A/N: This fic is a collab with my amazing sister, Crystal Peak. Without her, this probably wouldn't have been written in the first place!

Contains spoilers from both the film and books. Cover art by SinisterEternity on tumblr.

PROLOGUE

Unleashed

No light penetrated the darkness of his lair.

The shadows had seen to that. After they had imprisoned him down here—he didn't even know how much time had passed—they had left him to his own devices. But he was no fool. He knew he was a prisoner in his own lair. He could no longer travel instantaneously from one spot to the next as he pleased. He couldn't even find the damned exit! Every step he took, he felt their eyes boring into his back.

His defeat at the hands of the Guardians had been a disgrace. It was no wonder he was being punished for it; his minions had a mind of their own when it came to fear. Especially when it came to his fears.

Despite lingering in the shade, Pitch had always longed for the light in an uncharacteristic manner he never actively acknowledged. Beams that filtered his lair in the past were only a tool to illuminate his path. Wandering up on the surface until dawn was only so he could catch an unwary nightmare or two. Moonlight was just that—a source of light. Or so he always told himself.

To him, the darkness was a welcome refuge from everything the world had denied him. The chance to be feared, the chance to be great. The chance to be believed in. But if he were to be honest with himself (which he never was), light was a tool to keep the fear at bay. The fear that manifested itself when alone in the dark.

So he'd been forced to find other ways to keep himself occupied. For days he'd do nothing but idly wander the twisting corridors, never caring where he'd go. But somehow or other he'd always wind up back where he began, the Globe of Belief mocking him with its myriad of lights. It would always disgust him how brightly those little spheres of belief shone for those Guardians. However, being closed off from any other source of light, he would sometimes find... peace sitting at its base.

How ironic it was for the personification of fear to invariably seek out the light.

It was on one such day, sitting at the globe's base as he vainly tried to replicate the black sand, did he notice something strange when his hand collided with Antarctica. ("Figures," he idly commented, rubbing his hand.) His eyes saw the faintest of cracks within the globe's base. He wouldn't have even spotted it if he hadn't looked in that direction.

"Now what do we have here?" He traced the outline with a long finger. "It's some sort of secret compartment..." Normally, he loved a good mystery as much as the next legendary being, but not when they concerned him, and especially not in his lair. Why didn't he know about its existence—in his own home, no less!

It was better than sitting around being unproductive. Having decided thus, Pitch slipped through one of the globe's many spaces, kneeling atop the base as he measured the compartment's size. It seemed too small to contain anything of value. But despite himself, he was curious. He dug the fingernails of one hand underneath the metal, seeking a latch, or some other way to open it. His other hand lay against the hatch, his palm pressing into the cool—scratch that, heated—metal. Wait a second—heated?

Startled, he withdrew his hands just as the hatch popped open with a small hiss. He looked down at his hands for a moment. "That was... interesting." Whatever was going on was getting stranger and stranger.

He peered inside the compartment with narrowed eyes, finding nothing but a wooden box nestled inside. His upper lip curled into a sneer. "Is that it?" He'd been expecting something more... well, more. Like a weapon to destroy the Guardians, or a tool to help him escape his prison of a lair. Not another... mystery.

Sighing, he pulled out the casket and straightened, emerging from the globe to glide a little further away on his lithe legs. He turned it over in his hands, examining it critically. He even shook it—and heard the faint tinkling sound of something metallic from inside.

Suddenly, his curiosity was oddly piqued. The sound of whatever was hidden within was oddly familiar, in an agitating and soothing sort of way. Quite a paradox if he didn't say so himself. But placing his hand atop the lid did not yield the same results with the hatch.

Mildly frustrated, he began to pick at it, his fingers searching for an opening, until he found it—a small, indiscernible bolt. If it hadn't been for the lights from the globe, he would have never seen it. He pried at the rotting wood, his chapped fingernails loosening the rusted bolt agonisingly slow—too slow for his taste. His curiosity to see the casket's contents burned, but he was at a loss why. Why couldn't he remember what lay inside? Why didn't he recall its existence until now? Why did it feel so important to find out?

And why couldn't the damned thing open?!

He howled in frustration and hurled the casket away, turning his back to it in disgust. It collided into a wall with a sharp snap of protesting wood, pieces clattering to the ground...

Ching-a-ling.

Pitch turned back to the broken chest with a grimace. "Typical," he muttered under his breath, fingers groping in the dark for the source of the chime. "Whatever. Let's see what all the fuss was about..."

The shadows around him suddenly writhed.

Like coiling snakes they slithered over his hands, attempting to impede his movements. They formed ropes that bound his wrists, pulling his arms behind his back. He found himself suspended in midair, an impossible weight crushing at him from all sides.

His eyes widened in horror. "I control you! Not the other way around! Unhand me! Now!" But all he heard were incoherent murmurings, just beyond his hearing.

The shadows drew closer, and the muttering grew louder. Thousands upon thousands of eyes blinked back at him, pale, vacant, empty. Their mouths twisted in malevolent grins. Amidst the whispering, he heard a few snickers.

A sliver of fear bubbled in his chest. "Wh-What are you doing? No, stay back! You can't do this to me! I'm Pitch Black! I'm the Boogeyman! I'm not afraid—I am fear!"

Nothing but silence greeted him.

"Fear, you say? You must be mistaken..." a silky, hair-raising voice hissed.

Pitch started. "T-Toothiana?"

A dark laugh followed the first voice. "Ya really didn't think you were in control... didja, mate?"

"Bunnymund?!"

"He must be out of his mind, eh?" the not-so-jolly voice of North sounded.

Soft laughter followed.

Pitch swallowed. "Sandman...?" But his counterpart never spoke—hadn't spoken in centuries. He'd heard his laughter very few times, but it had been so long ago... and it had never sounded quite so disturbing.

"Wh-What's going on? What're you all doing here? How'd you find this place?" Pitch tried to sound braver than he felt. The Guardians must've found his lair, but how? Panic was starting to take hold of him, but he struggled to keep it at bay.

Just when he considered the likely candidate, he felt a vice-like grip on his shoulder, fingernails digging painfully into his skin.

"You can't kill fear, Pitch," a voice murmured against his ear. "We are fear."

And the hand on his shoulder pulled him around so he could see the malicious grin spreading on Jack's face. But it wasn't really Jack—and it wasn't any of the other Guardians, either. He was surrounded by mere mirages—the manifestations of his own fear.

"Enjoying the nightmare?" Sandman's grin was full of teeth. "We made it just for you."

Beyond the Shadow-Guardians, Pitch could see more shades, but he couldn't make them out clearly. They spun around in circles, bobbing up and down. But the few that drifted nearby appeared solid, with dangling arms and wispy tails.

With dawning realisation, he knew he was no longer in command.

And then, they rushed him.

Pitch's throat screamed itself hoarse when they tore into him, biting, scratching and clawing at every surface. Lacerations formed on his grey skin with each strike of their insidious talons. And, horrifyingly, the Shadow-Guardians were laughing.

"How long has it been since we last heard his screams?" Toothiana clasped her hands together, as if listening to a beautiful melody.

"Too long," Jack replied, his grin growing wider with each cry of pain.

They laughed again in chorus.

"Don't get too excited, mates," Bunnymund cautioned. "We don't want 'im dead."

Sandman mock-sighed. "It was fun while it lasted."

"We have no choice," North sneered through his thick accent. "We need the vessel."

Pitch's eyelids fluttered. V-Vessel? he wondered. Why did that sound so damned familiar? He was sure they were talking about him, but... a vessel for what? Hadn't he been used as one once before...? Before when? Was he a vessel... or a tool? No, that wasn't quite right, either. He was... responsible for something? But... for what...?

His mind tried to process the foreign impressions, but the shadows around him didn't give him any chance to. North motioned to them with a sweeping gesture of his hand, and the shades surged over him.

With each trembling ripple that blanketed his senses, Pitch felt as if he were suffocating. In vain he struggled, barely managing to keep his eyes open. His chest burned, his lungs screaming for the oxygen he'd never known until now he needed.

Why was this happening? Why had he lost control over them? And why was he so afraid...?

Light flashed, the sudden illumination startling both the tormentors and the tormented. Inhumane screeches joined in a whining cacophony of pain, and Pitch's body dropped to the floor with a heavy thud as the shadows retreated.

He drew in a sharp breath, clutching his side. Muscles he didn't even know existed flared with every movement. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd been in pain like this. Had he ever been physically hurt? He'd never thought it was possible...

The source of the sudden light grew apparent as Pitch's eyes adjusted to the brightness. It was the metallic object from the casket, which he now saw was a silver pendant. It continued to glow, its warm beam intensifying. Every instinct warned him to stay away; the shadows, just at the edge of the barrier of light whistled in a continuous drone. But something inside him, the part of him that felt so strangely, egged him on.

His right hand closed around the locket.

The light was now blinding, far too bright even with the arms he threw up to hide his face. His eyes watered from the pain, his head feeling like it had been cleaved in two. Clutching his forehead, he fell to his knees, but didn't feel his body hit the cold earth. He felt strangely blanketed instead, his senses dulled and muffled.

He opened his eyes, his sight finally focusing on the object clutched so tightly in the palm of his hand. His fingers felt oddly numb around it, as if they were grafted to the metal. But that wasn't what caught his attention.

The lid had somehow opened to reveal a portrait. The face wasn't entirely distinguishable through its scratched surface, but it clearly belonged to a little girl. Long, black hair curled below her shoulders and sad, grey eyes penetrated his soul...

He let out a wail—a long, keening sound of anguish, loss and despair. He wasn't sure why he was mourning, or hurting so much, or why the girl was so near yet so far from his memories, or why he was even feeling so much over someone he didn't even know...

A distant voice full of laughter rang out, tugging at his heart. It seemed to be coming from the locket. Or was it coming from... his mind?

"Daddy..."

To Be Continued

A/N: We wanted the prologue to be short and simple. Oddly enough, while being written, it kind of... took a life of its own. We hope you enjoyed reading this as much as we enjoyed writing it! Just a friendly warning: this fic will be Pitch-centric, long, and you probably won't find out what happened here in the prologue for a long, long time. But don't worry! We know what we're doing...