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Ten years it had been. Ten long, torturous years, of being trapped and tormented; isolated and suffocating.
It was truly nothing new, not for him. Ten years of the life he had lived for centuries should not have felt so different, so horrendous, so wrong.
But even so, for the Nightmare King Pitch Black, as he suffered up enough strength to finally pull himself from the encroaching pit of shadows he had been dragged into, it was as though he breathed for the first time.
And what a sweet breath it was. Breaking free, in the same manner as one may break from a prison cell, Pitch had thrust himself at long last from the entrapment of Nightmares of which had churned about him like an angry sea.
And now breathe he did; deep, stuttering gulps of fresh air which brought his lungs to nearly burn with the icy air which hit him.
Such a sharp feeling within his throat and lungs had him opening his eyes, allowing himself sight from the black he had forced upon himself for the past years, if for no other reason than to escape the prying eyes of his own Nightmares.
Looking about, he understood the reasoning for the sharp sting of cold which had hit him when he thrust himself free of his shadowy prison.
It was winter. Where in the world the season took place, Pitch could not say. Though he was in a pine forest of deep serenity, with naught but silence reigning about him as the snow fell softly. There was no discomfort felt by this, for the cold was a gift to his previously suffocated lungs, and therefore he could not exactly care where he had found himself, only pleased it was the season of dark and cold he had entered into.
Pitch took a step from the tree he had been leaning against for support, wincing and falling back into the trunk as even the small bit of movement set great pains to wrack over his form.
He was weak; wretchedly, achingly, frighteningly weak. Hundreds of years it had been since he felt such a weakness. Having been, just as it was now, that only the magic and power of the Guardians or MIM’s warriors were able to put him in such a state.
Pitch shook such thoughts from his head, the memories flashing through his mind of such times causing a deep disgust to rise within himself.
He did not want to think of the Guardians just now. Not of them, or of the Man in the Moon, and nor of his Moonbeam soldiers. And certainly not of the near victories which were stolen from him, time and time again, leaving him as he was now; injured, weak, and far too tired to feel the rage he wished he could.
No, he would not think of it all just now. For thinking took energy, just as the anger and hatred swirling in his dark heart took energy, and that was something Pitch Black did not possess as of now.
With a ragged breath drawn into brittle lungs, Pitch pushed himself once again from the pine, though kept his hand upon the trunk still. With a wave of his hand and a dark flicker of his lessened magic, he summoned himself a staff of black, seeming as though it was made entirely of obsidian, as it was as dark as his own shadows, though held a kind of shining glimmer to it.
With his weight leaning upon the staff, from the cover of the trees he walked, albeit in carefully slow steps, to where a clearing opened to a large lake frozen in blue ice and dotted in streaks and small drifts of snow.
Not a whisper of breeze disturbed the land here, leaving the current snowfall to drift peacefully to the ground, adding to the generous blanketing of white that was about the forest floor and laid heavily upon every pine bough.
The silence was so deep it was nearly as though the delicate flakes could be heard, landing as the lightest of whispers on the surface of the frozen lake, seeming to generate their own light as they shone as that of a diamond’s surface.
Standing here, with the intricate shapes collecting and showing starkly upon the black of his garb, even Pitch Black found beauty in the scene. It was almost as though he felt a glimmer of something akin to peace; contentment perhaps.
It was a rarity indeed, for hardly ever could it be said that Pitch necessarily felt anything. And yet, it was there at the icy lake’s edge that he stood, with the malice which ruled often over his heart and thoughts ebbing slightly and causing the sharpness of his eyes to soften ever so slightly.
He could not say why exactly, though standing as he was, even despite the clawing pain upon his physical form, his thoughts began to drift. A strange feeling whispered in the back of his mind, almost as though a distant voice was spoken from the depths of a dream; a dream which was dreamt hundreds of years passed, being impossibly distant, and yet oddly familiar.
Though this also, just as his hatred, his anger, his want for revenge; he could not dwell upon it. For again, it took from him the energy and effort he could not give, allowing his mind to fall silent instead, so that he might simply savor the rare serenity he was gifted.
Shifting a step back, with his staff bracing every movement, Pitch braced his back against one of the obliging pines, laying his head back as he gazed out over the snow and ice laden lake.
As he began to tremble, every muscle in his form seizing and spasming for no reason of the cold, he winced and eased himself down to the base of the tree, keeping his back and head leaning against the rough, snow engraved bark.
A long stint of time it would take before he felt himself again, this he knew from past years, from previous times, even be them few and far between, when he had come so close to losing his power entirely.
Pitch’s gaze drifted from before himself to the snow laden branches above, silvery golden eyes watching the flakes drift from the cloud-darkened sky, floating aimlessly down onto his upturned features.
Every light kiss of the cold flakes was a relief, easing the burn of his skin which felt unnaturally feverish, the lessening of his power and his entrapment causing such discomforts as that of a human illness.
Slowly he continued to breathe until the ragged stuttering had begun to ease, his eyelids beginning to drift as exhaustion which one such as himself should not have been able to feel, though which weighed down on him nonetheless.
As if a veil of black was drawn over his eyes, Pitch’s vision began to fade as he continued to stare upwards, the swirling drift of the snow causing a hypnotizing view against the darkened sky.
Upwards he continued to gaze through half-masted eyes, until naught else but the shimmering white against the scape of black remained.
“Papa!”
The voice seemed spoken from the very depths of the ocean, muffled, distorted, seeming to barely be a voice at all.
“Papa!”
Again it called, Pitch wincing slightly and turning his head this way and that, wishing to focus on the small voice, and yet also wanting to be rid of it.
“Papa, look!”
He heard it plainly now, a sweet voice of a young girl, very young by the sound of it. She was happy. Her voice rang with pure, unbridled joy as there was a laugh undertoning her words, beckoning him to her. Pitch knew that voice, knew it painfully well. It was so dear to him, causing a pulling of warmth upon his heart.
“Papa, Papa! Look at me!”
At last he followed the exuberant urging, dropping his gaze from the swirl of snow above, a smile spreading over his features, broad and bright, seeing before him a young girl on the surface of a frozen lake.
A laugh bubbled from her as she slid upon the icy surface, running over patches of snow to build her speed, before halting suddenly on the ice to send herself sailing swiftly across the surface.
She was tall for one of her age, her form lithe though her features soft and slightly rounded, with a button nose and doe eyes of sage green. Her hair was long and black like her father’s, pulled into a long braid and tied in gold ribbons.
Her dress fell to her knees, light blue with gold accents in color, with leggings of black for warmth beneath tucked into slick-soled boots.
As he continued to watch her, his smile grew to a small chuckle, clapping for her as she performed a fancy twirl which sent her skirts swirling elegantly about herself. “Well done Emily; you glide beautifully!”
The girl, Emily Jane, smiled proudly as she paused. Turning her gaze over her shoulder, she waved enthusiastically, slight impatience in her tone. “Hurry, Mama!”
“Yes, little flower, I’m coming.” A woman chuckled, standing from where she had been slipping on similar boots as Emily wore, with slick soles and soft leather, to step onto the frozen surface with her daughter.
Much like her daughter the woman was tall, though slightly broader about her shoulders, her form fit and her arms lithely muscled. Her hair of streaming silver which was twisted and set in many braids hung down low to her thighs, complementing her porcelain skin to cause her to have an ethereal look about her.
Her garb was blue and of an open skirt dress, black leggings beneath, and a half cloak of white about her shoulders, which fluttered out as she slid elegantly across the frozen lake towards her daughter.
Joining hands the two spun about each other, their laughs mingling as they spun and twirled, dancing upon the ice.
The sound of their laughter and voices raised in joy was music to his ears, joining as a melody which warmed his heart in the deepest of love for those before him.
“Papa!” Emily called once again, waving a hand expectantly to him. “Come with us! We’ere going all the way to the other side today!”
The woman looked up from her daughter, her smile so bright and radiant it rivaled any beauty he had ever seen, eyes of silvery blue filled with love and happiness. “Come along now, Koz. If we race, we will promise to let you win.”
“Ha!” Kozmotis laughed, throwing his golden cloak over one shoulder and gathering his shoulder length hair, black as the night sky, into a simple tail at the knap of his neck. “That, my darling Joy, sounded like a challenge.”
Joy twirled once. “It might have been…” She flashed a playful wink, sliding a bit further from the bank along with Emily, her daughter’s small hand held in her own. “What are you going to do about it, Lord Pitch?”
Kozmotis stepped smoothly onto the lake, his cloak and long tunic of gold and black flowing behind him, reaching out suddenly before she had the chance to slide from, and wrapping his arms securely about his wife’s middle.
Joy yelped slightly as she had turned in an attempt to escape him, laughing brightly as she found herself caught in her husband's grasp, held against his chest as he planted a firm kiss to her cheek.
She struggled against him and was able to slip beneath his arm, sending the two into a spin about as he held her hand still as she propelled herself over the ice, leaving the two laughing brightly as they held on to each other.
Emily laughed as she watched her parents’ antics, coming between them as Joy laughed out a call for help, Kozmotis still having a strong hold upon her hand.
Now with Emily having taken both Kozmotis’ and Joy’s hands in her own, she stood between them, the three twirling and laughing.
Across the surface of the lake they glided together, playing their games with great joy and laughter abounding between them, the small family a beautiful picture of peace.
Within Kozmotis’ heart was love-warmed happiness, being sure, with his daughter and wife by his side, nothing could ever destroy the perfection of the life they had made with each other.
As he looked over the joyful faces of them, he swore within himself, as he had many times before and would continue to do, that nothing would ever harm them. He would be there, to guard and care for them, for as long as the stars shone.
In the pine forest, where the snow had stopped and silence was oppressive, Pitch Black lay propped beneath the tree at his back.
His features were softened in sleep, the rigidity gone from his form, and certainly no dark thoughts to twist his mind as he lay without the influence of the Nightmares about him.
This was all for the purpose of a soft light, glowing gold that was twisting about him and painting the picture of the dream of long-forgotten memories which played for him.
This light kept the dark at bay, granting Pitch rest and peace, and even, as was plain by the hint of a smile over his features, an emotion which had not been felt in his cold heart for centuries; joy.
Far above him, resting on a cloud of gold above the pines, sat the Sandman with a mournful sort of smile about his features.
He trailed his dreamsand down in a gentle stream, watching the dreams play out in times of which he himself remembered well, of two people of whom were once the very heart and soul of Pitch.
Sandy had known them, of course, and treasured the sweetness of the pair of mother and daughter as the embodiment of the Golden Age which he looked back on with great fondness.
How he wished Pitch could remember them too. He wanted to help it to be so, and even though knew the dreams which he helped to take root in Pitch’s rare moments of sleep would not do so, he tried all the same.
Pitch would not remember the dreams when he woke, he never did, though Sandy supposed that was not the full purpose of them.
He wanted to give a moment of peace to a suffering soul, one who he held no hatred towards, even despite long years of fight between them. But no, Sandy did not hate, and neither did he hold grudges; it wasn’t in his nature.
And so he sat in silent guard, feeding down trickling sand to keep the sweet dreams flowing, and casting a shield of golden light about the Nightmare king to keep his own shadows at bay.
After all, everyone deserves rest now and again; even Pitch Black.