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[fanfic] [Rise of the Guardians] Migration
“The wind makes you ache is some place that is deeper than your bones. It may be that it touches something old in the human soul, a chord of race memory that says Migrate or die - migrate or die.”
--Stephen King
Jack flies. At first, he flies from place to place because he just wants to fly, to feel the wind in his hair, to glide over cloud and sky. It didn’t matter if he was unseen or unheard; he was the air, weightless, breathless, a vessel to ghost over the light of the moon. He flies over city and tower, village and town, over thatched roofs, wincing at the crunch of his feet but no one else noticed. To them, it sounded like the mild hail after a snowstorm. He laughs, running over lines and tiles, watching beautiful threads of frost curl over rust and red.
Sometimes, he sits outside someone’s window, just watching. He has no heart (and if he did, it does not beat) and he has no memory (but the memory of ache) , but he watches nonetheless because in families, he sees a bright warm spark, slumbering in their hearts. Sometimes it burns so brightly that Jack is afraid of it, afraid of what it might do to him. He is frost and cold and goosebumps, chills that spread over unclothed arms and legs. He is not meant for warm places.
But he watches and sometimes he can feel warm. He’s not sure why or how, but he feels it, treasures it and leaves before the frost covers the windows.
He doesn’t like to watch for too long. It overwhelms him and he has to choke back the tears that turn to snowflakes.
Jack runs with the children. They skid and slide and he makes sure they land on a snow bank, watching them erupt out of it in a fit of giggles. He can’t stop laughing, can’t help watching their little glows flicker brightly and think, this is because of me, this is all me, not the Tooth Fairy, not Santa Claus, but me.
But the glow fades, so soon. There is only so much cold a child can take and they run back home, to huddle in their homes. Sometimes he watches, sometimes he can’t take it, the warmth, the glow of families, huddled together in blankets and chocolate.
The other times, when he was called by the wind, there were no children, no people, just desolate plains of ice as far as the eye can see. He never understood why the wind brought him here. He felt purposeless, another fleck of ice and sleet in an endless white trapped inside his heart (which doesn’t beat). After a century, he understands. He sits down, digging his feet into the snow, listening the wind sing to him. It brought him here to make sure he keeps his spirits, so he doesn’t lose hope.
On occasion, he rages, throwing frost and snow all over the place, hoping to make a difference, to leave some mark to show that he was here, that he existed, that he could be seen. He screams at the wind and the wind howls back and together, they are a cacophony of misery.
It always fades. It was too much effort to be angry, to despair. He couldn’t do it forever and he pitied anyone who had to.
He considers visiting the Guardians.
“What do you think?”
The moon hangs in the sky, luminescent.
Jack leans on his staff, uncertainty ringed around his eyes, “It wouldn’t be bad, right? They’re like me. I mean, they can be seen, but we’re… we care about children. That counts doesn’t it?”
The moon is silent.
It doesn’t, then. They’re nothing like me. No one is like me. What did I expect, a pity party? Jack thought to himself, leaping off the roof to walk on the cables. It didn’t matter. He would find his own way. He had his own powers, he had the Wind. They didn’t have that, no matter how special they were.
He didn’t need to be a Guardian. He just needed to be Jack Frost.
And so, he called to the Wind, take me home, and flew away.
--Stephen King
Jack flies. At first, he flies from place to place because he just wants to fly, to feel the wind in his hair, to glide over cloud and sky. It didn’t matter if he was unseen or unheard; he was the air, weightless, breathless, a vessel to ghost over the light of the moon. He flies over city and tower, village and town, over thatched roofs, wincing at the crunch of his feet but no one else noticed. To them, it sounded like the mild hail after a snowstorm. He laughs, running over lines and tiles, watching beautiful threads of frost curl over rust and red.
Sometimes, he sits outside someone’s window, just watching. He has no heart (and if he did, it does not beat) and he has no memory (but the memory of ache) , but he watches nonetheless because in families, he sees a bright warm spark, slumbering in their hearts. Sometimes it burns so brightly that Jack is afraid of it, afraid of what it might do to him. He is frost and cold and goosebumps, chills that spread over unclothed arms and legs. He is not meant for warm places.
But he watches and sometimes he can feel warm. He’s not sure why or how, but he feels it, treasures it and leaves before the frost covers the windows.
He doesn’t like to watch for too long. It overwhelms him and he has to choke back the tears that turn to snowflakes.
Jack runs with the children. They skid and slide and he makes sure they land on a snow bank, watching them erupt out of it in a fit of giggles. He can’t stop laughing, can’t help watching their little glows flicker brightly and think, this is because of me, this is all me, not the Tooth Fairy, not Santa Claus, but me.
But the glow fades, so soon. There is only so much cold a child can take and they run back home, to huddle in their homes. Sometimes he watches, sometimes he can’t take it, the warmth, the glow of families, huddled together in blankets and chocolate.
The other times, when he was called by the wind, there were no children, no people, just desolate plains of ice as far as the eye can see. He never understood why the wind brought him here. He felt purposeless, another fleck of ice and sleet in an endless white trapped inside his heart (which doesn’t beat). After a century, he understands. He sits down, digging his feet into the snow, listening the wind sing to him. It brought him here to make sure he keeps his spirits, so he doesn’t lose hope.
On occasion, he rages, throwing frost and snow all over the place, hoping to make a difference, to leave some mark to show that he was here, that he existed, that he could be seen. He screams at the wind and the wind howls back and together, they are a cacophony of misery.
It always fades. It was too much effort to be angry, to despair. He couldn’t do it forever and he pitied anyone who had to.
He considers visiting the Guardians.
“What do you think?”
The moon hangs in the sky, luminescent.
Jack leans on his staff, uncertainty ringed around his eyes, “It wouldn’t be bad, right? They’re like me. I mean, they can be seen, but we’re… we care about children. That counts doesn’t it?”
The moon is silent.
It doesn’t, then. They’re nothing like me. No one is like me. What did I expect, a pity party? Jack thought to himself, leaping off the roof to walk on the cables. It didn’t matter. He would find his own way. He had his own powers, he had the Wind. They didn’t have that, no matter how special they were.
He didn’t need to be a Guardian. He just needed to be Jack Frost.
And so, he called to the Wind, take me home, and flew away.