Hi guys! Here's Chapter 4 on the Sequel for PLEASE COME BACK: Solitude Forgotten... :)

Chapter 4: Deeds of Two

**Jamie's POV**

'And as I watched him, his fair hair shockingly white in the moonlight, I knew exactly what he asked of me. The night was silent; the wind that howled just a few moments ago was silent. Everything around us was still, as if holding its breath in anticipation to what I would do. I leaned forward, stray strands of my ebony hair framed my forehead, but I didn't disturb it. Our foreheads met. Somewhere, an owl hooted, but I paid no attention. His eyes, so shockingly blue like the untainted azure of a cloudless sky, stared into my own. His breath ghosted across my lips, his tongue darted out to lick his lips, intentional or unintentional… I don't know, all I know that it's tempting me to claim it. We look at each other, our eyes seeming analyzing the soul of the person standing in front of us. A shift of his face and our lips—'

"Jamie! Dinner!" Nurse Beatrice sounded from outside the door. I resisted the urge to growl. Now that I had a Muse, if not a plot twist that will allow me to at least manipulate the story in a new variety of ways, I found it difficult to attend to my other responsibilities in the asylum… such as meals and hygiene.

Yuck.

'Don't admonish me,' I snapped, 'It was you who got me caught up in the love business.'

The Voice was silent, and I couldn't help but smirk a little. Nurse Beatrice set up the table and I was left to help her get dinner, fried chicken and mushroom soup, from the tray and to the table. The aroma made my mouth water, and a growling in my stomach reminded me of my lack of a proper lunch that day.

The Nurse chuckled, "Hungry, dear? Though, I suppose, since you ate so little."

She rolled the tray outside but said over her shoulder, "Finish your food, Jamie! Or you're gonna turn into a matchstick!"

I choked on the soup I swallowed. Where did that come from? The door was already closed when I cleared my throat of the offending delicacy. She meant nothing of it, which was true. But I couldn't help but glance at myself in the mirror at the foot of my bed:

"Holy crap," I muttered. The boy, or man… whatever you want to call it—

You'll always be a boy to me, Jamie, The Voice cooed.

'Would you shut up?' I growled back. I found that talking to it like it was another human being, not just a figment of my imagination, was a more effective solution to it giving in to my suggestions, or demands in this case.

The man staring back at me was as thin as… well, not a matchstick. But close. His face was still full, brown eyes the color of dark chocolate still twinkled, albeit dulled, underneath a mane of shaggy, but not unkempt, brown hair. His arms were thin, lacking the traces of lean muscle that came from weeks at the gym.

"Maybe I do need to take a break," I muttered to myself as I closed my eyes and prayed.

**Jack's POV**

I dimly acknowledged the Pooka's voice as he invited me over to the Warren. It was a common occurrence now, Jamie's disappearance left me lonely and pining for the friendship and, though I would never admit it to anyone, love, of my first believer.

Bunny understood, albeit to a lower scale, my need for closure with the boy. When the world's population of children stopped believing in the Guardians, and Bunny was reduced to his disbelieved state as a rabbit, it was Jamie who helped start the chain of belief that empowered us to battle and defeat Pitch Black. Jamie held a spot in Bunny's heart, and Bunny understood why I needed to talk with him.

"Oy, Frostbite! Did ya hear what I just said?" Bunny waved a paw in my face, once again wrenching me from my thoughts and into the cold winter's night whose winds were silent. I immediately summoned the Wind once more, telling it to spread a light dusting of snow, not too light, not too heavy, to the places where they are needed. It howled once, then surrounded Jack in a quick flurry of ice and frost, before spreading out to the continents.

"What?" I said, dumbly. Aster rolled his eyes.

"I said: What're ya gonna do now, Jackie?" He said, repeating the statement in a slow manner, as if he was talking to dim-witted human child. I chuckled at the comparison, but frowned at the question. I let frost gather in my hands and spread to the trees around us as I contemplated the question.

The Wind is omnipresent. You can't see it, but you can feel it. And though there are times you can't feel its caress, it's there, but unmoving… just waiting for someone to move with it or against it.

And now, as I sit with Bunny, the Wind was wafting silently around the dead trees. Their trunks glistening with frost patterns as the moonlight reflected off of it, giving their make-shift winter glen a sort of effervescent glow. They seemed to whisper the answer to me as I reflected on my indecision.

'Find him.'

**Jamie's POV**

It's been… three weeks since I made that comment about needing a break. Have I done it?

No.

Do I have the intention of doing it?

No.

I'm not in a tight schedule or anything, in fact, I have all the time in the world, but I just can't stop writing! The soft rhythmic tapping of my fingers on the keyboard never fails to lull me into an almost addictive feel, the feel of words being printed on paper, creating another universe where everything is subject to your delivery and interpretations. Words mean everything. Words can change everything.

I suppose I should thank my mother for that. Originally, the Asylum refused any mode of gadgetry, as it could be used for self-harm or some blah-blah like that. However, for once in my "sick" state, my mother vouched for me. She even went as far as writing a letter to the Head of the Asylum that I am not capable of self-harm, and that the sole purpose of my laptop is for writing.

They consented. And as far as I know, I'm the only person here with a gadget. And I'm not sure that's a good thing… the Wardens realized this too, so they keep my laptop under lock and key once they announce it's time for bed to prevent anyone from stealing it.

But right now, at nine in the morning as I finished my breakfast and morning practices (I'm the only inmate with a toilet and sink, perks of being my mother's son), I was filled with the need to do something different.

I sighed, I knew this feeling; a feeling I get that starts from behind my eyes, almost like a thin, but incredibly taut thread, that prevents me from concentrating. But when I push past that it goes to my chest. Though the pain does not go past the point of discomfort, it's still a nuisance when I expect my time writing to be a long, flowing river of words and imagination.

I sighed once more. I looked at the clock outside my door.

Nine-twenty.

Ten minutes before the siren sounds that tell us we have twenty minutes to use the shower. I dropped to my knees, and proceeded to do as much push-ups I can in five minutes, which turned out to only be fifty as I was immediately forced to take a break.

'I must be more out-of-shape than I thought.'

The Voice snorted. You think?

'Shut up.'