"The Plumpest Lamb"
by Tonzura123
Disclaimer: I invented Jack Frost. I wrote that Christmas song about him. I spread the rumors about him biting people on the nose. I'm amazingly old.
Warnings: Major spoilers. Character death. Obsessive revenge/ general creepiness. Written during a caffeine high, so please forgive any bloopers.
It stands to reason that, considering the violence of the fear Jack Overland Frost had felt Before, it wasn't fear alone which had watched him become After.
Yellow eyes. Wolf eyes. If he had believed, he would have seen them. Ghostly, gleaming moons turned gory. If he had seen, he would have understood them the way that he understood wolves- creatures admired at a distance, their ferocity and cunning caged with miles and miles and yards and yards of time. In the spring, when their females were laid low, the male wolves would kill the village dogs. The weakest, oldest sheep. The youngest, plumpest lambs.
A wolf will follow its prey for weeks, never seen and only felt. A wolf never forgets, never panics. He is a machine alone, and an army in numbers.
Jack had liked wolves Before. As dangerous and wild as they were, like Death on your heels, if you played by their rules, the wolves could play by yours.
If they wanted to.
Jack Overland Frost was losing his grip on time.
If he had Believed, he would have seen the eyes as easily as he felt the fear.
Thin ice, hot-cold under his bare heels, air biting his bare hands and face. He felt the fear, but he only saw her eyes. Warm autumn eyes, frozen in place.
Had she seen the Wolf watching? Possibly. Heard him speak? Most definitely. This was his territory. His bed lay only yards away, dug deep into the frosted earth, tunneling like a worm into an apple's core. This was his territory. These were his rules;
You are going to die. If you move, you are going to die. Do not move.
She did not move. She could not move. She did not want to die.
If you play by a wolf's rules, he will play by yours.
If he wants to.
Jack Overland Frost did not believe in death Before. Nor did he believe in golden gore eyes and shadowy limbs. He only felt, and was incensed, by fear.
Fear rallied him. Fear was nothing- saying nothing, doing nothing, being nothing- and Jack Overland Frost despised nothing more than he despised fear. He did not own this place, had no mark on this place, but there was someone trespassing with him on this hallowed ground, and he was willing to invade for her. Men are not like wolves. They are a mob, a frenzy, in numbers. But they are an element alone.
Alone, he crossed the rules of the Wolf and invented his own;
"Don't look down, just look at me."
Words for words.
"Jack. I'm scared."
Miles for miles.
"I know. I know. But you're gonna be okay. You won't fall in. We're gonna have a little fun instead."
For each rule broken, a mile was cut. And the water licked at Jack's heels, the thin skin between the digits. For each hop across the surface, a crack was sewn beneath him. For every inch that she slid slowly over, Jack Overland Frost's grip grew looser and looser around Time until there was no time left to spare.
A life for a life.
She—she flew those miles to life and safety and happiness.
He—he lunged straight into the Wolf's jaws.
It stands to reason that the Wolf killed him, as wolves are known to kill. First to petrify, then to cripple, at last to devour. But in this one way, fear and wolves differ:
Fear cannot kill. It can only preserve.
Jack Overland Frost, with his uncertainty and cleverness and fun, was certainly preserved for centuries to come, kept alive in a constant chill. Like Death on his heels. He is fun forever. He is young forever. He is scared forever.
After is when Jack Overland Frost believes. After is when he finds those eyes. And After, he realizes he hadn't invaded fear's territory. Hadn't taken her place. She had no place there.
He had been herded to it.
He's the plumpest lamb a Wolf could stalk.
A/N: Well, this certainly turned out much darker than expected. This is my first story for RotG, so sorry about that. But (hopefully) it worked.
It's a working theory that Pitch was present for (if not involved in engineering) Jack's death. But I hesitate to even say death because the writers established that he isn't a ghost. He's a tangible creature, whatever he is. I was also fascinated with how close Pitch's bed frame and Jack's pond were. Honestly, what are the odds? Not only that they had never met before, but that Pitch wouldn't have at least seen/heard all the commotion on his roof that day? I mean, they were practically neighbors for three-hundred years. Suspicious, no?
Also, and I don't touch on it too much, but I think there's a working pattern with Pitch where he has a softer side for girls with dark hair, because they remind him of his daughter. Similarly, I would say he has a grudge against spindly, energetic boys because they remind him of Nightlight. This is drawing heavily from the book-verse. Which I highly recommend, if only to build the background stories of the characters.
More notes: Thank you so much to "The One Named MoonLight" and "pineapplefreak" for pointing out the flaw in my Pippa note. I really appreciate the feedback. Let me know if you see anymore error! In my coffee-induced state, I was capable of all kinds of atrocities.
Cheers!
As Always,
-Tonzura123