Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians.

Chapter 1: Phantom Shadows

Night. Pain. Fear. Three simple facts of life that had once been so invigorating to Pitch's existence were now the only things that kept him alive. Run and Hide. Two words that describe his every waking moment since his defeat. Utter humiliation. One phrase that sums up the whole occasion.

His cloak of shadows had been destroyed; his very body unraveled by hundreds of nipping nightmare teeth. Only his spirit survived the attack, fleeing his body and taking refuge in the shadows where it stayed for twenty lonely years. He survived on the fear of prey, of mice being eaten alive by foxes and foxes falling before the wolves while he plotted his revenge on the ones who hung him out to dry for trying to steal a bit of the spotlight. He schemed and connived for hours on end, grinding shadow teeth that made no sound as he tried desperately to reform the body he had lost. But shadows don't like to be sewn— a fact that he discovered the first time he had tried to build himself a shell—and as weak as he was he was unable to force them to comply. So he hid his nakedness, his emptiness in the tarry shadows and bemoaned his fate. Until one night he heard a voice calling his name. Calling to him!

Pitchhhh, It hissed over and over again. The voice changed tone and frequency with every repetition, but the message was always the same. Come and rest, poor creature. Come to me!

He followed it, strengthened and intrigued (if not a little leery) by the belief of someone nearby. A trickle of blackened mist leeched into his shadow, sending shivers of power through him. He searched in earnest, risking the loss of his shadow anchors as he slunk from one tree to another, landing on the black tendrils that were his trail. They called to him with whispers, leading him to their master, drawing him into a clearing in the center of the wood. They fell silent when he arrived, beckoning him to approach with the swaying of their tendrils just as she did with her long, black-tipped fingers.

Enter, Pitch Black. I have searched for you for quite some time.

It was a young woman with hair as black as the raven perched on her shoulder that had led him here. Shrouded in a cloak that danced with ebony mist, she smiled a gentle smile with her blood-red lips.

"Welcome, Pitch," she crooned. Her eyes were black and deep, filled with an ancient hunger that the centuries themselves couldn't satiate. The ancient Celts called her the Mór-ríoghain and praised her as the goddess of war, strife, and sovereignty. Stunningly beautiful, she had spent epochs revealing herself to mortal men, offering them a strength in battle in return for their love, for their souls which she lusted after, before she found it easier to sustain herself by taking that which she craved. No longer praised, The Phantom Queen was feared as the taker of the lives of men and the bringer of brutal death.

Her regal mouth twisted into a grimacing smile. "Oh, dear, dear, spirit. The rumors were true. They really did leave you with nothing, didn't they?" White teeth flashed.

"Morrígan," The Nightmare King whispered in reply, holding a growl within him. "To what request should I honor this visit?"

"I come to offer help, old friend, and ask for some in return."

"I don't need your help, O Mistress of Phantom Fear. Only time to gain my strength and plan my revenge. As for whatever it is you ask of me, you can take a long draft off a short, balding bard."

Her laughter rang through the trees, unsettling the bird on her shoulder. "Oh, Pitch I always did love your wit. But I didn't come to banter. And I always get what I come for."

Pitch sighed and rolled his eyes. Wishing she could see the gesture. "What is it exactly that you want, Morrígan?"

"I want the same thing you do. To be recognized and exact the revenge on those who wronged me."

"Dear woman, who could have wronged a beauty as you?" The shadow dweller drew out his words, ringing them with condescension and a touch of sarcasm.

"Nicholas St. North."

Pitch perked up. Now that was a name that rang a bell.

"Do I have your attention now, sorry creature?" She asked, eyes flashing.

"For the moment."

"Good," she purred. "Because I have a proposition for you."

"I said I'm listening."

Morrígan's nostrils flared. "Tell me all I want to know and offer your…specialty services…and I will hand you your revenge against the guardians of childhood on a silver platter. Simple enough for you?"

"Impeccably," he drawled.

"Are you going to make me wait while you consider your numerous options or do I have the honor of receiving a reply, Pitch?

"I'll play for now, little goddess."

"Pitiful, Pitch," She grinned. "Still holding onto your tattered pride with both hands?"

"As if I have anything else to hold fast to."

She opened her cloak, revealing a gown of black satin that dripped with mist, beckoning him to her side.

"You can't be serious!" He moaned. "I am not a pet, dear heart. I don't come at your beck and call and I certainly will not cower in your robes like your captive hearts."

Ebony eyes rolled. "Release your vanity, Pitch. All gestures are purely business. You can come to my abode at your own pace, shadow by lonely shadow and find some cave to hide in at midday, or you ride along with me and rest in the shade of my cloak. Personally, I cannot think of any other way to get to Ireland by shadows than with their master. Oceans cast no silhouette, darling."

Pitch knew when to press a matter and when to concede and if he wanted Morrígan's help, he knew he had to allow her this one sliver of his remaining arrogance. So, with the help of a black tendril, he slipped within the folds of fog. He shuddered with the immensity of the power than ran through him when the mist pressed all around the shadowed remnants of his body.

"There now," she cooed. "I may steal what I want, but what I have I will gladly share with you. Rest and feed off the fear of freshly harvested mortal lives."

For once, Pitch did not shoot back a retort, finding it much more enjoyable to gorge himself on the fear than only death itself can bring. Hundreds of lives flashed before his eyes as he breathed in deep. The fear of mortal men across the ages filled him to the brim. Power surged through his body, allowing him to take a loose form.

"I feel an arm forming down there," Morrígan warned.

"Oh shut up."

"Thank you is a better reply, darling."

"Dream on."

"I shall, with a little help from you," She replied as they traveled across sky and ocean alike.

"Really? You brought me out of hiding so I could put you to sleep? I'd rather spend another twenty years in exile."

"Please," she snorted. "It's not my nightmares I need access to and it's to my benefit that you have the strength to help me plot against these children of the moon."

"I had forgotten what a drama queen you are."

"I would advise against insulting the one that carries you, but logic never was your style. No matter, just tell me all you have learned about the guardians. Starting with the frost child and his staff."

Pitch obliged her with a toothy grin as he felt legs beginning to form. By the time his tale had been sung, they had arrived at her palace on the western isles and the tentative beginnings of a plan had been formed. Pitch smiled as he climbed from her robes and settled into the shadows on her walls, feeding on any loose lives that strayed too far from their mistress.

They began phase one within an hour, Nicholas was long overdue a visit from his ancient lover.

Thanks so much for reading! Review if you'd like! Chapter two will be up tomorrow :D