Work Text:
Pitch Black went by many names.
The Boogeyman...
The Nightmare King...
The Bringer of Darkness...
It differed from place to place across the planet, but there was a common thread.
However, of all his titles in all of the places where Pitch Black worked to spread his fear, he was particularly proud of what he was called in a cold, northern region called the Barbaric Archipelago.
The God of Fear.
The Harbinger of Shadow and Disaster.
The Dark One.
To those foolish Viking mortals, Pitch Black was a deity.
He was their deity.
The one who was lurking in every shadow. The one who fueled their actions and violence in every battle. The one who orchestrated their most haunting nightmares.
Sure, there had been some resistance by the mortals when Pitch Black had first appeared centuries ago, but unlike the Norse Gods who had always been distant and preferred to focus on their own immortal affairs, Pitch could be a very hands-on and active tormentor.
Those foolish enough to resist were consumed by shadow and madness, serving as grim examples and brutal warnings to the rest of the masses. While Pitch preferred to keep his victims alive – after all, the dead could no longer supply him Fear – it was inevitable that a few had to be sacrificed for his greater grand design.
As expected, the surviving terrified mortals bowed their heads and knees in worship. They revered this shadow king even above even the highest Norse Gods, who only continued to ignore the pleas and suffering of their unfortunate followers. Even Odin himself was wary of crossing the Nightmare King, agreeing to not interfere as long as Pitch kept his schemes away from Asgard.
It was an easy compromise.
Soon enough, Pitch Black was the undisputed deity of the Barbaric Archipelago.
Pleased with their terror and exaltation, the Nightmare King stepped back from their daily lives. After all, Vikings naturally generated more than enough terror to feed his hunger and fuel his power. They fought bitterly amongst themselves, endured the merciless wrath of the weather and ocean, and, of course, waged a relentless war against dragons.
It was a beautiful, self-sustaining loop of endless Fear.
However, unlike the wise Norse Gods and worshipping Vikings, there were beings who refused to bow before Pitch Black.
In particular, those pesky Guardians. Those arrogant hypocrites who called themselves protectors and sought to infect the globe with their wonder, hopes, dreams, and other ridiculous nonsense.
Worse still was their leader, the Man in the Moon. A cowardly puppeteer perched safely in the sky, orchestrating the universe while never getting his own hands dirty. With his ever-irritating light and constant presence, he'd obsessively watch Pitch Black and send his Guardians after him whenever he could.
It was absolutely infuriating.
However, even with the Guardians best efforts, they could never truly defeat or even harm Pitch Black in a way he couldn't recover from.
After all, Fear was ever-present.
...however, in the past few years, Pitch Black had noticed a sharp decrease of Fear somewhere in the world.
Pitch hadn't noticed it immediately, far too busy dealing with those meddlesome Guardians, but when he had, he'd began searching for the source. Like the Guardians, he had his own globe that tracked the presence of his Believers across the globe – only, instead of shining lights, it was covered in darkness to show where his terror flourished the most.
To his surprise, the origin of the decrease was that of the Barbaric Archipelago.
At the center of the fading shadows was an island.
An island named Berk.
While Pitch was very curious as to what have caused such a drastic, noticeable change, he also didn't have time to investigate on his own. He was already weaving meticulous plans of his own elsewhere across the globe.
More importantly, he did not want to risk drawing the Guardians' attention towards the Barbaric Archipelago. If they infected his perfect domain with their Hope, Wonder, and Dreams... it would be very unfortunate.
Then what should I do? the Nightmare King wondered from his throne of shadows. He paused, a dark smile filling his face. Or rather... who should I send?
The answer was clear the moment the thought took root.
While Pitch Black commanded countless servants – his nightmares, dark spirits, beasts, and other magical creatures who had obediently fallen in line with the Bringer of Shadows to fight the Guardians – there was one particular being he had in mind.
"Jack Frost," Pitch called out, knowing that his shadows would send his message immediately to the one it was meant for. "My cherished son... I require your presence."
It took only moments before the shadows in the center of the room rippled like water.
Seconds later, a form rose from the darkness.
The temperature in the underground lair plummeted instantly. The air grew frigid as a pale boy stepped from the shadows, scowling up at Pitch Black.
He was known as Jack Frost.
The one and only son of Pitch Black.
Despite his youthful appearance, he was less of a boy and more of a cruel winter myth made flesh. His long, jagged hair was a wild mess of tangled snow-white and ash-grey strands – stained from over a century of exposure to nightmare and Pitch Black's dark magic.
Most striking were his eyes.
Gone was the warm, mischievous gaze of the lost child that Pitch Black had first found over two hundred years ago. Now, they were a pair of brilliant, glacier-blue irises burned like frozen stars – as ruthless and unforgiving as the storms he commanded.
In his son's grip, he clutched was a gnarled wooden staff. The wood was no longer the pale, weathered shepherd’s staff it had once been. It had rotted into a twisted, obsidian branch that occasionally bled a heavy, freezing black smoke. Like the boy, the magical artifact had been expertly warped by Pitch Black's guidance and influence.
My greatest creation, Pitch Black thought with smug satisfaction. While quite a headache and a handful at times, Jack is the greatest gift my enemy could have ever foolishly abandoned. It still remains a mystery why this child was resurrected by MiM's magic, particularly since Jack had been all alone for over a century before I discovered him, but I am more than happy to utilize him where Manny and the Guardians failed to.
If nothing else... the pain and regret that Pitch Black could feel from the Man in the Moon whenever Jack Frost was by his side was exquisite.
If Pitch Black's carefully plans continued as they were, there would come a day where Jack Frost personally destroyed each and every Guardian. And he wasn't talking about Jack Frost's current little 'pranks' and tricks – such as burying Easter in snow, using blizzards to prevent Toothiana's fairies from finding their way to collect teeth, freezing North's flight plans...
No, that was just mere practice.
A bit of fun in preparation for his true duty.
The absolute execution of the Guardians.
And everything they stood for.
All the while, the Man in the Moon was forced to watch helplessly from above. Forced to watch as the child he'd brought to life was twisted and warped into something entirely of Pitch Black's creation.
They both knew that, one day, Pitch Black and his forces would grow powerful enough to confront the Lunar Prince himself – and it would be Jack Frost that the Nightmare King would proudly allow to land the final blow.
It was only a matter of time.
...but, as of now, Jack Frost was still an unpolished weapon.
A spirit of merely three hundred years old. A burgeoning monster who still had far more to learn in terms of cruelty and terror. He was certainly a thorn in the side of the Guardians, yes, but often forced to run whenever they became truly serious.
Bunnymund, in particular, seemed to despise his adopted son the most. Even though MiM seemed to have forbidden the Guardians from inflicting real harm upon the winter spirit, the Pooka had a difficult time containing his rage – often leaving quite a few injuries upon his adopted son.
But that was fine.
After all, Pitch Black had all the time in the world to further cultivate Jack Frost into his unbreakable masterpiece.
Which was exactly why the Nightmare King had called upon him today.
"Dad, did you really have to summon me without warning?" Jack Frost complained, jagged frost following his every step as he came forward. "I was in the middle of crafting the greatest blizzard the West Coast of Europe has ever seen. I'm pretty sure I was going to beat last decade's record even! I'm sure you could feel those stupid humans quaking in their boots as they scrambled to prepare."
"I could feel their Fear," Pitch Black agreed, giving an indulgent, approving smile. "But right now, I have a different set of mortals for you to play with."
"Oh?" A curious, predatory smile crept across Jack's face. It glinted in the darkness like razor-sharp icicles. "What new game do you have for me now, Father?"
Pitch Black gave a wicked, cold smirk.
"A new toy for you called... Berk."
o0o0o0o
Hiccup lived in a world ruled by fear.
Literally.
Centuries ago, a dark god named Pitch Black and his loyal army of shadows conquered the Barbaric Archipelago. Legends whispered that even the Norse Gods had bowed before his shadows, surrendering these islands as tribute and granting him freedom to do whatever he pleased with the mortals.
Of course, this didn't mean the Vikings were allowed to stop worshipping the Aesir. That would be ridiculous. It simply meant that they had a new god – one they were expected to fear and revere above all others.
However, Hiccup had never been very religious.
And, frankly, he'd been more than a bit busy thus far in his life. Trying to live up to the position of the son of the Chief of Berk, shooting down and then hiding a Night Fury, defeating the Red Death, adjusting to the loss of his foot, working to create peace with dragons, working to convince Vikings to make peace with dragons, negotiating with other tribes to do the same, fighting Dragon Hunters... he barely had time to breathe, nonetheless study up on mythology more than he was obligated to as a Viking.
However, when a violent ice storm sprang out of nowhere and sealed Berk in walls of ice... Hiccup found himself wishing he'd paid a bit more attention to the villager elder's ramblings.
Hiccup and Toothless had been out for a familiar, late-night flight when a sudden storm of hail and wind came out of nowhere. While sudden storms weren't uncommon for the Archipelago... the rising walls of jagged ice that emerged from the ocean, surrounding Berk in a circle, were.
"That... is weird," Hiccup murmured, wincing as he was pelted with hail. He shivered, reaching down to try and soothe Toothless who had been very spooked by the walls of ice to suddenly appear before them. "Calm down, bud! The ice is probably just a... new dragon or something. Maybe some sort of cross between a Snow Wraith and a Submaripper–"
Hiccup froze, catching sight of something in the corner of his eye.
In the dark clouds and brewing tempest, a pair of glowing ice blue eyes stared at him.
The Viking's heart stopped in his chest as a pale youth with long, ash-white hair emerged fully from the storm clouds. Even more terrifying was the fact that, unlike Hiccup who sat secured to the saddle of his Night Fury, this strange entity was defying gravity all on his own – riding nothing but the freezing winds. He looked down at Hiccup from above, uncaring as Toothless began to growl protectively.
"What do we have here?" the terrifying creature asked curiously, eyes glinting with dark interest. "A human on a dragon? That's new..."
The pale being's smirk widened. He drifted closer, crowding directly into Hiccup's space. Toothless thrashed, trying to break away, but the winds kept them in place – preventing them from fleeing even if they wanted to.
Hiccup was paralyzed. He could only stare as the pale boy hovered inches in front of his face. He tilted his head, analyzing him like a curious predator, before suddenly tapping the Viking's nose.
Hiccup flinched, a feeling like frostbite shooting through his skin. He shivered, the sensation crawling beneath his skin like frost. It completely froze out any lingering sense of bravery or sense of control.
The pale being just laughed – a cruel, melodic sound.
"This is going to be even more fun than I imagined, isn't it?"
Before Hiccup could even attempt to say a word, the entity waved his gnarled black staff. The winds instantly answered the command, slamming into Hiccup and forcing him and Toothless into a violent tailspin downward at breakneck speeds.
The echo of laughter rang out from above, but Hiccup was far too preoccupied with not crashing into the island below.
Somehow, Hiccup and Toothless managed to make a rough, skidding landing in the central plaza of Berk, but it became clear a second later that they had been guided to this exact spot on purpose.
All around Hiccup were the people of Berk. Given the time of night, it was unsurprising to see the villagers in their nightgowns and sleepwear. However, what was bizarre was the way Hiccup could see people being dragged out of their homes and beds by the chilling winds, forced to gather in the central plaza into a single, trapped crowd.
The Vikings shivering violently, huddling together to try to get warm as snow and ice continued to fall upon them without mercy. Any attempt to leave the central plaza only resulted in them being pushed back by those same, strangely sentient winds from before.
Searching the crowd, Hiccup caught sight of Astrid and the other Dragon Riders, who looked as disturbed and confused as he was. He saw Astrid try to catch his eye and start moving towards him but he continued to search until he found the Chief of Berk.
"Dad!" Hiccup called, rushing over to Stoick the Vast who was standing next to Gobber and Gothi with a grave expression. "What's going on–"
"That's what I'm trying to find out, Hiccup!" Stoick shouted over the whipping winds. "Gobber What is Gothi saying!?"
Gobber's teeth visibly chattered, but he did his best to translate the runes written on the ground. "S-She says that there is only one being that could create a storm like this. The living embodiment of the Devastating Winter. The Vengeance of Ice and Snow. The Sculptor of Frozen Demise. Lord–"
Gobber paled, the blood completely draining from his face as he stared at the final, jagged stroke.
"The only son of The Dark One... Lord Jokul Frosti."
Loud laughter filled the plaza, echoing in their ears.
"That's me!"
Hiccup tried not to tremble as the being from before appeared before them. The pale god gave them a cheeky smirk, twirling his staff as he floated down to them.
"Now...." Something hard glinted in Jokul Frosti's eyes. "Who's been messing with my father's domain?"