Title: Snow Dust and Feather Lights.
A/N: I utterly adore writing in this style. And yes! I did decide to keep this story going! I know it's not going to be a very long one - around six or seven chapters - but I hope to make the chapters long and enjoyable! If there's anything I could improve on plotwise, it would be appreciated greatly! Oh, and as for character inclusions - keep a real eye out for them. There's on in particular that will be playing a big part. But this is mainly Jack and Tooth's story, so it will focus on them. I hope to include more character to both of them in this chapter - this is a time skip, so they are older. I really hope you enjoy! Please review - comments are appreciated! :D
-Chapter Two
- In which time apart does not necessarily cause people to grow apart -
Seasons come and pass, the snow melts and forevergreen shoots poke through the once frozen soil.
Little changes in six years, and yet such a dramatic turn is had. Rouge cheeks and plump faces flesh out and become mature, hands once grabbing cookies and weaving flower crowns are now gathering cotton and spinning new dresses for the summer time. Either is carefully drawn out, crafted, perfectly measured to adorn the women's curves, either ensuring comfort and no beauty, or visual appeal and a test of her endurance in a corset, tightening her lung space.
Tilled fields now bear the fruits of their labour - in both a literal and metaphorical sense of achievement and relief that the back-breaking working ordeal is now over. They won't go hungry next winter, not like the last two years. And with the every-favourable market of the Guardian's Parade coming into toe in a few days, their hearts skip beats, eye shine a little brighter than normal.
And for Jack? Well...
"Jackson Overland! You get down from that tree right now! Mama's gonna have a head-fit with you again if you get stuck!"
He's now a proud brother to six year old Emma Overland. With her hands on her hips, brown hair and eyes, she's the spitting image of him through-and-though. Though her no-nonsense attitude can clash with his desire for fun and games, they unabashedly adore each other, him being the doting big-brother, getting her whatever he can to brighten up that smile.
He grins cockily, now fourteen years old and shy of manhood, his cast between his childlike persona and the desire to be more independent. "Calm down, Em! You wanted some apples, right? So I'm getting them for you!" He crouches with expertise, toes curling around the rough bark of the large apple tree they have outback. It was planted the day Jack was born, being the apple of his father's eye.
Emma sighs heavily, used to her brother's antics. "Jack, I love you and all, but you're drive for always making me happy is gonna kill you someday."
"Like I'd let you be the death of me, Em! I'm gonna stay here and annoy you forever!" Emma just shakes her head, fixing a slight crease on her otherwise neatly pressed dress. However, she cannot stay annoyed for long - instead matching his grin with her own.
"Ah, alright! But get down from there, okay? Just get the..." Her head turns, seeing the crowds of people. "Oh? What's with all the crowds?" She turned her head back to her brother, "Jack, what's going on?" Emma tilts her head, watching with nothing but fascination. She's utterly naive. He groans a little, rolling his eyes at her obliviousness.
"Em, I've told you about it before, remember? It's the market that comes every six years. It's got all kinds of stuff, you know! You'd really like it there!" He grins at her, but she cuts him off.
"Oh! I remember, now!" Emma claps her hands, eyes shining with the recognition. Memory has never been the best in favour for her, unless it's stingy details that get him in trouble. "Is that where you once met that girl you told me about? The girl who likes teeth?"
He pauses. "...Yeah. But that was six years ago. She probably doesn't even remember me." The golden bands, the quirky smile, the long plait with oddly fallen feathers caught in the strands from her headdress, adorned in green and blue feathers. And those big, bright, purple eyes. She's just a childhood phantom now, nothing that really matters. She didn't even have a name, anyway.
Emma huffs, smirking, "who could forget you? Anyway, I'm gonna go get my shawl, I'll be back in a bit!" She darts into the house, Jack frowning.
"It's Summer, though!" Though he hates the heat, it's not that cold out! Emma has always hated any slight chill, though. So it doesn't surprise him, as much as mildly irritates him.
With her cream shawl that's just a little too big now wrapped around her small shoulders, Emma grabs her brother's hand, taking a bite out of the apple that she begrudgingly (though gratefully) accepts. They walk down the same familiar road, as they have done for a million times, and will do for a million more.
"Wow! All this stuff is so cool! Why can't they just live here, Jack?" Emma squeals happily,Jack sighing. As much as he loves his sister, she's got the attention span the equivalent of him sitting down and doing nothing without getting bored.
He just shrugs, looking around. Whilst the dancers and trinkets are interesting to look at, Jack's not too interested in them anymore. Most of them are black and grey at this one stall - he makes a note to stay away from there.
He's never been a fan of dark carvings. They give him too many nightmares to count. And Jack's often scared they'll come true. 'Course, he'll never confide this information to anybody - nightmares apparently stop becoming a threat when you're older.
The stalls haven't changed from their last visit. Still vibrant, still cramming up every space in each row, each stall owner calling out goods on different herbs and jewellery from far off exotic lands, forged by the most skilled blacksmiths and that potion will instantly heal gout or make your eyes turn emerald-green. He doesn't care for the details, but their efforts are cute.
Jack's looking at a lone performer - quite a short man, but with a sense that you don't want to mess with him - somehow making golden dust (or sand?) levitate into shapes for the children, - rabbits, snowflakes (he finds that appealing), flowers, dinosaurs - when he feels Emma tug at his sleeve.
"Oh, oh, Jack! Look! A woodcarver!"
He paused. No way...
Jack's gaze catches a familiar twinkle, and he cannot help but crack a smile. His sister runs over to the man, Jack following with much eager. He even surpasses her giddy running, before stopping with a skid over the bare, dusty ground, the older man not looking up from his spectacles and currently small carving.
"Hi, there!" Emma greets him, "this stuff is really amazing! Oh! A hummingbird!" She smiles, glancing at one of the smaller, older toes. It's a hummingbird, but it's not - the wings are there, but the feathers are like emeralds and face almost seem childlike, with the nose like a woodpecker, one eye purple and one eye ice blue.
The old man chuckles, shaking his head and looking at her. "It's not a hummingbird, child. It's a faerie."
"Oh! You mean like the little people who have those little wands? Those kinds?" She adored fairy-tales, especially about the petite beauties who fluttered around the forests, frolicking and leading children like herself into a blissful day.
"Not quite. There are many stories that give that perception, but these are the real thing." He tells her, his voice holding untold wisdom. Jack is almost reminded of the stories where the old man is the key to a mystery, holding a sense of wonder and intriguing alert. But those are just stories.
"Faeries aren't real though, mister! I've never seen one!" She tells him matter-of-factly, hands on her hips.
He tuts, shaking his head. "You have little faith, my child. If you've never seen one, how does that make them not real? I heard legends about them here, too. That's why I carved her." He gestures a hand, pointing. "Especially the one about the feather lights."
"...Feather lights?" Emma and Jack share words of bewilderment, the woodcarver's eyes widening.
"You've never seen them? But you live right by the lake, do you not?"
Jack digs his foot into the grass, scoffing boyishly. "Ha! They never let us go out into the woods. Not even the adults do. They're too afraid. And they won't even tell us why! I've been there hundreds of times. Worst I've seen are rabbits."
"But rabbits can be really nice, Jack! Don't you always call Ast-"
"Emma, be quiet." Jack rubbed his temples, though couldn't hold back a boyish grin. "So, what are these 'feather lights', mister?"
"Feather lights," he begins, Emma and Jack's ears perked, "are nothing more than a cover for the faeries of this land." Emma opens her mouth to question, but the woodcarver pats her head, chuckling, "and yes, faeries do exist. Perhaps not in the form of frolicking faes that cheer and giggle, but they have a higher-intended purpose than what people give them credit for. Just like children, they have so much potential. They dwell everywhere that there is a shred of sunlight, in any condition. They're younger than the mountains of the East, yet younger than the Northern wind."
"How come we can't see them, then? The closest we ever get is seeing fireflies." Jack grins, as Emma yet again has to define things.
"My child, have a little imagination. Fireflies do their intended purpose - they live. There is no use not questioning something that you cannot, even if you meet the person, truly understand. Explore every inch of those questions. Then you find yourself with a memory of a journey, of a story to tell. Is that not greater than any answer?"
That silences her, sitting down on the earthy ground, though Jack hoists her into his lap. His mother would have a headfit if he saw the mud on her new dress. His lips perk a smile.
"Understand, now?" She nods, "good. Now, let's see, where was I... ah, yes. Faeries. See, the ones that live there originally weren't as small as that there carving. They were malevolent beauties, covered in a multitude of beautiful feathers, standing at around six feet tall. Any man who saw them were either blessed or bewitched. But don't let their beauty confuse you - they were fierce warriors of the skies, especially in the golden ages."
"W-warriors? Girl fighters?" The statement is so foreign in this day and age.
"Women warriors. A little girl such as yourself couldn't hold a sword." Jack teases, poking her nose - a habit he's picked up over the years. Emma frowns, but says nothing.
"Size doesn't amount to strength, you know. Even the smallest of us can wield more strength than a giant." And to that, Emma sticks her tongue out at him, but the woodcarver continues his story. "Those faeries were originally called the 'Sister's of Flight.' Immortal warriors. They fought not with metal swords, though they could if they so desired - but with a blade as delicate as the wings on their backs, as thin as a feather. However, after one of them died, they all die. But the only child to have ever been bore from one - though, I do not know where they reside, if they even do exist - but what I do know, is their birth helped their souls reside in smaller forms. Like this little one here."
Although the story was wondrous, enchanting, Jack raises a brow. "What do they have to do with the feather lights by the lake?"
"Well, my boy," he chuckles, "whenever a faerie dances near that lake, the moonlight on the lake causes their feathers to light up. Some say for a warning, but I think they're just dancing."
Emma's eyes are bright, brighter than the usual hazelnut brown. It's full of mirth, of innocence - and for once, she does not double check his meanings. The woodcarver chuckles, "well, why don't you take this one, here? She's quite old now. Over thirteen, I'd say. No luck trying to sell her."
"R-really?" He nods, Emma's grin widens, taking the small faerie in her grasp, "she's so cute! Thanks, mister!"
"Her eyes are really big." Jack notes, hand going to his torn pocket. "How much for it, anyway? I've got some coins on me-" He stops when the carver holds up a wrinkled hand.
"I said she could keep it. Although, if you want to repay me, you could deliver this to a friend of mine for me, lad." He holds up a glass bottle, cork in the top - filled with golden sand. There aren't any beaches near Burgess - it's more in the center of the country, bordered by thick greenery. Jack finds it saddening when his father has to leave to continue his work-of-trading out on the shores, but there's food on the table because of it, so he begrudgingly let's him go.
He still hasn't told Emma about how he used to be the one to hold his mother, whilst she cried in his small arms.
"Where's this from?" Jack takes it in his hand, peering at it closely.
A wistful chuckle is all Jack hears, along with a simple "from the dreams of children. Now, run along to the middle of the market, by the dances - there should be a shorter man performing tricks to a group of children. His name is Sanderson. Though he can't talk, so you'll need to approach him rather than call on him."
He can't talk? How did he manage? Jack keeps these thoughts to himself, taking Emma's hand and walking off. He doesn't notice the feathers falling to the ground near a post, nor the long black braid that swishes away.
"Sanderson... hah. Wouldn't it be easier to just call the guy Sandy?" A whistle escapes his lips, glancing around the centre of the market. He can tell this is more dedicated to those who have spare change, as it is filled with things that even his father could only dream of selling.
A bread maker, with many different shapes and sizes (is one of those French? His father bought it home as a treat, once) houses right next to a candlestick maker - not the kind they use for lighting the house, but the type that has different scents and colours. At one point Jack smells spice and apple, but Emma drags him away before he can even inquire about buying it. Gem encrusted jewellery with ringlets of gold and silver that even the light of the stars cannot hope to match, finest silk spun from the hands of gods themselves. It's all here.
But the small golden man, is not.
"Jack," Emma whines, "we've been here for ages and that Mr. Sanderson isn't here... and I don't like the way that lady is looking at us."
"Lady? What lady, Emma?" He cranes his head around, only catching a glimpse. A woman as old as his mother, with eyes igniting the eclipse and hair as dark as night. He feels a shrill shiver run along his spine, but says nothing on that, only a mere sigh. "She's probably just looking at us funny because we're dirtier than everyone else."
Thieves. Scoundrels. Pick-pockets. He's heard it all before.
"Just stay close to me then, Emma. Okay?" And she complies with a firm nod, gripping his arm tight. He could almost hear her childish whines, burying her head in his slightly-torn sleeve.
A few more minutes, and Jack is close to giving up on the search - when he spots something similar to words he heard.
Pudgy hands clap in adoration and praise, high-pitched voices squealing for more. A small hand waves in an intricate curl, a wave of sand swirling around his fingertips. It's not as bright as the sun, but not as dim as the sand of the desert. It's... the sunset clouds! Almost a fiery orange! So many shapes... stars, horse and carts... hummingbirds. His hand almost goes to his pocket, but is interrupted when Emma tugs at his arm.
"Jack, that's him!" She grins, dragging him along suddenly - almost tripping over!
"Wh- hey! Emma, slow down!" She pokes her tongue out at him, grinning.
"Noooope!"
"Is that so?"
"Mm-hm!" He raises a brow, dons a cheeky grin - before suddenly scooping her up, heaving her over his shoulder. "Jack!" She squeals in annoyance, batting her fists softly against his back, "Jack Frost, you put me down this instant!" And like any loving brother, he ignores her request, only grinning at her fruitless attempts to free herself and carries her over to the display. Acting casual is his specialty. The travelers stare, the locals do not - much too enthralled in the displays of colour and promise.
At a closer view, 'Sanderson' is but a small man, not much bigger than his kid sister. He rivals that of the monks who write scriptures, praise peace among the lands - his father showed him a painting about them one time, explaining who they were, when he had traveled overseas. Sandy hair and golden eyes, he may well have been sculpted from the grains. And yet... he has a dreamy quality in his eyes, a softness to his expression.
"You're Sandy, right?" Jack put's his free hand on his hip, tilting his head.
"Jack, put me down!"
The small man nods, gesturing for him to come and sit. As Jack does as he's told (one of the few times he does not protest), he pulls out the container of the golden sand, making his eyes twinkle with a dreamy aura. Sanderson takes it gratefully, and pours the dusty grains into his small hand. Jack raises an eyebrow, but it soon doubles into wide eyes of shock, as he bends the air to his will, making the sand around him levitate. For Emma, he wields images of flowers and a magical spring, things most small girls would adore.
And for Jack? He creates nothing but the image of a Winter wonderland. Snowflakes and snowballls, pine trees dusted with the freshly fallen snow of the crisp colder season. That's no surprise. The boy can travel miles with bare feet in that kind of weather.
Emma nudges his side knowingly, and that's when he catches the sight. The long black braid, again swishing away.
"What..." The children turn their heads, as Jack suddenly shoots up with a resolve to save the world. "Wait, I know that..." His eyes widen, and slightly bounces on the balls of his feet. "Emma, come on! Follow me!"
She barely has time to protest, her older brother all-of-a-sudden sprinting forth towards who-knows-where, as she stumbles behind to follow.
Sanderson simply shakes his head with a smile, conjuring up more images to delight the eyes of the youthful and innocent.
"Hey, you! Wait up a second!"
To the naked eye and any that bother to stare at his flying feet and frantic calls, Jackson Overland may seem to be nothing but a hasty young hellion selfishly trying to run and grasp the air too thin to grab within a single palm.
Of course, Jack never chases after what he cannot see. His father teaches that to him every time they go fishing. His mother may have different words, but she performs it in the way of hugs and nose-kisses.
But all life-lessons aside, Jack chases after the long braid that conceals itself in the shadows. He narrowly misses broken glass on the dusty ground, barges past through the admirers of the fine silk and woven cloth of one store that sells clothing too bright for a farm town, either ignorant of the glares and protests as he rushes past or chooses to remain oblivious. Either way, his mind only has one set mode: find her.
Even if that means ignoring the protests of the huffing little sister that runs after him.
Eventually, Jack finds that even his lungs needs to breath, and has to stop for a break. Breathing heavily, he rubs his arms, walking around and dimly takes in the surroundings. It's the edge of the market - where everything is quiet, calm. There are no flashy colours, nor loud bellowing salesmen garbed as a living mannequin. Just simple stone statues standings silently.
"Hello?" He calls gently, looking around. Upon closer inspection, they seem more like ice. He hears a humming, too gruff to be a young one, and peers in. "Anyone here?"
Jack gently dances around the sculptures/statues/engraved models (he can't really decide what to call them - he's heard so many fancy words from his father it's hard to tell what's what), gently peering around the opening of the stall.
But he sees nobody.
And that's when he realises. Eyes widen, he sharply cranes his head. "Emma?" No answer. "Emma!"
He hopes to hear a scuffle of feet. Chiding, lecturing - just her voice.
But he hears nothing.
And that scares him to no end.
"Jack! Jack..."
Young Emma Overland rubs her arms, her shawl barely enough to keep in the warmth. She wishes she'd gone with her knitted coat, but her mother would have thrown a headfit. Though it's not so much the cold than the chill running up her spine. She's a little girl lost in a sea of strangers, and the only guidance to her brother was his fast feet.
And she can't even see those anymore. "Jack! Are you here? Come on, stop playing tricks on me..."
She tries to frown. Tries to look annoyed, tries to look irritated with her older brother. She tries to be more mature than is expected of young ladies her age and get praised from her elders whilst her brother snickers in the corner, earning him a backhand from her mother.
But Emma is just a little girl, so finds herself angrily biting back her tears. "You idiot... stop tricking me now... come out..."
She trembles a little, "Jack...! Jack, where are you?" And her paces are quicker, as if trying to scramble out of a rope-bound knot; no matter how frantic you try to untie it, it just seems to get more tangled.
It's getting darker - mother will be expecting the two home soon. She's made broth with the potatoes that are growing in the farmland. She's supposed to be the one chopping up the carrots tonight...
"Jack..."
Dragging her now-dusty shoes, she sits on a wooden crate, bringing her knees up and resting her chin on them, snivelling. Her nose is too blocked to recognize the calming scents around her, as most of the stalls would be packed up by now...
She closes her eyes, not too sure what to do. Just fall asleep... maybe her mother would come calling. The market would be here for the next three days, so this would be the first place to come after all of their friend's houses... maybe the village would organize a search party, or maybe-
"Are you alright?"
Lashes open, Emma staring up at a kind face with a kind smile. One that isn't all too familiar (and yet, strangely is), but radiates a kindness akin to her very own mother.
She sniffs, wiping under her nose, "are you talking to me?"
The smiling face giggles. "Well, is there any other little girl crying near my mistress's stall? What's your name, sweetheart? Are you hurt? Where's your parents?"
"M-my mother says I'm not allowed to talk to..." Oh, what does she have to lose. "My name is Emma... I'm not hurt or anything, but my brother ran off, saying he had to find someone. I couldn't keep up with him." Emma laughs a little, embarrassed. "Sorry, should I go?"
"Your brother?" The girl ignores the other question, "shall we see if we can find him? I don't have a name, but I work right in this stall here. If my mistress hears I have hurt anyone, I'll be beaten for it, so rest assured, I mean no harm. Especially to a little child."
She offers a hanky, which Emma first sniffs (hibiscus flowers? Her mother loves those), then wipes her eyes and blows her nose, then giving it back to the girl. She looks more like a dancer than a flower-stall helper...
"What do you mean 'you don't have a name'?" Emma suddenly asks, then covers her mouth, "sorry, I should have asked..." This girl had been so kind to her, too...
But she smiles warmly. "I was never given one. Now, shall we find your brother, Emma?" She holds out her hand, and Emma notices just how small it is. Her brother's hands are quite large for his age. She thinks they'd be a perfect fit. But for now, she has to sait the gap, her childishly chubby palms grabbing onto the warmth.
"Thank-you." Emma says, though her shakes do not stop.
She looks down, "are you cold? I can understand that. We usually go around to the warmer climates, but it's quite cold this time of year! Actually, there was one boy I met so many years ago that loved the cold! I thought I saw him again today, but I'm not too sure!"
And Emma flinches. "...What was his name?"
"...I don't actually remember." She chuckles sheepishly, as Emma gives her a look. "He said it so fast, always rushing! A lot of things happened to me the last few years, too! But, oh..." She sighed happily, eyes clouding with a fond memory, "he had the brightest eyes that I've ever seen, and even more brilliant teeth!" She squeals a little, barely restraining herself from bouncing on the balls of her feet.
"You're really funny." Emma looks around for her brother, seeing most of the stall starting to pack away for the night. "This place is here for a few days, right? Then they go away for six years? Why not just stay here permanently?"
The golden bangles on her ankles jingle together as they walk, the girl chuckling, "we can never reside in one place. Our home is along the winds of magic. At least, that is what dear North says!"
"North? Winds of magic? What...?" Evidently confused, she just taps her nose mysteriously, continue to walk. "Oh, yes, what's your brother's name? It just occurred to me that I did not ask! That would definitely help in finding him."
"Oh, his name? It's-"
"Emma!"
The two look up, only seeing a blur of sparkling eyes and dirtied, dusty clothing running toward them. "Jack!" Emma roughly let's go of her hand, sprinting with the same eagerness. "Jack, you idiot! Why did you run off?!"
She latched onto his waist, he bends down and hugs her with a firmness like he would never let her go anywhere alone, not for long. She begins to weep again - childish sobs - ones she would scare admit too. She has the appearance of a china doll - pale faced, rosy cheeks, shoulder length chestnut hair and eyes to match, but she has the heart and maturity of a poet, finding the littlest details in everything and finding something to love or to see in a different light. And oddball, just like her brother.
"Em, Emma, hey..." He strokes her hair, rocking her, "Em, it's alright, I'm sorry... hey, I'm the big idiot, right? I'll make it up to you, promise. I always keep those, don't I?" And he cannot help but crack a smile, especially when she nods, bating his chest and mumbling weak insults.
As the clock ticks by, Emma finally finds the will to calm herself, in a mix of shaky breaths and gulps, she gives Jack a smile. "You owe me one. And I'll think of something reeeally good." And with a firm shake of the scared 'pinky swear', the contract is sealed. Jack picks her up in his arms, and unlike last time, she does not protest.
Purple eyes widened as they both looked at her, catching the gaze of brown; and they both freeze.
She's that girl I met...
Is he that boy that I...
"...You helped my sister?"
She nods. He smiles. Crooked lips, sparkling white teeth. It's a ticket to a new memory, and she cannot help but shake.
"Heh." He chuckles, and both Emma and she tilt their heads in confusion. "Tell me - did your wish come true, feather girl?" And her grin widens - amethyst eyes shimmering with pure delight. She taps her nose and folds her arms - the many golden bangles having increased from last time, almost covering her forearm. Not all are circular - some are bound with a silver chain, some have small charms dangling from the carved loops, others are plain.
"I cannot say. That's against the rules, silly!" And she may have aged, but she has not changed. And for that, Jack feels relief. She walks over to him, eyes brighter than ever.
"Ah, my mistake, I must have forgotten." He smiles, as Emma grins. "Good to see you again, flowerstall girl."
"Likewise, winter boy."
"So, your mother was pregnant when we first met each other?"
They decide to take a detour in getting back to Jack's home - the light may be dim, but light there is, blazing orange and melting with the wispy clouds. It dyes the once-vibrantly lush blades of grass into opaque mirrors of a fiery sky, fuelling the vast stretch of sunset. It's a pleasant stroll, though a few give looks to the odd sight.
Emma has fallen asleep in Jack's arms, as the exotic eccentric has given her feathery shawl to be used as a blanket.
"Mm. Emma's six. My Ma came to the market originally to look for herbs to help settle the pain. Turns out it worked - me and Pa needed them. She's scary when she's angry. And they apparently worked - or at least, they settled the cravings."
She sighs, lips perked into a dreamy smile, "oh, it must have been wonderful when she was first-born..."
He quirks a brow. "Babies don't have teeth, though. Wouldn't you have been a little disappointed?"
"I don't always fawn over teeth! Yours just happened to be very white and very shiny. It had been a while since I had seen teeth not stained by the likes of sugar cane and imported desserts. My dear North is a nightmare for them."
"We kind of can't afford luxuries like sugar on a daily basis. Maybe that's why they're so white." Though he does share her view - why does the horrid appearance of teeth give one more of a social status? He shrugs the thought off - he'd rather stick to the rare apple pies his mother bakes in the holidays.
"Many peddlers and salesmen journey to sell us their choices of goods - like sugar, for an example - when we travel to the Eastern borders. But the journey is long, so we cannot stop all the time." It's almost a complaint.
"Don't you like living with the market?" She sighs, rubbing her arm.
"It can be daunting. Besides, I am there merely as a slave, remember? My mistress and I could not survive more than three days without the market close by."
"There are other ways to make money."
She laughs, a bittersweet melody - like the melody his mother sings when she is missing his father. He doesn't like that tone, looking at her with a gaze speaking of sorrow and confusion. "You are so simple-minded, as such living a simple life would lead. Money is not the essence of our survival."
"Travelling to different lands is a busy life. Fun around every corner! You can't blame me for thinking that way!" Jack protests, though keeps his voice down due to his slumbering sibling who buries her head in the crook of his neck.
Her gaze softens, reaching out and patting her cheek softly, "she is a good girl, you know. A very smart girl, too."
"We're not exactly school-literate. Pa tries his best, but... heh, it's no always the best. Still, better than most."
"I didn't mean that."
"Huh?"
She tucks a strand of brown hair behind Emma's ear, fixing her fringe for her as well. "I mean, she has the heart of someone who can tell much wisdom and poetry from a single leaf. She does not need extravagant words, only an understanding."
Jack cannot help but snort. "You just met her. How can you possibly know all that?"
"The same way our gut tells us who to trust and who not to trust. The same way the stars align to guide us home. It's in our blood, in the way we think. I just know. Pretty magical, right?"
He is stunned. Paralysed with shock, as if his entire bloodstream froze and left nothing but a lower lip dangling from thin cobwebs.
Moments pass.
"A-ah... right, there's my house..." He shakes his head, as she realises they have strayed from the market. The town of Burgess lays little far from the market - it is small, but paved with freshly swept streets, if dusty and made marked by travelling carts and horseshoe imprints. The market itself hides itself away in a clearing on green grass ad coveted by alpine trees, and Jack's house is on top of the sloping hill, a little away from their small farm. An oak tree resides at the top near their house, with a rope-swing.
"It's beautiful." She marvels, a gently breeze caressing her face, black locks and feathers brushed against her tawny skin. She is still so short, barely up to his shoulders, but her hair is longer and she is again covered in colourful, vibrant garb. She almost looks kind of pretty.
"Mm." She gives him a questioning look, to which he flushes, "a-ah, yeah. Um, yes... yeah, the house. It's nice. Pretty. Pretty nice." Oh, he's so glad Emma is asleep... her giggling doesn't make his blush go down - especially since his pale skin is such a stark contrast.
"You are quite shy, Jackson. Were you perhaps admiring my eyes? Or my hair?"
"Something like that." He grumbles, digging his toes into the dirt.
She cannot help but giggle feverishly at his behaviour again, before giving him a wide smile. "Will I be seeing you tonight, like the last time we met? By all of those oddly planted flowers?"
Jack glances up at her. "You remember?"
"How could I forget?" She smiles, "I've got quite a good memory, you know. Your name may have slipped, but I never forgot your smile, or your kindness to me, becoming my first friend. About your farming, about how you always scratch your nails on that one goat's horns, about how your mother collects eggs in her apron because the basket is not big enough. Shall I go on?" She grins, "or is that proof enough?"
He is still, before his boyish smirk returns. "Proof enough." He turns to walk away with Emma in his arms, but shoots a glance back, "and don't worry, I'll be there. I never break a promise." He pauses. "And yeah. You're kind of pretty." Jack winks, before turning to walk up the hill, Emma cuddling closer to him.
The stars blink down on the girl, the girl covered in feathery drapes and twinkling bangles, but she is too far gone in her racing heart to blink back up at the sky. Instead, she drinks in all the smells around her - the bakeries, the farms, the animals - the chattering sounds of the birds and the sweet smell of pine wood; and for a moment, she feels like she could be at home.
For a moment. She soon turns away from those smells, those sounds, and walks back to the travelling market, to the same life she's always lived, and will live for many years to come.