Jack flies, briskly and freely, over villages, cities, forests, rivers. This world above is his world. It's where he's free; in this open, unbounded world, the air is chilly, so high up. He breathes it in, and marvels at how it feels made for him, fitting his lungs too perfectly. He laughs, twirls, drops and rockets through the night air.

It is glorious.

Near the edge of a pine forest, trees dusted in snow, Jack comes in gently, bobbing, almost to land. Bubbling still with laughter and the giddiness of flight, he spins in place, arms wide, bouncing and looking up at the stars. The world is wide open for him, endless and welcoming him to enjoy his wild dance. He obliges until he finally tires. He touches down at last.

Immediately the world is not so endless. The forest closes in on him. It crowds up, fencing him in, coming closer. The trees loom over him; where once he soared above them, now they bend their tops to close him in. They are dark, sharp shapes. Shadows creep in, shadows made of an eternal sort of darkness that exists even without a casting light.

The fear is suffocating. He knows the forest is as it always was, but the fear is deforming it, and he can't deny how real it seems, how very much it terrifies him. His joy has gone; he cannot fly away from this. He steps back from the looming giants, plants his foot on the cold, hard ground.

Something is there. He turns his head too quickly; he expects a tree trunk, but the thing moves, grips him by the shoulders. It speaks, whispers, growls into his ear.

"Jack Frost," It says, and pulls him back against its chest. Pulls him into darkness, down into the earth.