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Fear, in its natural state, is a wild and ugly thing—an animal instinct, a reservoir of molten black that burns beneath the mind of every man and beast.
From this vast, untapped reservoir it leaps forth in brief and violent bursts. It is the mother of adrenaline, a friend of shadow, and ultimately, a fuel: awaiting the fire of sleep to ignite in a glorious nightmare.
To tame fear, one first must conquer fear—break the wild and snorting beast until it becomes docile—for once the beast is broken, it might be molded in the image of its master.
But taming is not the same as mastering; one can own the beast without knowledge of its workings, or the ability to carve nightmares from its flesh. Warriors greeting battle with joy and bloodlust have long conquered fear, but they still lack the means to use it as a tool. To craft nightmares and poison dreams, a deeper sort of understanding is required. And none is more familiar with the inner workings of fear than its maker, Pitch Black.
Where mortals struggle and ultimately fall, the Nightmare King thrives; humanity is a battlefield and he a hungry vulture. With the keen eye of an artist, he creates grotesque and beautiful creatures that darken skies and dispositions. At a glance he knows the deepest fears of any sentient creature, fashioning nightmares for them in turn—each ghoulish wraith meticulously tailored to suit the victim, carved from raw and frenzied fear like a statue from stone.
His nightmares bear an awful magnificence. They are ornate, intricate, and lovely—they devour the human mind with practiced eloquence. With spindly fingers he creates so that he might destroy, working ceaselessly wherever darkness falls.
The Nightmare King is a god in his own right—and as he slips through his shadowed lair, surrounded by his own designs, he is acutely aware of his power. In the ridges of black sand which act as skin for his creations lies a language only he understands; the equine figures stand at attention, awaiting inspection before they are sent to terrorize the sleeping world.
Pitch’s footfalls echo in the vast cavern. Rain dripping into still water is the only other sound. He gestures to one of the mares and it steps forward compliantly—the creatures are almost identical the untrained eye, but a world of difference is apparent to their master. He reaches out to touch the creature, running fingers through its flesh, reading the terrors contained as if they were braille.
“Perfect,” he whispers after a pause. His yellow eyes meet the burning gaze of his masterpiece. “You truly are fit for a queen.”
The creature snorts, appearing pleased. In its bones dwells a gruesome, heartbreaking tale—the story of the tooth fairy’s creation: the slaughter of her parents, the years of isolation. The worst aspects have been exaggerated, of course—the tale is bloodier, more twisted and vile. Pitch had seen to that personally.
“It has been a while since I’ve sent you,” he continues. “It is a rare treat that Toothiana sleeps—she is always so busy, so awake.” The Nightmare King smiles, teeth white and sharp. “Her little helpers will watching. Be swift and silent.”
The creature bows and vanishes in a flurry of sand and shadow.
Pitch turns to another mare, seeing the embers in its eyes. “I remember making you,” he murmurs. “A fiery death for our favorite snow spirit…”
He twists the sand of its mane, the final touch to Jack Frost’s grisly end. “You may go,” he says, eyes bright.
The other Guardians are awake tonight, so their nightmares remain cloistered in their holes. The Sandman’s dreams stretch across the evening sky like power lines of brilliant gold; the majority of Pitch’s creatures will be destroyed by Sandy's, but the Nightmare King is patient and delights in small victories. Some of his mares always slip through the cracks—after all, there is only one Sandman, and Pitch creates billions of nightmares a night.
Pitch places his hands on a third creature. There are spiders shifting in its skin, and they tickle his arms as he sinks his wrists into the gut of the creature. “Ah, yes. For little Sophie, is that right? She’s developed a rather severe case of arachnophobia.”
He smiles at the thought of her screaming in bed, a thousand phantom spiders accosting her skin.
“Go,” he says. “And remember—Sandy is watching.”
The rest depart shortly after, full of fear and yet fearless, melting into the night. Pitch summons shadows from the walls of his lair to breathe life into tomorrow’s army.
Thousands of miles away and a short time later, Toothiana wakes with a start—her is heart racing, her stomach is twisting, and her wide eyes sting with tears.
One of her fairies darts towards her, alarmed.
“I’m all right,” Tooth says, but her voice trembles. “It was just a bad dream, Baby Tooth.”
The fairy squeaks sympathetically, but Tooth does not hear her. The corpses of her parents weigh heavily on her mind; she still feels warm blood on her feathers, feels the swords light in her grasp. She shuts her eyes and swallows her grief with a barely-concealed shudder. “Let’s get back to work. No more sleeping on the job, Baby Tooth.”
Squeaking softly, worry swimming in her eyes, the little fairy follows her Queen into the morning light.
Back in his lair, Pitch grins like a shark in bloodied water. “Oh, Toothiana,” he whispers. “You really are a terrible liar.”