Bare
4. Mar. 2014 - Barefoot - "Jack always seems to be barefoot and just doesn't care to ever wear shoes." For Jack Frost Week | tumblr
Small patches of frost blossomed from underneath his feet. Jack smiled, twirling his staff around in the air as he walked. A cold wind whistled in from behind him, rushing towards the burnt city in a frenzy. He sighed at the sight.
War. What a terrible, terrible thing. Where was the glory, he wondered, in fighting? In killing innocents? Gravel crunched underneath his feet as he approached the first house. Ducking down, he pushed his way through the wreckage, wrinkling his nose at the smell.
If he could find the right place, he'd be able to find it - a hidden (or maybe not) passageway to shelter from the bombs. Basements. Taking only a moment to decide, he put down his staff. The old wood creaked as he knelt down next to it, and peering through a crack, he noticed children there, all asleep.
Slipping in with no fear, he landed lightly on the basement floor. He could just make out the shadows on their faces. Someone coughed. Another person shifted in sleep, making a pitiful moan. His heart softened.
They couldn't be much younger than him - well, in terms of physical evaluation. He murmured a quick prayer, touching foreheads and brushing back strands of hair before reaching underneath his cloak and pulling out a small box.
He had started doing this a while ago. All the children were starving, deprived of what they needed, either food, warmth, or medicine. So every week, he would bring stolen food - sometimes bread, sometimes soup, sometimes even something as meager as a cup of water - and a few supplies to give to them.
Someone up there (The Man in the Moon, whatever) had decided immortals weren't allowed to interfere with the course of war. Which he wasn't. He wasn't helping just one side; he was helping those who needed it. Although he wasn't quite sure that was allowed, he'd never really been a rule-follower, anyway.
As he turned to leave, moving aside the door a crack, he noted that none of them had shoes. In the dim light, he could see bare feet poking out of threadbare blankets and rough pants. Some were bloody. Others were covered in ash, or scratched and most likely infected.
How had he not noticed this earlier, though? He looked at his own feet, covered with leather shoes and socks. Well, he didn't need them, did he?
Later, striding down the streets, he could feel the cold stone, rough against his skin. But Jack Frost didn't quite mind. He just laughed, a phantom sound in the empty place, and kept on going barefoot.
This is pretty much the worst thing ever - yep. But yay, my 60th story? I think? Eh, who cares, anyway? So, welcome to Jack Frost Week! ...Even though I'm one day late!
At any rate, I hope you liked my little Jack-used-to-have-shoes-but-now-he-doesn't thing. I just thought he had to have a little backstory as to why he might not wear shoes around all the time. What did you think of it?
achieving elysium