In The Silence
~10~
He wakes up to softness. Fine-grained, tickling softness running through his hair and trickling through his cloak, soft gold weaving between his fingers and bunching up underneath his feet as he wriggles his toes and stretches against warmth. He turns to his side, and rubs his face against the sand; reaches out to pet and stroke the swirling streamers into vague, shapeless shapes that morph before his eyes into swimming, leaping creatures he has no name for.
Perhaps sleeping isn't so bad, if waking could always be like this. Perhaps this is what dreaming is supposed to be. He doesn't know, but the not knowing doesn't bother him. He really can't be bothered to be bothered.
A silent giggle escapes him, and the strange, swimming creatures turn back into sand. He rolls over to his back, and sits. Sits, and looks about, rubbing sleep out of in to his eyes. He's inside a room, a room of sand that sparkles and shines of wisps and dreams. A room with a window — and Jack can't help but to giggle again, for he's never been inside. Imagine, a frost child inside a house!
With his staff dragging a soft path behind him, Jack walks to the window — no shutters, no glass, how strange to find a window that doesn't want to keep him out — and stares. Stares at the castle of sand around him. Stares at the island of sand below him. Stares and stares and dreamily stares at the ocean stretching from one horizon to the other, so vast and deeply blue.
He doesn't hear a noise at the door to the room; turning away from the unwindowish window, he shyly smiles at the man of sand. Smiles at the man made of smiles, and ever-so-slowly wraps his own, cold fingers around the golden hand held out to him.
With an undemanding tug, the man of sand urges him from the room and down long halls of sand and shell. Jack trails behind him, as he's seen other children trail behind their parents. He wonders at that, and bites at his lower lip; wonders if he should stop holding the little man's hand, for a cold dark fear child has no parents. He wonders... but he doesn't let go.
The man leads him out of the castle, and there on the rolling dunes of the sandy island waits an army of seashells wielding wickedly pointed spears — but Jack isn't afraid of them, for the hand clasped around his own is warm and gold and safe. Together, they walk amongst the shells — countless shells murmuring the countless secrets of countless children — down to the beach and the blue-deep ocean.
There are maidens in the water, playing in the surf and resting amidst the tide pools; maidens like minnows, all quick, flashing scales seen in brief glimpses between seaweed strands of long, silken hair. They're singing with voices like the wash of waves, welcoming the man of sand back.
"Welcome home, Sandman, oh dream king, Lord High Protector, who's this you bring?"
The man of sand — Sandman, Sandman — forms a picture of a frost child above his head, a frost child like a snowflake. Jack senses, though, that the minnow maidens have no experience of winter, not here on a sandy, sleepy isle so far away from seasons. The maidens splash through the surf before pulling themselves ashore, surrounding him curiously and patting him with kind, damp hands that smell of salt.
"Oh, a star-child, yes, we see! Welcome, child. Welcome, be!"
They envelop Jack in sea-scented hugs that he returns eagerly, needily. Sandman smiles at them all, at seashells and minnow maidens and misplaced frost child, and all the world is aglow in gold.
(welcome, child. well come, and rest. rest, and find a dream.)
Jack plays with the maidens along the Dreamsand shore, and sleeps in the high, open room of the Dreamsand castle, there on the island of Sleepy Sands that has never known a season — only slumber. And when Sandman leaves on his cloud of wisps and dreams — as he must, as he is meant to do — the maidens sing to Jack of far away places and far away things.
And when he is all alone, when even the seashells are too busy to play, he steadily paces the seashore, the swinging of his staff frosting the golden sand underfoot — frost that stays past the ebb and rise of the tide. He stares up at the Moon — but the Moon is always looking away, always away, too afraid to face up to past mistakes. He wants to shout at the Moon, but the stars are so much higher than the Wind can lift him, and what good would it do? The Moon is as mute as he is.
And when the need to scream is so great that icy water froths upon his lips, he runs down the spiraling arms of the island to where the sleepiest sands crest in golden dunes, and he flings himself upon them, burrowing in, burrowing deeply into sleep and dreams of minnows and Snowflakes — and his first general of winter — but never of lakes or loneliness or rats.
Then, one twilight morning, he awakes to a yearning he recognizes. Somewhere, winter is calling him. Somewhere — there are children, waiting to play. And though he's dreamt so many dreams of play and children and being, he knows he won't be seen. He will never be seen. He expects the knowledge to hurt — and it does — but the pain is bearable, grown familiar, grown... grown... grown into a different shape, with fewer sharp edges, worn down from frequent handling.
He's grateful to the maidens and the seashells, he's grateful to Sandman whom he loves, daren't love, can a snowflake love? for giving him rest — but he needs to leave. Winter is calling. Children are calling. The Wind wraps around him, and together they take to the sky, heading towards clouds with bellies full of snow, leaving the island far, far behind.
He would have liked to have stayed. But being gone from the world such a long, endless time has taught him another truth. Children play — and children play tricks — and Jack Frost is a child. A child of frost, but a child nonetheless — and he has no choice, but to play. Though his heart might break...
He must play.
It is a terrible truth — a cold dark fear of a truth — but Jack doesn't dwell upon it. He can't dwell upon it, for as soon as he thinks it, it's swallowed down into the empty darksome pitch pit of his memories.
Besides, the Wind is carrying him, fast and fast and faster into winter — and he hears the call. He hears his first general of winter calling for him. Wishing for him. Wanting him.
"Mama, do you think it will ever snow again? ...I miss seeing the pictures in the frost."
~o~
End Notes: Aww. I'm thinking Jack needs a Sandy hand puppet to keep him company from now on. He just, uh, hid it during the movie. Yeah.
Many humble, grateful thank yous to lokoforsonic9559, Alaia Skyhawk, angelofthelightanddark, Anne Camp, Anonymous reader, Crystal Peak, Hannah, Tenshi Youkai no Yugure, Eternal She-Wolf, ForgetTheWalls97, Kaylessa, fourty-eight, and Master Li for their extremely kind (and truly cherished) reviews. Your support gives me the strength to forge on in the story.
If you're reading only the story, I'll see you tomorrow with the next part — if I can find some place with wifi :) It's loaded in the document manager, so if I can find access, you'll have the next chapter =D If you'd like to give Esse the determination to continue on through all the angst to the bright fluffy rainbow end o.O;; (durp) your review would be appreciated. Actually, your review will make my day!