I have a dream, a song to sing

To help me cope with anything

If you see the wonder of a fairy tale

You can take the future even if you fail

I believe in angels

Something good in everything I see

I believe in angels

When I know the time is right for me

I'll cross the stream - I have a dream

- Abba, I Have A Dream

watch?v=9yl2dIib9cw

Jack had been out of the lake a little over two hundred years now, and he'd decided that dancing was up there with snowball fights and sledding for his favorite pastimes. If nothing else, he could dance even when there wasn't anyplace to bring snow that wasn't already saturated with it.

Sometimes, when the pain of being unseen and unheard got to be too great, he would use the dances he'd learned for release and relief. It was less painful than screaming into the wind (when he started screaming he couldn't stop until his voice gave out, forced to be silent for weeks afterward) or creating blizzards (they were part of the job but when he let his emotions create them they went out of control and the children were hurt by them, and he didn't want them hurt, not the children, never the children), and somehow, more satisfying.

He watched dancers all over the world and mixed parts of all their dances into his when he danced for himself.

The rapid movements of eastern belly dance mixed easily with flamenco or tarantellas, the ballet and the oriental dances all changed to suit his mood, playful or angry, sorrowful or painful. The best was when the wind partnered with him for a pas de deux or held him for a lift, giving his spins extra height and catching him in his tours en l'airs and sautés, holding him for the lowest floor moves in his belly dance or lowering him into a dip before letting him tumble into gymnastics, all of it mixing into a cohesive whole, flexible and expressive and free as he slid across the ice of his lake with grace or violence, all of them letting out his pain at not being seen, his anger and fear that no one ever would or his joy in a winter night, any mood that caught him and needed expressed in ways he couldn't put into words.

Tonight he was in a gentle mood, and he mixed his dance styles into that mood as he flew over the city, dancing across roofs and telephone lines, leaving his trademark frost behind him in his steps, looking down at the children with soft eyes. His frost made interesting patterns when he danced it, different from how it looked when he simply walked or let it form under his hand, and he made a mental note to see if he could control it sometime, maybe even make pictures or words out of the frost. That should be funny, if he could get it to work.

Landing on a lamp post, he pirouetted, spinning gently on its slick surface. Coming slowly to a stop he crouched on its small surface, watching the city as it began to slow and fall asleep.

He glanced up at the moon and sighed. It wouldn't answer him, and tonight, at least, he didn't feel like trying and being proved right.

As the Sandman's golden streams began to fill the air, he smiled, cheered by their golden glow. He began to sing, quietly at first and growing louder as he grew bolder, a gentle lullaby-like song he'd heard a few weeks ago.

He took to the air, unwilling and unable to stay in one spot any longer, and danced through the air as he sang. For a few minutes he could pretend that the Sandman approved, that the streams of golden sand were being sent to dance along with him as he spun among them.

The streams wrapped around him, lending to the illusion. They danced through the sky, following him as he spun and dove, wrapped in a lacework of gold glittering against his pale skin and hair, gilded white and gold against the backdrop of velvet night and diamond stars.

As his song finished he slid carefully out from their embrace and bowed quickly to the cloud the Sandman rode on high above him, blowing a kiss in lieu of his usual hand kiss before flying off quickly. No way he was getting close enough to the Sandman for that, especially since there was no way the man had known Jack was there.

Someone as important as the Sandman was way to busy to dance with Jack.

If he had looked back, he might have seen the small golden man watching him leave with mixed amusement, curiosity, and worry, wondering just who that was and wishing with a soft regret that he hadn't run so quickly.

Sighing soundlessly, he turned back to his dreams as the other spirit – so very young still, barely more than a child – flew away. Much as he might have liked the other to speak to him, he had his work to do.

Still, he'd enjoyed the dance. Maybe next time he could surprise the winter spirit with one.