Title: Snow Dust and Feather Lights.
A/N: I've recently been inspired by a story called 'Stardust', written by Neil Gaiman. Whilst I have not actually finished such an incredible book yet, I loved the setting and premise so much, it inspired me to write this little story. I'm pretty sure I want to make this a multi-chapter fic, I definitely do have ideas for it - but I'm wondering if it should be left as a one-shot. I'd love some feedback on this. But regardless, I've tried a new writing-style here, and I'm not too sure how it is. In other words, please review and let me know what you think!


-Chapter One-

- In which we discover that the innocence of a child is not always their most obvious quality –

To say that Burgess was a village of mystery and wonder was an understatement to anybody who had the beloved and rare ability to make good use of make-believe, even in the elder years of their adulthood.

Alpine trees bore a sense of nostalgic scents, of the kind of trees that the father would go and collect to store in the back garden's as a decorative addition for the festive seasons, and could be found bordering the village's ends for miles to see. They coveted the landscape, almost hiding the town in it's own little world of small, but endearing merriment.

The village of Burgess itself isn't too interesting to look at – the slated roofs and red-bricked cottages aren't exactly a rarity in the timeline, but the way they give every family inhabiting the housing their own little space is enough to get the sense that the community is respective, if not just a little cautious. Fresh smells of spiced bread or dew-coated camellias reign from the gardens, the farmland and pastures taking a more earthy, musky aroma.

Fairy tales were a third parent in the children of Burgess's upbringings, and many of the adults refuse to call them 'childish', as much as warnings and moral for the children to abide by. They play a crucial part in shaping the child, as well as giving them a friend if they find themselves wishing just a little too long on that star that get's covered by the thick grey clouds on the eve of a thundering storm.

But it was the lake, just a few miles away from the center of the hustle-and-bustle, that intrigues and frightens most.

Shaped like a circle drawn by the wrong hand of a child, the lake of Burgess holds an almost regal air. The grass is wispy, yet dipped in white when Winter arrives. The alpine trees govern the clearing, watching intensely with statures over six feet high to those who dare to enter the domain. And yet, also give enough shines of the sun to the many flowers that grow their – red foxtrots, camellias, snowdrops, tiger-lilies, waterlilies, and many flowers that travellers have never known that the seeds they carry may accidentally fall out into the earthy soil, and lease a wild, yet beautiful life of their own. The dirt road travels near the lake, but there's always that one bump that sends the small seeds flying into a patch.

At first, the legends and lore of the supposed 'lights' that hovered over the lake when a rambler had passed upon it were thought of nothing more than a story told by drunken men, who'd been intoxicated a little too much and strayed too far from their wives. But as they continue, a trend and pattern appears – and those frighten people. Cause their children to have a curfew; "be back before dark! No wandering too far near that lake!"

Perhaps not paranoia, but close.

Winter time is when people are told to stray away from the lake the most. The lake freezes over, and the ice bears a pink, romantic glow in the twilight sun. Ethereal. Passionate. But passion can be dangerous.

Alas, the village isn't all doom and gloom. If anything, it's cheery, mellow, laid-back. Almost sleepy, unless the reckless nature of the children encourages adults to abandon their dignity and just frolic around in the rays of sunlight and lay in the wispy grass until it get's too cold.

But most of all, in an occasional Summer time, that's when everybody's hearts races. Nobody can hold in their excitement. Smiles plaster frowns, errands become little more than pass-times.

For every six years, magic enters Burgess.

Oh, there is magic in the literal sense – magicians, tricksters, wizards and witches. Spells and cauldrons and spices used for who-knows-what, in the eyes of children can be used for nothing but pure fun and enjoyment.

But for others, the real magic is in the sheer scope of it all. For every nine years, the travelling market known simply as the Guardian's Parade makes a rest-stop and business opportunity at Burgess, providing the naked eye with wonder and joy.

Words of many native tongues dance in the air, the smell of foreign spices and perfumes inhabit free space around each stall. Bright colours, some painful to see – yellows, oranges, violet, indigo… either streamers to attract children's attention, or dancers that decorate their instruments for more than visual appeal, just appreciating the sheer joy that their body can manage to create a rhythm in the beat of a drum.

And for such a young lad like Jackson Frost Overland, it couldn't be any more than sheer luck that he is so young to live in this thrill. His mother, Clara, currently carrying her second, leads him around by hand, as their father collects more firewood from the other side of the village. He saw the sadness in his father's eyes, but brightened again as his young son promised to tell him about every detail.

And Jack has a knack for details.

"Mama, look! What's that?" He points to a wood-carver, and Clara surpasses a chuckle. Her son is always the one to question, to ask, to discover.

"It's a wood-carver, dear. Would you like to take a look? I'll just be in the opposite stall – don't accept anything that isn't worth money, okay?" He nods, as she sighs with relief. Her heart is with her son, but her eyes are on anything that can soothe her aching belly. His hand leaves her, as he runs off, only a smile on his lips.

Rushing into the plain-looking stall, his brown eyes widen in excitement, breathing shaky and jittery.

Although he is much too small to see all the way up, from what his eyes capture, utterly takes his breath away. The carvings range from painted toys of white bears and black horses to small intricate music-boxes with the delicate image of a humming birds.

(One catches his attention briefly – it's nothing more than a staff with gnarled bark and slight frosted tips, and he gets the feeling that it's got more power if held in the hands who can wield a weapon against a sword without the fear of getting cut, but it's only brief and doesn't matter much to a child.)

"Can I help you, young'un?" Brown eyes look upwards, seeing an elderly man with golden-framed specks. Although he looks frail, his body held up with a metal walking-stick with a circular end (though curiously has stars and the moon carved into the wooden frame), the smile shows that he's more than capable of holding his own.

Jack grins, lop-sided and showing his white teeth, "nah! I'm just looking around, really! This stuff is really cool! Cool as in good. My mama always gets confused to what I mean, says I love the winter too much. Cold's fun! Don't you agree, mister?"

The elder chuckles at his enthusiasm, patting his brown-haired head. "I quite agree. Tell me, son. Do you believe in magic?" He sits down on an old wooden chair – quite worn down.

"Who doesn't, mister? Magic is everywhere, right? That's what Mama says brought her and Papa together. Magic is everything fun, right?"

Children often gave the most straight-forward answers. Also asking a lot of questions. And Jack is the prime example of both, accompanied by sparkling eyes. The elderly man took note of this as something special.

"I also agree to that. But, also answer me this. Do you know what magic is? Can you touch it? Wrap it up tight?"

His answer was not the one expected. Jack cupped his chin with chubby fingers, sometimes raking one of his dirty palms through his tousled hair. He then shrugged, grinning. "Does it matter what it is? Isn't it for everyone? That's why everything had magic, right? So it's shared! My Mama's next baby is gonna be made from magic, so that's good!"

"You sound like a good friend of mine. Seeing wonder in everything." He chuckled, glancing down, "what's your name, son?"

"Jack! Well, Jackson, but I prefer Jack. I don't like long words. They bore me." Jack grinned again, "all this stuff here is really nice, mister? Did you make it all yourself? Or do your hands ache and you get people to help you?"

Many people overheard that part, thinking the boy was being rude to the older boy. Some scoffed, others sighed. Jack's mother failed to notice, too enthralled in a new remedy that was quick and easy to prepare.

"Sometimes I do, yes. I may be old, Jack, but not useless." He chuckled, adjusting his spectacles. "Maybe one day, you'll learn that age is just a number. The heart of a child still beats, no matter how tight your skin gets."

"Huh? What do you mean?" He just shakes his head, leaving Jack ever-more confused.

"Never you mind. Although, I don't suppose you could do me a favour, could you dear boy?" Jack tilts his head again.

"My mama said I'm not supposed to accept anything not worth money." He retold.

"I wasn't going to leave you unpaid, son." And from his hand, he draws something Jack has never seen – a single gemstone. Blue, shiny, almost frosty. It's worth more than Jack's little house upon the hill, and he's enchanted by it. "If you can go get me a few camellias from the flower stall round the stall with all the ribbons, then I'll give this to you. Fair?"

He ponders this. "If my Mama comes calling, will you tell her I'm doing you a favour?" The man nods with a smile. "Then sure, mister! I'll be back soon!"

And as quickly as he came, Jack darts off with fast feet – wearing no shoes at all. His toes are flecked with small scratches, the bottom of his trousers slightly torn. He races through each stall, through the crowds of people – not caring for the multitude of ethnicity mixing and conversing, not for the loud bellows at the portable bar, or for the rainbow-coloured dancers with foamed smiles and expertly shown flying feet.

"…Wait, what do camellias look like?" He stops at the flower stall, "uh, I think Mrs. Pitchiner grows them in her garden… though she hasn't been out in a while. Hm. Are they white, maybe?"

He looks around, seeing nobody at the stall. Odd. Usually there's at least a bell to ring (he should know – being small enough to hide has gave way to some great pranks at the bakers known as the Warren). He calls out a few times, but only hears the distant sound of shuffling, like small feet.

"Maybe he wouldn't mind daisies? My Papa grows them, but… oh, that stone was so cool! Mama would love it!"

"Can I help you?" He jumps and almost falls over, stumbling forward.

"Ah!" Jack exclaims, snapping his head around and glaring, "hey! That wasn't funny! Don't sneak up on me like that!" Jack snapped, before blinking. "Hey, wait, who are you? You don't own this stall, right?"

The voice – actually turning out to be a girl around his age – merely giggled. "No, silly! I work for the woman who owns it!"

Jack raised a brow. "So in a way, you kind of own it?"

Again, she shook her head. Upon a better look, Jack found her… weird. Her eyes were huge, purple. Almost like a weird kind of gem. Her skin was tawny (though he didn't find that weird), and her hair was long, in a braid down to her waist. But the weirdest thing was the colours. Her hair had a multitude of yellow, green and purple, accompanied by a feathered headdress of gold and green feathers. Her arms and bare feet had golden bangles dangling, her dress blue with green center and covered in shimmering sparkles. She looked more like an exotic bird than a flowerstall assistant.

"No. My mistress bought me a year ago. So I don't own it." She smiles at him again, lips quirk in a crooked, but sweet smile, arms behind her back and peering ever so close.

Jack has to back away. This girl knows no meaning of boundaries. But the information baffles him.

"Are you a slave?" She nods, still smiling, pulling back.

"Yeah! Well, more like worker." The girl tells him, before her feet swivel her around, back at the flowers. Her braid swished too, the tip tied with a band with feathers. "You wanted camellias, right? For your mother? Or father? Sister? Brother?"

"Huh?" Any child 'working' is strange a concept, but maybe it's different with a moving market. "Oh… uh, no. For the wood carver over there."

She smiles, "oh! He's ever so kind! He loves hummingbirds, you know! And, oh, the designs he makes are beautiful! And…" She goes off on a tangent, Jack isn't even listening anymore. Just a curt nod.

"…and one time he even- oh, here you are!" She handed him a bunch, "and don't worry about the pay! It's actually a delivery I was just about to make, but if he's sent you, I get the afternoon off!"

"…Girls talk way too much." He mumbled, the girl suddenly turning to face him with an oblivious gaze. "Nothing. Just, thanks. I guess." Feeling silence enter the room, Jack clears his throat, scuffing his feet against the floor. "Uh, what's your name…?" He tilted his head.

She shrugs. "No idea!"

He stares at her. "…What?"

The girl folds her arms – it's only know that Jack realizes how short she is – and sighs. "My mistress only ever calls me 'girl', and I don't remember my parents at all. So I don't have one. Unless it's 'girl'. Seriously! It's always, 'you, girl, get the next order!' or 'don't poke your hands in their mouth to look at their teeth again, girl!'. See?"

Jack chuckles dubiously, "uh, what do you mean-"

"Oh my days, your teeth are gorgeous!" Her small hands pries his mouth open, brown eyes widening, "oh, they're like freshly fallen snow! Beautiful! White and minty! Oh, it's gorgeous!" She rambles on about words he'd never even heard of. Lateral incisor? Molar? Wasn't that some kind of animal?

"Enough!" He breaks away from her, "stop poking in my mouth! It's annoying!" Jack splutters, the girl with no name gasping.

"Oh! I'm really sorry! I just love to look at teeth! They're one of the best parts of the body, I reckon! Especially when they're all white and shiny..." Her eyes clouded with mirth, hands clasped together and sighing giddily.

"Hey, I'm kind of like that with snow!" She blinks, looking at him full of question, "oh, I really love it when it snows! Snowball fights, sledding - all the good stuff! But it's horrible when they put salt down to melt it." He grumbled, folding his arms, "it's no fun when people hate it. I wanted to go skating, too..." Jack grumbles, remembering his mother's constant worrying. She never let him out past the small wooded area, where his father collected wood for the fire...

"I never get to see snow much! My mistress always makes me travel around when it's sunny - says it's good for her plants." The girl with no name tells him, grinning. "Say, are we friends? I've never had a friend before, you're the first one! Actually, I don't talk to people all much."

"I couldn't tell."

"Hm?"

"Nothing. But yeah, sure. I'll be your friend! Though... the market's only here for today, right?" He sighs sadly. She joins is crestfallen look, "and I've got to go in a minute. So we can't really be friends unless we talk more, right? That's what my Papa says, 'specially when he's tilling the fields. That friends need to talk about stuff before you can see if you're good friends."

"...Oh." Her face falls, looking down.

Jack cups his chin, before snapping his fingers - promptly startling her. "I've got it!"

"What do you mean? Can you make time stop?" She asks excitedly, as he shakes his head slowly.

"Uh... no. But! Sneak out tonight! I'll meet you by the flowerbeds - you always pass 'em when you enter Burgess. The orange and pink ones? Just at the edge of town?" Her eyes sparkle with recognition, but twiddles her thumbs.

"But what if I'm caught? I mean, my mistress always goes to bed early, but..."

"C'mon, have a little fun for once! I'll take full blame if she's mad at you, don't worry! What do you say? When the stars come out. I'll be there." He smiles, and she returns it. How can she say no to such perfect teeth?

"...Okay! I'll be there!" And as Jack smiles, she almost faints. Does this count as a date? She's just shy of seven, but many girls get married within ten years senior of her age, so it's not a bad move to start now.

And then he hears his mother calling. With a sheepish grin, he takes the camellias, bidding her a big wave farewell, before rushing off. She holds a hand to her heart, feeling her skin warm up a little.


Jack lays in his small bed, admiring the blue gemstone he got from the wood-carver. It's the colour of winter - ice blue, retaining the chill of fluffy snow. The sun pierces through it, giving his wall a wintry sheen. More colour than his cheeks. He'd always had pale skin - many of his neighbours thought he was ill, but he was just a cold kid. Not in the sense that he brushed people off, he just had an infinitive for the cold.

The wood-carver was nice, giving him this. He's unlike most adults, having a twinkle in his eye, like him. Almost like a child. Jack likes it, when adults are like that. The ones that can have fun, despite their age, despite how old they get, and are getting. If more adults had fun, he reckons, the world wouldn't be so boring as you got older.

His room is small, but his imagination is big. He has no paper to draw on, but his father managed to find him a pencil with lead, and Jack wasted no time in filling his room with drawings of childish splendour. Snowflakes, sleighs, deer. Trees, flowers, leaves falling down. He's no artist, but that never stops Jack. A small box rests on his tiny dresser (filled with folded, if patched up, clothes) with things he's collected - string, rope, acorns, concurs, a small carving knife. Anything he can use.

The clock tower in the middle of the village chimes, and Jack slowly puts it on the side. His mother retired early to her bedroom earlier, the spices and herbal tea that she'd gotten from the market making her drowsy (to which his father and he were immensely grateful for), his father resting beside her after a hard days work.

Small hands lift up his window, as he clambers out - falling onto the evergreen with a slight 'oof'. He's left a note for his mother (on the lid of his box), for when she worries.

He pockets the gem stone, racing under cover of the night sky. He avoids the paved streets of trees and rose-bushes - they're dotted with oil lamps, and someone is bound to see him. Instead, he follows the lights of the houses. Some can afford oil lamps, others go for the comfort and warmth of a candle.

He wonders if the girl will come. If she will be brave enough. She's weird and eccentric, but Jack likes that. He hopes she does.

Burgess isn't exactly a huge village, but to him, it feels like an eternity before he gets to the flower patch. And to his surprise, she's sat down on the log, facing the far-off lake. Her braid is still done, the headdress still in place. The only difference is that she is no longer wearing the white apron.

"Hey." He whispers, even if nobody is around. Maybe the watchman sometimes patrols around, but he's still got that broken leg, and Jack doesn't know if there's a replacement.

The girl turns around, still smiling. "Hello!" She hushes excitedly.

"You came." e notes, as she nods.

"I didn't get caught! Oh, it was the best, most heart-racing thing I've ever done! See, I had to wait till my mistress went to sleep, but I had hidden near the fireplace!" She had the soot stains on her cheeks and hands to prove that, "and I crept out of the window, and ran as fast as I could! Oh, it was simply amazing!"

Jack cannot help but laugh, and she joins in with one of her own. It's a mix between a gentle chirp of a bird, and a chime of a bell. He finds it quite pretty, but doesn't say so.

"So!" She chirps happily, "are we going to become friends? What do friends do? Make flower crowns?"

"Blah. No way." He scoffs. "Boys don't make them. They're for girls."

She puts her hands on her hips, and pouts. "Nothing wrong with boys liking flowers! One boy I saw loves them! He bought a whole bunch! He had kind of grayish hear for a young boy, though."

Jack knows who that is immediately. "That's probably Aster. His family owns a bakery - the Warren. Makes great chocolate, 'specially at Easter. He loves painting the cakes." He snickers, "and its great fun pulling on his ears."

She gasps, "that's mean!"

"Nope," he pops on the 'p', grinning cheekily, not a care in the world, "it's more fun, playing pranks!"

She bats his arm with the back of her hand, smile wide, "for you, maybe!"

And their laughter quietened into childish voices, beginning to talk the night away. She speaks of her many travels - of countries with exotic fashions, high-rise palaces and men with the ability to control snakes with the whim of musical talent. About dancers with tambourines and drums, about their spinning dresses and how they catch the sunlight, how their earrings gleam and glow. She demonstrates with the clumsiness and heart of a novice, closing her eyes and completely free.

His life is much more simple - living on a small farm with his father and mother, about the stories and cuddles before he goes to bed. About the pranks he pulls, the school he likes to avoid, the drawings on the wall. About how one time the chickens escaped all over town, and they went without eggs for three weeks. He imitates with voices and actions, and she cannot help but giggle with girlish adoration.

He envies the places she gets to experience. She's jealous of the warmth and security he possesses. Yet that never leaves their lips.

Instead, they look to the sky.

"Stars?" She breathes, as he silently nods.

"Shooting stars. They say if you make a wish, it'll come true." And of course, it doesn't, but maybe there's a magic somewhere. Not in the starry breach that falls onto the earth below, nor in the lights that radiate a surreal aura. But in the glistening that dances over their eyes, in the brightness of their smiles, and how much belief they put into that one wish.

And amidst all the merriment and jovial serenity, their small hands had joined.

"Did you make a wish?" He asks, brown eyes locking with purple ones. They're big, but sort of pretty.

"Mm-hm. Did you?" Brown eyes may be plain, but she actually quite likes them now.

"Yeah, of course."

It's an untold rule that you must never tell what you wished for, otherwise it won't come true. But then again, maybe they never needed to.

Because for the moment, the summer air steals their gasps into wingless dreams, soaring on the skies above and mixing with the lights of the stars that's light twirl with the twilight breeze.


The market leaves early that morning, whilst Jack is still slumbering away in his small bed and the sleepy village barely cracks a yawn. The gentle sunlight filters through the slight-open window, a gentle smile on his young face. The birds sing their morning whistles, a slight grunt and a cart heard in the distance. He barely bats an eyelid.

The girl left quickly after their wishes had been made, with nothing but sweet words and a promise that they'd meet again someday. And although she left without hearing his answer, he internally promised the same thing in his heart and mind.

Jack curls up a little more, his hand in a tight fist around something. The gemstone is no longer in his pocket, but in the box. He placed it there when he got back, with half-lidded eyes and heavy footsteps.

In his hand, is a single - slightly frayed - feather. Jade green at the start, the middle slightly frayed with tints of dark blue, and then tipped with a beautiful pink, like the stretch of pink clouds.

His fist tightens around it, bringing it closer to his face. And his smile widens, showing his white teeth. His mother can be heard humming in the kitchen, as she prepares a breakfast for yet another day.