Talking to Snowmen
.::. .
Sometimes I steal things I don't need.
One year is a long time to be alone, let alone a hundred. He doesn't crave friendship anymore, or even company – he feels that either would be too much to ask for in a world where he is less than a ghost. At least some people believe in ghosts. All he wants is for someone, no, that's too unrealistic, something to acknowledge his existence.
He's fairly sure that he exists, but sometimes...sometimes he wonders.
He doesn't leave footprints in the snow he brings.
(he keeps his feet off the ground as much as possible)
No sentient mortal creature can see him, hear him, touch him...
(he's developed his reflexes to a point where he can quickly dodge away from anything that comes close, but he still gets caught out sometimes)
The only thing that suggests that he is, is the pain he feels when he is walked through, the burn when he is caught in the glare of the blazing sun in any season save his own, the bone-deep ache that has been his only constant companion for decades...Surely, if he feels, he must exist.
He tries not to think too hard about this; it'll only make him cry, and because he is ice personified, the tears will never come.
He takes his mind off it by playing, but sometimes, not always inadvertently, the more malicious side of his nature comes to light. He buries houses in giant snowbanks, steals the food right off people's plates, snatches pretty trinkets that catch his eye – it's his way of getting his own back on the universe, and if it manages to net him some believers, then all the better, right?
The most unusual thing I ever stole? A snowman.
He takes all kinds of things, none of it he needs – what could he ever have need of? He doesn't need to eat or sleep, but he enjoys them both anyway. Hell, he doesn't even need to breathe, and a lungful of water is just a minor discomfort. It's not like he's even got anywhere to put the things he pinches; he doesn't have a home like the other spirits he's heard of, no place of safety, nowhere he can run to, nowhere he can curl up and relax.
Really, though, he's never wanted a place to call his own. He can't bear the thought of building some elaborate castle of ice, devoid of all life, his voice bouncing off the frozen walls and echoing in his ears, more alone than when he dozed at the bottom of his lake. At least then he had the company of the tiny fish that dwelt among the pondweed.
The lake is probably the closest thing he'll ever have to a home – it holds a special place in his icy heart because this is where he awoke, this is the stage for his very first memories. As a result, he stops here often; visitors find his lake fascinating because it's frozen from early autumn deep into late spring, whatever the temperature of the nearby town. The locals stopped noticing generations ago and are quite bemused when questioned by enthusiastic tourists.
But despite his lake's popularity among the scientific community, he doesn't get many visitors in winter, not even to ice skate. He'd heard mentions of some old legend about someone drowning in there, but he doesn't believe that because he'd never let that happen. He makes sure the ice is thick anyway, just in case.
One time, one day in midwinter, he was feeling particularly lonely. He'd tried to alleviate the feeling by going into town, but he'd been walked through more often than usual and that just made him feel worse. The Wind had tried comforting him, but there's only so much an intangible thing can do in this situation. He was lonely and he'd spotted a boy he was convinced would become a great sculptor out in the snow earlier in that day.
So he did the only logical thing he could think of.
He stole a snowman.
Better off dead than giving in, not taking
what you want.
Just four words, it sounded so easy. In practice, the way he struggled was almost comical. He'd waited until nightfall – not because he was afraid of being seen, but because he didn't want to scare anyone with a floating snowman. He'd had to disassemble the statue because he just wasn't strong enough to lift the whole thing at once. He started with the head.
It was a marvellous thing – almost too lifelike to be the work of a child, all angles considered and amazingly detailed. The eyes were almond-shaped stones, the nose not a traditional carrot but a parsnip instead and the smile had simply been traced into the tightly packed snow. The hat was a simple one, custom-made for this snowman out of many pages of newspaper. It looked quite dashing.
After much deliberating, he dislodged the surprisingly lightweight head and flew it back to his lake before returning to the decapitated body for the main task. He separated the torso with a kind of desperate fervour he'd never felt before – he just wanted this so badly. He didn't care how difficult or awkward the job, he just wanted that snowman. Once he'd transported the entire sculpture, he carefully pieced it back together in the middle of his lake. By the time he was done, the sky was starting to lighten, but he was done.
He took a few steps back to take a proper look at his reconstructed masterpiece, and was somewhat disappointed. It didn't look the same. He sighed, but ignored how strange it looked. He sat down next to it and leaned into its sturdy torso, light enough that it didn't topple over but hard enough that he still felt some measure of comfort.
He sits there for hours with his new friend, sometimes monologuing to it, sometimes just basking in the companionable silence, before he realises quite what he's doing.
[...] Then I was standing
alone among lumps of snow, sick of the world.
The winter sun is shining weakly high in the sky when he stands, so abruptly that he almost trips over. Staff in hand, he marches stiffly to the edge of his lake, turns, and stares at the snowman. The snowman stares back with unseeing pebble-eyes and suddenly he is filled so full of loathing and rage and hurt that he just can't contain it. He screams and shouts in anger, sending bolt after bolt of ice at his only tangible friend, and when he's exhausted his magical reserves, he resorts to his fists and feet. Somewhere deep inside, behind the red haze that's blanketed his mind, some sarcastic voice wonders if perhaps he should have punched it before freezing it solid a dozen times over, but he ignores it like he ignores the sluggish, half-frozen red liquid staining his hands and the sharp spikes of ice that form the snowman's outer shell.
Eventually, the snowman has been stamped into the surface of the lake, and he's collapsed, exhausted in mind and body, beside it. The adrenaline is wearing off and the pain is gradually coming back and he's starting to regret ignoring that stupid voice that evidently wasn't so stupid after all. At one point, he tries to stand, but he can't bear the agony in his hands or feet and flops bonelessly back onto the ice with a moan. He lies there and he hates the world – he hates the snowman, he hates the lake, he hates the little sculptor-to-be and most of all he hates himself.
He lies there for days before he's healed enough to move anywhere – having a frozen body has its downsides – and when he does, he curls up in a snow bank and forces himself into sleep. He can't quite face up to what he's done just yet, nor is he ready to take on the world. He slumbers beneath the drift, and doesn't notice when the air runs out. He only awakes when the sun shines on his face and burns.
Boredom. Mostly I'm so bored I could eat myself.
Instinctively, he calls the wind to take him somewhere cooler; he has overstayed his welcome, even here in the perpetually cold Burgess, and if he doesn't leave now, he'll have the Spring Maiden to deal with. He's spoken with her once or twice and has found that, contrary to her rather jovial title, she is not a very happy person.
The Wind carries him to Siberia where he alights on the branch of a tall pine. It doesn't even creak. He sighs, and wishes he hadn't spent so long dormant; usually he sleeps the Spring away, unneeded in either hemisphere, but now he's so full of pent-up energy, he feels like he's about to burst and there's no chance of him falling asleep anytime soon.
But...what point is there in bringing snow if there's no-one to enjoy it? This part of the world is empty of humans and if he tries somewhere else, he'll only get chased away by Spring or Autumn. He's stuck here in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do and so much energy he might just explode. He stays there for two days. It's all he can manage.
It's the biggest – and latest – blizzard the northern hemisphere has seen in centuries, and while many kids enjoy it, many more do not – and one spirit in particular is most displeased.
Decades upon decades later, when Bunnymund demands an explanation, Jack keeps his mouth shut, because if he tried...
You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you?
. .::.
Disclaimer: RotG isn't mine because if it was Jack would have to be relegated to a mental hospital. The poem Stealing isn't mine either, and belongs to Carol Ann Duffy.
A/N: In my defence, this was already half-written before I even started Cold War. I just finished it, is all. We read and analysed this poem in English around Christmastime, and I immediately thought of Jack. It's a strange poem, agreed, but it just seemed to ... fit. Oh, and that's not the whole poem there - I just cherry-picked the verses that fit best. I urge you to go read the full thing - there's a link on my fanfic-specific tumblr at idoloni . tumblr . com.