Denial
For the first couple of years after Jack Frost awakes with pale skin and white hair under a brilliant moon (the moon, the Man in the Moon, the moon who spoke his name, gave him life), he ignores the fact that he is alone. He tries fruitlessly to pretend that his isolation does not crush him, that his lack of any sort of companion does not make him frustratingly restless. He lives in constant confusion, constant subdued turmoil as he brings winter to the world, flicking his hands and making snow, twirling his staff and wielding ice.
Jack rides the wind without a destination in mind because he never has one. Or, rather, he never has a destination for himself. Nature maps out where he needs to bring his chill, he can feel it when he flies through the air. I'm not lonely, his mind whispers, even when he knows that the wind can sense his lie.
But he grips his staff and rides the wind and lies anyway because it's easier.
He tries to spread winter without actually getting near its subjects. He doesn't want to feel his stomach twinge with nausea as someone walks right through him, or looks past him as if he wasn't there at all. (Because he exists, he knows he does, he can feel and touch and, excluding humans and other animals, he is solid to the rest of the world).
Surprisingly, he realizes he knows he is real and very much alive mostly because he needs to eat – albeit rarely – and occasionally sleep. Jack supposes because the denial is so great in his waking life, whenever he sleeps, his dreams are filled with pain and darkness, horror and chaos. But then he wakes up and pretends the dreams never happened.
On a particularly snowy evening in southern Norway, Jack hangs around a village longer than usual. He'd brought the cold to stay so he wasn't needed any longer, the fluffy white inches high off the dirt and covering the grass, their dying green tendrils hidden like they'd disappeared forever, and rooftops brimmed with ice, their hanging pointed tips drooping over houses' edges. But for some reason he feels a hint of nostalgia (nostalgia from what, he doesn't know- he awoke from the Moon and he lives in the cold, so he doesn't suppose how he can be nostalgic for anything warm) at the sight of orange candlelight flooding through dark, foggy winter air and the smell of baking bread and the sound of vibrant laughter. It seems as if the people in this town don't mind the winter. Most people don't like it, at least not in small villages with children to keep warm and mouths to feed. Sometimes Jack distresses over bringing the icy seasons he knew nature commanded, fearing the food shortages and the lack of crop growth.
However, this town is different, so Jack lingers.
He lingers and lands on the ground along the village path, something he rarely does. Usually when his feet touch the earth, he is secluded, in a forest, perhaps, or deep within a mountain range. There are not too many people out, but some wander the streets, greeting their neighbors, hauling firewood, bringing home food. Jack starts when a child runs past him, bundled in what appeared to be rag-like clothing, but bundled warmly nonetheless.
The child picks up some of Jack's snow, molds it into a lump, and throws it at a child Jack didn't realize was behind him. Jack moves to the side quickly, watching the ball soar through the air, and the other child greets it with an indignant squeal, yelling something in Norwegian.
Soon lumps of snow are being flung back and forth, and Jack watches on in mild amusement. A stout woman in an apron comes out of the nearby house soon enough and stops the fight, ushering them inside with stern mutterings.
Yes, Jack is amused, until he remembers that these children have no idea of this freezing powdery stuff's origin. They do not know who he is, the creator of the snow. He remembers that he has more cold to wield and no home to return to, nor anyone to throw snow at, at least not with the victim knowing where it had hailed. Swallowing heavily, he denies and denies again that he feels, that he hurts, that he breathes in rejection and breathes out sadness.
Jack Frost goes on and rides the wind and makes the snow fall, instead.
a/n: I may or may not be a little obsessed with this movie right now. Which is why I decided to write this pre-movie fic based off the five stages of grief, because I realized how Jack coped with isolation can probably really be described in these five stages.
So many feelings, ugh.
Anyway, reviews would make my week, because feedback is the best thing.