A/N: This is NOT my OC, but anothers. Her name is GirlWonder29 (a very brilliant writer), and if you like Jada Shade you would take a look at her fic for a slightly lighter version and completely different plot. And before you ask, yes I did get her permission. As always, open to suggestions and LEAVE A REVIEW. dO IT. Not to be pushy or anything *coughs*

Jack Frost is falling to his death.

Well, at least he should be. You would think a hard hit of shadow forcing a stupid winter spirit over the edge of a cliff would surely send him to his demise. But no, of course not. His ice blue eyes are teasing as he rises back up, staff clasped in hand. Damn, he can fly, I just can't catch a break today.

I glare at him and shoot another spell, "Sicamperforabipruina!" a long dagger, black against the snow that had accumulated when Jack Frost showed up at this mountainside, sliced toward him. He slammed his staff down, the ice shooting itself against my spell, causing it to shatter.

"Why won't you just listen to me?" he shouts with seeming frustration.

I grip my septor tightly, "Because I already know what you want. I can't help you!" I grit my teeth together against the blizzard he's begun to stir up. Time to get out of here, "Absconderelinquere umbra,"

The thing about darkness-it's everywhere. Meaning that I can sink into it whenever needed. This skill has been very useful over the centuries. Shadows engulf me and I sink into them gratefully, glad to ditch this scene.

"No!" Jacks word rings out. But I'm already gone.

The small cottage that I've brought myself to is familiar. Outside is a small grave with the words 'Jade-Anna Sedarcott'. It's mine, that's what the Man in the Moon told me. He hardly ever speaks to me. But that was the first message. Underneath the name is "Burned for Witchcraft"

I am Jada Shade. I don't remember dying, and I don't remember being burned. Witchcraft is explanatory, as when you rely on spells and darkness it's pretty easy to put two and two together.

And so I continue on with eternity.

Outside it's dawn, the landscape slowly fading from dark blue to grey with the lighting horizon. I should be moving on soon; I hate to be anywhere during the day. So I find myself running from the sun. But for now I have time.

It's cool and dark here, with two empty beds against the wall to my right and two to my left, with a small table in the center. It was old, very old. 'Home' was the second message from the Moon when I took my first shaky steps through that rusted doorway. Sorry excuse for a home. On the wall is a portrait of me, drawn with a charcoal pencil, sitting under the moon. Who drew it, that I've never known; there's no signature. Just my name written in a child's script near the corner.

Underneath each bed is a tunnel that leads down, far to what I know is that Pitch Blacks home. Some, like the Guardians, may be bothered by this. Not me. I have no reason to fear Black, no reason to trust him either. For as long as I can remember our meetings have him scarce, usually with a curt, "Shade," from him and a distracted wave from me. He's much less annoying as most spirits.

But that's the thing, isn't it? Everyone else hates me. Darkness, that's what I am. Hard to love, even harder not to fear. How can I expect the world to except me when I can't even come to like myself?

I've been here to long and the stinging rays of sunlight are filtering in through the cracks in the boarded up windows. With a slim look at my room (as I had come to think of it) I lifted into the air, letting the wind take me as far away from the day as possible.