Alone
A/N: I saw a lovely quote and therefore had to write for it. Here you go!
Let's pretend that somehow Jack managed to avoid all of the other Guardians for like 50 years. That's not normally my headcanon, but you know what, creative license or something like that. Shhhhh.
Enjoy.
~~::.::~~
The night was cold and still and silent. The wind blew gently through the bare trees, bringing soft flakes of snow with it. In the midst of the trees there was a lake, a thick layer of ice covering it, and at the centre of that lake sat a boy.
The boy stared up at the sky, clear blue eyes wide and searching. Despite having the appearance of a child, a youthful seventeen, his eyes told a different story; they had years in them that were too old for their body, sadness and pain and loneliness that did not belong.
He sat perfectly still; legs crossed, hands resting in his lap and holding a hooked staff. He stared up at the dark blue of the sky, the dots of light that made the stars, and the brightness of the moon. Especially the moon.
"Why am I here?" he asked, even his soft voice seeming loud in the silence. He paused, but there was no answer.
"Why can't anyone see me?"
Pause.
"Are there others like me?"
Pause.
"Please, I need to know."
Still he seemed to get no answer, and his face fell in despair. The sorrow in his expression was deep, displaced on the face of a teen.
"Why won't you answer me? I know you can talk to me!" he cried, unfolding his long, thin limbs and standing, as if the miniscule gain in height would somehow help. "You're the only one who's ever said anything to me, but when I ask you questions, you won't reply. Why?"
There was still no reply from the moon and the boy clenched his hands into tight fists, tears starting to gather in his eyes.
"You could help me, couldn't you? You- You're the one who brought me here, you're the one who told me my name, so you must know, mustn't you? Are there others? Anyone, anyone, I can talk to? No-one's seen me in all these years... no-one..."
He let himself fall down to his knees, no longer looking up at the sky but instead at the ice at his feet, at the frost that spread out from his fingertips as he leant over on his hands. He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes tightly to prevent tears from falling, but decided there was no point. After all, who would see him?
No-one.
He curled into himself, crying softly. How long had it been, now? A century, two? It felt that long, sometimes. In reality, 50 years had passed since he had first awoken in the lake, taken his first breath, first opened his eyes and seen the dark, then sudden light; the moon, the moon that spoke the only words he'd ever heard directed at him, that same moon that was so silent and cold to him. In all that time the only people he had seen could not see him, could not hear him, could not talk to him. He could not touch. He could not speak. He could only watch, and he'd never get more than that.
Poor Jack...
Words. A voice. His name. Jack bolted upright, looking around him desperately to try and find the owner of the voice. The voice was different to what he remembered of the moon's – he'd played over that voice saying his name in his head so many times he was certain he knew the voice by heart. This voice was low, and soft, and had a tone to it that he could not name. But it was a voice, nonetheless, and seemed to be talking to him. That was good enough. Maybe the moon had finally granted his wishes.
"Hello?" he called, peering into the darkness of the trees, but still, no-one.
Look at you. So starved for attention, the merest word in your direction sends you scrambling.
Jack frowned. He didn't like the tone the voice took, the way its gentleness seemed false. Still he looked around him, hoping for someone to make an appearance.
You're unsure, yet still you look. You cling to the tiniest chance you get to just talk to someone, and why?
"Who are you...?" Jack asked quietly, feeling more and more wary of this voice as it continued to talk.
Because you fear you won't get another one. Isn't that right, Jack?
Jack flinched.
And after all, why wouldn't you? You've lived 50 years, and in all that time, not a word has been spoken to you. No one to smile with, no one to cry to, not even anyone to say a simple hello. Not even the moon, who gave you your name, will talk to you. And you fear, that there isn't anyone else out there, that there will never be anyone to talk to; that you'll be alone.
"S-stop." Jack murmured, drawing back onto his lake, hoping to escape the voice. This wasn't what he had wanted when he asked the moon for anyone. The voice chuckled darkly, making Jack wince and shuffle back again.
You don't like that word, do you Jack? Alone. It is, after all, such a desolate word; so hopeless, so full to the brim with loneliness and pain. It's a bleak existence, shrouded in darkness, with no relief. It's longing and unanswered prayers. It's not being able to help yourself. It's silence, and invisibility and nothing against your skin but the cold. It's being helpless to your fate, it's calling for help and there being absolutely no-one to hear.
"Stop, stop, stop!" Jack cried out, pressing his hands over his ears in the hopes of blocking out the voice. He didn't want to be reminded of this; he didn't need to be reminded of this. He knew the meaning of that horrible word for himself from experience. He wondered if the moon had sent this voice to mock him and his requests for help. "Go away!"
Go away? Do you really want me to leave, Jack? Aren't I all you have? The first person to talk to you in half a century? Do you really want me to go and leave you all alone?
No. He didn't want to be left alone again. But he didn't like the pain in his chest that was caused by the words being spoken, the way his eyes stung and he had to hold back the tears. He was torn between the desire to send away the owner of the voice and stop his torment, and the deep-set craving for attention that ate away at his stomach.
Well then. Wish granted. Goodbye Jack.
"No, wait! Don't-" Jack lurched forwards, grasping at thin air in an attempt to hold back the bodiless voice. He was too late, and he was somehow painfully aware that whoever had been speaking to him was gone.
Jack buried his head in his arms, curling up into himself. Once again, he was left, completely, utterly, desolately alone.
~~::.::~~
Alone.
Yes, that's the key word; the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it, and Hell is only a poor synonym.
~Stephen King~
~~::.::~~
A/N: Aaaaaaaand there you go. Doesn't that quote just scream "Jack Frost" at you?
Oh and in case you didn't guess, I usually write Pitch in bold italic text when he's not speaking directly. So yeah. That was Pitch.
Apparently I can only churn out oneshots and such for ROTG. The multichapter fic I started writing sorta puttered out and died somewhere at the beginning of the sixth chapter. I need to get back on that. Maybe I will upload the next chapter and hope people give nice feedback on it. Anyway.
Reviews will be much appreciated; I love every single one I get even if I don't respond to them. Well, that's all for now. Ciao guys!