A/N:
Warning: Blood, torture, angst, heavily implied insanity.
Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. Also, the cover image is a painting by William Turner, and is in the public domain.
"I'm sorry, if you were right, I'd agree with you."-Robin Williams
You'll never be good enough.
These were the words that had haunted and trailed him like a shadow through the decades, never giving him a moment of rest, instead plaguing his life through the day and creeping into his dreams by night. They tortured him, allowing his meager hope to swell before crushing it underfoot, over and over and over again. He could not escape them, except during brief snatches of blessed peace which made their inevitable return that much more painful.
You'll never be good enough.
From the beginning, he had an inkling that this may be the cold, cruel, harsh reality. Why else would the moon condemn him to an eternity of solitude, without aid or consolation, not even allowing him the comfort of his own memories, unless he'd somehow done something wrong in his past life? What could his pointless existence possibly be, other than a ruthless punishment for some wicked deed he'd done which he wasn't even permitted to remember?
...If his life was a penance of some kind, then what sort of dreadful crime warranted such a ghastly torture?
Fear-stricken at the thought, he'd tried to remain on his best behavior. Whatever he'd done, however he erred, he didn't want it to happen again. Besides, maybe, maybe if he was good, he'd be pardoned, or simply shown mercy and be killed on the spot. Yet the man in the moon refused to speak to him, instead remaining silent and accusing, deaf to his pleas and demands.
No matter what he did, the torment never ended.
You'll never be good enough.
His fears were only confirmed when he tried to speak to other spirits. No matter how much he attempted to ingratiate himself to them, they'd remained cold and aloof, looking down on the "winter filth" he was. Offers to help, desperate pleas, threats, shrieks, they all fell on deaf ears, same as his words to the man in the moon did.
He still hoped, however. It was a desperate, embittered hope, but a hope nonetheless. Perhaps, perhaps, he would one day be forgiven. Perhaps all hope was not yet lost.
He clung on to this thought like a drowning man, until April 14, 1968, when something happened that made him come to terms with the fact that he was past redemption.
The blizzard of '68. Easter Sunday.
He would never forget the words that E. Aster Bunnymund spoke to him on that fateful day. Ugly, painful words, like 'worthless,' 'troublemaker,' 'reckless,' 'irresponsible.' They tore into his soul like bits of broken glass, the only thing keeping him together being the frozen, carefree smile he plastered on his face as he pretended to ignore the words.
Even he, however, couldn't completely disregard one phrase, one reproof that hurt far more than all the others did combined.
"No wonder no one ever talks ta ya! You'll never be good enough!"
It was a damning confirmation of his worst fears. To believe something is one thing, to hear it spoken from the mouth of someone else quite another. Like leaves scattering away on the fickle breeze, he felt the last of his hope shatter and flit away.
The Easter Bunny was right. He would never be good enough.
As if that reminder wasn't callous enough, however, what happened later was even worse. Forty-four years later, in the spring of 2012, he was given new hope that perhaps his time of penitence was over. The question of why he'd been created was at last answered, and for the first time in three hundred years, he had felt at peace.
Only to have his hopes crushed yet again.
You'll never be good enough.
He was a fool to had hoped, however faintly. He would never, ever be good enough.
No matter how much he tried to atone.
"Where is he?"
Blood rose like bile at the back of his throat, and he coughed weakly, wincing as he felt the dark red liquid dribble pathetically out of the corner of his mouth. His cracked ribs shifted and crunched painfully with every move he made, and his head throbbed dully and persistently.
With an effort, he raised his head enough to glare weakly at his interrogator. Sarcasm took the place of fear, as he responded bitingly to her question. "Seriously? How many times do I have to tell you, I'm Jack Fros-"
The fragile fairy, her turquoise feathers shimmering like stars in the sparse candle-light that weakly illuminated the interior of the cell, would have none of it. Coolly, calmly, she drew back a fist before letting it fly, grinning slightly in savage victory when it connected neatly with his jaw, forcing his head back to collide roughly against the wall. A tangy, coppery taste filled his mouth as he felt one of his snowy teeth dislodge, and he spat it out along with a mouthful of blood. It was the third one he'd lost since he'd arrived in this darkened, nightmarish hell, the third one since blood, shadows, and questions he could not answer had become a dominant part of his life.
"I ask you one more time—where is Jack?"
What did she want him to say? What could he say? Lies would get him nowhere, and as for the truth…
The truth was useless if there was no one who would listen to it.
Still, he tried one last time, a weak hope fluttering feebly in his chest. Perhaps if he tried a different strategy, she would listen to him, if only for a little while…
"Tooth, please, you have to listen to me. I'm Jack—"
The strangely powerful kick that collided with his ribs should have been expected, yet it still took him by surprise. He gasped in a mixture of pain and shock as one of his ribs finally collapsed under the strain, snapping in two with a loud crack. He doubled over in agony, a despairing cry of anguish leaving his bloodstained lips.
It would never end, this torment. Through the hazy fog of pain that enshrouded his mind, he nonetheless realized this. Something must have gone wrong, somewhere he must have screwed up, somehow the man in the moon must have decided that three hundred years of isolation was not enough to ensue his retribution. What happened in 2012 was merely a clever ploy to give him false hope, to make him believe it was all over, just so that his inexorable descent into his private little hell would hurt a little more.
He was never 'chosen', never 'selected', except as a sinner who had to pay his debt. He would bet his very soul that the 'memories' he'd been given were a lie, an elaborate con crafted specifically to punish him by giving him hope.
What had he ever done in his past life to deserve this?
Apparently, he wasn't worthy of knowing.
"Where is he?"
Again, that question he could not answer. He restrained the impulse, however natural it was, to respond truthfully. Honesty may be the best policy, but temporary respite from pain sounded far better at this point.
Despite himself, he felt his meager hope expand slightly, and he scowled at the Guardian of Hope standing in front of him. This experience was hurtful enough without the overgrown rabbit making things worse.
Unamused, the Easter Bunny returned his level stare. "Where. Is. He?"
He snapped, throwing all caution to the winds. "For the last freaking time, I'm Jack Fros—"
His words were cut off as Bunny's gray paws suddenly lashed out, pinning him by his shoulders to the cold stone wall. He cried out, a short, jagged sound, when they pulled him away from the wall only to slam him roughly back against it, mercilessly jarring his injured ribs.
As he panted, taken aback by this unexpected display of violence, he felt Bunny hiss in his ear, voice dark with desperate rage. "Ya better stop the little show, mate, cause I'm not buyin' any of yer lies today. I'm gettin' Jack back whether ya like it or not, and if I have ta kill ya ta do it, then I will."
...He felt like screaming. Screaming until the walls rang with his shrieks, until his throat was raw and torn. The sheer hopelessness of the situation was suffocating him in its embrace, slowly unraveling his sanity and taking apart his heart, bit by painful bit.
How much longer could he last?
"B-Bunny, please, you d-don't know what you're doing—"
"Oh, I know what I'm doin', ya sneaky ratbag. I'm getting my friend back. Now, one more time: where is he?"
He didn't have an answer.
The golden pictures hovered in front of his face, mocking him in their simplicity. He tried not to look at them as they flashed over and over again, forming a snowflake, a map, and a question mark.
Their meaning was clear, even as they asked something he again could not answer. Where is Jack?
What did the Guardians all want from him? Did they want him to deny his own identity? Did they seriously not know who he was, or was this just an elaborate torture?
Somehow, he believed it was the latter.
"...He's right in front of you, Sandy. Please, believe me."
There was a moment of silence, and he felt his hope soar when further pain was not forthcoming. Perhaps Sandy believed him, however reluctantly. Perhaps this nightmare was finally over—
Slam.
...Then again, perhaps not. The sensation of being thrown at a cold rock wall knocked the breath out of him, drawing a soundless scream as he felt two more of his ribs break under the strain. He collapsed limply at the base of the wall, panting as he struggled to continue breathing through the pain, lacking the strength needed to scream.
When he finally looked back up, it was to the sight of an enraged Sandman, golden-brown eyes filled with anger, heartbreak, and accusation. Had he been in any other situation, he would have felt some compassion for the clearly grieving spirit—as it was, though, he was too resentful and pained to feel any emotions except for reproach towards his captors.
The chilled steel caressed his neck with a disturbing gentleness, the thin edge a grim reminder of what lay in store for him. His breath stilled as the blade glided dangerously close to his jugular, liable to cut his throat at any moment and dash his blood all over the filth-encrusted floor.
"Where is Jack?"
The man's voice, normally so jolly and carefree, now was uncharacteristically steely and filled with malicious intent. It rumbled like an avalanche within the darkened cell, rebounding off the walls in a sinister-sounding echo.
He looked away, blue gaze dull and empty. By now, his despair had dragged him down so much that he no longer cared what they did to him. All he wished for was to die, to finally be allowed to rest in peace. Surely he should have paid his debt by now, shouldn't he?
The Cossack waited expectantly for his answer. "Well?"
No matter what he said, no matter how he tried, he would never be released, never be forgiven. There was no way out, no more hope, no more silver lining. It was time to accept his fate.
"I'm...I don't know. I don't know."
"One chance. That's all I'm asking for. Just one."
The fairy narrowed her purple eyes, expression suspicious. He didn't remember how he'd managed to convince her to listen to him for once, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Just one?"
He was deeply conscious of the other three gazes leveled on him, yet he spoke only to the fairy. "Just one."
He wasn't sure where his sudden burst of determination came from, but he clung onto it firmly. A desire to prove himself, to display beyond all reasonable doubt that he, and he alone, was Jack Frost, had taken hold of him. Before he gave up, before he gave in to the madness, he wanted to show them what he could do, to hold the cards one last time.
She considered thoughtfully. "How you do plan on...'proving' this?"
She clearly doubted him still. Restraining his vicious impulse to yell at her, he did his best to keep his voice steady. "My staff. You still have it, yes?"
"Yes..."
"Than give it to me. It'll only respond to its owner, and no one else. If it does work, you'll have to admit that I'm right."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Than I'll have to tell you where Jack is."
She eyed him apprehensively for a moment, his bizarre calm throwing her off track. Her wings buzzed like a hummingbird's as she hovered, thinking. "...Alright, then. But only one."
He nodded, readily agreeing. It was all he would need, after all.
With small, briskly efficient movements, the fairy took out a small iron key and removed from his wrists the magic-suppressing bangles. Frowning, she then turned to Bunny, who reverently handed her the aged piece of wood. She hesitated briefly before turning to the winter spirit and handing it to him, her hostile violet glare warning him not to try anything.
He eagerly grabbed at the staff, cradling it to his chest, his dirt-smudged fingers wrapped possessively around it. For the first time in weeks, he felt like he had at least a little control over what was happening around him. Now, he had what he needed to convince them who he was, to affirm it beyond all doubt.
Except now, he hesitated. If they truly believed he wasn't Jack, how much would it damage them to realize that they had actually hurt him when they were trying to help him? Could he really sentence them to an eternity of knowing that they had screwed up this badly?
...Yes. Yes, he could. He had sunk to that level, where he was prepared to harm them just to prove a point. Hell, who even cared anymore? Certainly not him.
He took a deep breath, bracing himself, before he poured his magic into the staff.
It was pitiful, the amount of strength he had left, barely enough to lend a faint turquoise glow to the wood, and to allow a paper-thin layer of frost to creep a few inches along the surface. It was enough, though, enough for anyone in the room.
Wearied, he looked up.
Various expressions of shock and horror were plastered across the faces of the four Guardians. They stared at him as if he were a ghost, their countenances at once apologetic and aghast.
Too little, too late.
Finally, Tooth seemed to snap out of her troubled daze. She could only coherently utter one word, but it was so filled with choked emotion that he understood all she meant to say.
"Jack!"
She was going into hysterics, breathing far too quickly, her thin chest heaving as she held her hands in front of her face. He watched dispassionately as she spiraled into a panic, her voice getting shriller and shriller with each passing second as the full realization of what she had done became horrifyingly clear to her.
"Jack! Oh, Jack!"
Her frantic gaze glanced over his many injuries, her alarm growing exponentially as she took notice of every cut, every broken bone, every bruise. It was her fault. All of it. Hers, and the three other Guardians'.
With a despairing shriek, she crumpled to the ground, sobbing as she incoherently gibbered. She looked ridiculous, bawling loudly and uselessly, as if tears alone could fix the mess she'd made. He waited until she regained a bit of her composure, before asking, voice hollow. "Why?"
She sniffled. "M-Manny...He sent us a m-message. We thought it meant you'd been kidnapped by s-shape-shifters when we weren't l-looking, and r-replaced by one of them-"
She crumbled again, tears flowing down her face and soaking into her feathers. Her next words were disjointed and frenzied, yet that did not serve to obscure their terrible meaning. "We must have misunderstood something! We must have! Oh, Jack, Jack, Jack!"
He stared numbly, stunned at the realization that he'd been wrong this entire time. It had never been a punishment, his pain was never a delivery of justice. All of it, from day one, had been just one huge hideous mistake.
The macabre humor of the situation abruptly struck him with the force of a small sledgehammer, and without even consciously registering it, he doubled over, laughing. The wretched sound rasped loudly from his throat, echoing in the musty cell and allowing him to hear the ring of madness that tainted it. He found it impossible to stop, the maniacal laughter taking possession of his mind and body. Against his will, the staff slipped from his numb fingers, clattering despondently to the damp, moldy ground.
He didn't bother to pick it up. It was useless to him now, he would never wield it again.
A/N: A few months ago, I wrote a one-shot named "Just A Mistake". It was an incoherent mess of a one-shot, a product of depression and far too much free time. For some reason, though, it was reasonably well received.
Looking back, I realized I never actually gave that one-shot a satisfactory conclusion (I did try to make a sequel, "Just An Illusion", but I soon gave that up as a bad job). So, for Halloween, I decided to completely rewrite/rework that one-shot, fix it up a little, and give it a proper ending. And here it is.
Changes
1) While the original version had fake shape-shifter Guardians and real Jack, in this one, everyone is real. Jack is real, Guardians are real, staff is real, MiM is real. I thought it would be more tragic this way.
2) Jack did not go insane in the original version.
3) In the original version, Jack was bound by chains to the wall. Here, he merely has a magic-inhibiting device on both his wrists (the device was made by North), but no other physical restraints.
4) Jack never proved his identity in the original version. The reveal scene is completely absent from "Just A Mistake".
5) Some major plot changes have been made. After I decided that everyone should be real, I had to make some hefty edits to the plot to make it logical.
6) There was a nifty scene in the original where pseudo-Sandy was mentally tormenting Jack. Since this is real Sandy, it was OOC and had to go.
7) The original had a scene where Jack was going stir-crazy from being cooped up and unable to move. Somehow, this scene never found its way into the rewrite.
Aaaand that's it, I think. I'm not sure how the rewrite compares to the original, but I like to think it's at least a little better.
...Happy Early Halloween, nerds.