Chapter Text
This is a memory. A question is asked, and Jack Frost is lost in the bright, dark colors of a flashback. The vibrant, vengeful kind. It rips through his skull with sparks and bursts in his eyes like a bullet. The rawness courses through his body and every atom like cold electricity.
. . .
One of the things Jack learned when he’s been ripped apart inside out is how his intestines work. How it's all just sacks of flesh, long tubes of muscles that wreath and squirm like slick eels.
His back is in an angle, at his spins middle it’s straight up against the wall, it wouldn't be like that unless it was broken. It’s raining. The sky's a cold grey, the walls are tight and cold. Jack Frost is always cold.
It’s one of those rare moments that Jack’s glad no one can see him.
Another trick he’s learned from seeing his organs ripped out is that it can rearrange itself back to its perfect, proper position. Like snakes looping and settling in place.
Everything's a fog. Static rings in his ears, his mouth feels like it's been stuffed with cotton and copper and his throat had something thick poured down it. He’s so cramped that the walls force his long limbs to crush him. His jaws are clamped so tight he can almost hear his teeth starting to crack.
Things like this have happened before, worse comes to worse Jack Frost will still wake up a few hours later, as if it never happened. Jumper without a stitch out of place, no blood stains, no mess, and no scars. As if time rewinded.
His nerve-endings long numbed. The pain of cuts and bruises or pleasure like grass between his toes and a familiar touch are long lost to him.
Things can still hurt though.
This hurts.
It shouldn't bother him, at this point. Not existing. Existing like this. The absolute numbness, however, will always remain haunting.
His eyes were not closing, his eye-lids were wide open from pain and shock. Yet that didn't stop the world from darkening.
Jack Frost bleeds the color rust. The black, awful kind that stained the suffocating grey walls and no doubt polluted the water. Neck at an odd, broken angle as he looked up to the sky. There were stars, yes. But no moon to witness Jacks long bony frame twisted, torn and tossed in an old forgotten well. Jack didn't know how to feel about that, but the moon never before bothered to make its presence.
What a beautiful night. With the sky clear and stars layered upon stars.
… What a lonely death this was.
It happened the moment Jack Frost could climb out of the well. A long pale arm first, before the wind gently lift his body and scooped him down to the ground.
“You’re a very interesting creature,” A voice echoed through the woods, the wind bristled.
Jack gave a hollow smile as he stared straight ahead, “How so Old Man Winter?”
“You bring the frost,” It came as a low rumble. “You’re supposed to be of my reign, of winter. Mine. And yet,” Old Man Winter towered over Jack Frost. ‘Skin’ made of the hides of frozen pale animals, foxes, wolves, birds, and rabbits rippling and shifting. He also wore a worn wooden mask that had the resemblance akin to an old man with a grin far too wide.
“And yet you’re not.” Old Man Winter leaned closer. “And when I tear you to shreds, your flesh is warm .”
“Thanks,” Jack said flatly. “That’s not disturbing at all.”
The skins above the mask shifted to resemble raised brows, then a snarl. “I murdered you, Jack Frost.”
“You aren’t the first to try.”
Old Man Winter’s voice sounded like the roar of a river, “Your limbs should be twisted in the well I left you in,”
“Really I should be at the bottom of a lake, and yet,” With cold eyes, Jacks lips stretched to a sharp grin with a shrug. “Here we are.”
Old Man Winter’s formless body recoiled. “You’re a threat to my rule.” It came out like a hiss of a snake.
“And what are you going to do about it, Old Man Winter?”
Jack Frost stood with shoulders back, feet firm and hands shaking. Fingers tight around his staff, he swallowed. And Old Man Winter Stood still as if frozen.
“I’ve been burned, melted,” Jack tried to hid the quiver in his voice. “rip to shreds only to be shoved in a well .” Jack Frost walked closer, “I’ve been stabbed, torn and more.” Says Jack Frost, “If there’s a way to finish me off then it has yet to find me.”
Jack’s posture shifted, ready for defense, ready to attack, “How many have you killed ‘to rule’, Old Man Winter?”
Silence. The skins twitched, making it almost look as if each warped animal was cowering with a snarl.
“I’m left with no choice,” Old Man Winter voice was dry, almost hesitant. “But to a duel.”
“To what?” Jack pulled a face, “To the death? Did you just, not listen to a word I said?”
“It’s tradition. As long as you stand I will no longer have the right to the crown. It’s death,” His eyes glowered, “Or victory.”
“If we do this, it’ll be rigged. I’ll outlast you! No matter what you do, I’ll always be the last one standing!” Jack paused, “Look, despite what you think I don’t want to tyrannize over the winter realm and all things wintery. Or kill anyone. Also, this is crazy -”
“You have no choice in the matter.” Old Man Winter had a strange, unreadable expression on his many faces.”
“Says you! I’ll just not go, not participate. Not kill you .”
“Then I’ll never stop.” It was said so simply, its toneation so soft, and almost gentle, that the last thing Jack expected was for Old Man Winter to lunge. Lips wound back tight in a sudden snarl and long claws unsheathed.
Jack doesn't know how long it was. Hours?
Shadows shifted, the woods darken and lighten, the clock ticked. Wherever Jack went he followed-
Days? Months? ...Years?
Everything was sore from overuse and the constant dreadful re-generating. His mind is in a constant blur.
Time has little meaning to a spirit.
The woods plunged into its own constant winter, the harsh, ugly, and grey kind. The only color that showed was red and Jack hated that red- and what he hated most, was that it showed more brightly against all else.
All Jack knows is that it wouldn't stop and it hurts , it kept going on and on and on. And it had to end -
It was so bright, red like fresh pomargamits and so human. It smeared against the trees just like blood was supposed to, it dripped off the leaves before it crystalized into rubies. And the snow had a spread of cinnamon, that's how Old Man Winters bleeds.
In the end, the amount of time doesn't matter. It’s the result.
Of course, Jack dies, over and over and over again. He bleeds the color of rust. The red-black awful kind of color. The kind that darkens and becomes slowly stagnant over time, but, even for a little while, it was warm. Impossibly, absolutely, warm . How else, would’ve it melted the snow?
(There's only so much of this Jack could take.)
It takes a while before Jack realizes that each time the world blackened he loses a shade of color. Each time he dies it smears less and runs more and more like water. There's only so much he can take. This can only end one way. This has to end …
So Jack Frost wins.
Jack wants to do a lot of things.
He wanted a lot of things.
He didn't want to fight. He doesn't want the brown poncho that he wore and his white, white hair to be clean and spotless like this didn't happen, like he didn't do anything. As if he didn't just k -
Jack swallows the bale, his hands are curled close to his chest and his hands clenched onto his staff so tightly that he sure somethings going to have to give, that the bones in his hands are going to fractures and break or his staff will splinter and split.
( Something is going to have to give first. )
( Someone is going to have to- )
Jack’s shaking, So much and so hard that his very bones jitter like a dying insect and it fills him with nausea on top of everything else. Though that must be the trick of the mind because he has nothing in him to throw up, hasn't in years.
Jack wants to sob. To weep, scream, and curse. He wants to fall on his knees, he wants to break down, fall apart, and unravel and Jack knows damn well that the world isn't watching. That nothing, in this god-forsaken universe, would even care to spare a glance.
He’s free to do as he feels but he’s too numb. Deep inside all these emotions and actions are just in arms reach but there's a wall between his brain and body and he’s too tired to do anything, but give a hollow stare at the body.
Already it was stiff, already Old Man Winter lost the fluid movement he possessed.
Jack considers running far away, in the back of his mind. Jack unknowingly, unconsciously had his back turned, ready to walk away until. Then, suddenly, his time in the well and every flash of darkness comes in a violent whirlwind. Making him paralyzed in the eye of the minds storm. Back turned, but unable to move on. Ever so slowly, Jack turns back to the corps.
Who would Jack be, if he didn't at least bury him?
Ever so slowly, he scoops up the stiff body once called Old Man Winter. Jacks hands do nothing but shake the whole time. Not with fear, at least not completely. He’ll bury him, yes. But nothing more. Jack Frost hated him too much for that and Jack was far too tired to do more.
If anyone asks, he’ll answer. Honest and true, but for now the body stays in the woods.