In the darkness, Pitch felt alive. He felt invincible, and acted like he was.

That had been his greatest weakness; he'd let himself get carried away, and look at where it got him. Stuck down there, in the center of the earth, with no one for companionship but the few nightmares he'd conquered.

But in his loneliness, Pitch began to think more clearly. His head wasn't fogged up by his plans to destroy the Guardians anymore. It was a liberating feeling, but Pitch wasn't satisfied. His mind was always racing, even when he was calm. Always full of conflicting feelings. No amount of liberation would change the millions of thoughts that raced through his mind. Most of them weren't even his to get rid of.

Fear had always been one of the feelings, though he would never admit it. Maybe that was what made him so powerful. The fact that he could manipulate his own fear and project it onto other people made him feel strong, like he wasn't the only one suffering from the phobias in the dark.

Another was regret. He wasn't sure what he regretted, but he was sure it had something to do with that damned locket that hung precariously from one of the lead cages above him. He recognized the picture, but he didn't know who it was. All he knew was that it was a sign of weakness, and weakness was not accepted. He instead locked it away, high above himself, in one of the lead cages that mocked him from above.

Suddenly, Pitch hand began to ache. It itched and stung, as if it were just a little too warm. He pulled it into his cloak, cradling it against his side. After a while, the feeling subsided, but the memory still lingered. That hand was weak. It had been touched by the light and would never fully heal.

Sneering, Pitch slunk back into the shadows feeling extremely sorry for himself. Self-pity was one of his daily routines nowadays, much to his chagrin. That was his third weakness, his ability to make himself so angry or humiliated that absolutely nothing could make him feel better.

Suddenly, he let out a loud growl and dug his fingers into the hard rock walls surrounding his cave. Tearing out a chunk of the stone, he hurled it towards the adjacent wall. The cages above him rattled at the impact, sending loose pieces of dirt and dust raining down on the floor.

Glowering, Pitch slid down the wall, sitting with one leg out and the other tucked up to his chest. His fingers were bleeding now, not that he cared, and one of his fingernails had snapped off, leaving him sitting there with a small pool of crimson growing in the dirt. A nightmare slowly approached, head lowered and feet moving in an awkward crawl.

"Go away." He snarled, waving his injured hand towards the creature, splattering it with red. The nightmare raised its head and let out a loud cry, attracting more of his brethren. Pitch sighed and tucked the cloak around him more tightly. Tucking his still-bleeding hand into his side, Pitch closed his eyes and exhaled once more.

The nightmares advanced slowly, breathing deeply. He could feel their breath on his face as they invaded his personal space.

"Don't pity me." He snarled with his eyes closed. Squeezing his eyes together tightly, he exhaled shakily. The nightmare in front of his let out a blood-curdling cry, and that was all he could remember before sleep overcame him, and the nightmares began all over again.

This was originally the opening for a story I was writing, but it kind of stretched beyond that and then slapped me in the face.

And, yes, Pitch is a big baby. But he's a brave baby.