He is a fractured organized mess of broken ice, refitted to fit his form and spread out in the chill of the air, carried and cradled and smoothed by the Wind.
He doesn't let it show. Doesn't let Bunnymund, or Toothiana, or St. North, or Sandman see the sharpness. He can't let them know, won't let them see, so he hides it. Hides it beneath smirks and grins, hides it beneath graceful movements, hides it like his shadow hides.
(his viscous, horrid shadow)
Pitch finds the sharpness because he hides it in the shadows. Pitch pulls it gently, tenderly and coos at his darkness but Pitch doesn't understand how cold and frightening winter can be. It bites back and he doesn't realize it until Jack is there, snarling and screaming and his cover snaps.
Pitch snarls back because they are opposing forces, light and dark, fear and fun. But Jack has a Yang to his Yin, his shadow that waits by thin ice and underneath blizzards and between sharp icicles. Pitch can't touch that shadow, can't feel out its depth, can only reflect and imitate its raw horror, its threat and its fear.
Pitch asks him one day, stalking behind him with a teasing grin.
Oh Jack Frost, Guardian of Fun, protector of children -
His smile is sharp but his teeth are dull.
Why is your shadow so, so, frightening?
Jack crumbles inside, sharp pieces becoming disjointed.
He calls his shadow back and feels it fitting back at his feet. It finds Pitch and its teeth glitter like freshly formed icicles as the two monsters circle each other.
He ignores Pitch's hysterical laughs because Pitch knows. Knows he had won the battle even if the war was already lost.
He doesn't let the others see.
