In The Silence

~4~

Spring is a season of gradual changes. The water surrounding him warms — gradually. Day lengthens and night shortens — gradually. And children find their way to his lakeshore — gradually. These are the differences Jack notices, as he sits at the bottom of his lake waiting for time to pass.

There's little entertainment to be had; no fun at all to be had as spring gives way to blistering summer. His Snowflake moonbeam urges him to play, but in the cool, darksome depths his imagination fails him. As does his memory, as he fights to recall the sparkle of moonlight reflecting off a drift of snow. In the torturous thrall of summer, winter seems like nothing more than the foolish, faded dream of a silly, drowned boy.

There, at the doorway to summer, Jack learns his very first spell. He learns it out of desperation, but it's another truth to add to his handful of true things. It is the first spell learned by small children; a spell lost to almost every adult. Yet Jack, caught between the two states — never again a young child, never a chance for adulthood — finds the spell in the gentle, reassuring glow of his Snowflake, resting peacefully atop the staff he cradles carefully in his arms.

"I believe," he whispers.

I believe. I believe. I believe.

Winter would come again. And he'd be able to rejoin the children in their games. Because Jack believes it will be so.

It gives him the strength to find interest in his surroundings. He chases after schools of small, flickering fish the way he'd once chased after the Wind. When he tires of that game, he listens carefully to the moonbeam, who teaches him the language of the minnows — which happens to be the easiest of the fish languages to learn. Then, then he can tease the fish, and they'll respond in kind, and games of chase turn into games of tag, turn into evening tales of summer sunsets Jack dares not experience for himself.

Jack believes, as children swim in the warm, wavering waters high above his head. He yearns to join them, but the warning of the lady with the kind, cruel face stays with him, and he keeps to the cold, murky lake floor. Later. Later, he'll be able to play with the children. Later will come.

He believes.

Days pass between his children's visits. Snowflake teaches him the language of pollywogs, that rattled harshly in his throat and itched at his wrists. Minnows brag of the small insects they had caught, and dangers they had avoided. And summer begrudgingly yields to autumn.

Nights lengthen — gradually. The water around him chills — gradually. The children stop visiting his lake... And, suddenly, Jack knows. Knows with the same certainty that the staff held easily in his hands is his, knows as surely as a laugh of air could never, not ever be compared to a laugh of water. Jack knows. Winter is coming, and he needs to greet it.

Snowflake moonbeam clinging tightly to his shoulder, Jack bursts from the placid surface of the lake in a spray of freezing, gleaming water. Wind catches him, twirls him dry in a fierce embrace, then lightly lowers him. Bare, pale toes touch — ice. He laughs, unrestrained, as ice spreads; irresistible, underfoot, under staff. He slides across the smooth ice-glass surface, and draws; frost ferns and frost fronds and frost flowers flow outward, and it's been so long since he's been free.

His lake. His lake. Finally, it's entirely his. Part of him, as his staff. Part of him, as his Snowflake moonbeam. He reclaims this piece of himself, welcomes it home as a wayward brother, with the same relief. With the same, unfettered joy.

He believes.

He races the Wind towards the village, leaving frosty handprints on the trunks of trees and icy patches where his bare feet touch the ground. The Wind is faster, so he tackles it; throws his arms around the Wind and lets it carry him onward, downward, through the pines to the valley floor and the drab, grey-brown houses softened by the first, faint dusting of snow.

"Where are they?" Jack peers through windows; jumps from rooftop to rooftop; stops and holds himself still as he listens. Everything is still and silent as a twilight snowfall. Jack holds his breath, and the first, friendly storm of winter holds its breath — and they listen.

And there, in the distance, is the ringing laughter of children.

Jack finds them in the pumpkin patch, bringing in the last of the harvest. Scarves hide their smiling mouths, and mittens protect their small hands, but snowflakes cling whitely to their wild, tousled hair and fall daintily on their upturned noses.

He scoops up a handful of snow, and molds it into a ball. Holds the snowball up...

I believe. I believe. I believe.

...and throws it at a young girl resting atop the largest pumpkin in the field. It hits her squarely between her large, expressive — familiar, not familiar — eyes. She blinks for a moment, dazed, confused, before wiping slushmelt from her face.

"All right, who threw that?" she asks, and before any of the children can answer, she's forming her own ball of tightly compacted snow.

"I did!" Jack's in front of her, his very first general of the new winter. He's kneeling, smiling gleefully up into her — not familiar, so familiar — sparkling brown eyes. He's reaching out to her...

I believe. I believe. I believe.

...and his spell, the very first spell small children learn, and the spell almost all adults forget, shatters into a thousand frozen, hopeless shards as she steps through him to throw her snowball.

She doesn't see his agonized face. She doesn't hear his plaintive cries.

"Wind!" he pleads, arms held out beseechingly and tears like hail falling from his cheeks. "Snowflake, please! No! ...MOON!"

Jack learns the first lesson not taught to him by his moonbeam. And while it's not the worst truth he'll ever gather, it's the one that will stay with him the longest. And while Snowflake begs him, implores him, 'No, Jack boy. Believe again. Please believe,' he knows. He knows.

There's no belief in all the wide world strong enough to withstand the indifference of a single child.

~o~

End Notes: Many heartfelt thanks to SolemnSoul and arrowtosparrow for their reviews. I find that I'd really, really truly like to know what people think of this story. My poor, lonely nutter of a Jack... Really, reviews of any sort will be met with tackle glomps from now on. Ask me questions — they help point out plot holes of doom.

Okay, on to jibber jabber that everyone can skip ^_^

arrowtosparrow Re: Joyce's interview where he states:

'So I was like, "Let me make up these guys in their world and let's set the movie 200 years later, and we have all this stuff that we know about them from the books, but they do not compete with that story, they enrich that story."'

^^;; Yeah, there's that. Which would work, if Bunnymund got his dates wrong on how soon the locomotive would be invented ("Oh, no, wait. It appears it's being invented right now!"). Hey, it's possible. But, gosh... that would put Jack with up to a 100 year jump start on North. Okay. This idea has me laughing. A lot. With wicked ideas. But for the sake of my universe's continuity, I'm going to stick to the assumption that "some decades" is closer to the century mark instead of, say, next Tuesday.

Or, to quote Homer — Simpson, that is: "Phfft! Facts. You can use them to prove anything." Heehee, everybody can be right, and everybody wins! Yay! You just have to pick and choose which facts to present.

XD Yaaagh, I really can't get grumpy, old Jack out of my head now! If The Sandman has Jack wandering around for years and years and years previously, I will be dead Esse. Cranky ancient immortal teenage angst-monster fun-loving Jack vs. Baby of the Guardian Family North ftw.