In The Silence
~9~
The first time — is daunting. With the Wind's help he climbs to the top of a tall, creaking pine. Overhead the Moon is bright, but he's upset with Moon, and he thinks he'll ignore the meddler for a while. Moonbeams frolic around him, constantly asking 'Why why why?' but with a bit more effort he ignores them as well, for they aren't his Snowflake — and they never will be. Their attention is almost enough to drive him back down the tree. Almost. But he needs to see — not a speck of gold, he's not looking for gold, except, perhaps, maybe he is — the patchwork quilt of earth once more.
The lights of his village are directly ahead, but then, where else should they be? It's other lights he's looking for. Other windows in other towns — behind which slept other children to play with. Dozens and dozens of children, and Jack bites down on his lip as he believes with all his might that those children will see him.
He needs a child to see him.
The twinkling lights of his village, though, are all that are in view. He needs to be higher. He implores the Wind, and after a brief, considering hesitation, the Wind lifts him up, and together they soar towards the stars, so swiftly the moonbeams are left behind, crying out softly, 'Why why why?' And Jack has never known why; all he's ever known is one all-encompassing need.
He wants to play with the children.
Here is the patchwork quilt he's been seeking. He's so very high — and the land is so very dark below him. It's confusing, and he cranes his neck looking for Moon, but clouds now cover the sky. Grey, snow swollen clouds that aren't his shadow — but they could be. They want to be. They want his attention he hates his shadow but the Wind understands, and carries him further away.
It's then he sees it: The town, so much larger than his village; there are more houses than he can count, even using the fingers of both hands — and his hands are shaking. They're shaking, and he grips his staff tighter to calm them. He doesn't know why they're shaking; there are children, sleeping behind the windows, new children to play with...
He jerks his head back in the direction he's come from, and glares at the clouds in the distance. He'll never let his shadow sneak up on him again. Not when he's playing. Not when there's children playing. Hands now calm — they can't move at all, frozen to his staff — he jumps from the back of the Wind and falls towards the town, landing with impossible delicacy on a broad window sill.
It's a landing a snowflake would make, but the comparison makes his hands shake is one he doesn't want to dwell on, so he peers through the shutters, instead.
There are children inside, sound asleep. New children. Curling up against the window, Jack watches them — and thinks about sleep. He's never really thought about sleep — before. And he doesn't understand the appeal — who would want to dream? — that sends children and even adults to their beds each and every night. Sleep steals away his children, but sleep has something to do with the small warm gold safe man, so Jack settles in to wait for dawn.
Eventually the sun rises, a weak, pale sun that can barely make its way above the horizon; a perfect winter sun. And Jack has jumped from window to window and his hands aren't shaking, not at all watching the children, waiting for them to wake, and come outside, and play. He needs to play. There's a snowball in his hands, a perfect snowball waiting for the perfect opportunity, and when a young boy bends over to adjust the laces on his boots, the snowball splats perfectly against the back of his head.
"Hey!" The boy whirls, and glares at his brothers. "What did you do that for?"
They're fighting. The children are fighting. Snowballs are thrown, but so are angry insults and hard, hurting fists, and it's horrible. Jack tries to stop them, tries to pull them apart, but he can't touch them; the children are bleeding and it's all. his. fault.
He wants his lake.
He doesn't want to play any more. He doesn't want to play, not ever again.
The Wind blasts down, separating the children; buffeting them; forcing them back into their homes. And Jack's shadow is everywhere, scouring away crimson until only white remains. And Jack — doesn't care. He wants his shadow to rage.
He wants to go now.
The Wind snatches him from the ground, and he gladly goes with it. It carries him back to his lake, back to his place and he dives under the ice, where he huddles under the comforting weight of frigid water and believes believes believes until his hands stop shaking. Until his soul stops trembling.
When Jack finally ventures back atop the ice, he doesn't know a week has passed. He only knows that he wants his children. He wants to hear his children laughing. He wants his first general of winter.
There's singing in the village square, and his children are not playing. Not playing — but they're happy, cheeks rosy with cold and eyes bright with joy. They're singing, young voices rising and falling sweetly as he weaves between them, entranced. His children have changed, gotten taller, gotten... gotten... Why, one is so different, Jack might've mistaken him for an adult, instead!
And he doesn't understand it, this change in his children — but they're happy, even his quietest child, who hums under her breath instead of singing — so he puts it from his mind.
He wants to sing with them; opens his mouth to sing, but the unbreakable broken thing catches sharply, painfully in his chest, and his tongue floods with lake water instead. He rubs at the ache until something shifts beneath his fingers, and the pain fades as the children's voices rise in a grand crescendo.
His children then return to their houses, giggling and chattering — but not interested in snow. And though Jack feels the children's happiness as his own... it's not enough. There's a thrumming under his skin, an electric current urging him to action, a need as vital as breathing that must be fulfilled...
He needs to play.
The Wind takes him over the eastern mountains, and there, at a settlement of two lonely cabins nestled at the base of the foothills, he spends the afternoon with a boy, and his sled. Jack can not help with the boy's struggle uphill, but the Wind doesn't mind taking part of the burden — and for one magical hour the boy gleefully rides his sled both downhill and up.
The Wind takes him to the north, where a town is perched upon a lake too large to comprehend — an ocean of a lake. The children there are hard at work, busy with curious tasks involving nets and fish, and they have no time for play. Still, he peers through their windows, and a trio of girls busy with sewing briefly stop, and stand to admire the frost pattern he's left on the thick, bubbled glass.
The Wind takes him west to a snowball fight, a fierce battle between two siblings. They accept his help without question, grabbing up snow and tossing it as quick as he can bring it down. He isn't sure which side wins — only knows that by the end the two children are laughing, sprawled next to each other, watching the Moon break through the scattering clouds.
The Wind takes him many, many places, and there are children in all of them. And Jack plays with them; plays carefully, plays gently, always keeping watch for his shadow. But no matter how many houses he visits, no matter how many children he plays with, no matter how hard he tries he remains unseen. Unknown. be not.
He wants to go home.
Jack lands in the village square; stumbles before catching himself with his staff. He's so terribly tired and he doesn't want to play any more. The Wind is whispering to him, a liquid gurgle with the first faint trace of green-growing, and he knows that spring is impatient. First, though, he needs to check on his quietest child. He'll be able to rest, once he knows she's well. His general — is all that will ever matter.
He walks over to her window to look in — but she's already staring out. Staring out, glaring out with puffy, reddened eyes, and her cheeks are wet with tears. Jack presses his hands against the glass, terrified; the girl's tears are grinding the razor-edges of the unbreakable broken thing inside him; the girl's tears are agony and he needs to stop them right now before cold dark fear overruns the world.
She needs to stop crying. He needs to hear her laughter. Her tears burn worse than the sun, and please he'll give anything to make. her. smile. please please please please please. Frantic, he feathers her window in frost; in snowflakes and moonbeams and the smooth surface of his lake — all the most wonderful things he knows.
"I hate you!" the girl-child screams, slapping at his artwork as fresh tears appear. "I'm so tired of winter! Why? Why?! Why won't you just go away?"
He can't. Move. she hates him. He can't. Breath. she hates him. He can't. can't. can't...
The girl's mother is behind her, holding the child close, but she's struggling, wailing, smacking her fists against the window in rage. "I wish it didn't exist! I wish it would leave, and never ever return! Why, Mama, why?"
Why? He'd never known why...
She continues to flail at the window, chanting the same three words, over and over and over and over and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper.
"I hate you!"
"I hate you!"
"I HATE YOU!"
Jack's at the edge of his lake. Hadn't he just been in town? He's at the edge of his lake, and he's choking, there's something tearing him apart inside. He gags, lake water spilling from his lips. When had he left the town? His fingers scrabble through ice and snow — but there's mud underneath. Mud. It means something. Something important...
Jack's at the edge of his lake, and he doesn't know what to believe in. He doesn't want to slip beneath the water, so cold, so dark, so alone. He doesn't want to crawl into the hollow beneath the log, so hot, so bright, so alone. He doesn't want — to be. Alone. He wants his Snowflake moonbeam. He wants — to be wanted.
please!
He leaps into the air — and for the very first time, he outruns the Wind. He outruns the Moon. He runs, and he runs, seeking seeking seeking gold.
There, in the distance, is a beautiful, twisting glitter of sand. There, trailing the leading edge of night, is the man of sand on his cloud of wisps and dreams. They're right there — but Jack doesn't know how to ask. He has no words to ask. He crumples, collapsing around his staff, caught between be not and hate.
please. please. please. I don't want to be alone.
There are small, golden arms around him, so warm, so safe he has no choice but to sigh into sleep.
But he never wants to play again.
~o~
End Notes: Oh, Jack. Why did you have to go visit on the anniversary of your death? Sniff.
Many heartfelt thanks to savedbygrace94, Zarelyn, SugarSweetObsessed, Crystal Peak, Alaia Skyhawk, ForgetTheWalls97, Raifiel, Kichi Hisaki, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, fourty-eight and Hannah for their reviews. They are my motivation for continuing ^_^
If you're here strictly for the story, I'll see you back here tomorrow. Please leave a review on your way out if you're so inclined. Please feel free to ask questions if you're so inclined. And please note that there's a drabble contained within the notes below ^_~ Y' know, to read, if you're so inclined.
Okay, I still have Cranky Old Jack running around my head, complaining that he gets no respect. So, Cranky Ancient Immortal Teenage Angst-Monster Jack homage ahoy.
~o~
"Are you sure this is necessary, Aster?" Jack asked, as he watched the caravan wind its way through the snow-choked mountain pass.
"No, I am not sure, though I am entirely certain." Bunnymund laid a large paw on his shoulder, offering support. "You needn't feel responsible. It would have happened regardless."
"It should not happen while I'm here! I can stop it!"
"And destroy this world's only chance of defeating the Nightmare King? Besides, this has already happened. You know this, Jack." The Pooka sighed wearily, and tightened the grip he had on his friend's shoulder. "At least you can save one."
A horse, impatient with the heavy wagon behind it, gave a loud whinny — and triggered an avalanche. Tons of melt-heavy snow poured down upon the caravan, burying it completely.
"I could have stopped it," Jack spat out before racing down the mountain side. He could sense the panicked heartbeats of those trapped below, feel their warmth flicker and fade. Teeth bared in a snarl, Jack reached deeply down into the packed snow — and pulled out a child.
"Is he breathing?" Bunnymund asked, appearing at his side. "Is he alright, Jack?"
"Alright? He's an orphan, Aster." Cradling the child, Jack puffed an icy breath against the toddler's face, prompting the boy into a startled inhalation. Before the child could let out his breath in a protesting wail, Jack pulled him close, offering what comfort he could; a kiss to the crown of his head, a reassuring hand rubbing gentle circles into his back. "Lunar has asked too much of me this time. I do not care what the future man may do; this is a child we're abandoning."
"You'll never abandon him, Jack. I know. You'll watch over him, safeguard him — and when he finally sees you, he'll know the father of his heart."
"He'll know the fell shadow that robbed him of his family. He'll see the thief that stole his childhood." Jack placed another soft kiss on the boy's head, as the toddler yawned and drifted towards sleep. "Winter may be my dominion, Aster, but cruelty is in neither of our natures."
"Jack..."
"Tsar Lunar may have foreseen great things for St. North. You yourself say you've witnessed the deciding battle." Jack sighed, adjusting his grip on both his staff and the boy, before stepping lightly into the freshening air. "All I have is Nicholas, whom you've bid me leave on the other side of the Crimeans. Alone. He will come to hate winter, Aster, for all that it's taken from him.
"He will hate me with a passion."
"No, Jack," the Pooka whispered, knowing his friend would not hear him over the rising gale. "He will love you as a son." Bunnymund knew, for he'd already seen it. As Katherine's compass unerringly pointed towards North, so North's compass would lead him always towards the heart of winter. Always.
~o~
Okay, I'm basing this off of my timeline — at the latest date at which the books could occur, which would place North's birth somewhere in the early 1750's. Given the time period, the only Cossacks he could have joined were the Zaporizhian Host, and they were disbanded in 1764 by Catherine II. Interesting. That narrows North's age to 24 in the books, give or take. Works for me!
