When Pitch is pulled out of that dark place, he does not know how many years have passed. All he knows is that the hand which clasps him is white beneath the dirt it is covered in. As though that hand has been digging.

That is how Jack Frost becomes the first person to mentally and physically drag the Boogeyman out of his dark little hole, though Pitch does not think about this until a much later time.

"You're alright," Frost says beneath the glow of that blasted moon, brushing filth from the shade's shoulders as though he is a child. "You're alright."

Pitch merely gasps for air, waiting for the biting chill that comes with the winter spirit's presence to strike his lungs, but it never does. Instead, he feels the warmth of an early summer night grace his skin, and he suddenly realizes that he is here and Frost is here and, without a second thought, his hand shoots out to grip that pale, frozen neck.

Everything comes rushing back, though he has hardly forgotten. How could he? And this little brat was the cause of everything that had gone wrong. So all of it, the hatred, the shame, the anger, it smacks Pitch upside the head in a wave. He has lost everything—his victory, his pride, his power, damn it, and his Nightmares, the turncoats, are long gone. No doubt Sanderson has already dragged them into his fold, infected them with his golden light.

Oh, yes. How could he ever forget all of that?

Ashen lips curl back from razor teeth, a sneer and a snarl all in one, and something akin to a livid scream is building in the back of his throat.

"You."

Pitch Black says it simply, but the promise of death does lurk behind the single word. There is so much more to say. That scream is building. And yet, the rest of him is losing its steam. He feels…quite different from before. Before his perfect plan went awry. His soul feels…lost.

With that realization, he loses his mind in a very quiet manner. A harsh exhale of breath turns into several more gasps, and he feels a hand stroking his back calmly, patronizing him. He tries to muster up some bit of rage, he really does. However, the next words come out with weakened syllables, no punch to them whatsoever.

"What am I doing here?"

As soon as he hears himself say that, he feels as though he has asked a very foolish question. Blue eyes blink, and the pale mouth curves into an amused smile. Pitch stares at the expression, waiting for the pity to follow, but there is none. Though he supposes that is due to the fact that he is still trying to choke the brat.

"I think you live here, buddy." The words are strained because of a lack of air, but Frost manages.

Pitch looks away. He stares at the cursed earth beneath his feet, earth which has long since lost its life when he decided to inhabit the caverns beneath it. It is warm, snow-free, meaning that winter has been over for quite some time. Perhaps. He feels the youthful sprit shift, and tightens his grip. "And you?"

"I'm bored," Frost says, managing to sound impressively smug for someone being choked. Pitch finally glances over and does not like what he sees in that gaze, because what he finds there makes him slowly let go of that thin neck and put a foot back in his hole.

There is no pity in those eyes, no, but there is…he is not sure. Perhaps that is why he wants to get away from it. He is usually so good at reading people. And he does not feel any fear radiating from the boy. Perhaps wariness, a bit of worry (and if that does not confuse him, he is not sure of what else will), but…he does not know.

"Find someone else to amuse you," he finally settles on grumbling, still fishing around in his black soul for the violence and malice he should be slinging at the winter spirit. But he cannot find it. Something is wrong. He…is still lost. Did they remove his power while he slept? They must have had plenty of time, seeing how it is now summer. The trees about the dead clearing are full of pine needles and large oak leaves, evidence of the swell of summer. There is a sweet undercurrent to the breeze sifting through his hair, drawing up images of wildflowers nearby. He supposes Bunnymund drew up the necessary magic circles to strip him of his darkness. The damn rodent and his alchemy.

Frost seems to start as Pitch sinks further into darkness. "Wait, Pitch, you don't—"

Pitch rounds on him, noticing how his own movements have lost their smoothness. He is awkward, unbalanced, jerky. Wonderful. "Isn't it a little unlike the Guardians to send someone to torment me? It has not even been two months, and you think my wounds have not yet closed? You wanted to be left alone, and now, so do I."

The hand which closes on his arm sends a chill up his spine, forces him to pause. Something curls in that empty spot where the power of the Nightmares used to be. It feels cold, but it also feels filling. That should not bother him. And it does not. But it certainly frightens him.

"Pitch…that wasn't a couple months ago."

The Nightmare King – can he even call himself a king, with his spectacular defeat? – raises his eye to the Man in the Moon uncertainly. "How long?" The question is not directed to the blasted fool in the sky; he does not want to speak to him. It must have been at least one, maybe two years then. Long enough for them to dig this hole into his very being. He had not realized how attached his powers had been to the Nightmares. Years of practicing, of turning those golden dreams into darkness, had bound them to him. How would he fill this void now?

In that silent question, he misses Frost's answer to the other. He glares sharply at the boy. "Repeat that."

Frost shrugs nonchalantly, unperturbed by his foul mood. "Almost…thirty years?"

Ah. Pitch shudders briefly. He has never lay dormant for longer than a year or so after his losses. After that, he is usually up and about, scheming and planning his next attack. He may not attack for decades, or even centuries, and thirty years is nothing to spirits, but to sleep for so long? To lay idle for so long…?

Pitch cannot hear what the youth is saying as he slips back down into his hole, into the welcoming darkness. He has no fear. What can he fear? His defeat? It has already passed. There is nothing left of him to beat down. Frost tries to reach in and pull him back up, but Pitch evades the pale fingers and wraps himself in a shadowy corner, not even bothering to move further into his lair. He will sleep a bit longer, perhaps a few more hours, and then he will…

He does not know what he will do. That is a first. This is his longest slumber yet. Another first. He supposes, as he hides his golden eyes from the shadowy world, that in terms of a final first, Jack Frost has become the first person to ever bother to wake him at all.

Author's Note: Not even gonna...nope. College blindsided me. Taking four English classes. Only reason I have managed to dig out time for this is because of something that is happening which will give me a smidgen of time. This is not even the ROTG fic I was hoping to write in between. What the what.

Bad news: I cannot get to the "Stir Thy Heart, Shadows" sequel until my winter break. Because, again. Four. English classes. Good news: I will be working on the sequel for all of winter break. Which is a whole month. So if you can settle for these unintended drabbles along the way...yeah. No publishing schedule. Won't be able to do the one-a-day thing, obviously. But I'm still here. I haven't forgotten about this. Skeletal outline for the sequel exists at least. Thank you for understanding. Happy hiatus!