So this is a few days late! Whoopsie. *chagrined* We're starting to get into the thick of things with these next chapters, so be ready for that!
Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy. I'll try to go through and check for typos and such later, sorry if there are any glaring mistakes!

It is human to hate those whom we have injured.

-Tacitus, Life of Agricola, c. C.E. 98

Past:

In the aftermath of 1968, Jack Frost stopped speaking. He stopped doing much of anything, really. Not that that bothered Pitch overmuch. He was leaving Jack by himself and going off to do who knew what more frequently since Jack's sudden jolting into this silent form of 'obedience.' While that meant Jack wasn't forced to have nightmares each night for Pitch to absorb when he was on his trips, he had long since stopped dreaming naturally. Instead, on nights where nightmares weren't prevalent, he had fitful, dreamless sleep that made him feel more tired upon waking than he'd been when he went to sleep.

Jack had been like that for a few months before Rime visited again.

"Heard you killed some kids," he said tactlessly. "Easter Bunny's got you on his blacklist, or so word on the grapevine says. Absolutely despises you." When Jack failed to react to his taunts, and remained sitting oddly still on the library couch, Rime narrowed his eyes. He circled around, so that he could face Jack. "Oi, what's wrong with—" Rime cut himself off abruptly as Jack's face came into view.

Jack knew what Rime was seeing. It was the same thing he saw in the mirror of the vanity in his and Pitch's room. Shadowy bruises under his eyes, like he'd smudged ink on his skin. His skin gave the impression of papery thinness, as though a sudden movement might tear him open. His eyes, blank and dull, dull, dull. The eyes of a doll. (The eyes of a corpse.)

"You've been biting your lips," Rime observed, because he was unsure what else he should say.

At Rime's mention of the action Jack did just that, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and biting until the scabs opened and blood welled against his tongue. "Rime," he said, voice cracking despite how soft his tone, "have you ever hated yourself?"

The muscles in his back tensed, and Rime crossed his arms tight across his chest. "No."

Jack stared at him, and said nothing, a strange, empty blankness his only expression.

(It was a face that, once he'd put it on, Jack would rarely take off again for almost fifty years.)

Present:

A giggle. A figure he recognized, because he'd carved it once. And a face he didn't, but felt he should. His name, said like he'd never heard it before, with laughter dancing in the syllables.

"Jackson!"

Jack woke up. He sat up in his bed with the slow, careful movements of someone deep in thought. He'd only recently started dreaming without nightmares, just before he'd come here to the Pole. He had forgotten what it was like.

He clenched the sheets in his hand, and tried to call back the face of the girl from his dream. Who was she? He'd asked himself that a million-million times, and until now he'd never felt close to the answer. He was having trouble bringing to mind her mouth, her nose, the shape of her cheeks, but he could remember the eyes. Pretty, brown, bright. He wanted to know more.

But he wouldn't have the time.

Jack's breathing hitched.

…that's right. After this month with North, his time would be half over. Had almost sixth months passed so quickly? Just six more, and then Pitch would come for him again. And when that happened…

Jack honestly didn't know what Pitch had planned. At worst, he'd lock Jack in the Room forever and never let him free, forced to drown in his own nightmares.

At best, Pitch would simply kill him.

Either way, after the remaining sixth months, his time was up. No more dreams, or figuring out who the girl was. No more seeing lovely places, or exploring. No more watching Phil carve—

Jack's heart lurched.

…no more Phil. No more Baby Tooth. (No more Guardians.)

No more anything.

Unless it didn't have to be the end.

The thought was a quiet thing, like a child tugging cautiously at his shirt hem. Unless he could stay away from Pitch forever. Unless he could find a way.

But Jack knew no way. Outside of this year of respite, he'd never given notice to the idea of a future outside of Pitch. He'd never felt he deserved such a thing. Now, though…even if he didn't deserve it, Jack wanted it.

He knew one person that might be able to help him.

Jack climbed out of his bed, and set out in search of Nicholas St. North.

Jack found him by the globe, rubbing his beard thoughtfully as he observed the twinkling lights. Jack looked down at his feet, even as he drew North's attention with a hushed call of his name.

"North?"

"Hm?" North turned, and smiled upon seeing Jack. "Ah! Jack, yes, what do you need?" When Jack continued staring at his feet, North's smile slipped a bit. "Is everything alright?"

Jack took a heavy breath, and lifted his head in small fractions. When he finally met North's eyes, his own were nervous and worried. (Jack was unaware that this was the most expression North had ever seen from him, and while it relieved him to discover Jack was capable of such things, it also made his chest tight with anxiety that these were the emotions he was showing.) "I need to talk to you," he declared.

North, sensing the seriousness of the situation, gestured for Jack to follow him. "We will speak in my office."

Jack followed. North's office, as it turned out, was a floor up, and overlooked the main floor if you stepped out. The inside contained a huge desk, and large windows that framed a view of a frozen landscape. The walls were lined with knick-knacks and the occasional snow globe. North, rather than sit behind the desk, perched himself on one corner of it. He loosely clasped his hands over his belly, and gave Jack his complete attention.

"What are you needing?" he asked soothingly.

"I…," Jack shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket. How did one ask for help they didn't deserve? Jack wasn't sure. He opened his mouth, and for the first time in centuries, let the words come unchecked. "I am not worth saving."

North blinked, taken aback. "Jack?"

Jack shook his head, and held up a hand; a plea for North to let him go uninterrupted. "I am Pitch's Consort, and I know he is your enemy and by association you should despise me." Jack gripped his hoodie where his heart beat too quick in his chest (like hummingbird wings, came the thought, which he banished). "And I know that you know that I once did something horrible that I can't be forgiven for, and I am not worth saving."

Silence hung for a few moments, broken only by the sound of Jack's choppy breathing. When it became apparent that he had finished speaking, North quietly asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

Jack inhaled deeply, and when he looked at North his eyes were wide and shattered like so much broken mirror. "Because," he breathed, "I'm asking you to save me anyway."

North got off the desk, and approached Jack. When the winter boy didn't flinch away, North placed his hands on his shoulders, careful not to bear down their full weight. "I will do everything in my power to keep you safe," North swore, "but I, we, the Guardians, need to know what we are saving you from."

Jack nodded very slowly. "I don't," he swallowed, "I don't want to go back."

"To Pitch?"

Jack nodded again.

"Jack." North crouched, so that he and Jack were eye-level. "Why are you in danger from Pitch? We have all been wondering why, if you are his Consort, he is a threat to you? We will protect you, yes, even Bunny," he added when Jack glanced away in doubt. "But please, can you tell me why you don't want to return to him?"

Jack's face closed off, unwilling to admit his own shame at being subservient to Pitch for so long; the way he'd been used and molded to Pitch's liking so that he didn't recognize the boy who'd first risen from the lake three hundred years ago as being him anymore. All those years in the dark had killed that part of him, scooped it out until only the flesh remained to mourn the loss of who he'd been.

How could he admit those things?

So Jack turned on his censor, and only let the tiniest bit of the truth free. "I don't want to be locked away anymore."

"Is that what he did?" North clarified. "He locked you away, against your will? Is that why you were never seen alone?"

Jack nodded. "I wasn't allowed to leave."

"Like a prisoner," North murmured. He stared at Jack like he knew there was more, but with the return of Jack's blankness, he didn't attempt to pry it from him. Rather, its appearance brought sad creases to the outer corners of his eyes. North pulled away, his hands dropping to his sides, though he held them in a loose fist. "I will talk to the other Guardians. We will find a way to keep Pitch away from you. You don't have to go back."

He, though believing them only superficial, was affected by the words. You don't have to go back. It was as though he'd been wearing some invisible collar for centuries, and North had just snapped open the lock. He suddenly wanted to jump into the wind and just fly, which he hadn't done since his first fumbling steps on the lake. The onset of the urge surprised him, and he shoved it back down in his fear of its unfamiliarity.

"Thank you," Jack said, voice hush. He backed toward the door, and pulled it open. He glanced at one of the snow globes, and paused, spinning back around. "North?"

"Yes?"

"Will you take me somewhere?"

North was surprised. "Now?"

"Yes," Jack said. "I need to go before I forget."

"Well then," he grabbed up two snow globes, and swirled one of them. He held it in front of Jack. "Picture the place, then tell it where you want to go."

Jack leaned forward a bit, and did as told. The image of the lake, his lake, at the forefront of his mind, he whispered, "The lake."

False snow swirled in the glass, dissipating to show the lake's surface glimmering in the sun. North tossed the snow globe to the floor a few feet away, and it burst into a swirling vortex Jack had, at that point, only seen a few times. North ushered him through first. His stomach lurched, and he stumbled as he passed through the other side. He found his footing as North stepped out behind him, and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. Jack slipped away from it easily when he walked forward.

Jack looked around, searching for one tree in particular. It was nearby on the bank, its roots a knotted mess at the base—which was exactly why he'd asked Rime to hide his treasures there. He searched until he found a cloth sack. He opened it, and pulled the objects out one by one to check them over, aware that North was watching him from the side. First was the scrying stone Rime had given him. Jack smoothed his finger over the top, then set it aside. Next was a thin volume of poetry, and he flipped it open to show a delicate, faded hummingbird feather, preserved between the pages. He closed that, and set it aside as well. Lastly, he pulled out the carving of the girl from his dreams. He blew gently on the crevasses, an attempt to knock loose any dust or dirt. He stared at the blank, featureless face, and felt some tiny curl of warmth at the thought that he'd finally be able to add to it. He knew her eyes, now.

Jack tucked the three items in his pocket, alongside the wooden horse from Phil, and stood. He held the sack in his hand, to throw away later.

"I'm ready," Jack said.

North nodded, glancing at Jack's pocket curiously, but with a hint of knowing. "Precious things?"

"Yes," Jack replied, but did not go into detail.

North didn't pry. They were back in North's office seconds later, but before Jack could leave, North stopped him with a final question.

"When Pitch asked you to be his Consort," North asked Jack, as the latter hovered in the doorway with his back turned, "why did you accept?"

"Ask?" Jack looked over his shoulder. "He never asked."

Jack left the room, and North was left to piece together the implications of what that meant.

It took North less than twenty four hours to send word to the rest of the Guardians with the latest developments, and the little information Jack had shared with him regarding his life with Pitch. It took even less time for him to begin researching a way to help the winter spirit.

Jack Frost was free. Nicholas St. North intended to make sure it stayed that way.