Run.

It's all he knows, all he can think.

Run.

Just a little farther.

Run.

Come on, come on, com-

"FROST!"

Run.

Get away, run away.

Run.

"GET BACK HERE, FREAK!"

Run faster.

Run. Run. Don't let them catch you.

"FROST, I SWEAR-"

Drown it out. Listen to the pounding of your heart. Don't pay attention to them.

Run.

Run.

Run.

Ru-

It's not enough. They catch him.

Trapped.

Vines twisting, wrapping, turning, trapping, caging. Fire, burning, burning, ITS TO HOT, its burning him, burning his core, his blood, it's in his veins.

Sharp. Its cutting him, and he can't bleed, his blood is frozen.

Death. It smells like decay, and death, and it's horrible. There's a aura around him, and it's so dead, so blank, and he can't stand it anymore.

Sweet. There are flowers. Sickly sweet flowers, bittersweet, poisonous. They're deceptive, too calm in the midst of chaos. They're tricking him, he knows it. He's dizzy. The flowers start blurring, then spinning, then all he can see is the pink of the petals.

There is ice. He knows. He can faintly feel his powers, acting up in an effort to protect him. Him and his fragile body, so susceptible to the heat and the blades that the others carry. All he gets is more burns, more cuts, more harsh words sneered his way.

He still can't see anything. He can't hear anything but their voices, his own pounding heart. All he can feel is pain. Something is shoved into his mouth, and then all he can taste is bitter plant. Everything smells of death.

Crack.

Crack.

Crack.

Wood splinters, and his bones break along with it. His ice is now turned against him, trapped without an outlet, begging for release.

He can't let the ice free.

He won't let the ice free.

They laugh. He used to love the sound of laughter, once upon a time. Now it's all he can hear, and he hates it. It's to cruel, to cold, to wrong. It hurts more than the burns and the cuts littering his body.

"Look… it… all tired….poor….ha...freak...deserved it."

"Just like… the brats."

The feeling of dread builds up bigger in his gut. Brats. Who was that? It could have been anybody, but...they wouldn't.

He hears himself speak from a distance, seemingly detached from his body. "Br-br-bra-brats?" His throat gives out and he can barely finish the question.

"Yea, Freak. Your little Match friends. Worthless, just like you."

The Little Match Girls.

They didn't.

But they did.

He can't hold back his ice anymore.

The storm rages for days. When he can finally see past the white, there is only red. Blood soaked snow. Corpses. He can't bring himself to care, even as the bodies rise, heal, and then run. All he can think about is the Little Match Girls.

He didn't know how badly they were hurt. They could be dead. And it would be his fault.

He pulls himself up, forces his staff together with eternal ice, and vows not to let it happen again.