Just a small little drabble about what happens to Pippa. Yes, that's her name. Internet ftw.
This isn't a happy drabble, as a heads up, and it's inspired by the fic collection Snowflakes.
I don't own RotG.
The incident was branded into her mind; a scar that would never fade. The fear in his eyes and the bravery that held him together were things that she would never- could never forget.
Forget she tried, but to no avail. When she lost her brother, she lost her best friend. Her support. Her family.
Sometimes she'd find herself pacing around the cottage tearing at her hair, her eyes wide and searching for something simply wasn't there. A shadow. Other times, she'd trip on one of his old trinkets and the memories unconsciously flooded back.
It had gotten better over the last few years, but not by much. She was a mother now, with a child of her own; a child that had his laugh, his gleam of fun, his spirit. So much for forgetting.
It was especially on days like these, where the snow fell and lightly dusted the earth white, when she dwelled on that day long ago.
"Mary, dear, how was your day?" she asked as her daughter came bounding up to her.
The small brunette beamed. "Mommy! A man was telling us about Jack!"
Pippa froze, her heart giving out a twang of pain. Ignoring it, she pressed on. "Jack, who, dear?"
"Jack Frost, of course," Mary responded, her mouth stretching into a toothy grin.
Puzzled, Pippa inquired again. "And who, may I ask, is Jack Frost?"
"The winter spirit who makes it snow!" Mary's expression could've put the sun to shame.
Of course. The storyteller in town would stop at nothing to entertain the minds of the young children. "Just be careful that he doesn't nip your nose," Pippa teased.
"I won't," Mary giggled, covering her nose with her hand and racing past her mother into the cottage.
Pippa sighed, her heart heavy. "You're everywhere, Jack, aren't you?"
"Mommy, Mommy! Look!"
Pippa turned her head to see what her daughter was pointing at. The town storyteller was sitting on a bench at the front of his cottage. "He's the one who told me about Jack Frost!" Mary exclaimed as she dragged her mother to the man. When they reached him, Mary smiled. "Hi, mister. Can you tell me about Jack Frost again?"
The man was old with thinning grey hair and a hunched back, and Pippa had no doubt in her mind that the stories he told were just fables.
"Why of course," he nodded, and off he went on the story about a boy with white hair and ice blue eyes who woke up at the bottom of a lake.
"A lake, you say?" Pippa questioned, slightly unnerved.
"Yes," the storyteller confirmed. And as he described the exact lake of her branded memories, Pippa became more and more anxious.
"Can you show us a picture of Jack?" Mary asked curiously. The man nodded and reached into his pocket, taking out a slip of folded paper.
"I drew this myself, I did. This is Jack Frost, if I ever saw him."
The little girl took the paper and unfolded, and Pippa looked on with a frantically beating heart. And after the paper had been laid out, she gasped. "It's Jack!" She cried, her eyes welling up with tears and her body trembling.
"Jack Frost, my dear," the storyteller echoed.
And suddenly a wind stirred around the village and Pippa whipped her head up at the sound of laughter. There, drifting through the skies of the town was a teenage boy with snow white hair and a cerulean sweatshirt.
"Jack," Pippa whispered in awe.
It was only when the boy was out of sight and the wind died down that she began to cry.