33: SOME ARE CURSED

Jack Frost scrambled backwards in the snowbank, gasping for breath. Standing before him—floating in the air—was a tiny, plump little man. Everything about him, gleaming in the moonlight, was gold; his hair clumped itself together in large, gold spikes, his eyes were soft and golden in their color, and on his stout, short little body was a clinging gold robe, stretching all the way down onto his tiny feet.

"You—you can see me?" Jack stammered.

The little man smiled, patting Jack's shoulder again and taking a step back. A wave of relief swept over Jack, and he scrambled onto his feet.

"Oh my word!" he gasped, "You have no idea how grateful I am to see you, then! I mean, unless—unless I'm seeing things. Am I seeing things? I mean, all this stuff in the air—?"

The little man shook his head, smiling.

No. Jack wasn't seeing things.

"Oh, good. But, if I'm talking to you—hey, what's your name? If you're not a hallucination?"

The little man didn't answer, but instead pointed above his head. Jack looked up, and the suddenly jolted, seeing dozens of little pictures—out of the strange golden shimmering—forming in the air in front of him.

"What the—?" Jack's eyes widened in confusion. "Why can't—what's going on? Why can't you just talk to me?"

The pictures stopped, an image of a tree disintegrating into the air. In a moment, the golden man pointed to his throat, biting his lip.

"You can't speak," Jack sighed.

The little man shook his head and smiled sheepishly, shrugging. He didn't seem the least bit offended. Or concerned.

"Who ARE you?"

The man jumped slightly into the air, golden images rapidly forming and disintegrating again above his yellow, spiky hair. Bears, dogs, deer, leaping fish, animals Jack had never seen, and—

"—I—I'm sorry," Jack interrupted. "I—I don't understand."

The little man raised his eyebrows. Then, floating over to Jack, he gestured for him to hold out his hand. Jack hesitantly did so, and watched in wonder as the little man swirled his tiny, pale hand over his own outstretched one. A shimmering, golden substance fell into his palm, and Jack pulled it back, inspecting it.

Feeling a small clump of it in his fingertips, his eyes widened.

"Is this—sand?"

The little man leapt up into the air, silently clapping and grinning enthusiastically. Jack gasped.

"You're the Sandman," he breathed.

A tiny, golden bowler hat spun into existence above the man's head, and the man reached up and tipped it, grinning from ear to ear.

"But I haven't—" Jack's voice trailed off. "I haven't believed in the Sandman since I was a kid! You—you're really—?"

He shrugged, smiling again. Then, the little man—the Sandman—gestured to Jack, asking the silent question with his face.

"Oh! I'm—um," Jack stammered, "I'm Jack Frost."

Snowflake. Question mark?

Jack nodded, picking up the staff. Moving it between them, he tapped it on the ground, and intricate swirls of ice spun out from where it had touched, covering the grass in a thin layer of frost.

The Sandman's eyes widened slightly. Then, he looked back into Jack's gaze, smiling approvingly. He was clearly impressed.

After a few moments, he gave his head a slight little shake, a few grains of sand flying from his hair and falling towards the ground. Jack watched as the Sandman then held up a golden bag that he hadn't previously noticed. Placing the bag in front of himself, the Sandman then opened it up as it hovered in the air, pulling out something dark.

Holding it up in his tiny hands, the little man shook it out. Watching in curiosity, Jack saw that it was a dark blue shirt. Raising his eyebrows, the Sandman then grinned, holding it out to him as more images formed in the air.

Shirt. Boy without shirt. Boy with shirt!

Jack took the piece of clothing, getting onto his feet. He then shook his head, sadly looking up to the little man floating in the air in front of him.

"No. This isn't mine," Jack sighed, "I lost my shirt back at the—"

The little man raised his eyebrows, and glanced down to the piece of clothing in Jack's hands again, a sly little smirk twitching out of the side of his mouth. Turning it over, Jack then looked down and jolted.

His eyes bulged. It really WAS his shirt—the seams, the cut, and the softness of the worn woolen fabric were all recognizable. But somehow, the whole thing had been altered and added upon, like he'd never seen before. The tattered wristbands had been replaced by thick cuffs, and the neck, instead of being a loose, ragged seam, was now attached to a small hood, with a drawstring inserted into a casing around its edge to pull it together. The bottom hem was reinforced as well, with a thick ribbed band. Strangest of all, sewn onto the stomach of the shirt was a long, two-sided pocket, that seemed to serve no more purpose than to provide a place to put one's hands.

And of course, there was the mystery of how his faded woolen shirt had lost all of its burn marks and holes from the exorcist's torch. In fact, not a single mark remained—and the fabric had somehow been transformed from a warm cream color to a deep, icy blue. Mended and fresh, it was now just as if his shirt, too, has been pulled out of a frozen lake.

He looked back to the little man, his mouth falling slightly open in shock.

"How…?" Jack choked. "Where did—what the—what?"

A single image formed above the Sandman's head.

Crescent moon.

Jack's eyes widened. Stumbling back a step, he gulped, then opening his mouth to speak again.

"The Man in the Moon?" Jack breathed. "He—you're saying he fixed my shirt?"

The Sandman nodded solemnly. He gestured to the sky, raising his eyebrows slightly. Jack turned and looked.

"Oh. Um," he stammered, gazing up at the moon. "Thanks."

The Moon didn't respond. Jack bit his lip, shrugging and turning back to the Sandman—who now looked satisfied; Jack had thanked the Man in the Moon—as he studied the strange garment.

"What is this thing?" Jack breathed. "I mean, I know it's my old shirt, but it's just like—different."

The Sandman put his finger to his lips, looking up thoughtfully. After a few moments, Jack saw a golden image begin to form above his head, and jumped again.

Book. Book opening. Question Mark?

The man pointed to him, his eyebrows raised in the question.

"I—um, yeah. I can read."

Jack watched in amazement as new pictures spun into existence.

Letter H, letter O, letter O, letter D, letter I, letter E.

"What's a hoo dye?"

The little man shook his head vigorously, starting again.

Letter H, letter O, letter O, letter D. He paused. Letter I. Letter E.

"Oh—um—it's called a hood-ee?"

The Sandman nodded fervently, beaming. As Jack watched in wonder, the little man then pointed at the ground, more images forming above his head.

Number One. Number Five. Number Four. Number Two.

And then, he pointed to the piece of clothing.

Number Two. Number Zero. Number One. Number Two.

A look of confusion swept across Jack's face.

"Um… what?" he choked. "I'm sorry. I still—I don't understand what you're saying."

The Sandman rolled his eyes, grinning sheepishly and shaking his head. He shrugged, flinging his hand forward in a daw, forget-about-it sort of gesture. Jack smiled weakly in spite of himself.

"Well—whatever it is," Jack chuckled, "I'm guessing it's comfortable. And if no one can see me, it doesn't really matter if I look stupid. Right?"

The Sandman shrugged again, smiling good-naturedly, and Jack pulled the blue shirt—hoodie—whatever it was—over his head. As he yanked it down over his stomach, the fabric brushing against his skin, delicate fractals of frost webbed out across its surface, starting from his neck and creeping itself down onto his arms. The pain on his back cooled, as if the burns were beginning to heal from simply touching the icy fabric.

Wow. It really was comfortable.

The Sandman took a step back, folding his stout little arms over his chest. Jack realized that more pictures were appearing above his head.

Eye. Teardrop. Tears from eye. Question mark?

He pointed to Jack, his eyes soft with concern.

"Why was I—? Wait. No," Jack blurted, his face flushing slightly. "I—I wasn't crying."

The Sandman's golden eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. Then, visibly restraining from rolling his eyes, he smirked slightly and gestured again, another picture forming.

Question. Maaaaaark?

Jack bit his lip, staring determinately at the ground. Gripping the staff, he pulled in his breath again, avoiding the little man's gaze.

"I'm a demon," he insisted. "Demons can't cry."

The Sandman jolted, his eyes bulging at the statement. He shook his head, not understanding.

"Oh, come on. This is Hell, isn't it?" Jack choked. "I'm a demon, and I'm in Hell. I just don—wait, no?"

The little man was shaking his head vigorously, his face filled with horror. Jack gulped.

"If this isn't Hell," he said carefully, "Then—then where am I?"

The images began to form again.

Letter B. Letter U. Letter R. Letter G. Letter E. Letter S. Letter S.

"Burgess?"

The Sandman leapt up, nodding enthusiastically and beaming. Jack looked around himself, shifting his grip on the staff.

"So, this place is called Burgess, huh?" Jack mused. "Not… um, not… Hell."

The Sandman raised his eyebrows and nodded. Correct.

Jack, his mind racing, looked down, fingering the edge of the strange pocket on his mended shirt. Finally, he pulled in a deep breath, looking back to the Sandman.

"So… am I stuck here, or is there more?" he asked quietly, "Can I go anywhere else?"

He watched in wonder as a little smirk spread over the Sandman's face. Then, before Jack could respond, the man leapt forward and grabbed his wrist. Abruptly sucking in his breath, Jack Frost was suddenly shooting upwards on a golden cloud into the air.

.

.

Lying next to Elsa, Jack absent-mindedly kicked the edge of the bedskirt with his toe, staring up at the sprawling map above them. He crossed his arms over his chest, and then let out a long sigh.

"My father was actually the leader of the village, but with my death—and then losing the baby—and then, of course, the demon," he scoffed, "Well—let's just say his leadership position didn't last very long. Everyone thought the family was cursed."

The Ice Powers Girl said nothing, her eyes wide with horror. Jack pulled in a deep breath, letting his arms fall down to his sides.

"And—in a way—I guess I was." He swept his hand through the air, and a tiny cluster of snowflakes began to swirl and dance above his palm. He looked to Elsa, then glancing back to the snowflakes. "Some are born with the powers. Some are cursed. I'm in the second category. Look at everything that happened to my family immediately after."

Jack sighed again, twisting his finger around the snowflakes in the air. They burst apart, the disintegrated ice particles softly falling onto his chest in a shimmering mist.

After a few moments, Elsa turned over and looked at him, propping herself up on her elbow. She pulled in a long breath, her eyebrows lifting slightly.

"Jack Frost," Elsa breathed, "You're… really… incredible. You know that?"

He froze, his eyes wide. Then, after a moment, he let out a long sigh. "Elsa, there's nothing particularly incredible about me," he said softly. "I'm not like you. I wasn't even born with my powers. Remember? The Man in the Moon did all of that."

"And it sounds like you were chosen for that, too. But I wasn't talking about your powers, Jack," Elsa whispered. "I was talking about you as a person."

His breath caught. Jack opened his mouth to say something, to try to respond, to tell her she was wrong, but no sound came out.

Incredible?

The Fifth Spirit of the Enchanted Forest turned herself over on the floor. He could practically feel her intense, sad gaze on his face as he continued to stare determinately at the underside of the bedframe.

"You survived three hundred years of torture," she said softly, "And at the end—after all of that, after endless torment, all without even having an understanding of why you became invisible—you didn't want revenge, or to take out your pain on anyone else, or to even have an acknowledgement of how much you'd suffered. After all of that, all you wanted was to help people have fun."

Jack felt his heart leap into his throat, once again nervously glancing to the young woman next to him on the floor. Her expression was so—sincere. Did she—did she really mean what—?

Suddenly, Jack knew that he was blushing. After a few moments, unable to fight it, he let out a nervous laugh, shifting uncomfortably on the floor again.

"Well, I—I guess it just—um," he stammered, "I like—I like making people happy. I guess. And it helped take my mind off of—well. The invisibility. And stuff. You know, seeing people having fun?"

To this, the Snow Queen smiled weakly. His heart leapt again.

OooOOOoooh, that smile.

"Jack, this is what I mean. You are incredible," she said softly, her face going serious again. "I mean—come on—your family and everything? That must have been heartbreaking."

"I actually—actually, I couldn't remember any of it," he responded, "I mean, before I was raised up by Manny. I had complete and total amnesia."

A look of confusion swept across her face.

"So… how are you remembering it now?" Elsa asked. "Like—your father. How did you figure it out?"

"Remember it? That would be Baby Tooth's doing. Long story," Jack said, shifting again and taking in a long breath. "In retrospect, though, I—honestly—when I did remember—you know, when I realized that those poor people in the cottage had been my parents—I've never been so grateful for the amnesia. For all those years of being angry at Manny, I'd never realized that wiping my memory was an act of mercy."

He folded his arms over his chest as the pain sank back in. Elsa was quiet, propped up on her elbows and gazing into his face as he stared at the underside of the bedframe again.

Jack pulled in a long, shaky breath.

"If I'd remembered who they were at the time—I—I don't even want to think about that," he choked softly. "I mean—it would have hurt so much more. The first decade was the hardest. Just, I—I didn't—!"

He gasped for another breath, cutting himself off. Then biting his lip, Jack shook his head in embarrassment, folding his arms tighter and avoiding Elsa's sad gaze. Opening his mouth to speak, he tried again.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, "It's just—I guess it was—"

In his peripheral vision, Jack saw Elsa turn over towards him, reaching for the candle. Flicking her fingers above it, there was a tiny flash of ice, and it snuffed out.

Suddenly thrown into almost complete darkness, Jack felt her scooting towards him on the floor.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I just don't want anything to catch on fire."

"Elsa—wha-what are you doing?"

"I made you a promise earlier today," she said softly. "And I—um—I think you need someone to touch you right now."

Jack's breath caught as he watched Elsa reach her arm across his chest, her body pushed against his own on the floor. A shudder ran through him as he felt the warmth of her body, of another person's body, next to his own in the darkness, the Ice Powers Girl awkwardly hugging his side in the cramped space underneath her childhood bed.

Nothing, in his entire life, had ever felt so beautifully reassuring to Jack as Elsa's embrace did in this moment.

His eyes started stinging.

NO! Jack thought desperately, Not in front of her! Fighting it, his heart pounding, his mind raced furiously as he tried to think of something to say.

Anything to say.

He looked down again, seeing Elsa's head resting on his chest. Jack then hesitantly put his arm around her, pulling her closer, the rush of relief sweeping through him again as he struggled for words.

"Thanks," he choked. "Elsa—I—"

"—Jack Frost, I will never stop believing in you."