Author's Note: This was a fill for a prompt I saw on the RotG kink meme. It can also be found there - but I decided to take credit here. I warn thee who read this of the extreme angst and sorrow it will contain. No happy endings here. Don't say I didn't warn you. .

The defeat of Pitch Black brought a summer of peace to Burgess.

The Guardians recovered in those few months, the North Pole returning to its former glory, the children's teeth returning to Toothiana's palace. Bunny's warren was again in top shape, and Sandy could once more spread his dream sand without having to consider its possible corruption. The newest addition to the team, the Guardian of Fun himself, spent his time amongst the others in their homes – but what Jack Frost was really yearning for was unfortunately months away.

Time seemed to pass so slowly for the young frost spirit. The hottest fourth of the year drawled on, his brethren in seasons paying their dues for far too long. The Southern frost spirit was probably enjoying him or herself, and here he was twiddling his thumbs. Jack was exhausted, wanting not but release from tedious visits and flights about the globe. Certainly, he drew a certain degree of amusement from simply watching the children, but…summer was growing boring and Frost wanted out of the monotony.

But of course, each year, summer gives way to fall.

And fall gives way to winter.

And as winter waned on, Jack Frost saw fit to create a paradise lost within the fluttering of snowflakes, the whistling of wind, and the vast cloudy skies above. Burgess was slowly transformed into a storybook Christmas town, record numbers of snowfall seemingly unexplained – only the children knew why school hadn't been open in weeks, or why their families were (and oh so regrettably) able to spend so much time with them at home now. The Guardian of Fun had done his job, and he'd done it well. And so it was only natural for the spirit of winter to rest after his many relentless blizzards – not that it'd tired him much, per say – Jack simply supposed he could lend the parents a brief reprieve.

He was laughing, glint of silver hair and blue eyes oh so evident in the bright moonlight, even against the blending background of white and grey – the freshly fallen snow and the bare trees surrounding his home. Jack Frost was joyous; he'd had his fun. But for now, he supposed, it was time to rest. It took him mere seconds to comfortably situate himself in the high branches of a tree by the pond's icy surface.

Pools of azure light became heavy lidded, the young spirit finding the small temptation of a nap all too inviting. And so, with a yawn, Jack curled into a tangle of tree and physical limbs, preparing for an evening's slumber.

The sleep that awaited the young spirit, however, was far more than troubled, and he found himself unable to embrace the comforts of Sandy's dreams. Instead, dreamlessness had crept its way into the crevices of his mind, acting like a nightmare itself in its display of sheer emptiness. And while Jack thought that odd, he did not question it until the sound of silence found him in a quivering, stuttering mess, acutely aware of his surroundings. Eyes wide, mouth drawn open, Frost glanced about, and settled himself upon the image of… of…

'Pitch?' he thought. And he was almost sorry his mind had jumped to the conclusion so readily.

Surely enough, what seemed to be the former King of Nightmares was clutching at his scythe – more resembling a humble walking stick or staff now – by the side of Jack's pond. He was moving fairly briskly, though his gait was broken, as though months of exposure to the nightmares had finally yielded the immortal lasting injuries. His cloak was threadbare, patches of the fabrics' non-existence yielding bruised, pale flesh. His hair was disheveled, patches obviously tinged with grey and white, and his face… well, from where Jack lay, he didn't exactly have the best view in the world, but…

Pitch's head was hung in solemn defeat. And his facial expression portrayed that as well: defeat, and the very fear he'd once wished to loose upon the world.

Pity, inexplicable at first, coiled in the young winter spirit's gut. But as he watched the boogeyman venture onward, and into the shadows of the forest without utilizing his ability to teleport – suspicion was quick to rival all traces of sympathy. And so it was only natural for Jack to ride the wind after him, searching for the trail of shadow the elder left in his wake – black essence dripping like blood from fresh wounds.

Following the older spirit proved to be difficult, but once Pitch did eventually reemerge into the moonlight, Jack wasted no time in his confrontation. Staff sweeping beneath his feet, the eternal-eighteen-year old rooted himself firmly before the being shrouded in darkness. The only thing was… Pitch didn't even seem to register his presence. It was as though he'd become so focused on walking that all other tasks were medial; in fact, he only noticed Jack when he bumped into him.

The younger remained standing, but Pitch… crumpled over, as though he was experiencing that same agony of failure all over again. When he spared a glance upward, Jack did not believe what he saw.

Pitch Black was the boogeyman, a creature that lived off of terrors and regarded darkness and shadow as his domain. But here he was, with that same blackened shade evident beneath his eyes, and swelling under his cheekbones as though an infection: a virus, eating him alive, inside out. And he was trembling, as though racked by the very cold Jack had created. The harder the younger reasoned that these details were of solely his mind's eye, the more it became evident to him what exactly had happened to Pitch.

This was, truth be told, the stuff of nightmares.

"Oh… Jack Frost," Pitch offered dully, clutching his staff to right himself. Jack watched the tremors of his legs, and noted with exasperation the disturbing curdling sounds being emitted each time the elder moved – as though the spirit of darkness was too far gone for anything apart from the action of fading away itself.

"Pitch," came the retaliation, the single word sharp as an icicle, cutting through the elder as though the object itself. He stumbled in attempting to draw closer to the frost spirit, barely catching himself upon a large boulder.

"I… suppose I shouldn't have... shouldn't have…" The elder stopped speaking, trying and miserably failing to catch his breath: as though oxygen had once more become a key ingredient to the immortal darkness' survival.

"You shouldn't of what, Pitch?" Jack snapped, hoping his voice betrayed no undertone of mercy. And it must not have, for Pitch only gave a heaving breath, clutching at his throat before looking the younger firmly in the eye.

"…if you're going to do it…"

"What're you talking about?" Jack raised his staff in challenge, not caring the other practically laid at his feet. This was Pitch, and Pitch was dangerous… wasn't he?

"You want me gone… don't you?"

The only answer he received was the violent whistle of the wind.

For now understanding fell upon young Jack's shoulders, feeling much like the weight of the world as sheer, shameless pleading left Pitch's face devoid of all other emotion. There was no assertiveness, no aggressiveness – he had nothing.

He was slowly becoming… nothing.

"I… ask only that you wait… until she has these."

It was now that the winter spirit noted with unease the bouquet of snowdrop flowers Pitch had been struggling not to lose hold of. They were clutched tight against his chest, poorly bound with string and a drop of what shadowy sand the Nightmare King had left. There was nothing about the man, in that instant, that did not allow insight to his pure honesty.

Hurt, shame, pleas for forgiveness fallen upon deaf ears…

Suffering, distress, and a broken body fallen before not but blind eyes…

But Jack was not blind. And Jack was not deaf.

"We'll bring them to her." He realized how absurd it was that he'd voiced such a thought, but he had scarce time to regret it, as his body was suddenly shifting as though of its own accord. Jack knelt beside the former king, an arm wrapping about broad, bony shoulders. "Up we go," he cooed, knees nearly giving out as he lifted both himself and the Boogeyman from the icy ground.

Jack didn't even know who 'she' was, but the vast majority of their journey was spent in silence. There were no further questions, nor answers. The occasional stumble or trip by the elder required a small token of encouragement and a helping hand, but never anything more - Not until they'd reached the top of a very, very steep hill, and come across what Jack might've perceived as the oldest cemetery he'd ever seen.

"Where are we?" the frost spirit suddenly asked, unable to quell curiosity any longer.

"Her place of… eternal rest," Pitch admitted, turning his neck only slightly to gaze sidelong at the young spirit. Jack knew to remain quiet now, watching the shadow-clad individual limp forward and toward an enormous tombstone, bearing only the most elegant English lettering, as well as some sort of scripture in Latin…

Katherine Pitchiner – for Sixteen Glorious Years

Cetera palam arma lucis
Et non audiunt malum susurris
ex puro tenebris
Protegat Deus vobis.

Pitch was clutching his chest, laying the flowers upon the stone ledge before the gravesite. And, for some strange reason, Jack was compelled to walk forward, and kneel beside the being of shadow he'd once convinced himself he detested. For now, there was something changed in the Boogeyman. The change, the Frost boy told himself, was one caused solely by his weakness – though in secret, he would never want to admit that aloud. For the darkness he once knew had somehow managed to alter itself, and that unnerved the younger spirit to a rather troublesome degree. Darkness and fear were constants, were they not? Forbidden to be forever banished; to disappear completely?

"Are you… a-alright?" Pitch panted, catching the glassy look in Frost's eyes for a second too long.

"Fine." His response, however short, was not sharp in the least, and was more or less… sympathetic. A look of distrust edged into the former king's face, before he tried and failed to displace himself from the winter spirit's side. "H-hey," Jack murmured. "It's okay… I don't… I…" The words faded, a hand extended toward the shadow lying in the snow.

Surprisingly enough, Pitch took the hand.

Years of anguish and his forgotten nature had transformed Pitch Black into an unnaturally bitter, self-loathing immortal. And while he had his place amongst fearlings, and amongst the nightmares of children, he was not evil. His mind was calloused, as was his body, wrecked by the very terrors that plagued his existence, and that of his former life – all a black haze, not one pleasantry bearing itself in the King's memory.

Perhaps that was more evident now, just in that simple act of trust.

The black and the blue now stood side by side, and gazes unwavering, stared upon the monstrosity of Katherine's grave once more. Their hands remained locked, as though Jack Frost's fingers had frozen into a steely grip about the elder's wrist.

"I… Jack…" And here Pitch's eyes betrayed him, the normal glimmer of golden wit no longer present; only shells of dull grey light remained, faded to the tone of his skin. The sight caused a shiver to pass through the younger spirit, but Frost was adamant; he gripped the Nightmare King's hands, both of them now, and brought them to his chest. However small, the gesture spoke enough, and Pitch simply nodded in understanding.

"…who was she?" Jack pressed, trying his luck.

"M-my daughter," the elder spoke, before giving way to a fit of coughing fit to bring about any mortal's death. The winter spirit panicked, shifting his weight to compensate for the other's lack of strength. When the sounds subsided, the shadows gazed back upon the monolith, towering above the other tombstones surrounding it.

"It's beautiful," Jack breathed.

"Yes," Pitch managed.

Like cold, and like dark, and what they could be together… beautiful…

The words rang true, causing a tightening sensation in the younger's chest. Jack shook his head and tried to put those feelings at ease.

"What was she like?"

Pitch frowned, suddenly looking very much concerned. Invisible brow furrowed in concentration, he settled for leaning against the towering structure before barely emitting a whisper.

"I don't remember…"

"Uh… do you remember your time with her?"

"I don't."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

"But if you don't have those memories, then how do you know that she's your-"

"I know."

Those words settled with an eerie silence sure to follow.

The wind stilled, leaving the two to bask in the light the moon reflected without a sound. There were no distractions. And so they reveled in that simplicity, what was there between them: a testament to all things cold and dark.

"Jack?"

"Yes?"

"…I did love her."

Another shiver, but this time, Frost drew closer to his company. A hand rested gently on the other's arm, the other curling about to grip tightly at Pitch's ribcage. And apparently, the dark spirit enjoyed the contact, pushing into the touches like the starved, depraved being he truly was. Blue eyes flitted to the remnants of yellow in the others, before Jack sighed, and summoned his staff with a mere wave of his hand.

Pitch didn't even flinch. If the other was luring him to destroy him, so be it. He'd made it here; he would be content if the world ended before him, here.

Now.

But Jack refused the temptation of his eternal slumber. And if Pitch had to swear by it, he'd say the situation almost seemed painful to the youth. How that could be, the darker spirit would never be able to guess.

Instead, Jack Frost raised the weapon, and touched the crook of the staff against the letters on the tombstone. Veins of ice ran through them, blazing pristine white across the dull surface – blue tinted flowers of frost crept up the sides of the monument, finally joining at its peak, where a tiny spiral of ice formed. And Jack looked to his companion, a crooked and self-conscious smile upon his maw; Pitch was seemingly mesmerized by the display of magic, he himself having lost any suitable sort of control over his own some time ago.

"I believe you."

Pitch turned, twitching at the words. "Believe me?"

"That you loved your daughter. I believe you."

The Nightmare King fell silent, a small, guilty smile creeping upon black lips. For a moment, Jack thought he'd glimpsed something in his eyes, but before he could further recount it, the elder was crumpling to his knees again, this time upon the smaller spirit. Jack braced his arms about Pitch's chest, holding on as though life itself would slip away should he choose to let go.

His staff clattered to the ground.

And then, Pitch placed his lips gently against the Jack's head, his own arms, no, entire body, quivering with weakness. Their eyes met a short moment later, the Guardian of Fun now realizing the true extent of the shadow's suffering – made painfully evident by the black ooze trickling down his cheeks in place of tears.

Jack moved one hand to wipe the liquid away, giving a quaint smile in response.

"…you missed."

He reached up, looping his arms about the elder's neck, and brushed his lips against those of the other. Pitch seemed torn, but for only a second, and then he was gently returning the affection; dark, dry lips brushing against Jack's suppler, pale ones. The kiss was innocent, simple, taste of desire lingering just an inch away but never being sought. When they parted, Pitch writhed, attempting to pull his body away from the youth, but Frost was adamant in keeping him close.

"Pitch, it's okay…"

"No, it's not… I've no heart, Jack Frost. Fear has consumed that too."

"You're a liar."

There was a pause, before Pitch suddenly found himself incapable of responding, his breath giving way to another round of coughing, gagging, black mess trailing down his lips and spattering across the pure white snow. Jack watched as his company wretched, never tearing his eyes away from the almost grotesque sight. And as his arms found the shadow's waist, Jack Frost believed himself to be tugging him back to the safety of embrace.

"I won't leave you, Pitch…"

"My daughter left me… or perhaps, I left her…"

"Pitch," Jack whispered, lips ghosting cool breath over the dark spirit's ear. "Stop. "

A pale hand reached out, curling over brittle black fingers which rested on the tomb's step. Pitch's breath hitched, eyes meeting those of his companion once more.

"Jack, I-"

"You don't have to do this alone... please, don't do this alone."