Sorry about the wait, but intercontinental travel can really take it out of you!

After my (failed) foray into humour last week, I've decided to stick to what I'm good at and give you something depressing. I've had a lot of practice recently- my other fic, Abandoned in Antarctica, is about as jolly as dead kittens.

Trigger Warning: Pretty much everything in this chappie, excluding eating disorders.

Jack was the youngest guardian in every sense of the word: he had been a guardian for the least amount of time; he had been an immortal for the least amount of time; and he had been alive for the least amount of time before he became an immortal. He had died three months before his sixteenth birthday, and they often treated him as the baby of the family.

He didn't mind it, really: it was nice to have someone worry about you, check up on you, ask about your week. It was nice to have people who cared. So, when the guardians took it upon themselves to explain some of the darker ways of the world, Jack never stepped in. Never told them that he already knew.

Jack was not naive- not with what he'd seen.

"Absolute disgrace, that's what they are," growled Bunny, scowling at the drunkards collapsed on the street in front of them. The Pooka had agreed to show Jack different types of magical plant and teach him their properties (on the condition that he didn't freeze them); because of the flowers blocking their magic, they found themselves walking down a random street in Seattle at three in the morning. "Ah'd forgotten it's St. Paddy's day; all the Americans think they can get drunk like the Irish!"

"Well, that's working out well," Jack snorted, watching a woman in a very short dress and very high shoes start singing a song from Cabaret from where she hung over the railings. Bunny suddenly stopped, and looked Jack straight in the eyes.

"Jack, mate; people drink because it makes them feel good, but it's bad for yeh, it really is, and yeh don't feel good when yeh wake up in the morning; some people drink when they're upset, to forget why they're upset, but that's not good either. Alcohol is never the answer, okay?" Jack shrugged.

"Sure."

Jack was not naive- not with what he'd seen.

After twenty years, Jack felt that he should have been starting to get the hang of it. It shouldn't have been so hard, so why did he keep messing it up. He made it snow when it was meant to be raining, and put down frost in the middle of summer (Once! Once! Those summer sprites needed to get over themselves!), and he was pretty sure the groundhog (who he had met two years ago, and who was always grumpy) was lying to him about when winter ended.

So when Herbst and Breeze flew down to tell him that he'd overstayed his welcome, he really wasn't all that surprised. Besides the groundhog, they were the only immortals he saw on a semi-regular basis (once a year counted as semi-regularly, right?). He was surprised, however, to leave the conversation with two black eyes, and a broken nose.

It hurt. More than the physical pain, it hurt to know that the few people who could see him either ignored him (North) or hated his guts (Herbst, Breeze, the groundhog, Bunnymund). So when he heard a innkeeper calling for people to come and 'forget your worries! Forget your cares!' with his mead, the boy could be forgiven for being intrigued. He'd heard the mortals call this practice 'drowning your sorrows,' and well he doesn't much like the thought of drowning, it would be good to forget.

So that evening Jack slipped into the inn, and floated around taking sips from people's flagons when they weren't looking. The mead was warm, and slightly spicy, and soon Jack was feeling better than he had in months. He sang along with the men's drinking songs, and when one left half a tankard behind after heading home, he grabbed it and drank deeply with the rest of them. He was small and skinny, and- as it transpired- a lightweight; soon the winter spirit was very, very drunk.

It was the best night he could remember having, but all too soon it was over. He collapsed in a snow bank a little way away from the inn- despite it being nearly summer in most places, he was in Norway, where snow still covered the north- just as the dawn sun peeked over the horizon, and a few hours later the valley echoed with the sound of his groaning: Jack had discovered what a hangover was.

"Look! A lateral incisor! Isn't it perfect?!" Jack grinned at Tooth's enthusiasm as they flitted across London. He loved coming out into the field with her: she was so busy that it was one of the only times they really got a chance to talk without Bunny and the others around. He loved them as a group, but it was nice spending time with them individually too.

The winter spirit gave a startled (but, as he'd argue later, very masculine) yelp when he glanced in the window they were hovering next to and saw a sagging and haunted face just inches away from him on the other side.

"Oh," said Tooth, drooping slightly when she noticed what had startled him. "Don't look at him, Jack."

"But I-"

"No, don't: he's a druggie, probably takes cocaine or crystal meth or something like that. He's addicted, and by the end of his considerably shortened life that's where all his money will have gone, so don't look, and don't ever, ever even think about doing drugs. Okay?"

"Okay."

Jack was not naive- not with what he'd seen.

"Why do you do this to yourself?!" he screamed, watching the girl in the corner tremble and shake. If he were a mortal, she'd only be a few years older than him, about twenty, but with a face aged far beyond her years. "Why? You have it all! How can you just give it up?"

There's no reply, not that he really expected one, but he was angry and he was upset and he felt like he had every right to be. It was thanksgiving, 1975, and pretty much every other person in America was at home with their families, sharing a veritable feast. The next few days would make for great scavenging, but Jack wasn't concerned with that right now.

The winter spirit dropped to his knees, feeling tears well up in his eyes as the girl's wasted fingers scrabbled at the tiled floor beneath them, trying to find purchase.

"I used to play with you," he said softly, watching her writhe. "I know you couldn't see me, but you were always so happy. Look at you now." Saltwater droplets froze to his cheeks as his voice cracked. "Your family loved you. Loves you still. That's what they do, families- they love each other no matter what." Her body began to spasm, eyes fluttering between open and shut. "Do you know what I would give for a family? What I would give to be able to walk down the street and have someone bump into me? I would give up an immortal life for a week of what you're blessed with." Suddenly her entire body clenched, and she threw up, putrid vomit spilling down her front. "And yet you throw it away for the next sniff of powder. You've got no friends, you've got no money, you've got no future... and I still wish I was you." Her back arched, throat gurgling. "You have a mother, a father, a brother, grandparents and aunts and uncles, and all of them love you. Me? I've got a rabbit who comes every few years to complain at me and some extremely powerful spirits who want me dead because... well, I don't know why. The closest thing I have to a friend is a man I see every two decades or so." She slumped down again, sobbing softly as her hands tore weakly at her hair. "I would help you, you know? If I could. But I'd just go straight through you, like I do with everyone." With one last, rattling gasp, she was still. "Happy thanksgiving," he muttered, flying away before his face had a chance to crumple.

North found Jack where he had found him after Sandy's death, on the same windowsill with his hood up, frosting patterns on the glass. They were all in shock, all reeling from another school shooting. This one was in Scotland, in a large prep school in the middle of Edinburgh. Eighteen kids were killed, including fifteen believers. Eighteen candles had been laid out, the elves had chimed their funeral toll, and now each one was trying to recover however they could.

"Jack," the Russian said gently, putting a meaty hand on Jack's lean shoulder. "It is awful; absolutely devastating. But we must remember- there will always be evil in the world, with people even worse than Pitch doing bad for no other reason than because they can. That is why we are here- to help the children get through these dark times. To protect their innocence. It is tragedy, but it is why we exist." Jack nodded.

"I understand."

Jack was not naive- not with what he'd seen.

He was up in the air, grinning widely as all around him as a snow storm swirled and howled. It felt great. Gaia had ordered this storm, a massive storm right across Europe, and since it was right in the middle of January he didn't have to worry about anyone getting angry.

Deciding the storm was strong enough to rage on its own for a while, Jack dropped down to shoot over towns and villages, whooping gleefully. Who cared if the world was at war again? Who cared if just a few months earlier he had been wounded by shrapnel from a bomb in London? No one else, that was for sure. So why should he?

"Come on, everyone! Come play! You're welcome!" he cheered, whizzing through the busy streets. He paused just long enough to catch that he was in Poland- he was semi-fluent in the languages of all the cold countries. No Swahili, but he could tell the difference between Scottish and Irish Gaelic, French French, Canadian French and Belgian French, and knew every word for snow in every Inuit dialect.

"Up again!" he called to the wind. "Should I go to Germany first? Or maybe- what's that?"

He would admit it, he hadn't been to Poland in a while. Maybe a few years- a large number of water sprites on the continent meant that the snow and ice in Europe pretty much looked after themselves, and it was easy enough to send cold fronts from a distance. So it didn't surprise him to see that things had been built in his absence. The lack of surprise, however, did not automatically equate to lack of curiosity, and he swooped down to have a better look.

It was what looked like a camp, with two large metal gates at the entrance with the words 'Arbeit macht Frei' worked along the top. Labour makes you free. Intrigued, Jack floated over to peer into the camp beyond.

What he saw horrified him: men and boys, shivering in small huddles, barely more than overalls and hats on to keep them warm. Ribs jutting out, collarbones jutting out, almost as skinny as he was, but they were mortal. Mortals shouldn't get that skinny, especially not in weather like this.

A little way away, he saw smoke, and wondered if there was a bonfire that people used to keep warm. Perhaps, he reasoned, they took it in turns- there had recently been a great depression, he knew that, so maybe they could only afford a small portion of the firewood needed. Making his way to the source of the smoke, he realized that it was not a bonfire but in fact two enormous chimney stacks- incinerators. The words ran through his head again, and he wondered what sort of work was done here. He wondered what they were burning.

A moment later he was scrambling away as fast as he could, forgetting to fly in his revulsion. He barely made it to the bush in time to empty his guts, and terrified tremors wracked his tiny frame. Bodies. They were burning bodies. Naked, shaved, emaciated humans, glassy eyes staring blankly at the winter storm above. Jack's work in Europe was done- he fled.

This time, somehow, Sandy found out what was going to happen beforehand, and when the bomb goes off in the mall in Ireland, the guardians are there to help in any way they can. There's not much they can do, as most of those inside were adults, but North and Sandy use their strength to move the collapsed beams and debris while Jack, Bunny and Tooth desperately try to battle the fire.

"Here!" Bunny suddenly yells: he's found a little girl, perhaps four or five, curled up in the debris. There's a large gash on her forehead, blood slowly seeping into her hair, and one of her arms is twisted at an unnatural angle.

"I can-" Jack begins, flying forward.

"Tooth, get her out of here!" Bunny orders, and Jack drops back, returning to fighting the blaze which makes him feel like he's about to melt. North and Sandy finally manage to clear the concrete that's blocking the doors, allowing the medics to burst in, and then suddenly the situation is in control and the guardians can leave.

"I'm sorry," says Bunny once they're safely back at the pole.

"For what?" Jack is puzzled- Bunny doesn't often apologize, and normally Tooth has to order him to first.

"For not letting you take that kid; it's just... well, we can only touch people who believe, even when they're unconscious, and it's more likely she'd believe in Tooth than in you; you understand, right?" Jack punches Bunny's arm and smiles.

"Yeah, I get it."

Jack was not naive- not with what he'd seen.

Russia was a great country- he loved it there. There was so much snow to give to them, so many lakes and rivers to freeze, so many fuzzy hats to knock off people's heads. It was a country where snow often reached higher than ten feet, and he loved it.

He was in rural Russia, adding a frosty top to the four feet of snow already on the ground to give it an extra 'crunch' when people stepped into it. It was the mid-1800s, and he was tempted to go see the Tsar's palace- it seemed to get more opulent every time he visited!- when a soft sobbing caught his attention.

There, perhaps a mile into the forest, was a young man, perhaps 25, hunched over and shivering violently. He had no hat, no gloves, and nothing over his night clothes but a thin old coat. He was wearing summer boots that were no doubt already filled with slush, and he was clutching at what appeared to be a stab wound in the side of his chest. His clothes and the snow around him were already stained crimson. He was muttering half formed prayers under his breath, and as Jack stared in horror his heavy-lidded eyes drifted close.

"No," Jack begged, starting forward. He was either unconscious from hypothermia of blood loss, but in this weather it didn't matter- he would be dead by dawn, which was still hours away. "Stay awake, just stay awake." He reached out to shake him and his hand passed straight through with the usual stomach churning nothingness that came with being invisible.

The man twitched, and a small whimper of pain escaped his pursed lips. Jack willed himself not to cry as he stood up straight, preparing for what needed to be done.

"You're going to die anyway," he said, more for himself than the man, "and I don't want you to die in pain. It'll be over in a few minutes this way, okay? I'm doing this for you." He focussed all his energies on the man, and slowly, carefully began to lower his body temperature. Twenty degrees Celsius, fifteen degrees Celsius, ten degrees Celsius. Jack stopped at five and checked the man's pulse. Without another word, he left, murderer echoing remorselessly through his head.

Since becoming a guardian, Jack had been visiting Burgess steadily less frequently. At first, he had practically lived there in winter, same as before. Every free moment of Jamie and the gang's was spent playing with Jack, and he'd loved it.

Then Monty stopped believing, followed by Pippa, the twins, Cupcake and finally Jamie. Only Sophie was left of the original bunch, and everyone knew that Bunny was her favourite. However, she still loved to see any of them, especially since they'd 'rescued' her from Pitch ("I think you probably made him cry, Soph!" "Most likely."). Burgess also still had the most believers of anywhere, because of stories that Jamie and the others had told the younger ones, so Jack still visited two or three times each winter, to catch up and to play.

This was his second visit of the winter, and Jack floated down in front of Sophie's window with a large grin on his face, ready to tell her all about how Bunny had tried to prank North but it had backfired so badly. This was forgotten as soon as he saw Sophie, now nineteen, curled up on her bed and crying her eyes out.

"Hey, Sophie," he said, sitting down next to her. "What's wrong?" She wordlessly handed him a scrap of newspaper, detailing the suicide of a local girl named Megan. "Oh, god, Sophie; I'm so sorry. She was your friend, wasn't she?"

"I just..." Sophie hiccupped, face red and splotchy as more tears cascaded down her cheeks. "I should have done something! I should have... I knew she was unhappy! I should have realised, I should have talked to her more, I should have-" She couldn't say anymore, clutching Jack as though he were a lifeline. He rocked her back and forth and made what he hoped were soothing noises, desperately trying to work out what to do.

"It's not your fault, Sophie," he said finally. "I know it feels like it is, but it isn't. You have to remember that. I'm going to open a portal, and then we're going to go and see Bunny, okay?" She nodded miserably, trying to wipe away the tears that refused to stop.

North had given Jack two magic snow globes that were, he had been warned, only for emergency use. Well, he certainly figured this counted as an emergency, and whisked her away to the warren. He decided to give them some time alone to talk through her feelings, and instead headed back to the pole to tell North and whoever else was there (possibly Sandy, who's practically moved in, and possibly Tooth, since hockey season has just finished in England and Canada).

"Oh, poor thing!" cooed Tooth as he finished relaying the story. "That's awful; you have to understand, Jack, that sometimes people just feel so sad, so out of control and useless, that hurting themselves or even death seems like a better option. It's why we try to give them the best childhood we can- so that hopefully this doesn't happen later on." He tugged his sleeves down and didn't say anything.

Jack was not naive- not with what he'd seen.

It had been a year since the culmination, as everyone now called it under hushed breaths and behind closed doors (in the case of those of them who actually had houses). No one had said anything to him, hell, no one had spoken to him except Pierre, who managed to hunt him down and talk to him for an hour about five months after it happened.

He was reminded of it every time he sees another spirit. He was reminded of it every time he bent over and felt the K carved into his back stretching his skin tight. He was reminded of it every time he looked at his right hand, where, in the face of his other injuries, he hadn't realised his pinkie was broken, and it had healed crooked. He knew that he should re-break it, but he didn't have it in him. It wasn't like pinkie fingers were that important anyway.

He was depressed; the world felt heavy and grey, and everything seemed like too much strain for him to handle. What was the point, anyway? No one would care if he was around or not- he might as well save himself all this suffering and die.

He knew that he wasn't the only one who felt this way- helpless. Useless. Hopeless. He'd seen them through the windows, normally teenagers, sometimes older, sometimes (horribly) younger. Seen them hunched over sinks, laying out in empty bath tubs, razor blade on one side, bloodied wrist on the other. Sometimes they were laughing, as though it were a relief. Sometimes they were crying, tears dripping down to mingle with the blood. They covered it with long sleeves and fragile lies, and would be back the next night to start again. It seemed to help.

What the hell, Jack thought: everyone else hurt him, he had the right to hurt himself if he so chose. He found a dollar's worth of change on the sidewalks, wondered if it wa enough, once again promised himself that he will one day learn to read, and left it on the counter of a petrol station after taking a pack of three razor blades.

Evening found him crouched on a branch, staring at the razor blade in trepidation. Half of him wanted to, wanted the relief it's meant to bring, wanted to just forget everything for a bit. The other half was screaming at him to stop, to stop and think about what he was doing, to stop and ask how bringing more pain was meant to make him feel better.

"But I didn't do anything wrong."

"Of course you did; you're the winter spirit, that's all you can do."

He brought the blade down.

The immortal child watched in fascination as the blood trickled down his wrist- shouldn't this hurt? Wasn't there meant to be pain? He didn't feel any. He felt... numb? Physically, yes. Physically, it was like no mark had been made on him. Mentally... mentally he felt better than he had in a long time. It was strange, but it was great, and he loved it. It was like flying, but different. Better.

He was there for the rest of the night, letting out his frustration and self hatred and anger and sorrow. Afterwards, he carefully wrapped the blades in a plastic bag, and put them in his cave where he kept all his other stuff.

He didn't take them out often. Once a year, sometimes twice. If it'd been a bad year, he'd do it every day for a month, before filling with disgust and abandoning them for half a decade.

After Bunnymund's abuse on Easter Sunday, 1968, he cut so much he collapsed from blood loss.

His stuff was lost the year before he joined the guardians- everything he owned, including the now rusty blades. It would have been easy enough to get some more- they're practically a dime a dozen. But he became a guardian, and he promised himself that it would stop.

"It doesn't happen any more, then?"

"No."

It hadn't been a lie; but Jack was not naive- not with what he'd seen.

I don't want this to become a cutting fic, so unless I get requests I won't be saying anything more on the subject.

Prep school is 8-13 for all the non-Brits out there. The camp was Auschwitz for anyone who doesn't know, one of the largest concentration/death camps.

Reviews are very much loved and appreciated- I'm now at more than I've ever had for any of my other stories!