Hey guys. I'm back. Just warning you, I have no idea when I'll be able to update this again. Really busy working on my other stories. Well, here's the next chappie. Enjoy.
When Jack regained consciousness, he had a pounding headache and his whole body hurt.
OK, that might be a bit of an understatement.
Here is what he really felt like:
Crap.
He felt like complete and utter crap.
His arms and legs were throbbing with sharp tendrils of pain that were shooting up and down them and he could feel cold sweat pouring down his brow. He had a pounding headache and there was a striking pain in the center of his chest. The punctured lung, most likely. Jack winced, remembering the feeling of being punched in the stomach when the tip of his rib poked through the organ. His chest was inflamed and he was having a very hard time breathing now.
Jack lay there, wishing he knew where he was!
From what he could see of the room around him, it was small and could barely see a thing in the gloom. Shadows danced across the walls and he could see a sliver of light that must be from beneath a door shining far away. Besides that, there wasn't a single speck of light that he could see.
Jack moved his leg and felt the blankets heaped over him like pancakes. The heat was almost intolerable! He kicked at the blankets, trying to dislodge them but he couldn't. He was too weak. His body hurt when it moved even the slightest inch and all he could do was lightly shift the boiling blankets.
He sighed. If he couldn't get them off, then he would just have to bear with it until someone came to him.
Jack felt his eyelids, heavy and fluttering on his face, closing and then opening wide, then they closed once more. It was draining his energy to keep them open, but he strived to stay awake, at least long enough to find some kind of monument that could give him an idea about where he was. There were no windows, so he couldn't see outside- if there was an outside, and the inside of the room was completely black, apart from the sliver of light peeking out from beneath the door which didn't show anything except a bit of hard wood floor.
Jack heard a squeak and he looked away from the sliver of light, wondering if it was a mouse or, even worse, a rat! Jack hated Rats. Hated them! You didn't have to deal with most pests in winter, apart from rats. Their thick, furry hides rendered them immune to almost everything except for sub-freezing levels of cold and he didn't like that. Then the squeak came again. It wasn't a mouse or even a rat, Jack thought. It's a pair of feet, walking over towards me!
There was one more squeak and then a deep, groaning sound. Door hinges, Jack guessed. Someone was opening a door.
"Ah, so you're awake." a smooth voice said, the words accompanied by a swift, almost silent set of footsteps. Jack frowned. Who was this?
Jack tried to turn his head to get a good look at his visitor, but it hurt him too much and he gasped.
"Well now, that's a bit rude." the voice said heard another creak, like the groaning of a chair and he assumed the man had sat down. His voice was closer now and Jack could feel the stranger's eyes on him, though he couldn't see a single thing.
"I take down that wild horse for you and then you fall unconscious, forcing me- great humanitarian that I am, to carry you to the emergency room where I get booted out because they can't seem to see you! Then, when I get back to my home, I have to lay you on my bed and then spend at least half a day watching and waiting for you to wake up, all the while calling every police station in the area to try and find your family, which I haven't done, and then, when you finally wake up, you try to harm yourself by twisting your neck. Not very grateful of you."
Jack opened his eyes and tried to turn his neck once more, to try and see the person talking to him, but his neck hurt too much and he rolled it back until he was facing the ceiling once more. Questions were rolling around in his head and he had to work hard to ignore them, if only to avoid a headache. Still, certain questions refused to go away. Who is he? Where am I? Things like that. Jack didn't know either of those answers, but he had a feeling he would soon enough.
"Tut tut." the voice said, sounding like a reprimanding teacher. Jack mentally frowned. He was beginning to feel like he knew this voice from somewhere.
Yes. . . the man's words about a hospital, taking him somewhere, the smooth, silky male voice. The accent! It all clicked together gently, like a jigsaw puzzle.
"You. . ." he rasped. "You saved me?"
"Ah, so you can speak." the man said. Jack had the feeling the man was smiling. "Good. Can you speak enough to tell me your name?"
Jack shook his head. If he told him his real name, then the man would only ask more questions.
"Your address?" the man asked patiently.
Jack shook his head again. Nope.
"Can you at least tell me your parent's surnames?" the man asked, not so patiently.
Jack shrugged, then he felt a stab of pain shoot through his shoulder-blades and he stiffened, praying that the pain would go away soon and he'd be strong enough just to slip away as usual. That was what he always did, wasn't it? Slip away from danger? That was, in his mind, the only sensible plan and he always believed it would work, if and when he got back on his feet.
As if the man could hear his thoughts, (or maybe he just read the look on his face,) he smiled and said, "Don't even think about it, boy. You can barely move and I haven't yet figured out how to set that rib."
Jack frowned and the pain sent a shudder down his body.
The man sighed. "Oh great, now you've probably got hypothermia." he muttered. "Just when I get seventy-five percent of your wounds moderately fixed-up. Again, not very grateful." the man leaned forward and Jack felt the blankets being pulled up around him, until the edge of the topmost blanket tickled his nose and he sneezed, then he winced. Oh gods, sneezing hurt!
"That settles it," the man said, tucking the blankets up around him. "Laying in that snow for so long has certainly given you a cold and hypothermia. You'd best stay still and hope that you don't rip any of your stitches. You're just lucky that I took a short medical studies class in collage."
Jack blinked. Stitches?
"Let's see how your temperature is," the man said, putting a hand on Jack's forehead. Jack felt the cold hand slide away and the man sighed. "That," he said, and Jack heard the sound of a hand being wiped. "Is not good. Your forehead is slick with perspiration and you seem to be burning up." the man paused. "The irony of this is mildly interesting."
Jack almost groaned. This guy was so familiar! His voice, his sarcastic tone. And yet he couldn't, FOR THE LIFE OF HIM, figure out why he heard that smooth, sarcastic British-accented voice before, apart from the Nightmare incident which led to his unfortunate current position. It was on the tip of his tongue! At the front of his memories! And then it slipped through his metaphorical fingers and he was left cursing in his head, wondering just who this man was. Or, even if he was human. No human should've been able to take down that wild, nightmarish horse on their own!
"-the hospital. I really don't know what was wrong with those people!" the man said, shaking Jack out of his musings. "If they think that a child dying is a joke, then they have a very sick sense of humor."
Jack frowned, and this time he bore the small tendril of pain that shot through his skull by gritting his teeth. He frowned because he was wondering what the man was talking about. That word, hospital again. Why did he-
Jack's eyes widened. The man had taken him to a hospital?!
The man paused. "Are you alright?"
Jack struggled to nod, but the pain returned with a fiery vengeance to his skull and he only managed to let out a low grunt before he succumbed to the pain and he had to close his eyes. Oh gods, he thought, trying to stay conscious. This is so not good! They probably thought this guy was an escaped mental patient!
"Oh dear. This is bad." the man said, all sarcasm gone from his tone. Jack heard the creak of a chair, then the shuffling of footsteps. The man was leaving him? Then Jack heard another sound. A whooshing sound, like running water. Jack sighed with relief. The man wasn't leaving him, although it might be better if he did. Jack knew that, when he got beat up pretty bad, there was a chance when he was healing for there to be a huge magical explosion or magical fallout. It had happened before, eight years ago. Jack had picked a fight with the fire spirit and, once again, had ended up getting melted within an inch of his life.
He'd crawled inside his tree to recuperate and stayed there for about a month. Then, when he came out again, it was July and there was about three inches of snow on the ground which was rapidly melting and then reappearing as he walked. It had been horrible, seeing the kids running around, happily sitting on beaches and playing in the sun. Then he'd gone to Santoff Clausen for the rest of the year, until winter came again.
Jack heard footsteps. The man was coming back again. He heard a door creak, the sloshing of water, then the clink of glass on wood. From what he could tell, the man had a glass of water with him. Jack felt the blankets that were covering him being pulled away and he sighed with relief. The welcome rush of cold air soothed Jack and he grunted contently. Then Jack felt something pulling at his hoodie lifting it up and a cool, wet cloth was pressed to his stomach where the pain was most intense.
"Nnnnnnnn!" Jack said, tilting his stomach away from the cloth and trying to shift the rest of his body away. The man was trying to cool him down, he supposed, but in truth he was actually providing Jack with just another irritation. The man put more pressure on the cloth and water ran down Jack's stomach, freezing as gravity took hold of the tiny droplets.
"Listen, I know this must hurt you quite a lot, but you've got to stop moving until the paramedics get here." the voice said sternly. The wet cloth shifted over to his side. "I just called them, they should be here any minute."
Jack's eyes closed. Oh no! Oh no no no no NO!
The man shifted the pressure again and Jack let out a sharp exhale as the cloth was pressed firmly against the broken rib. The pain was too much!
"No, no no! " the man said, pressing on the wounds and then letting up, then pressing again. "Keep your eyes open! You can't drop off before the paramedics get here. I didn't take down that horse for nothing!"
He pressed the cloth again, then moved it lower down his side once more. The water was growing colder and colder and, though Jack loved ice, this wasn't the kind he liked.
"NNNNNNN!" Jack said, very insistently, shying away from the cold rag. It would freeze, stick to his skin, and he wouldn't be able to get it off for a week. This had also happened before.
"Alright, alright!" the man said, taking the cloth away from his side. "If you won't let me do this, then at least take a few sips of water, I have no wish to be known as the man who let a child die of fever because I didn't keep him cool enough."
"I- nnt gnnna die!" Jack mumbled, trying to shift his body to let the side that was still half-covered with blankets air out.
"No, of course you're not." the man said absentmindedly. "If you did, well, that would be highly rude."
Yes, and I wouldn't want to disappointing you, Jack thought, fighting not to smile. The pain was more than he could bare right now.
"Where are those damn paramedics?" the man swore, standing up and Jack could hear the squeaking of floorboards under feet as the man walked towards the door.
Jack sighed. He wanted to tell the man that calling the paramedics had been pointless! Whoever came wouldn't be able to see him, any more than the people at the hospital the man had taken him to had seen him. They wouldn't be able to see him unless there were some children there (which he doubted), and even then even then, they might not see him! Jack had plenty of believers, but there was still the odd child who would walk through him and get a snowball in the face for it.
Jack sighed again. When the paramedics came and saw the man raving about an invisible hurt boy, he would be no doubt taken to an insane asylum and locked up for a while. That wasn't right! He couldn't let that happen!
"Wait!" Jack said, happily finding himself able to clearly utter this single word. He heard the sound of steps again and listened as the man knelt down by his side. He still couldn't see him.
"Yes? Is there anything else you need?"
Jack steeled himself, for he knew that the effort of talking would hurt him a lot. "I. . . need you-" then he had to break off to combat the pain that was stretching across his chest. Oh, how talking hurt!
"Yes?" the man asked patiently.
"Need you. . . to... put me. . . nnn ice." Jack said, gritting his teeth to block the pain.
"Ice?" the man repeated. Jack imagined he was frowning. "Did you say ice?"
"YEEEEEEEEES!" Jack moaned, closing his eyes again. If he didn't get in some ice or snow within the next hour or so, he would surely die. "Need... ice! Need ice. . . NOW!"
The man stood up and Jack could hear him striding towards the door quickly. "I'll go get you some ice. Just stay here."
I'm not going anywhere, Jack thought.
Ten minutes later, (or, at least he thought it was ten minutes. Time was a bit hard to calculate when you couldn't seen.) Jack heard the squeaking of feet again. More feet than Jack remembered. Then he heard the man talking to someone and he groaned.
Oh no! The paramedics!
"-he's right through here. I think he might have a concussion. He asked me for ice, which I assume was because he was really in pain, and he has a broken rib, plenty of other injuries and he keeps closing his eyes." Jack heard the shuffling of feet and the creak of the door. "I tried to keep him awake, but he just keeps closing his eyes!"
"Where did you find him?" a gruff, man's voice asked.
"On the corner of Dickens and Blithe." a familiar voice replied. "He was running from a wild, black horse and he'd been kicked around pretty badly. He was lying in the snow when I found him."
"Do you know how long?"
The men were in the room now. Jack could see their outlines against the soft candlelight of the hall outside the room he was being kept in.
"I'm not sure," the man admitted. "Maybe... half an hour?"
The other man nodded. "That's good. Could we please get some light in here?"
Jack knew what was coming and he closed his eyes, just before the man turned on what he assumed was an electric light. Behind Jack's eyelids, red and black merged and flexed like oil and water. Jack turned his head slightly and the light behind his eyelids dimmed. he tilted his heads the other way with similar results. This way he tell that the light was right above him.
"Mr. Pitchner," the man said and Jack could hear the creak of human joints. "is this a joke?"
The man referred to by the medic as Mr. Pitchner said, "No, sir. This is not a joke. The boy is right here."
Jack felt a cold hand on the bare skin of his stomach and he squirmed. The hand was soothingly cold, but the feeling of flesh on flesh kind of unsettled him. As if the man realized that he was making him uncomfortable, he lifted the hand gently away. Jack let out a sigh of relief. Whoever this man was, despite that he'd saved his life, he was giving him a shivery feeling- which was hard to do to a winter spirit.
Jack opened his eyes to slits and he could just barely make out the men standing over him. Just two. The man named Mr. Pitchner still had his face partially in shadow, but the paramedic's face was all too visible in the electric light, despite Jack's barely having his eyes open. The man had a shadowy, fired face and dark blue eyes. He also had a hooked nose and a very unamused look on his face.
"Mr. Pitchner," he said, sounding as if he was fighting to keep calm. "Do you know how many calls an ambulance gets a day?"
Mr. Pitchner shifted. "No, I do not."
"An average of twenty, Mr. Pitchner. An adverage of twenty."
Mr. Pitchner shifted again. "That is-"
"A lot." the paramedic interrupted. "A lot"
"I assure you, sir, there is a boy here. He is in a lot of pain and he needs medical attention."
The paramedic looked skeptical. "Perhaps the lights are too dim."
Mr. Pitchner snorted. "The lights are directly above him."
The medic looked right at Jack, then he sighed. "I'm leaving now, Mr. Pitchner."
"But he is here!" Mr. Pitchner said exasperatedly, reaching for the medic's hand. "Here, I'll show you!" He grabbed the medic's hand, who resisted, but Mr. Pitchner had a firm grip and he forced the medic to touch the boy's bare skin and stop this stupid tirade of the boy not being here!
Imagine his amazement when the medic's hand went right through Jack's stomach, which it did, and Jack hissed as he felt the man's hand faze through him. Even after 300 years of being passed through, the shock still knocked the wind out of him.
The man heard his hiss and, letting go of the medic's hand, knelt down beside him.
"Boy? Are you alright?"
"Mr. Pitchner," the man said in a low, angry voice. "Do you know that placing false 911 calls can result in several weeks in jail and several thousand dollars in fines?"
Mr. Pitchner let out a sound that sounded horribly like the snorting of that nightmarish horse and said, "No, I didn't know that."
"Well, it is." the paramedic said. "Now, because of your considerable tributes to the community, I will let you off just this once."
Mr. Pitchner tried to interrupt but the paramedic held up a hand to stop him. "No, Mr. Pitchner, I will not hear another word." he said. "Just because you are rich and entitles, that doesn't man that you are allowed to call up the police and paramedics for a practical joke!"
Mr Pitchner was so angry he was shaking. "This is not a joke!" he yelled, making jack close his eyes against against the noise. "There is a dying boy in this bed and you are just going to let him?!"
"MR. PITCHNER!" the paramedic yelled and, though he was at least a foot shorter than the man, then paramedic's rage made his voice boom. "This is really quite enough! I don't know what your game is, but you should really seek some professional help if this is how you like to spend your time!"
"GET OUT!" Mr. Pitchner ordered, pointing at the door. "Get out!"
The paramedic stomped over to the door and with a last disparaging look at the bed containing Jack, slammed the door.
Jack opened his eyes a little bit more to see Mr. Pitchner staring at him. Jack stared right back.
They held each others gaze for at least five minutes, and then Mr. Pitchner asked the one question Jack knew he would ask.
"Who are you, boy?"
Jack smiled and as the pain washed over him and he closed his eyes again, he whispered two words.
"Jack. . . Frost."