The next time he tries to leave, the shadows find him faster. He barely catches a glimpse of the moon, diminished, half his silver face hidden, before they drag him under again.

The third time, he makes it all the way out. The snow is back, or perhaps it never left, although he's been in the darkness for so long that he feels sure there must have been time without snow. He has the strangest knowledge-without-knowing that there is more to the world than snow.

Snow is important, though. Snow means – means –

He doesn't know. He can't remember.

He's expecting the shadows that slither up to him, curling around his ankles as though trying to conceal their true intentions. He's expecting them to grip him, suddenly, to drag him away.

It's still terrifying.

He doesn't want to go back. Not back into the dark, not when there's a whole world up here, not when the dark whispers and wants and he screams until his throat is raw, anger or fear, it's hard to tell, but nothing stops the inexorable pull of the shadows and he will leave no trace behind him –

There's a noise like the dangerous creaking of ice that's too thin underfoot and a flash of blue, and a wall of solid ice sprouts from the ground behind him, severing the shadows and leaving them to writhe and wither on the ground at his feet. He feels it in his chest, a sudden sharp stab where his heart should be, and when the shadows curl up at his heels like puppies seeking affection from their master, he can't stop himself from reaching down and letting them escape up his sleeves.

And that's when a pair of very white, very bare feet land in the snow in front of him, and a familiar male voice asks, "Are you okay? I was -" His voice cuts off when Jamie looks up, and an expression of horrified disbelief scribbles itself across his familiar familiar dammit I should know you features. The white-haired boy takes a stumbling step backwards, trying to hide the panic he still feels, Jamie knows he still feels, because the boy's eyes don't lie and Jamie's spent so long steeping in fear that by now he can smell it –

"Jamie?"

And now it's Jamie's turn to be dumbstruck, reeling away as if the sound of his name were a physical blow, shadows gathering protectively around him even as he tries to push them away. "How do you -" He stops, takes a deep breath, gathers himself up to his full height (which is only about an inch taller than the white-haired boy). "Who are you?"

The fear is still there, but buried, now, under a thick layer of hurt and something else, something soft and sad and that reminds Jamie, oddly, of a tiny golden butterfly. "You don't – You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

The boy's fear is vanishing under this – this strange, golden feeling and Jamie almost wants to bring it back, to threaten and scare the boy until his blue eyes widen again and all he feels is terror, because terror Jamie at least understands. Fear is hard and sharp and certain and not at all soft and confusing like this…whatever this is.

"You don't remember," the boy repeats, clutching at his staff as though it's a lifeline. "I'm Jack? Jack Frost?" he says, and it's a question, he's watching Jamie's eyes for something, something that he doesn't see.

Jamie has a million questions, they're all pushing at his brain to try to get to his tongue and spill out of his mouth. But the boy – Jack - speaks first. "How did you – what happened to you?"

Jamie can't do anything but shake his head.

"You don't remember." There's an edge of frustration in Jack's voice, and suddenly Jamie is torn – half terrified that Jack will leave him alone with the shadows and the fear, and half terrified that Jack won't. That the world will only get wider and more confusing, and at least the shadows know him, perhaps they've been protecting him? Perhaps that's why they've always dragged him back; because they knew that what was waiting outside was more complex and far more frightening than even they could be?

"It's okay. It doesn't matter," Jack says, shaking his head, and he holds out a hand, and there it is, a flicker of uncertainty that Jamie could so easily fan back up into fright, all he needs to do is –

He takes Jack's hand before he can think about it. The white-haired boy's touch is like ice, the bracing cold of falling face-first into a snowbank. His hand looks even whiter against Jamie's, while Jamie's grey skin looks ashen and almost dead. Jamie leans in, close, too close because Jack is leaning back, uncomfortable, and asks, "How do you know my name?"

There's nothing but sadness in the depths of Jack's blue eyes. "Doesn't matter," he repeats, and before Jamie can insist that yes, it does matter, it matters more than anything, "Come with me. I think the – my friends might be able to help you."

Jamie has a choice. He wouldn't say that he doesn't. But it isn't much of one. Go with Jack, or go back to the darkness.

So he goes with Jack.