Pitch had a scythe. Of course he had a scythe. A ridiculous one too, much too large to truly do any good.

Jack couldn't help but grin when Pitch swung at him. It must have confused Pitch, to swing and glare and sneer in a menacing way, oozing out shadows that threaten to suck you in only to have a frost child laugh at you.

Pitch was also projecting an image that was stained in the imaginations of all, adult or child. Death. The Reaper. Grim.

Who did he think he was?

Jack laughed and let the wind carry him closer.

Pitch's eyes widen and he takes a half step back. The guardians call out to him in varying tones of concern and worry.

Jack tilts his head and stares at Pitch.

Pitch swings and Jack laughs again as it passes through him harmlessly.

Pitch makes a silent small opened mouthed gasp. The guardian's are quiet.

Jack lets the wind drop him and then he begins walking closer.

"Are you the reaper now, Boogeyman?" he asks.

The scythe disintegrates into black sand that falls to the ground and swirles back in dark tendrils to their master.

"How-?" Pitch breathes out his question softly.

Jack tilts head his again, pointing his nose so it sloped toward the moon shining bright. He laughs again but it's harsher, colder. He leaves his pale neck open and vulnerable but it doesn't matter.

"Haha, Are you asking me?" Jack asks, hand clutching the staff towards his chest.

"Me?" he repeats, "You said it yourself, 'what goes better than cold and dark?'"

Jack chuckles.

"Do you know how ice works? How it reflects light?"

Jack's grin stretches thinly across his face.

"You were close though. Cold and dark. Hm..." Jack cocks his head as if thinking, eyes lazily trained on Pitch, "Maybe more like the dead of winter."

Pitch's face pales from ash gray to ghost white as he figures it out. His tall thin frame shakes and he turns, scrambling away.

Jack laughs and the wind carries his light body towards Pitch. He reaches out a hand as he lands and grabs the fabric, the shadows of his coat. Pitch cannot escape his hold.

He twists his hand and frost creeps out, encasing and trapping the darkness, forcing light on them, vanquishing the very core of Pitch Black.

Pitch opens his mouth to cry out but it comes out as a breathy choked gasp as frost covers his throat.

"You think you can pretend? You're not death."

Jack leans forward and the frost slowly creeps towards Pitch's face.

"I've met death. He reached his hand out to me and I passed through his cloak."

Jack's face is mere inches away.

"I came out the other side like this. A frozen winter child."

The cold and ice and frost overcomes Pitch and he's trapped, mouth parted open and eyes bugging out.

Jack backs away, he feels heavy with shadows that are deeper than the one's Pitch used to spin his web.

It's the weight of mortality as his body shivers with forgotten sensations.

The cold.

The fear.


His heart and breathing are stopped and he is trapped.

Turning away from the ice that is seeping into it's victim he sees the guardian's faces.

They are not looking at him but the darkness floating above him. They see it. Or at least the reflections. Death is lingering, waiting always watching.

Death is always on Jack's heels and Jack isn't sure if it's for him or the people who get trapped in an endless winter wonderland.

But they see it.

Jack grins, bearing teeth at them.

He needs them to understand. He has no shadow except death, frozen and trapped. Forced to follow him.

Jack has no fear of the boogeyman or the shadow hiding under his bed because Jack Frost is dead.