wasn’t a hard thing to achieve as the mid-year months filled him with weariness, but his daze had eluded him for the past few weeks. And for good reason.
There was a bogeyman under his bed.
“Seriously, Pitch, go away!”
The Nightmare King didn’t leave, didn’t respond. In fact, Jack would have been hard-pressed to even believe he was there if it weren’t for one thing: every time he was about to slip into his daze, Pitch would make a noise. Nothing drastic, nothing loud; the subtle creak of objects unknown, the quiet murmur of unfamiliar voices. It was a careful symphony, composed to instill unease, to foster disquiet until fear could finally sink its way into the heart.
And if Jack had been a child it would have ensnared him. It was the kind of slow and patient trap that The Guardians would never have been able to fully protect children from. In a way, he was thankful for Pitch’s flair for the dramatic; if the Nightmare King hadn’t seen everything in terms of ‘all or nothing’, if he had used these subtle horrors instead of his battalion of Nightmares, he might have truly overpowered The Guardians. It was a humbling thought.
But Jack wasn’t a child and it didn’t make Pitch’s behavior any less annoying. “You’re just chipping away at a block of ice, buddy. Clink away all you want, but there’ll just be more ice underneath.”
Silence.
In three weeks, Pitch himself had not uttered a single word. That, on its own, was probably the most unsettling part of the whole situation, because the silence made him doubt that Pitch was actually there.
Maybe Jack was just restless this summer and blaming his frustration on the only villain he knew. It was entirely possible that he was having a one-sided argument with an empty room. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that he wasn’t alone, that there was a monster under the bed, but the monster wasn’t ready to offer him the relief of conversation just yet.
Jack felt his eyelids droop heavily. There were some intense heat-waves this summer and it made him, not weak per se, but lethargic, itchy for something to do without the actual willpower to do it. The daze closed in, a sweet relief from the endless months of pounding sunshine. He relaxed into it, letting the comfort carry him off.
Only to be jolted awake by the diva camping under his bed.
“Come on,” Jack growled. “Are you serious? Look, I know you’re not seasonal so you probably don’t get this, but I am super uncomfortable right now. I’m not in the mood to fight and I don’t have the energy to be entertaining. So why don’t you just slink on out from under there and bogey it up in someone else’s home?”
No response, followed by that waiver of doubt that made Jack question if he was just yelling abuse at the floorboards. And, slowly but surely, that doubt made him angry. Pitch was there, he knew it in a way that could not be defined; second-guessing bone-deep knowledge was irrational.
But then, weren’t most fears irrational?
Doubt was simply part and parcel of the Nightmare King’s presence. Like a venomous beastie, Pitch used that disquieting dubiousness to paralyze his quarry, ensnaring them so that he could deliver his fearful poison.
Jack didn’t begrudge him the power, but he did find it annoying that it worked just as well on Guardians and spirits as it did on children. In a way, it was kind of sad, because everywhere Pitch went he put people at ill ease, branding him the permanent outcast. And if there was one thing Jack understood better than his fellows, it was how it felt to be the outcast. He didn’t want to sympathize with Pitch, but the truth of understanding made that difficult.
The silence wore on, heavy and uncomfortable. Jack could feel the daze trying to close in around him, yet he knew he would not be granted that peace. So, a little delirious, he began to talk, because after three hundred years of solitude babbling was still the easiest way to pass the time.
“After three weeks, I doubt you’d answer me if I asked why you’re here,” Jack ran a tired hand over equally tired eyes. “And that’s okay, really, because I get it. I know what it’s like to be desperate and lonely, to want contact and acknowledgement so badly that it burns.”
There was always a quality of extra to Pitch’s silences, as though his emotions bled through the nothingness, conveying his thoughts more readily than his facial expressions ever could. In that moment, and maybe it was just Jack’s own wishful thinking, but in that moment Pitch’s silence seemed more curious than oppressive.
So he ran with it, because maybe if he showed Pitch some sympathy, Pitch would return the favor and allow him to slip into his daze.
“I mean, no,” Jack shrugged and rolled to face the edge of the bed, “I can’t imagine what it’s like to have the rug pulled out from under your feet after having been at the top of your game. But I do know what it’s like to be born in darkness, to exist without knowing why. And the only person who can tell you, the only person who could shed light on the subject abandons you, pretends not to hear your increasingly desperate questions.” He curled in on himself a little, glad Pitch couldn’t see him. He had to hear the vulnerability in Jack’s voice though; there was really no missing the emotion behind his words. “So you turn to anyone, literally anyone, in hopes that maybe they have an answer, but they can’t see you, can’t hear you. You’re surrounded on all sides by people and yet you’re utterly alone.”
There was a pained sigh from under the bed. It wasn’t really a response, but it wasn’t silence either.
“And when they walk through you?” Jack continued, letting his arm dangle toward the floorboards, a not-so-subconscious need to be closer to someone, anyone. “It’s… well, it’s worse than dying. Proof, that you’re so insubstantial as to be nonexistent. Knowing that does something funny to you, too; you start pleading with them to see you, like a beggar at a feast. You’re starving for even the smallest scrap of acknowledgement and every time they walk through you it only makes you hungrier still,” he shivered. “And the whole time it’s happening all you can think is, ‘Why? Why don’t I deserve to be known? Why am I not good enough?’ Three hundred years later, I might actually have an answer.”
The silence drew out, curious but unwavering. Jack let it spin through time, until Pitch finally gave a resentful huff. “Do enlighten me,” the dark spirit drawled.
Jack wasn’t offended by Pitch’s attitude. Even though the older spirit clearly wanted company desperately enough to seek it out in an enemy, it had to be hard to swallow all of that anger and pride.
Instead, Jack calmly carried on, not wanting to anger Pitch into going silent again. “North calls me the Guardian of Fun, but I don’t think that’s quite it,” he replied. “More like Courage in the Face of Fear. I think the Man in the Moon made me for the sole purpose of opposing you. So, for three centuries, my existence had no meaning because that’s how long it took you to breakdown and try to make some kind of power play.”
There wasn’t even a ponderous silence this time. Pitch dove straight into the conversation with all the tact and versatility of a two-ton anvil crashing through April-weakened ice. “I’m the bogeyman, Jack, old as time itself. And in all my years, I’ve never heard anything quite so pathetic as someone boiling their own existence down to a contingency plan.”
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Jack challenged. When no reply came, he continued, “The way I see it, winter and snow existed long before I became a spirit, so my quote unquote powers are just a side effect of how I was created. Yes, winter is intrinsically part of who I am, but it was never part of my purpose.”
“You can’t honestly believe that I’m the only reason you’re here,” Pitch sneered, but there was an underlying sadness to his tone.
“Why not?” Jack hummed, wiggling on his bed until he was hanging over the edge, half on half off, so that he could see the gloomy world underneath. “I mean, it’s strange to think of it now, but you were the first thing I ever knew after being brought back to life.”
There was a black, amorphous mass at the far end of the bed that had to be Pitch. And, sure enough, at his words, a pair of golden-grey eyes blinked into existence and pinned him with a curious stare. “Brought back to life?”
“Yeah,” the younger spirit nodded. “Suddenly I’m conscious and then, bam, darkness and fear, which is entirely your domain. So, in a way, I knew you before I knew the Man in the Moon, or even my own name.”
The golden eyes narrowed, a hint of a frowning face suddenly appearing. “Brought back to life?” Pitch repeated, a careful kind of pity lacing his words.
Now it was Jack’s turn to frown. He honestly didn’t feel bad about having died, and he certainly didn’t want anyone else feeling bad for him. “What are you, a broken record?” he replied teasingly, trying to convey how much it didn’t bother him. “I’m having a bonding moment over here and you’re caught up in trivial details.”
The older spirit moved closer, a vague shape shifting out of the shadows. “I would hardly call death trivial; not when so much of the power that I can still manage to glean comes from the abject fear of it.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Jack countered, finally giving up on the bed entirely and moving to sprawl out on the floor. “Until a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t even know that I’d ever been alive.”
“You are either the most pitifully optimistic person that I have ever met, or you haven’t really faced the full magnitude of that reality yet.” Pitch was definitely starting to take shape now; thin and lean with a presence just a bit too grand for the space under Jack’s bed. The Nightmare King lounged comfortably in the gloom, but when he next spoke there was the tiniest bit of worry in his voice. “Have you even, in any small way, begun to grieve?”
“For what?” Jack asked. He wanted to be genuinely confused by what Pitch was implying, but he knew only too well what the bogeyman was about to say.
Pitch’s frown disappeared, the pity back and stronger than ever. “For your family? For the life that might have been?” he asked gently, and that was bad, because gentle understanding from the bogeyman kind of hurt. “For all the wasted years of neglect and confusion between your death and the bestowal of your Guardianship?”
Jack didn’t want to talk about that because, no, he hadn’t really given it any thought, thank you very much. And he would continue to not give it any thought until denial was no longer an option. Healthy? No. Effective? Yes. So instead of answering he pasted on a smile, gave an easy shrug and said, “Water under the bridge.”
Pitch didn’t look the least bit fooled. And wasn’t that just a kick in the pants? The bad guys saw straight through him when even his own friends were fooled. He also got the distinct impression that when Pitch hissed out, “I’m surrounded by optimists,” it was really more for the benefit of Jack’s ego than anything else.
He knew that there was a lot of common ground between him and the older spirit, but he hadn’t expected this easy understanding, effortless knowing. Even the other Guardians, who were making an outstanding effort to get to know him, didn’t seem to understand him half so well as Pitch, who wasn’t even trying. And it was probably the sudden moment of connection between the two of them that made him blurt, “There is one thing, though.”
“Of course there is, Jack,” the dark spirit shrugged easily. “You drowned, that can’t be an easy thing to suddenly realize.”
His breath shortened, stuttering out of his lungs. “How did you know that?”
“You fear it. And if there is one thing I know, it is what terrifies even the most noble of hearts.” Pitch took a deep breath, scenting the air. “A crushing blackness, pressing in at you from all side while the heavy weight of frigid water steals your energy, dulls your will to survive. It is a strange fear for one whose power, whose very identity is so intricately bound to water.”
Jack’s hair stood on end, Pitch’s words calling up memories that were best left forgotten. The truth of having died didn’t phase him, but the memory of how it had happened filled him with a primal terror. Still, he tried to downplay it, tried to remove himself from the equation, “Only at the beginning and end of winter, when the ice is thin. I see the children skate out over ponds and lakes, going farther than they should, where the ice barely holds together. Some of them come back, but others disappear, screams cut short as they fall into that bitter mess. I know what that feels like now, and it terrifies me to know that I can’t save all of them.”
Master of fear or not, Pitch didn’t even try to touch that statement. What he did ask though was almost just as bad. “Was it horrific? To die, I mean.”
“You said you knew,” the younger spirit narrowed his eyes.
“I know the fear,” Pitch clarified, stretching out until he was face to face with the boy. “I understand the emotion, but not the actual sensation.”
And there was denial rearing her violently ugly head, because this was another thing that Jack definitely did not want to talk about. “That’s a morbid question,” he hedged. “Why would you want to know?”
For a moment, Pitch looked more lost and alone than even Jack could fathom. “I think, sometimes, that I have been quietly dying over the course of millennia, and not just from a mere lack of belief.”
“Why would you--?” Jack began, frowning.
But Pitch cut him off, rushing the words out as though he might lose his nerve if he waited even a second more. “There are voices inside of me, pulling me in a thousand different directions, each with its own terrible desire. So many different thoughts, so many different darknesses to contend with… it’s easy to forget which voice is mine.” He ran a hand over his molten eyes, centuries of weariness bleeding from his every movement. “It’s easy to forget the man named Pitch.”
And, just like that, Pitch’s recent grandstanding came into painful focus. “That’s why you need people to believe in you,” Jack breathed, hardly able to grasp it. “Not so that you’ll be stronger than The Guardians, but so that Pitch can be the strongest voice inside of the Nightmare King.” It made sense in a terrible way; the older spirit was always mentioning who he was rather than what he was. “You want people to believe in Pitch Black, not the bogeyman.”
“The bogeyman can be anyone or anything that frightens a child,” he growled. “Pitch Black is a name, a person; it’s specific and finite.”
The puzzle that was the bogeyman was finally beginning to take shape and fit together. There was still one big piece that didn’t have a place to go yet, though. “What I don’t get is why the kids stopped seeing you when they clearly knew you were there,” Jack pondered aloud. “Jamie outright said he believed in you, but not ten minutes later he walked straight through you.”
“It’s different for me, not at all like with The Guardians,” Pitch admitted, sounding more resigned than was strictly comfortable. “Belief is not enough, there must be fear as well. And, if you will recall, your precious Jamie also told me that he was not afraid of me.”
Jack tried to understand, but it didn’t quite click. “I don’t think I get how that works,” he replied, moving a little closer to the space under the bed.
“If children do not fear me, then they fail to believe in what I stand for,” Pitch explained, his shadows restlessly teasing along the ground. “People have it backwards, you know. It’s not the nightmare that comes first; there must be fear to fuel it, to give it shape. There are ways to foster fear, of course, but without that first genuine spark of fright, I am powerless.”
Jack scooted forward a little, nearly under the bed himself. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“Why are you so quick to be sympathetic?” Pitch countered. “I wasn’t just trying to be persuasive when I said that the cold and the dark go well together. Out of all The Guardians, you’re the only one who might understand. They got a taste of what lack of belief feels like and it nearly destroyed them; they cannot even begin to comprehend what that would feel like over the course of centuries.” He reached out a hand, not really touching the boy, though there did seem to be a quiet offer in the gesture. “But you do.”
Jack eyed the hand warily. “I already refused your offer once; you know I won’t join you.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Pitch replied easily. But the hand didn’t move.
“Then why are you really here?” the young Guardian asked, wanting to accept that outstretched appendage, wanting to believe that it was some kind of comfort being offered.
“You know why, Jack,” Pitch gave a quiet laugh, full of self-derision. “You said it yourself: I’m lonely and desperate.”
Jack was a little stunned by the admission. He knew it was true, of course, but for Pitch to put aside all his pride and arrogance to say it... it was humbling in a way. And he couldn’t poke fun since he knew only too well what it was like to be vulnerable in that way. Instead, he mumbled, “People don’t usually admit that out loud.”
“Yet the truth remains,” the dark spirit smiled emptily, withdrawing his hand. “Look, you’re a Guardian, I can respect that you have a purpose. But so do I, and I can’t go against my nature. I am what I am, and nothing can change that. You can’t blame me for doing what I was created to do.”
Jack felt so conflicted about not accept the proffered hand that he nearly missed Pitch’s last statement. “Wait, are you saying that the Man in the Moon created you, too?” Wouldn’t that be cruel, to create Pitch and then brush him aside like a failed experiment after so many centuries of dedication?
“Didn’t he tell you, Jack?” Pitch sneered. “I’m not surprised, he likes to keep his little secrets buried in the dark.” There was so much anger and resignation in his voice, so much hopeless defeat that he was kind of hard to listen to. “You know, fear can be a powerful motivator. Behave, or the bogeyman will steal you in your sleep; don’t go too deep into the woods, that’s where the bogeyman lives; don’t stay out after dark, or the bogeyman will find you. For centuries, I frightened children into learning how to survive, and how was I thanked for it? Kicked low, crushed under the heals of hope. The funny thing about hope, though, is that it can only exist in adverse conditions, otherwise there is nothing to hope for. Belief in The Guardians only exists so long as they have something to guard the children against; they need me, they just don’t want to admit it.”
“That’s a terrifyingly logical argument.” Jack had never thought about it that way, the strange symbiotic relationship between light and dark. From The Guardians’ perspective, Pitch was a problem that would one day have to be silenced. But what would happen to the balance of nature on that day?
Jack shook the grim thoughts away. “You still kind of dodged the point there, though. Why come to me?”
“I have no one else.” Pitch never seemed particularly old, but there was something downright ancient in his eyes when he admitted that. “The other Guardians would fight me sooner than talk to me, and the Man in the Moon is not exactly an accomplished conversationalist.”
That last one Jack knew from experience. He tried to be positive and thankful for the Man in the Moon, but sometimes it was hard to put aside the slow build of resentment from over the centuries. So he ignored it a little bit, countering, “What was the three weeks of subtle creeping about, then?”
Pitch seemed to relax at the question, still tired and angry and dark, but perhaps the tiniest bit playful now, too. “The Nightmares are still a little feral and... Well, old habits die hard, I suppose.”
The young Guardian had pondered the Nightmares long and hard, equally impressed and terrified by the hellish beasts. He’d been doubly impressed when it had become apparent that the Nightmares were something new from Pitch, and it had led to Jack wondering what powers were truly inherent to the Nightmare King and what had simply been learned over the interminable years. Secretly though, he thought that Pitch’s mad and flashy grab for power had blinded him to the truth that the subtle art he’d been performing for the past three weeks was infinitely more effective than a horde of dark horses.
The thoughts wandered in and out of Jack’s head, his daze always just out of reach. It was cooler under the bed, more comfortable, he noted absently. Unfortunately, he was so tired that he didn’t really think about the consequences of slipping fully under the bed until he was nearly nose to nose with Pitch.
To be fair though, Pitch seemed just as surprised. “What are you doing?” the older spirit asked, bemused.
“Hey, it’s my bed,” Jack mumbled, his eyes slipping shut against his will. “Don’t like it? Leave.”
There was nothing but silence in response, and it lasted so long that Jack could begin to feel himself fade. The daze closed in, a coldness that seeped out of his core and allowed him to breeze through the discomfort of summer. He slept maybe minutes or weeks, but definitely not enough before he was jolted back awake.
“I do hope I’m not boring you, Jack,” Pitch nudged him, a wicked smile clear in his voice.
Jack didn’t even have the energy to open his eyes back up, not after having been so close to relief. “I’ve been having a very rough off-season,” he groaned. “And if I don’t get some rest soon, then it’s going to be an extreme winter this year.”
“I would think you’d enjoy that.”
“Not really.” Jack shivered; something had just ghosted around him, leaving the indefinable sense of being enclosed when he knew he wasn’t. “When I say extreme, it can go one of two ways: mild or incredibly bitter. As you might imagine, it’s harder to control my impulses when I’m not thinking straight.”
Pitch hummed, his fingers tapping the floor between them. “Yet earlier you claimed not to be the Embodiment of Winter.”
“It’s hard to explain. Winter really is its own phenomenon. I just facilitate it, sharpen the effect. If I do nothing, winter would still happen but it would be, in some indescribable way, different.” Were Pitch’s shadows behind him now? Was that the movement he was sensing?
The dark spirit gave a short laugh that clearly said he thought Jack was making it all up.
But Jack was undeterred, even as he slumped more fully into the floor, his brain desperately wanting to shut down.“Put it in this perspective: fear existed before you. It can and does thrive in places that you don’t attempt to create it; adults fear a lot of things, but those fears are in no way reflective of your power. So it’s not like you’re the ultimate source of fear, you’re simply a manifestation of it. An Agent of Fear, if you will,” he explained, his hands flopping listlessly as he attempted to gesticulate. “It’s the same with me and winter. It existed before me, it will exist after me. Yet without my touch, it lacks a certain impact. So, do I create winter? No, but I do help it realize its potential.”
There was a drawn out silence again, but when Pitch spoke he sounded quietly impressed. “You’re a lot more insightful than anyone gives you credit for, aren’t you?”
“Probably comes from perpetually looking like a teenager,” Jack laughed around a yawn. “It’s hard for people to take you seriously when you barely look old enough to shave and your M.O. mostly consists of snowball fights.”
Suddenly there was a rustling, like Pitch was shifting, moving. “It’s been an interesting chat,” he assured with the quiet finality of someone ending a conversation.
Jack wanted to be happy about it, since it meant he would finally get some rest, but instead he blurted out, “You’re leaving?” And, damn, didn’t that sound way more panicked and vulnerable than he’d intended. But it felt like they were on the brink of a friendship here, and that was something that was still rare and precious to him. True, he was getting along with the other Guardians a lot better than expected, but most of them were constantly busy; they didn’t have the time to pal around like Jack did.
“I find your weariness catching,” Pitch replied. But he didn’t leave. For as dark and twisted as the older spirit was, he understood. He knew what it was like to want something something so deeply that it defined your every action. Knew what it was like to reach out for acceptance only to be crushed and denied time and again.
When Jack finally, blessedly slipped into his daze, Pitch was still there. And, when he blinked awake several months later, he discovered that the dreaded bogeyman hadn’t moved an inch. It was kind of endearing, in a small and quiet way.
Of course, Jack found it substantially less endearing when he rolled out from under the bed and straight into the heart of Pitch’s lair.