Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians
Wherein the Story Maker finally confronts is creations
Jack needed to get away from the Pole, from North, from Bunny, from Tooth and Sandy because he was feeling too much right then, he was too crowded and his mind didn't have enough space to function.
He sat on his tree, the large, gnarly oak that lay next to his beloved frozen lake. He watched as the frost from his feet constricted the branch and made it shine sliver. He watched as the Moon stared down at him with invisible expression and absolute eyes. He watched as the stars hugged his eyes and face. He looked down when he heard the low whistle of a seemingly lonely man.
His face was dark, but the warm, welcoming kind of dark. His black hair was greying and his brown eyes raved across the lake with unflinching command that could only be found in a military man. His clothes were loose and carefree, an odd jacket hanging off of him, a bowtie hanging out of his pocket. His hands kept folding upon themselves, over and over and over, restless and unhinged. He breathed in the air and the world stopped spinning.
"Life is built on what ifs, isn't it? She pointed this out to me yesterday, when I got her to open up for a few minutes. She told me that the characters chose you, so what if she hadn't wrote of the Flaming Phoenix? What if she hadn't wrote of Camelot burning to the ground, of giants and pale soldiers? What if she hadn't wrote of wind and hallways and crimson stained floors?" the man laughed. "What if I hadn't bought her the laptop she portrayed her life upon?
"I asked her why she wrote in quotes, why her summaries were unclear and her words ran on and on and on. She told me she writes at the speed of light—no, at the speed of thought, of memory, of comprehension. She told me that she hardly notices her hands moving as she writes of fiction and fairytale. She told me that this isn't a life she's writing, it is a universe that lives within a door of her mind palace. She told me that she doesn't know where she gets her stories, her poems, her words from because she doesn't feel that smart, she thinks that smart. She told me that the world is too big for her mind, for her soul; she told me that she shouldn't be able to fit into such a time, such a milky way, such a galaxy—she told me she feels small at times, small and inferior and I don't know what to say to that.
"She gave me three minutes to ask questions, to ask all of that and more. She gave me three minutes to call out her secrets and reveal her secret identity. She gave me three minutes to ask billions of questions because she knew I would hardly scratch the surface."
Jack was bewildered and caught off guard. Jack was silent and unmoving.
"My little, little girl. I look at her when she wakes up and can't look away, because it's like my creations have come back to haunt me. Her long, thin brown hair is Liam Walters. Her curvy body is Caroline Gold. Her tan skin is Marisa Con. Her lengthy, nimble fingers are Matthew Fareway. Her lisp is William Fritz. And her green eyes are absolute and so very, very resolute. They're a green that only exists in stories of fantasy, of fiction, of the unreality that surrounds us and I can't place them. I can't give them a name, a place, I can give them nothing but Emily Raven Modiri, nothing but Emily M., because her eyes don't belong on such a face, they don't belong on such a round, innocent face with lashes that come at you like waves and ears that just barely hide beneath her brown totality. She is a character of fiction, of elven societies and dwarven villages. She is someone you both fear and love and can't help but feel humbled by because she is powerful in a way that blows her peers away. She is somebody that doesn't feel commitment and has no way of telling, of feeling. She pours her emotions, her happiness, her freedoms into her words, into her stories and she gets bad grades because her teachers don't understand her soul. She writes poems and fanfiction and stories and expository and persuasive and she writes nothing, nothing at all because she fears her creations and her power over them because she writes of tragedy and heartache and she achieves a level of sadness I could never reach, I could never compare to, and it makes me wonder what goes on in her mind, behind the sarcasm—the sarcasm that is you, Jack Frost. She is my Jack Frost, my Toothania, my Saint Nicolaus, my E. Aster Bunnymund. She is everything I have ever had the privilege of meeting and more. She is a question I have yet to answer, Jack. And so, I ask you, after this rant, why do you stare at me with the eyes of my daughter? Why are you the wall she builds in front of herself every morning?"
Jack furrows his brows, staring into the soulful eyes. "She is the Writer, Mr. Modiri. She is born of fiction and built of reality. She's torn apart, sir. Her decisions are as split as her personality. She's the wise man in a small body, constricting her airways and mind waves. Her heart is too small for her chest and her mind too big for her skull. She sounds a bit like her father, to be honest."
Mr. Modiri laughs, skin crinkling and head shaking. "She sounds nothing like me, Jack Frost. She sounds nothing like her brothers and her mother. She sounds like the universe is speaking too much, like it channels its voice through hers. She can't sing because the universe does nothing but create."
Jack nodded. "The universe composes its own music. It never sings, never utters a single word and leaves its peers speechless. It is why there are arguments of whether or not God is real. It is why there are bisexuals and gays. It is why there are wars and battles, because music is never perfect, never quite complete. The universe is forever expanding, forever changing, and the world won't accept that until it has no other options."
"It is why she wakes up with a bedhead and looks absolutely horrible," Mr. Modiri adds. "It is why she has acne and models use makeup. It is why there are suicides and controversy and propaganda. It is why green eyes see into the soul, see into the mind of a person. It is why her friends are too afraid to anger her, and she is too kind to hold a grudge against them." He smiles, glances at Jack, and walks away, hands in his pockets.
Jack hops on his feet. "Good day, Mr. Modiri!" he yells to the retreating form.
The man laughs. "I can practically feel her writing this very scene!"