Okay, this could either turn into a complete disaster or a relative success. I honestly have no idea at the moment. But I do know it'll be reasonably long when complete and will take forever to write.

I watched the movie and rather enjoyed it. And I've heard bits and pieces about what happened in the book series, though I've never had the chance to read them. I have come to my conclusion that there are enough differences between the film and the books (especially Bunny's personality, what little we learn about the Man in Moon, and so on) that they could be theoretically considered not quite the same continuity. Close, but not quite. So not knowing every detail in the books won't really hurt me.

That doesn't mean I can't draw on stuff I've heard about the books for inspiration. It just means that not every detail of their back-stories in the series will match the back-stories for the characters of the film. They'll be similarities, though. Basically, I'll pick and choose stuff from the books in order to craft this tale as a sequel to the film.

As for what I have planned with this story? Well, it won't be romance or that usual stuff. Instead, there will be fear.

Fear is not inherently a bad thing. It serves a purpose in the world. But too much at the wrong time or in the wrong ways can do incredible harm. And that makes people forget its necessity and uses.

What Is Courage Without Fear?

High in the alpine mountains, there was a cave that stretched down deep. It wove and plunged downwards, always going deeper. So deep that not even moonlight could reach very far. A deep, dark cavern touched by old magic so that it existed in a place between time, trapping it in an eternal cold winter night. It was a forgotten place. And when once the tunnels and chambers served as a dwelling, it was now a prison.

Chains and magic wrapped around him tightly before connecting to the stone wall. The candles were long since extinguished, leaving him in complete darkness. The entire room was carved stone, cold and damp. Though time did not pass correctly in the deep, dark cave of eternal winter night, he knew that he had been trapped for many years.

But there was a change in the air. Not a physical change since not even the wind could reach these depths to rustle his coarse fur. This was something else, something that made him raise his horned head for the first time in a long time. A weakening in the magic that bound him in place. He could sense the shift in the world above. The belief in the old bandit, the one who imprisoned him, was waning. It was waning a lot and very quickly. And as the wonder and belief within the children faded, so did the power of the bindings. Soon they were nothing more than metal chains. Those he could handle.

Bells rang as he strained against the bindings. Cloven hooves scraped against stone as he pulled. Without magic to reinforce the bonds, the strength of the large figure began to have an effect. The anchors drilled into the walls began to creak and give way. His muscles strained harder, success so close. He managed another step forward, producing a sharp crack.

He felt one anchor break free and a second quickly followed. Then the rest gave way abruptly, causing him to stumble to the ground in a clatter of chains. Freedom.

Once he caught his breath, he climbed to his feet with a fanged grin. His bells and chains rattled as he moved across the cavern that served as his prison for far too long. First he lit a candle, bringing light back to his domain. Then he began to reclaim his belongings.

He picked up the wicker basket and strapped it to his back. While a cloth sack might suffice for carrying toys, he needed something more durable. What he carried around would try to escape. Once the basket was in place where it belonged, he grabbed his bundle of birch switches with one taloned hand and the thicker rod in the other. They were perfect for leaving stinging welts behind on those who had not yet earned a worse fate.

They still remembered him. They still believed in him. Not all across the globe like the more soft-hearted and cheerful fellow, but people believed in certain corners of the world. Even during his extended absence, they believed. That gave him power. And soon he would remind them that actions have consequences.

He had time before December arrived. He could make preparations, gather allies and add a few precautions. Carefully and slowly, he would get everything ready for his yearly journey. And if he only went outside his underworld lair on moonless nights, the old bandit and his soft-hearted allies would not know of his escape until it was too late. Only after he showed them why he was necessary and that the foolish old man was wrong to lock him away would he hunt openly again. By that point, he would have taken steps to ensure they would not stop him a second time. He did not survive this long by being foolish.

The others of his kind were driven out of the world ages ago. They were too greedy and too impatient. They hunted indiscriminately, taking targets whenever they pleased. And they pushed humanity too far. He survived because he was cautious. He chose targets that deserved their fates and would not be missed as much. He even made himself useful with his hunting, serving as warnings for those who survived. Useful beings were less likely to die. And over time, he became more than he once was. He became a legend and legends possess a life all their own.

Once a year when the weather grew cold, he would seek out the children. The children who didn't listen. The children who disobeyed. The children who caused mischief. The children who were mean-spirited or cruel. The children who lied, cheated, and argued. The naughty children. He would seek out those children. Some were warned with a few lashes, a warning that he might come for them again. But those who were truly naughty were stuffed into his basket and carried back to his cave.

It was not his fault so many children were naughty. It was not his fault they did not heed the warnings their elders and the stories provided. But he would take advantage of it.

The children's actions made them his rightful property to hunt and carry home. The final punishment for naughty children. And if the numbers grew too large, the old bandit should have been grateful they vanished before growing worse with age. He should not have been locked away for so long because those children were too naughty. They belonged to him. The children were bad enough to belong to him that night. It was his right and that gift-giving fool interfered.

But free once more, he would reclaim his right. He would reclaim his role within the world. He would be what he was meant to be. And no one would stop him ever again. The naughty children would be his once more.

An interesting thought crossed his mind and he laughed, a full-belly laugh that shook his whole body and sounded as deep as a bottomless pit. He did not appreciate his time locked away, but perhaps there might be a bright side. Without his presence in the world, the number of naughty children would have increased. After all, the old bandit's methods would not be enough to discourage them. He could scarcely imagine how many he would find in December. Surely more than he ever collected before. He might even need to go out a few more days to find them all.

His long and slavering tongue licked his lips at the thought. He should thank whoever or whatever weakened belief in the jolly old man and ensured his escape. Once December arrived, he would feast. And that would not have been possible without his regained freedom.

Pain. Fear and pain consumed him. His Nightmares turned on him the instant they sensed his fear. His fear of losing the fight. His fear of retaliation. His fear of losing everything he'd worked so long to regain. His fear of being completely forgotten, ignored, tossed aside, and lost. His fear of disappearing from even the slightest memory until there was nothing left. His fear of being truly alone and purposeless. When the children lost their fear to the point they could place him out of their minds, letting him fading into true invisibility and intangibility, it left him desperate and afraid of what he would become and what the Guardians would do because of his actions. And that summoned his Nightmares to attack their creator.

The horse-shaped entities and swirling clouds of corrupted Dream Sand dragged him back to his lair. Nightmares were creatures who hunted fear. They invoked it, strengthen it, and fed off it as they spread it to those who slumbered. But he was not asleep. And once he inadvertently allowed himself to experience the emotion himself, they realized that they had ignored a feast for too long.

After all, Fearlings were entities of fear and shadows. And so long ago, ten thousand of them sought to possess him all at once as they escaped their prison and that sort of thing tended to leave a mark.

Weakened by the loss of much of his power, he could not hope to escape or fend the Nightmares off. They attacked hard, hooves and teeth striking fast while others became shapeless storms that slashed and whirled. And the speed and pain only made his fear worse, which increased their frenzy. So many Nightmares. He couldn't even hope to vanish in a shadow or call them off. He couldn't even raise his head from the ground as he was trampled, cut, and battered by the creatures of dark dreams he'd created.

Each impact of the striking Nightmares hurt more than the previous, making him try to curl up against the blows even as the battered him around. Limbs were beaten and ripped at. Chest was smashed and slashed before they managed to flip him around. Back was trampled and lacerated. Head was struck and sliced at.

It seemed to last forever. The pain and fear. The weakness and helplessness. The chaos of attacking Nightmares and swirling storms of corrupted Dream Sand. Everything hurt and the most primal fear of all began to join the others. Would this be his death? Torn to shreds by his creations of dark Dream Sand? Even the Boogeyman could someday be destroyed if weakened enough and forgotten. Fear would never vanish, but that wasn't the same thing. There would always be other spirits who could take up the role if necessary, but he would still be gone.

Which did he fear more? Dying at the hooves of his Nightmares or lingering in pain as everyone truly forgot and ignored him until he finally faded away?

He wasn't sure when he lost consciousness, but he eventually woke up in agony. Every inch of his body ached. Bruised, scratched, and battered, he didn't try to move. He just lay there in exhaustion. Even breathing hurt. He didn't know if anything was broken or how badly he was truly hurt. He was more durable than a mortal, but he was also far weaker than normal. What power he didn't spend with his efforts to defeat the Guardians had instead waned when so much fear faded at once, leaving him more vulnerable. So he just lay there in pain, his face resting against the cold ground of his lair.

Cold. What goes better together than dark and cold?

That thought made him reluctantly chuckle softly, causing the pain in his chest to sharpen. Jack Frost was the one piece he never took into account while planning for so many years. The new Guardian who wanted the same things as he did. To be seen. To be believed in. To have a real purpose. To belong and no longer be alone. Jack Frost wanted these things and yet would not accept them when offered. Jack Frost could have stood beside him. The offer was honest. They could have made the world a dark and cold place where humanity would have no choice but to believe. But the boy felt that the happiness and well-being of the children was more important than any amount of belief or ever being seen.

But even as he lay limply on the cold ground, he wasn't mad. Not anymore. His body hurt, but emotionally he felt numb. His anger, his jealousy, his frustration, and especially his fear had died down when he lost consciousness. Which was probably the only reason the Nightmares left, the fear they desired gone. Perhaps later he would find the strength to rekindle those emotions and spark some vengeful thoughts. But for now, it seemed like so much of it had been torn or sanded away until there was almost nothing left. Almost like what happened to most of his memories from around the end of the Golden Age, during the time the Fearlings took hold.

Strange. Did he mean to make his Nightmares so similar to the Fearlings on purpose? Perhaps not as dangerous and unable to convert the children into the same creatures by attacking their souls, but there were similarities. Was it an accident, a coincidence, or their leftover influence on him?

His tired and fragmented thoughts halted as he caught sight of something that did not belong in his dark, shifting, shadowy lair. A sliver of pale light slowly stretched across the ground, coming towards him. Not close enough to hurt in his weakened state, but certainly close enough that he could not ignore it.

It wasn't the foreboding light that came from no true source, providing shadows without being bright. This was a different, softer, calmer light. The light should not be able to reach here, a place located somewhere between the back of a child's closet, under the mattress of a restless sleeper, and beyond the shadowy corners where the nightlight could reach.

No, the soft light should not be here. The Nightmares must have created an opening when they escaped. Or perhaps the fleeing fairies carrying the stolen containers of teeth caused it. Either way, he would need to fix it. As soon as he felt less like he was trampled (for the very good reason that he was), he would have to fix the opening. But for now, he was stuck with it. And the beam of moonlight that was reaching down into his lair couldn't be ignored.

He raised his head slightly so he could peer up through the opening high above, giving him a glimpse of the pale moon that was watching him. It was his first sight when he awoke on a strange and young world, the Fearlings no longer within him even if their influence remained. It was not quite as welcomed now. Silent judgment, self-righteousness, enigmatic ways, a need for absolute control, and a willingness to use or toss aside others like game pieces on a board: that was what he saw as he stared up at the moon.

"Hello, old friend," he whispered hoarsely, uncertain if he meant the words sarcastically or not. "Have you come to see if the Boogeyman still exists after you sent your Guardians to stop me? Sorry to say that I survived."

He rarely heard from the Man in the Moon, at least directly. He was more of an observer and far too patient to go around randomly chatting with every spirit, creature, and monster that wandered into view. When the Man in the Moon did choose to communicate, he preferred subtler methods. Shadows and moonbeams creating shapes to share his meaning with those he deemed worthy. But sometimes, that was not enough. Sometimes the aloof and superior moon would deign to be more direct.

This was not what was intended for you, Pitch Black.

There were no sounds that came through his ears. Nothing was spoken aloud. The words appeared in his mind, soft and gentle as starlight and dreamless slumber and as firm and solid as the reliable sphere in the night sky. He'd heard that voice a handful of times over the ages he'd spent on this world. Apparently trying to snuff out all belief in the more positive entities, reclaim the fear and belief in himself, and temporarily killing the Sandman was enough to warrant a proper conversation.

This is not your purpose.

On a slightly related note, some of his exhausted emotional numbness seemed to be wearing off. He was already growing annoyed with the moon.

"My purpose? You and your Guardians won't let me fulfill my purpose anymore," he said quietly. "Do you remember those distant days? When humanity was young and vulnerable? The days where there were only you, the Sandman, and myself? Where they huddled in caves while danger hunted in the night?"

He managed to push himself off the stone surface a little, making it to his knees and wincing at the movement. He felt something warm slide down his cheek, prompting him to reach up and touch the spot. A slight flash of pain at the contact made him suspect what he would find as he pulled his hand away again. A small amount of black and thick substance now coated his fingertips, something that actually absorbed the light around it. Liquid shadows. The Nightmares actually broke the skin and left a gash on his cheek. He wasn't bleeding much, but it still surprised him a little. It had been a long time since anything managed to do that much damage to him.

"What kept them near their fires when darkness fell? What kept the children close to their parents and away from harm?" he continued, his voice growing a little firmer. "Fear. Fear of the dark. Fear of heights. Fear of deep water. The fear of monsters lurking in the night just out of sight was what I gave them. Fear taught them caution. Fear warned them of danger. Fear served a purpose."

Normally he would prefer to be circling the target of his conversation, but even standing didn't feel like a good idea at the moment. He knew better than to try. His monologue would not be nearly as impressive if he collapsed halfway through.

So remaining kneeling on the ground, he said, "The fears changed as humanity grew, but they still feared and believed in things that went bump in the night. And even as the adults began to forget about the monsters in the darkness, the belief they were wise making them dismiss old fears, the children still knew. Their parents told them not to be afraid, that there was nothing trying to hurt them in the darkness, but the children didn't forget. They knew that the world contained far more dangerous things. I still thrived and their fear remained. And then you decided you no longer needed me. You kept the Sandman. He was your first little guardian of childhood. He was your favorite. But soon enough you had the rest of them. You wanted the children have to hope, dreams, wonder, and pleasant memories to reassure them. And all those things helped drive away their fears. With the Guardians to bring joy and comfort while the adults denied the presence of monsters, what did you think would happen to me? Did you believe that I would let your precious Guardians take everything and leave me with nothing?"

There was no answer. Neither a voice in his head nor shapes in the beam of light. The moon just hung above him, patiently listening to his words. He took the opportunity to push himself back until he could rest his back against a wall, the cool stone soothing to his battered body.

"Why? Why did you turn away from me, old friend? Why did you try to get rid of me? Did you want me to challenge your Guardians and try to destroy them? Did you plan this, transforming Jack Frost centuries ago so that he would be ready to serve as your pawn?"

His words came out as a quiet and honest plea for answers, which surprised him. He should have been shouting. He should have been accusing. He should have been venting his frustrations, jealousy, and anger. Or he could have even just twisted this around somehow, making it sound like he didn't particularly care either way.

But he didn't. He didn't have the energy for that. His emotions still mostly felt drained away. He felt empty, like the Nightmares managed to tear and hollow him out. If they did take something important when they sought out his fear, how badly would it affect him? Would things return to normal in time or would this empty, tired, emotional numbness remain?

"Before this, before my Nightmares and before I tried to topple your Guardians, what did I do wrong? What did I do to deserve this? Being forgotten, ignored, and tossed aside? Why?"

This time, the moon chose to respond. Shadows and moonlight shifted around, showing scenes of past actions to answer his question. A figure of a woman tied to a stake to burn. Crowds attacking a solitary person. Another group abandoning fallen figure reaching out a hand for help. And above all these moving images was the shape of the Boogeyman himself, watching the darker acts of fear with pleasure.

He could not deny it. He did stir up fear occasionally for reasons that had nothing to do with caution and warning. Fear could be used for good or ill. And even before humanity tried to forget and turn their backs on him, he would go further than he needed to. Then, when he kept losing so many believers, he went even further.

Witch hunts. Unfounded accusations against those who were different. Distrust of the new and strange. Fear could lead to violence, which could cause further fear. He did not cause all of their actions. He did not cause all fear anymore than North caused all wonder or the Bunny caused all hope. And fear existed before him and would continue even without him, just as winter did not solely depend on Jack Frost to exist. But he could take advantage of what seeds were already present and make their fears grow. A little more paranoia at the right instant or a little more dread and he could spark off something impressive.

It wasn't as effective for him though. It would give him a little more power, but what he really needed was fear closer to belief. Fear of monsters, of shadows and darkness, of creatures lurking out of sight that were ready to chase and capture, of dangerous things or acts that can easily bring harm, and of the unknown. Any fear could give him strength, but it worked best if somehow the fear involved him. That was what he needed for his power to thrive. But if there was enough fear flying around, it barely mattered to him if they were afraid of monsters in the shadows or the old woman with no teeth who lived alone that could easily be accused of witchcraft.

As to why he tried to stir up that type of trouble and why he would go further than necessary to terrify the children… In the later centuries, it was because of frustration and anger at being forgotten. If he was not allowed to properly do fulfill his purpose on this world, then why should he care? He would make them suffer and rediscover fear.

Before that, when there was still plenty who believed and feared him, he… He wasn't actually sure why. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Like something kept pushing him to go further and further. Pushing him to go a little darker, a little scarier, and a little sharper with his actions. It was just a bit fun. It was for their own good. A little more fear would help in the long run. And if someone was hurt by the fear he meant to warn and protect them with… did it matter? That impulse to always go just a little further than necessary was always there, later fed and strengthened by frustration, jealousy, and loneliness.

But that push to keep going darker, scarier, and more spiteful didn't seem to be affecting him now. He felt no appeal in the idea of provoking people into violence with fear at the moment. Maybe it was exhaustion or maybe it was yet another thing the Nightmares ripped out when they attacked. Something was certainly missing.

"Perhaps my methods were not always the most benign," he said. "I'll even admit that I'm not even sure why I wanted to go so far with my actions in the past."

He did not expect a response, fully intending to continue speaking a little longer. But the Man in the Moon actually managed to interrupt him without a sound. The little moonbeam seemed to brighten a little and more shadowy figures acted out a short skit.

A figure of a man, crafted out of pale shadows, stood in front of a door. The familiar shape also seemed to possess a bright light in his chest, though he knew it was meant to be more representative than literal. He knew what story the Man in the Moon was trying to convey. So he wasn't surprised and when the figure opened the door. Wispy, quick, and impossibly dark shadowy shapes erupted through the door and struck the figure of the man. Soon the figure was engulfed by the escaping shapes, drowning and consuming the man. And when it became clear enough to see the shapes properly again, the shadowy image of the man had darkening until it matched the attackers. And they did their best to swallow the bright light in his chest, leaving only the tiniest and most fragile glimmer that could barely be seen.

"I know my memories of my time possessed might not be the best and I lost a great deal of important memories from before the Fearlings, but I remember when it happened," he said in a voice that barely wavered. "You can never forget thousands of them trying to destroy your soul, old friend. But they are long gone. I may not be the man I was, but the Fearlings no longer inhabit me. So I assume you have a different reason to bring up that day."

The light and shadows changed, making it clear that this was a different scene. The inky-black shadow of the possessed man with only the tiniest glimmer of light inside collapsed as the wispy figures were ripped out, vanishing and leaving the figure alone. The shadows that formed the shape of a man were not as dark as before, but they were also not as pale as they were originally. The Fearlings no longer possessed the figure, but their corruption remained. And the tiny flicker of light within still seemed nearly overwhelmed by the darkness.

It was something else familiar to him. How could it not be? How could he not remember regaining control and awareness? He wasn't who he was before the Fearlings and would never be able to return to being that man, but he was also no longer a vessel for thousands of them.

Then he noticed the figure was slowly growing darker again. And it was trying to strangle out that single point of light within.

A broken and nearly-extinguished soul is a fragile thing. One that even remnants of the Fearlings can overwhelm. But I thought that even a small light could hold back the darkness.

The moon was positively chatty tonight. This was more words at once than he ever remembered hearing from the quiet and distant entity. And he could sense this feeling of hesitation, as it the Man in the Moon wasn't quite certain if he should continue to speak.

I was wrong. And the corruption worsened over the millennia and nearly extinguished what remained of General Kozmotis Pitchiner.

He practically flinched at the name. He hadn't heard that name in such a long time. It didn't belong to him. Not anymore. Not after everything that happened. He'd been broken, remade, tainted, used, and simply changed so much that he wasn't that person anymore. But there were fragments of that good man left, fragments that were held together and corrupted by the shadows and fear used to remake him. He'd accepted the changes and made use of them, finding purpose.

All of them were someone before they became who they were now. He was once that man. And he was once a shell for ten thousand Fearlings, used to commit atrocities that he was thankful he did not remember. But now he was something else: the Boogeyman who used his power to sow necessary fear and used fear to provide his power.

And yet, he never truly escaped what the Fearlings did. Actually, it was worse than just that. Apparently they continued to taint him further over the many years. The Man in the Moon said the corruption worsened even after they left. And that was the sort of news was enough to break a man's spirit.

He knew what that meant, though it would normally be happening far faster. He'd seen what happens when a Fearling completely corrupted someone and devoured their soul. It was the end of that person and the birth of another one of those monsters. He escaped possession from the Fearlings only to gradually become one in time. And likely the most powerful Fearling of all.

"So that's it. That is to be my fate," he said quietly, his aching body slumping. "That is what the darkness was pushing me to become, so slowly and subtly that I could not see it happening. But you saw the signs, old friend. So you weakened me. How clever. Your Guardians would protect the children from other dangers and lessen their fear, taking away my strength. Then, when I fought back, they destroyed fear further. I can only imagine the sweet and pleasant dreams the Sandman is now spreading to dull away all hints of nightmares."

He glanced briefly up at the moon. He wasn't mad. He wasn't scared. He was simply resigned. He should have known. He should have realized that he truly was destroyed the moment he opened that door. His body and a few other pieces just didn't realize it soon enough.

"So which of your Guardians will you send to pay me a final visit? Once I am at my absolute weakest and can't fight back? Will you send your bandit? For all his wonder and jolliness, I'm sure you can convince him. Or perhaps the Bunny? I ruined his holiday and I'm certain he would not mind some payback. Perhaps the Tooth Fairy shall come for me, seeking revenge for capturing her fairies and raiding her stores of teeth. She's surprisingly vicious for one so kind-natured. Or maybe you'll send your newest project, the boy that you could not even bother to speak to for three centuries. I know you prefer to remain hands-off most of the time, but Jack Frost did not deserve to be alone for so long. No one does." He shook his head and said, "No. You can be surprisingly cruel at times, old friend. But you are not so cruel that you would send a child to perform an execution. No. I think it'll be the Sandman. He is the one who suffered the most at my hands recently. And he has known us the longest, old friend. And if he and the others are still capable of feeling merciful towards me, he can send me to sleep first."

His words met only silence. No response came from the moon, neither in the soft light sent into his lair nor as the strange soundless voice in his head. But for once, he would not accept that.

Using the wall to brace himself, he shoved himself painfully to his feet. He was shaking, his entire body rebelled painfully, and he needed to keep his hand on the wall for balance, but he was standing.

"Don't deny it. Don't try to pretend that is not what you have in mind. We have both been here too long for such games to work. You would not let a Fearling form on this world, where the children would be such easy prey. And if you ever saw purpose in my existence, if you ever saw me as anything except an enemy, you will not let me become a Fearling. Let me have at least that small mercy."

This time, he received a silent response. The dark shadow of man in the moonlight was abruptly attacked by the horse-shaped figures. It was wild and vicious, almost making him flinch. But when the images of Nightmares raced away, the figure left behind didn't seem as dark as before. It still did not look as light as it did before opening that cursed door, but the shadows had grown paler.

"An interesting turn of events. I suppose that makes sense. My Nightmares are drawn to the scent of fear. They seek it out. And Fearlings are composed of fear and shadows. So when they turned against me, they also went after the corruption slowly taking me over. Did you plan that, old friend, or was that part mere luck? Did you hope that they would tear out part of that taint? Did you believe there would be something worth salvaging when my Nightmares were done?"

His gaze fell on his arms where gray skin quickly surrendered to shadowy blackness. From his wrists to his chest under his robe all the way up to his neck, there was darkness. Just as there was before. The Nightmares may have torn out some of the corruption left by the Fearlings and slowed the transformation again, but they could not reverse everything. They could not remove all of the taint because there would be nothing left of himself then. It was the sole reason he still existed at all. All his powers of fear and shadows were due to the Fearlings possessing his body for so long. The Nightmares' attack lessened the damage and quieted the darker elements, but it was not a permanent solution. They merely delayed the inevitable.

"History will repeat, old friend," he said quietly. "The corruption will spread again. Anger, frustration, and loneliness will only feed it faster. And this day will happen again. And again. Until the Guardians destroy me, I destroy them, or I completely succumb to darkness and become a Fearling at last. If the Boogeyman must eventually be vanquished for good, I would prefer not becoming a Fearling first. Of course, I would prefer to avoid such a destructive fate entirely, but what other option is there? What else can be done to keep the corruption from worsening?"

The moon's answer was rather subtle and felt particularly unhelpful. The tiny light in the center of the man-shaped figure brightened and grew. It pushed back the darkness, striking a balance between shadow and light.

"And how exactly do you fix it? As you said, it is nothing more than a broken and nearly-extinguished soul. A mere fragment that the Fearlings somehow didn't manage to devour with the rest of it. There is almost nothing left of it. How do you repair such a fragile thing?"

Rediscover your purpose. Your true purpose.

He laughed at that advice, wincing at the way it made the pain across his chest sharpen and his balance waver. This was really too much. He was tired, sore, and emotionally-drained. And the Man in the Moon thought this was the perfect time for jokes.

"Do you honestly believe the Guardians will let me spread fear again so soon? I figure I have at least a century before they'll relax their attention enough for me to try. Even if you told them to let me go out there, putting fear into the hearts of those I encounter, they would not accept it. Jack Frost was barely accepted as a possible Guardian when you chose him. His fears made that very clear. They would be fools to let the Boogeyman return. Well, bigger fools."

He paused for a moment, trying to steady himself a little. There was no response from above. It gave him the feeling that the moon was staring at him expectantly. The Man in the Moon was actually serious. This was the real advice on how to apparently avoid a fate worse than death. It was stupid, dangerous, and practically worthless advice, but it wasn't like he had any better ideas.

"Fine," he said tiredly, what little energy he had left fading fast and leaving him swaying on his feet. "I'll try it. Spread a little fear to the children the way I used to. Fear to caution and warn them, not to cause witch hunts or something. Not that it'll help me much in the long run. If it didn't stop the corruption from almost taking over before, there's no reason to think it will now. But I'll try until your precious Guardians notice and decide to deal with me again. And assuming that I continue to be forgotten, ignored, and unfeared by most of the world, I won't have any better luck in our next confrontation. So I have that lovely encounter to look forward to, my old friend."

The thin moonbeam that reached into his lair began to fade. The moon really couldn't physically walk away from a conversation, but the intention seemed pretty clear. And yet, before that small stream of light completely vanished, the Man in the Moon apparently decided to have the final word.

Find your center.

"Let's see how good your balance is after getting trounced by those Guardians and attacked by Nightmares," Pitch grumbled as he let himself sink tiredly back to the ground.

I know the Man in the Moon didn't have any dialogue in the film. Which is one of the reasons Jack Frost is so frustrated with him. But we know that Jack Frost learned his name from the moon. That was part of the opening narration. And that name really isn't something that can be conveyed with shadow puppets like when he warned the Guardians about Pitch Black being up to something. So I figure the Man in the Moon must be capable of communication somehow that is a bit more direct than shadow puppets, like maybe speaking into a character's mind. He just doesn't do it much or often.

So updates may be slow, but I do have a plan. Whether or not it'll turn out to be a good plan, we'll have to wait and see. I believe and hope that someone will enjoy what I have in mind though.