Pitch very rarely slept. But it had been a sudden craving he felt, the night before, to do so. Sleep was relatively strange. It was mortal and Pitch didn’t even require sleep, but the feeling of complete relaxation was rejuvenating. The man was now settled in a mild slumber, his chest rising and falling with his breath. He looked peaceful, which was a very rare occasion. Pitch’s muscles were loose and relaxed and his usual scowl had been replaced with a content smile. There was no golden sand fluttering above his head. The Sandman never sent him dreams and happiness and laughter. He rarely sent any spirits or guardians dreams at all, considering they shouldn’t be sleeping.
Oh, the things he would do to people who saw him in this state. Seeming weak and vulnerable, complying to mortal needs. However, barely anyone came down in Pitch’s lair, so he was safe from that. It was a little sad, though. Even the spirit of fear wanted company at times. But there was a disturbance. There was another presence in the lair. It wasn’t another spirit. This presence came in the form of a young, handsome thief on his way to steal a few goodies.