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His hand glides across the corrugated bark of the ancient oak before him. It seems as if his finger are melting into the blackened wood; his knuckles are of palest snow but the joints of his fingers are tinted ashen gray, before the dissolving into the midnight hue of his fingertips and the glittering obsidian of his nails. His whole body was pure as fresh snow, once. Now his fingertips are dipped in ink and his eyes are venom yellow, not deep sea blue. The tips of his pointed ears are stained charcoal, as are the soles of his feet. He remembers what he used to be.
When the ice set him free, his body was carved from sparkling ivory. His nails were pastel violet and baby blue, water-worn gems adorning his skin. Electric azure thrummed in his veins; he could see the traces of light beneath the thin skin of his wrist, his throat. His eyes were of the same brilliant blue, his hair soft and translucent. And his wings, clear as glass covered by an opalescent sheen - they were beautiful. They were dragonfly thin, delicate as frost, like blown glass shaped into two large teardrops before tapering into two smaller drops that pointed downward. This second tier of raindrops were drawn into jeweled wisps at the bottom. The pointed upper tips of his wings peeked above his head and the crystal arcs brushed the backs of his knees, a masterpiece of sparkle and shine that spanned almost his entire height. His wings shimmered in the moonlight, bright as the laughter that spilled from his lips. He was innocent then.
He flitted from town to town, giggled the sparkle of frost into the air. He kissed hints of white on windowsills and rooftops, skated a sheen of ice over lakes and puddles. He was happy. He saw the joy on a child’s face after the first snow, the carefree frolicking that followed the announcement of a snow day. He lived off their joy, played their games, and guarded their hearts. That had been enough for him
And then the Guardians called him to their ranks. He fostered friendship, garnered praise. He tasted the sweetest succor of belief, stared into honey brown eyes and felt the exhilaration of flight not in his skin, but in his soul. And he was happy. He thought he’d tasted happiness before, but no. That was contentment. Now, finally, he was happy.
And then it stopped. He almost didn’t notice at first, but one day Pippa walked through him and he was cold again. He hadn't been cold in a long, long time. It happened slowly. The kids didn't hear him when he called their names, or their eyes skated over him if he was standing still. And one by one, he watched each child forget his name.
But it was fine. They Guardians had said belief in him would spread, just as it had for them. This wasn’t the end.
But they were wrong. A few more children in Burgess believed, but they grew old as quickly as the children who had stood with the Guardians on that fateful winter night. It was fine, though. He kept telling himself that it was fine. He’d lived 300 years alone. He could endure a few more. (But could he endure the rest of eternity?)
He thought he could handle it. He thought he would be okay. But one year later he returned to Burgess with the first frost, dusting just enough snow to cancel school, and he discovered just how wrong he was. He tumbled with the wind to crash in a heap of snowy limbs on Jamie’s front porch. “Snow day!” he called, waiting for the patter of socked feet stumbling down the stairs and the excited chatter of the Bennett siblings. But there was nothing. No matter. Jamie was just asleep, that was all. He was a growing boy, after all; he had probably just gone back to bed after the snow day had been announced.
He leapt to the roof of the house, dangling upside down in front of the window to Jamie’s room. To his surprise, Jamie was awake. He was stumbling around the room, rubbing at his eyes with a yawn. Maybe Jamie hadn’t heard him?
He pushed the window open and alighted on the floor of the room, a grin dancing across his face. Jamie turned, still groggy with sleep.
“Hey, buddy.”
Jamie mumbled something unintelligible, giving another deep yawn. Jamie stepped forward and the spirit opened his arms, welcoming the embrace of his first believer. In the second before it happened, he realized something was wrong. Jamie wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were distant, almost as if… and then Jamie stepped through him, shutting the window with a grumble.
“Jamie…?” His lungs were caving in; his ribcage was rotting. This couldn’t be. “Jamie!” He reached out as Jamie stepped away, tried to grab his shoulder, but his hand passed through the boy’s skin. “Jamie…” Jamie walked toward his closet, rooting through his clothes.
The spirit could barely see, his vision blurring and distorting as tears burned in his eyes. He knocked the window open and fled. He could not see, could not hear, could not feel. “Wind, take me away,” he murmured to his old friend, his only friend. The wind carried him, screaming his sorrow.
( In Burgess, the eldest Bennett sibling turned back toward the window. He ran his fingers across the sparkling sill, watching the thinnest coating of ice melt beneath his touch. “Frost…” )
In the depths of the tundra he collapsed to the ice, screaming, screaming, so violently he felt his throat might rip open. It hurt in a way nothing else ever had. Tears spilled from his eyes, froze on his cheeks and cracked beneath the contortion of his face. He was being ripped apart. The wind coiled at his side, caressed his aching skin and cooed comfort to him. It begged him to be still, to breathe deeply.
He could not. He clawed at it, pushed it away, tore it from his body. The wind howled, shrieked into the sky. Snow whipped through the sky above him, whirled around his body as he clawed, clutched at himself, trying to pull himself apart and keep himself together. Frost crawled over his skin, shards of ice cut at his face, but it wasn't enough. He wanted, needed, more. He needed to wrench the despair from his heart. But he couldn't scream any louder. He couldn't cry any harder. He could barely breathe with the crushing weight on his chest.
He looked up at the swirling blizzard above his head and his voice died in his throat. He felt something growing in his chest, pushing against the sadness. He tasted power in the back of his throat, the same power that had shattered through him when Sandman had died. He knew he should push it down, that he couldn't control it if he let it loose. But he didn't care.
He wrapped his fingers around his staff, levered himself to his feet, and slammed the twisting wood into the snow at his feet. Electric blue crackled through his vision and he felt a terrible, tearing pain rip through him, as if the chunk of ice that used to be his heart had expanded into a sharp starburst that outgrew his skin.
He didn't scream as the world went black around him.
That's how Pitch found him: alone, drifting at the edge of consciousness, in the middle of the tundra. When he blinked his eyes open the first thing he saw was smooth ice radiating out from where he lay, the snow swept away to reveal glassy streaks emanating from the place his staff had touched the ground.
“Jack Frost,” a voice soft as ash cooed from behind him.
Jack twisted to see Pitch’s sharp-toothed leer staring back at him. The last time he'd seen Pitch had been that night in Burgess, when the Guardians and the children had seen him, welcomed him, at last.
Tears filled Jack's eyes at the memory, but he clambered to a sitting position. “Why are you here?” He hated the way his voice betrayed him, cracking as he spoke.
Pitch chuckled. “Oh, Jack. I think you know why.”
Jack was about to stumble to his feet and say that's he'd defeated Pitch once, he could do it again, but then he stopped, staring up at the older spirit as tears leaked from his eyes. “You can make it stop?” The pain that wrapped around his heart, the ache in his skin, if there was anything that could make it stop, even for a second…
Pitch knelt in front of him. “Yes, sweet boy. I can take it all away. Is that what you want?”
Jack hesitated. He wanted it to end, more than he could ever remember wanting anything. But he'd sworn, to the Guardians, to the children, to Jamie… But then Pitch’s hand, warm and smooth, caressed his cheek, stroked over his skin so gently he had to bite back a sob. The Guardians barely touched him; only the children had taken the time to grab his hand, envelope him in a hug. After 300 years with the wind as his only companion, he couldn't lose that again. “Please…”
Pitch smiled at him and leaned closer. Jack had a second to wonder why before they were kissing . Jack felt it burn through his body, embers sizzling under his skin and the taste of ash in his mouth. The fire turned his fingers and feet black, slowly seeping back into the pale tone of his first skin as it crawled up his arms and legs. The tips of his elven ears were burned charcoal, and tendrils of shadow seeped from the corners of his eyes like charred vines, snaking down his cheekbones to trace his tears. His hair turned dark as midnight and his eyes glowed topaz. He felt his wings splinter, shattering from their places beside his spine to form jagged, glittering shards protruding from his back. Two longer pieces cascaded from the base of his wings to coil just above his ankles, shaped like a waterfall frozen by the coldest of winters. His wings, too, were black, stained with coal and ink.
The transformation hurt, burned inside him. But then Pitch pulled back and the pain stopped. All of it stopped. The fire burned what was inside him, left him hollow and bare and… free. It didn't hurt anymore. Nothing hurt anymore. Jamie seemed so far away, so unimportant.
Pitch smiled at him. “My sweet little nightmare .”
And Jack was happy.
He's been with Pitch ever since.
“My nightmare,” Jack hears from behind him. He twists to see Pitch, golden eyes peering from a shadowed face. His hand drops from the tree as he turns to the Nightmare King, a smile dancing across his lips. “What are you doing out here, all alone?” Pitch glides forward, an elegant hand caressing Jack’s shoulder.
Jack leans into the touch. He still craves it, after all this time. “Just thinking.” Pitch raises an eyebrow, a silent question. “About you… finding me.” Pitch hums, and the sound buzzes warm and strong through Jack’s bones. Jack presses close to the dark spirit, tucks himself into the hollow between Pitch’s arms. Pitch cards a hand through Jack’s hair, his touch skating down the winter spirit’s back. Jack shudders as warmth curls around his spine.
“Come, don’t dwell on such things. Why don’t we have some fun ?” The last word seems to twist on Pitch’s tongue, barbed thorns that snag on Jack’s heart, pull at the deepest parts of his center.
Jack’s mouth curves into a smirk. “Are we gonna have a little fun instead?”
Pitch joins their hands and blackness envelops them, velvet and sand swirling across their skin until the shadows part to reveal a road. Jack and Pitch watch from the sturdy boughs of an oak that leers over the asphalt. Jack is perched on the balls of his feet, body thrumming with excitement. Pitch reclines languidly, an indulgent smile on his lips as he watches the winter spirit.
After a moment, the ground rumbles with the sound an approaching engine. Jack’s wings flutter, obsidian sand glittering in the moonlight as it falls from his wings. “Here they come…” Jack sings with a shark-like smile. He taps his staff against the tree, and Pitch watches as tendrils of frost snake down the bark, darting lightning fast across the soil until it pools in the road, solidifying into a thin sheen of translucent ice. Jack giggles, leaning forward in anticipation.
Light burns forth from down the road, increasing in strength as a silver car comes into view. The car streaks forward, straight across the patch of black ice. The wheels turn, the car spins, and someone screams as the hood of the car collides with the thick trunk of a tree.
Jack turns to Pitch as if he's looking for approval. Pitch nods and the hesitant expression on Jack's face splits into a smile. The winter spirit rises to his feet and backflips off the branch, falling into the shadows. Pitch follows.
Blackest night swirls around them, and in the darkness their hands find each other. When the shadows part they stand on the streets of Burgess. Pitch feels Jack's hand tighten around his own. “Come, my perfect nightmare,” Pitch coos. “We're going to have a little fun.”
“Instead…” Jack murmurs, whisper soft. His gaze is distant, lost, before he focuses on Pitch.
That word, ’fun,’ means something to Jack. Pitch can tell. But he's not sure what, exactly. He asked Jack about it, once, and all the spirit said was ‘my center,’ before that same lost, distant gaze shrouded his face.
But Jack is looking at him now, waiting for his call, so he answers as best he can. “Yes, Jack. We're going to have a little fun instead.” That seems to bring him back, a little bit. A familiar grin spreads across his face, and he darts forward, pulling Pitch with him.
The stroll down the streets, sending gusts of frigid air to set people ashiver, lacing ice under the feet of unsuspecting passersby. Jack laughs; he’s happy, here, and Pitch doesn’t want anything else.
But then the glee drains from Jack’s face. The light seeps from his eyes. Pitch looks up and sees a boy, a teenager, wrapped up in a thick coat, warm brown hair peeking from under a knit cap. Jack stops walking. He grips Pitch’s hand so tight that it aches. The brunette is coming closer, chattering into a phone as he walks. The boy pauses, hangs up, a smile still on his face, before he resumes his pace. He’s about to walk through them.
Pitch moves to pull Jack aside, he knows how much he hates being walked through, but Jack lets go of his hand and slams his staff into the ground. A thick layer of ice shoots outward, and the teen slips, yelping as he falls. Pitch hears grunt of the air being knocked from his chest, the dull thump of his body hitting the sidewalk.
The teen groans, rubbing at his head as he pushes himself into a sitting position. Jack steps forward, looming over the teen, mouth set in a thin line. The snow falls thick in the air, heavier than it had been just moments ago. The kid tries to clamber to his feet, but as he tries to stand he finds his foot encased in ice. “What the…” Pitch hears the brunette mumble.
Pitch glance to Jack, who hasn’t moved. This isn’t like him. This is too obvious, too strange to discount as natural winter phenomena, and the laughter that defines Jack’s very being is absent. But Pitch doesn’t intercede.
The teen is scratching at the ice, trying to wiggle himself free, and Pitch watches as ice crawls over his hands, trapping them in place as well. The teen is starting to panic now, breathing faster, something like tears glittering in his eyes. He opens his mouth, maybe to curse, maybe to scream for help, and the wind kicks up, howling through the air and drowning out his cries. The air is white with snow, and Pitch’s surrounding vanish until all he can see is Jack and the boy. No one will find them in this blizzard.
Shards of ice, small enough to melt on contact with the skin but sharp enough to sting, fill the air. The wind throws the ice into the boy’s face and the brunette flinches, tucking his head down since he can’t raise his arms to shield himself.
Pitch watches as tears leak from his eyes, watches his fingers turn purple and blue beneath the ice. Jack still hasn’t moved, staring impassively at the scene before him. His hand tightens around his staff and the wind screams , and suddenly Pitch knows with chilling certainty that Jack is going to kill this boy.
Pitch steps forward. “Jack!” Jack doesn’t turn to him, doesn’t even seem to notice the change. “Jack!” Pitch grabs Jack’s shoulder, forcing his lover to meet his gaze. Now that he’s closer, Pitch can see the icy trails of tears running down Jack’s face. “That’s enough. He’s afraid.”
A muscle in Jack’s jaw tightens. The wind whips around them, pulling at their hair and clothes. “He deserves it,” Jack hisses. “He hurt me. He deserves it.”
“I know, Jack,” Pitch soothes, running a hand through the spirit’s hair. “But you’ve had your fun. Leave him.”
“Fun…” Jack murmurs. He glances at the sobbing, shaking teen, before he seems to crumple under his own weight, collapsing into Pitch’s waiting embrace. “It hurts,” Pitch thinks he hears him say, softer than a whisper. “It still hurts.”
“I know,” Pitch repeats, gripping Jack a little tighter before letting the shadows envelop them and whisk them away. He does leave a bit a black sand coiled in the hood of the teen’s coat, something to bring nightmares to the mortal who hurt his beloved.
The darkness parts to reveal the recesses of Pitch’s lair. It sparkles with snow and frost, the result of Jack’s prolonged inhabitance.
In the dark and quiet, Pitch holds Jack as he sobs. The winter spirit curls close, trembling as he clutches at his lover, as if he’s afraid he will disappear. Pitch gently places his hand over Jack’s, twisting their fingers together. “I’m right here, Jack,” he murmurs, soft and sweet. “I’ll always be right here.” And as Jack slowly calms in his arms, he knows that his words are true.