Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians. Dreamworks and William Joyce does.

Ch. 10 Shaded Memories

The snow was cold and the wind blew colder still, nipping at every inch of Jack's exposed skin: his hands, his ears, his nose, the lower half of his legs where his breeches did not quite meet his stockings because of his sudden growth spurt earlier that year. The clouds hung heavy and grey overhead casting a spell of melancholy over whatever inhabitant happened to brave the brittle chill of this winter day.

The coldness of nature Jack could deal with. After several years spent trudging through the snow and learning to live under winter's harsh conditions, the cold was, if not welcomed, accepted, with a certain familiarity to it. Not that Jack felt the slightest bit of discomfort from the cold these days, though he still donned his cloak, woolen socks and scarf, as well as boots so he would be a cause for wild rumor mongering in the village. The townsfolk were still side-eyeing him for surviving his fall through the ice. He refused to be the fodder for the fire that Anthony desperately craved to set ablaze.

He also refused to be the lure that Pitch wanted to cast into the already spooked villagers.

Pitch, naturally, was more than un-amused at his determination. For the short time that Jack had known the spirit so far, he hadn't been the most pleasant company, but Jack has slowly grown accustomed to his sharp rebuffs, brooding mannerisms, fiendish scheming, as well as reveling in another's own misery and fear. Most occasions when he and Jack butted heads it was usually met with condescension and exasperation on Pitch's end, with him bemoaning how a mere mortal could not possibly see the greater picture. The two of them had very different opinions on what 'cultivating his powers' meant—Jack merely wanted to learn defensive moves; Pitch insisted he should take more aggressive actions—and more often than not, the 'lessons' were cut short with both of them in foul moods.

There had only been two times Jack had seen Pitch genuinely angry—the type of dark rage rolling off of him that felt both dangerous and suffocating: the time Baby Tooth had torn the locket from the recesses of his shadow robes and the time Jack had inquired about the girl in the painting.

However, Jack was beginning to think after each and every lesson so far had ended in failure and disagreement that he might have worn away the thin sliver of patience that the Nightmare King possessed, especially today. It had been one week since that Sunday that Anthony Hawkins had confronted him and his powers still fluctuated wildly. Jack found it was far easier to focus and smother that flickering white light within him than it was to kindle its cold flames into a freezing galestorm to be summoned at a moment's notice.

"Not only are you always late," Pitch hissed between needle-pointed teeth. "But you are incompetent as well. Tell me, do all mortals trudge through their mundane lives cowering over the gifts granted to them, too afraid to break free and rise above the rest of their pathetic brethren still wallowing in the mud they spawned from?"

Aye, his patience definitely had disappeared if he was throwing the word 'mortal' around.

"I thought you claimed the two of us were cursed," Jack grinned, feeling rewarded when Pitch shot him a seething glare.

"The only thing I am cursed with presently is a fledging Guardian who knows absolutely nothing and refuses to follow sound advice from his mentor—merely a lanky brat headstrong and rebellious who thinks their methods are better," Pitch growled low in his throat, displeasure laced clearly throughout his tone.

Jack felt his grin twist into a scowl. He didn't like that word 'Guardian'; didn't like to think on what it meant or entailed. The ice powers he could accept more perhaps because of all the fairy tales his mother told about humans blessed by magical beings or their wishes granted because of a good deed or some other nonsense. That's what it was all supposed to be—tooth fairies, dreamsand, the Boogie Man, the Man in the Moon who bestowed unnatural abilities to humans he deemed worthy. Nice nonsense for bedtime stories not for actual real life.

Jack was supposed to become Burgess' resident tailor, take care of his mother and sister, grow old and before he died, take on an apprentice to learn his skill. It was a rather boring outline for his life, but Jack had accepted his fate long ago. He didn't mind really. He had faith that his sister, Caleb, Ezra and the rest of the younger children would grow up into good adults with a slightly bigger imagination than their parents and the older generation. If he secretly thought Ezra's idea for all of them to live in the mill together and form a Knights of Burgess squad was genius and great fun, he kept that to himself. (And if he secretly wished on a star every night that Anthony Hawkins and his family would move to Philadelphia for good he kept that to himself too).

The point was he did he think his sudden acquisition of ice powers was wickedly amazing. They were also inconvenient and troubling since he couldn't control them. In the back of his mind, there forever remained a great concern that he might accidentally hurt someone if he was forced to use them even in self defense. He dared not let his thoughts wander too far on what his suddenly possessing these ice powers meant for his future and own mortality because the various end conclusions positively terrified him.

All these volatile emotions swirled around inside him, restless and prickly, like a nest of agitated pit vipers coiling to lash out a fatal strike. So whenever Jack sensed that white light inside him flaring up, he mentally cupped his hands around it and blew it out. No frost or ice emitted from his fingers or staff, he breathed a sigh of relief, and Pitch grew more enraged.

Then, when at last, Jack thought the Nightmare King's temper had all but finally snapped, a calm veil dropped down over Pitch's face as the spirit adopted more relaxed posture.

"I know what hinders you," he said in a deep, crooning sort of tone one would use to lure out a scared kitten from a dark corner. "I can smell it, Jack." He moved closer in a gliding motion over the snow. His usual piercing eyes had lost their silver storminess and a soft gold was slowly seeping back in. "I can almost taste it. The fear coursing through your veins matches the melody to your heart." Pitch inhaled deeply. "I can smell the fear, it blooms so thick."

"Of course I'm afraid!" Jack cried out, heat rushing to his cheeks as he brought his staff up to chest defensively because Pitch was leaning in far too close. He cast his gaze elsewhere because he felt he would drown if he stared too long in those ancient, golden eyes. "You act like I'm some weapon you make good use of for your own advantage! All I want is learn how to tame this… this thing inside me to ensure it doesn't spiral out of control and hurt people!"

Pitch drew back and cast him a knowing look and Jack felt the heat rise all the way up to his ears because both he and the spirit knew the last part he spoke was a falsehood. But Pitch did not pick apart the claim like he could have if he so chose, and merely shrugged, his lips curled into a wry smirk.

"Very well," he said. "If you do not wish to train your power at the moment, we can focus on your staff. It's not too far off from a long stave. We can work on rudimentary hand and foot techniques. Your stance—is wide open!"

The next thing Jack knew he was staring at the grey skies above, flat on his back in the snow, all the breath having been knocked out of his lungs by his wicked under sweep of his feet courtesy of Pitch.

He gaped soundlessly as Pitch loomed into his line of vision. "Up, boy," he barked in a commanding voice, all traces of amusement having vanished from his features. "Your enemies would have finished you off by now."

"W-what enemies?" Jack croaked as he clambered to his feet still a bit dazed.

Pitch said nothing this time, his face solemn as the shadows swirled up in an inky vapor to form into an oversized black scythe in his hands. His dark figure radiated with a kind of calmness that preceded a storm. Without word or warning, he swung out his scythe in a vicious, vertical strike which had Jack thrusting his staff up to parry the blow out of pure reflex.

The force of the clash sent him lurching backwards from the recoil. He stared at his staff in wonderment seeing as the wood was still in one piece. He was certain it should have been cleaved in two from the scythe's shadow-blade.

He opened his mouth to say something—a cutting remark, a plea to stop, a repeat of his question from before, he did not know—but Pitch swung the scythe again, his expression cold and merciless and rained down blow after blow that sent Jack stumbling one foot back after the other until he was very nearly bent over on his feels, arms trembling with the strain of the weight from holding his staff out level keeping the glittering edge of the scythe from slicing him in half.

It started with a tingling in his fingertips, the kind of feeling one gets after been outside in the cold for a bitter period of time and then comes indoors and warms then by the fire. A numb sort of burning flickered through his fingers, into the palm of his hands and then pressed down further into the grooves and crevices of the staff's wood. It was like before, Jack realized, when Pitch had goaded him until his ire rose such that the frost came spiraling out in vengeful tendrils of ice crystals.

He's trying to do it again, Jack thought in alarm. The very action he was trying to prevent from occurring was the one Pitch was so desperately seeking to draw out.

No, I won't be used like this! Jack thought fiercely and then in a both very brave and foolish motion, cast his staff aside and stood firm and unyielding in the snow, daring Pitch to bring down the final strike.

He felt the scythe's tip touch his forehead, deceptively feather-soft and light yet cold and chilling all at once. Pitch was staring at him with a mask of barely restrained fury, though when he spoke, his voice was eerily calm and level.

"I could do it, you know. I don't have to kill you. I could turn you into my Fearling Prince. I've done so before to others. They no longer refused me then."

Jack was silent for a moment, hearing his heartbeat race madly in his ears, measuring the weight of the spirit's words, before cracking a forced, tight-lipped grin at the spirit.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" he said quietly, in a voice not like his own.

"What does?" Pitch demanded, his gaunt face looking very unsettled.

"Being lost," Jack said and now he sounded more like himself. "And… losing people."

Something akin to sorrow flashed briefly over Pitch's face. Jack felt the tip of the scythe pull away from his forehead and watched as one grey hand reached out in a tender gesture to almost stroke his cheek before Pitch jerked violently, a ghastly screech escaping from the bellows of his throat.

Jack stumbled sideways as he felt the sharp rake of curved fingernails cut into the side of his face, his ears exploding with Pitch's anguished scream mingled with a hopeless rage.

"Get out of my sight! Let the past remain buried in the accursed dreamsand! Do not summon wraiths to haunt me! My journey on this earth is already a waking nightmare! Begone from me, you ill-fated sprite!"

Then a swirl of shadows, Pitch was gone, with only the echoes of his despairing screams lingering over the all-too still hillside.

oOo

Jack's trek back to Burgess was subdued and silent, his thoughts as jumbled and heavy as the snowflakes that had started to fall. Pitch's face, twisted and furious and unbearably sad remained steady in his mind. Questions with no foreseeable answer kept creeping up in his mind: why Pitch was so determined to keep this mortal boy by his side—was he that forsaken for company or did he truly want to utilize and harness Jack's power for his own gain. What had happened to make him into this mournful and wretched creature who roamed within the shadows? What had happened to the girl in the portrait? Jack let out a scoffing laugh at the last thought. He knew by now whoever she was, she would remain trapped forever inside the locket just as Pitch had locked the memory of her deep within his shadow heart.

"Do not summon wraiths to haunt me!"

Pitch's pitiful wails resounded in his ears as he stumbled out of the woods and onto the snow-covered banks of a small creek.

Oh, Jack thought as he became acutely aware of his surroundings, absent-mindedly lifting one hand to shield his smarting cheek from the cold breeze.

For Pitch was right of course. The past should remain buried. What happiness one had once gleamed before in life did not last. It paled and faded like this creek-bed in winter.

He meant to move along. He had done so before many time—passed this way through without another thought. Burgess was a small village after all. But now with the vestiges of Pitch's anguished screams, he saw what his mind usually avoided in looking at: a memory, half-forgotten and hidden, like a shiny pebble overgrown with moss.

The snow at his feet melted away and green grass grew all over the sloping banks. The silent, frozen water began to flow once more into a burbling, laughing creek, and bright, golden sunbeams burst over his shoulders in a warm embrace of summer.

oOo

Jackson Overland, Age 6 years…

The sunlight shone down upon the clear body of water below, capturing the reflection of the person peering down into its depths: wide brown eyes too big for the boy's round face, his cheeks still pillowed with baby fat, and the tip of his tongue sticking out from one corner of his mouth in concentration as he leaned closer…

Splash!

Jack shoved both his hands into the water but the frog was too quick for him, leaping away into the deeper part of the creek with a hoarse croak that seemed to mock the boy's efforts.

"Da! He got away again!" Jack threw back his head in a howl, smacking the surface of the water with his chubby fists in frustration.

"Aye, and with all that racket you're making, you'll never be able to sneak up on him. Now pipe down, you're scaring the fish," Joseph Overland remarked from where he lay on his side on the upper part of the bank. A thin branch with a string attached to the end acted as his fishing rod that he clutched in one hand. A few feet away, his stockings as well as his son's lay draped over a thin branch of a willow tree so as not to dirty them.

Jack squatted on his knees and planted both his feet deep into the wet creek bed, liking the squishy feeling of mud between his toes. A couple of worms came wriggling out of the damp earth and he plucked them up and tucked them in his pockets to give to his father for more bait. Or maybe he could use them to lure out the frog, hmmm.

"Mind your clothes, Jack," Joseph said. "Your mam can't know where we went today."

"Mama doesn't want you to go fishing?" Jack asked confused, because his mother certainly loved to cook a hearty fish dinner whenever the occasion arose.

"Not on Sundays," Joseph grinned wryly, lazily flicking the line of his fishing rod back and forth.

"Aye," Jack nodded. "Father Goodall says it's a sin to indulge in selfish pleasures of the flesh particularly on Sundays." A worried look fell over his face suddenly. "Are we going to Hell for this, Da?"

A deep frown burrowed its way upon Joseph's forehead as he muttered something inaudible under his breath. "I believe the actual Commandment in the Bible is to 'Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it Holy'. It's supposed to be a day of rest for us, son. Tell me, is fishing hard work?"

Jack scrunched up his face as he thought. "Well, you hardly ever catch anything no matter how hard you try, so I reckon not," he said honestly.

Across the creek bed, his father threw the straw hat off his head in a slip of temper before exploding into a roar of laughter. The fishing rod was lost when it rolled down the side of the bank into the water as the man clutched at his ribs from lack of breath. Finally regaining use of his lungs, Joseph wiped tears of mirth from his eyes and stared up at the cloudless, blue sky.

"Ah, thank you, O Lord," he smiled. "For blessing me with such a son as this, for never was there a boy with a more steadfast nor truer tongue." He stood to his feet and rolled the leggings of his breeches up to his knees before wading barefoot into the water. "Come, I'll show you a real way to catch fish."

Jack watched fascinated as his father stood ankle-deep in the creek, legs spread apart and hunched over with hands outstretched and ready as he stared intently at the burbling water, waiting for just the right moment…

A few minutes slid by. Jack didn't utter a word or ask why his father was posed like him earlier trying to grab a frog. He felt breathless with excitement as the spell of silence hung heavy in the air only to be shattered by his father diving almost face-first into the water and emerging with a triumphant shout, both hands wrapped firmly around a huge, frantically flapping trout.

"You did it, Da, you did it!" Jack whooped jumping up in and down in place. A few splotches of mud flew up from the squishy ground and splattered on his breeches but he didn't care. He was already splashing his way through the water and tugging at his father's arm. "Me next! Teach me!" He tugged so hard, his father lost his grip on the fish and it slipped through his fingers and fell back into the creek with a splash. With several quick flicks of its tail, it was out of sight downstream.

Jack felt shame lodge in his throat and swallowed hard. He dared not look up to see the disappointment in his father's face. He heard Joseph let out a gusty sigh. "Ah, patience is a virtue, remember that next time, son."

"Next time?" Jack echoed, his face brightening back up.

"Aye, it's getting late," Joseph said squinting at the sun, "and we need to be getting home before your mother grows suspicious. I told her were taking a walk, having a men's day out."

"But I wanna catch a fish," he pouted, digging his heels in the mud.

Joseph cuffed him lightly around his ear. "None of that, m'lad. We'll be back again before summer's over. Come along now."

They had gathered up their stockings from the willow's branches and made themselves as presentable as possible to look like they had not been lounging on the creek bed for half the day, though Jack had one splotch of dirt on his breeches that refused to come out.

They had made for home in a well enough mood with Jack quietly sulking until his father laughed and tousled his hair.

"You have a grand name, Jack. Did you know it also belonged to a ship's captain a long time ago?"

Jack stared up at his father unsure. "Is that who you named me after?"

"Ah, well, Jack was your mam's grandda's name and she wanted to keep it going in the family. But there are many Jacks in the world, son, and this one by far is the most renown."

"What did he do?" Jack asked, breaking out of his sulk. He never could resist a good story.

"What didn't he do, that's the ticker," Joseph chuckled. "This Captain Jack sailed around the entire world forty three times in his life!"

"Anthony Hawkins says the world is flat."

Jack yelped as his father caught his nose between his forefinger and thumb and squeezed lightly. "Ask your mother to tell you about Galileo tonight. It's round. As an acorn." Eyes watering, Jack rubbed the tip where it still smarted after it was released and nodded.

"He traversed across treacherous waters, battled sea dragons and harpies and hurricanes, and traded spices and knowledge of different cultures to ever four corners of the world—"

"You said it was round!" Jack cried confused.

Joseph cursed quietly before pulling an apple out of his pocket and tossing it to his son more so he would have no more interruptions than for him to eat and continued on.

"He discovered lost civilizations including Atlantis—you remember your mam's stories about it?"

Jaws fastened around the apple and juice dripping down his chin as he happily munched on it, Jack nodded.

"He happened across it out of sheer luck one day for the place where it lays is shielded by a great magic: only the pure of heart, those whose intentions are just and good may enter. He crossed the its boundaries without notice and stumbled upon its ancient beauty and splendor, marveling at the vast wisdom and history written down on golden scrolls. He wept that he could not take anything back to share with the people of the world outside. He wished to remain there in that sacred, peaceful place untouched by war or greed, but he knew he must leave. He had made a promise you see."

"What promise?" Jack whispered spellbound in awe of the tale.

"That he would one day return to the women he loved."

Jack pulled a face at the last part not at all pleased with it. "And they get married and live happily ever after. It always ends that way."

Strong hands caught him fast around the middle and swung him across broad shoulders and Jack gasped at how high he was, at how much closer the blue sky was. He felt for sure if he leaped up, he might float away into the air.

"That's how the stories end, yes," Joseph explained, keeping a firm grip on his legs as if sensing his son's thoughts. "Because they have to end somewhere. But the characters in those stories go on and have many more adventures. Why I wager Captain Jack and his Lady are still sailing about the world discovering more wonders, unveiling more mysteries, and in general kicking up a mighty good ruckus that make decent, ordinary people fairly foam at the mouth out of sheer jealousy."

"Because they are so famous?"

"Because they are happy."

oOo

Jack wandered aimlessly over the many side paths that weaved around the village like an intricate maze, ducking off the trail into the foliage if he heard someone approaching. He did not wish to meet another person, plaster a false smile on his face and commence with niceties. Even on the worst of days, he usually he could muster up a genteel façade, but today he had no strength nor will to even attempt. Why should he smile and make pointless conversation with people who did not understand. How could he even take consolation in solitude to marvel at nature's wonder when his father was not there to share the moment with him? How strange it was, Jack realized, that parts of life that should make a person happy were what made them most sad.

When his feet finally stopped of their own accord, it was not the threshold of the Overland's cabin they stood in front of, but the crooked, picket fence than ran about the span of Burgess' graveyard.

Jack hesitated. He had not visited his father's grave for so long. Lydia only went on her wedding anniversary and she never made her children come, only if they so desired to. She always told them she much preferred to remember Joseph alive and that she felt closer to him in the cabin he built for all of them than she did staring down at the cold, cruel earth. Jack almost turned away, but grief both old and new swelled up in his throat and he near choked on it.

He passed through the gate and trudged somberly through the snow and was only half-way past a row of tombstones when he realized in a sudden shock that he had no recollection of where his father was buried. It wasn't surprising, considering he could count on one hand the number of times he had braved enough courage to venture here alone since that awful day. The times he had accompanied his mother, he had simply stared at the back of her long skirts with guilt plaguing his mind until they reached the gravesite.

Jack stood there forlornly, tiny trembles that had nothing to do with the cold breaking out across his slim frame, and debated whether to scream or cry.

It was a moment later when he realized he was not the only living soul to visit the graveyard that day.

A head of messy ink-black hair took up the space between two rows of tombstones, fluttering in the wind that Jack almost mistook it for a raven's feathers.

"Ezra?" he called out as he approached.

Ezra jolted at his name, looking like he had woken up from a dream, or possibly a nightmare. There was a glazed, haunted look in his eyes, similar to the one on Pitch's demeanor earlier.

"Ezra?" Jack said again, softer and a bit cautious.

What if Pitch had decided to forgo their pact and take out his temper against the children of Burgess in an act of malicious vengeance that was partially his fault? He might have angered the spirit too far too much this time.

However as Jack drew closer, he knew at once Pitch was not the culprit.

Ezra stood in the patch of ground that was the Bennett family's own personal burial mound. There were a long line of tombstones varying in size and stature: some carved out of sandstone and slate with long, elaborate epitaphs and some plain and wooden, so old and decrepit from the weather and rot, the words were now illegible.

There were three that were visibly new. The first was made up of a fine polished rock that gleamed so smoothly Jack was sure it was a different material than sandstone. The other two were wooden and narrow, fresher cut than their ancestors' headers and barely more than grave-markers, but all three shared something in common. All three grave-headers read the same name: James.

"Grandda is getting worse," Ezra said after a long pause. "Mam doesn't like me out so late, but I couldn't stay there. He's speaking out of his head all the time now." His blue eyes held a stricken, frightful look. "He forgets who I am. He calls me James."

Jack looked back at the tombstones and noted the finer rock one's date went back further than the wooden ones. Much further. His own father would have been not even a grown man yet when the owner had died.

"James was my uncle. He died afor'd he was full grown. There was an accident in the woods and no one talks about it," Ezra bit his lip as if he had said too much then cleared his throat and continued. "Mam says Grandda's just old and confused. That I should just go along with his fancy and humor him. I try, I do," Ezra said looking up at Jack in a pleading way. "He talks to me about past events, gets frustrated and yells when I tell him I wasn't there, that I'm not him."

The boy's expression darkened suddenly. His balled his hands into tightly-clenched fists. "I hate him," he spat. "I wish he'd hurry up and die already."

Jack said nothing because there are some times in life when there is nothing you can say. The wind blew harshly through the frozen graveyard in its own rebuke.

Ezra suddenly burst into tears and dropped to his knees, rubbing his eyes with the back of his palms. Jack bent down beside him and placed one hand on his back in comfort.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it!" Ezra was babbling hysterically now looking horrified at his violent outburst. "I just want him to get better. Every day he just loses himself more and I can't do anything!"

Jack didn't know which was worse. Losing someone you loved so swiftly that you were left with a gaping void in your life that took years for the sinkhole to finally fill back up, or watching someone you loved wither slowly and die and stand by completely helpless.

The wind picked up pace again, its bite more chilling than before. Now Jack did shiver from the cold though he knew he should not be bothered by it. The shadows were slowly creeping out as the evening turned to night. Gently, Jack gripped Ezra by his shoulders and helped him to his feet.

"We should let the dead rest in peace," he whispered.

It occurred to him as they left the cemetery, he never had the chance to visit his father's grave. He supposed that was for the best. He would only have been lost in sorrow like Ezra was. Joseph Overland did not lie buried in the ground, but lived on his heart, arising when needed from the wellspring of memories overflowing in Jack's mind

"You have a grand name, Ezra," he said tousling the boy's hair as they walked along. "Did you know it also belonged to a ship's captain a long time ago?"

"Really?" Ezra said perking up a bit.

Jack nodded. "But this ship captain did not sail the seas, oh no, he charted his course over an ocean of stars!" Jack pointed to the skies thankful to the clouds that had cleared away.

"You're making that up!" Ezra huffed in a pout.

"Well, do you know what's up there?" Jack asked, a smile floating about his lips.

Ezra shrugged. "Stars and the moon. And heaven, I guess. That's what Father Goodall says."

"There's entire worlds up there!" Jack exclaimed. "And this Captain Ezra was an adventurer. Why he sailed to the moon and back over a hundred times, chasing comets and making star-maps and fighting off pirates!"

"Stars have pirates?" Ezra sounded genuinely curious; the only lingering traces of his sorrow from before were his red-rimmed eyes.

"The worst kind of pirates," Jack said, his father's story taking on a version all of his own as stories passed on often do. "These pirates were forged out of shadow and despair and all the bad thoughts that people wish out loud would happen." An image had formed in Jack's mind of the fearlings that prowled around Pitch. "They devour all hope, everything good and bright and thrive on fear and hate."

Jack felt Ezra tuck himself closer to his side as the boy eyed the evening shadows in trepidation and he hurried on. The tale was never meant to cause fear but to bring joy and give a wonder to hold fast in one's heart in dark moments.

"But this Captain Ezra was noble and brave and he vanquished each and every last shadow pirate, locking them all away in his Star Fortress where they could do no more harm, and he was regaled a hero by all. Why they even offered to make him king!"

"King of the stars!" Ezra's eyes were as wide as saucers now. He seemed utterly thrilled that his namesake was of such an honorable reputation to warrant a crowning.

"But he didn't accept," Jack said, chuckling at Ezra's expression of incredulity. "He said that was far too much power and responsibility for him and that he was much happier chasing shooting stars and making wishes come true."

"But, but… king!" Ezra still couldn't believe someone would turn down that role.

Jack smirked and said in a hushed tone, "Well, he would have had to get married you see…"

"Eeeeeewwwww!" Ezra howled looking absolutely disgusted and a tiny part outraged. "Why do they always have to get married in the end? It's so boring!"

"Exactly," Jack laughed. "Captain Ezra enjoyed his freedom and that's how he spent the rest of his days, doing what he loved best."

Ezra nodded swiftly in a serious fashion as he squared his shoulders. "That's what I'm gonna do too!"

"Live happily ever after?" Jack asked glad the boy was back to his usual self.

"I'm gonna run away and be a ship captain!" Ezra whooped in glee as he broke out into mad canter down the trail.

Oh dear, Jack thought as he realized his story might have had an unforeseen consequence in telling it.

Then he spent a good half hour chasing after Ezra off and on the beaten path and convincing him to wait a few years before he threw his lot in with the sea. There may have been some ambush snowball fights on both ends and some off-key jaunty singing of seedy tavern songs their mothers frowned upon. It was well past dark before either of them made it home, but both boys' hearts were lighter, such is the power of beautiful stories and good company.

oOo

Jack never once looked back as he spun his fanciful tale. Never saw Pitch glide out from the shadows to stare after him with an appalled disbelief dawning on his face. Never saw the Nightmare King turn his golden gaze to the pale moon above and whisper wretchedly, "Oh, old friend… what have you done?"

To Be Continued…

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you plann'd:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

-Christina Rosetti

A/N: Sorry for the years wait, but I'm back and track and steamrollin' now that I know where this story is going. I've had a while to brainstorm haha! This chapter would have been a lot darker without those stories. Part of what made me stop writing for so long was loss. Like, its not even recent, its been a few years, but it still hurts. I had to write this chapter not only for me, but for Jack and Pitch as well. Time heals, it does and you get by and then you have bad days and that's ok. Its ok to grieve. You grieve and cry because you cared and it hurts and you shouldn't feel guilty being happy when they are gone. It took me a long time to comprehend this.

Anyhoo, that aside, I was scouring thru a reread of the GoC books to help me out and now I can say, thanks to Jack touching so close on subjects No Mortal Should Know Of, Pitch frikkin knows now. Like, he was half-guessing before, but now he knows the MiM did something, something probably a lot darker than the books bc I'm weaving my own adaption on this story.

I don't know if I should say here, because this chapter is morbid enough already, but in case I can't fit it in anywhere else in the story, those fresh wooden markers beside the fancy one? There's a reason there's a significant age gap between Winnifred and Ezra.

What inspired me to write again is that I've been rewatching the LotR movies and beginning to reread the books and my god, the descriptions of places are breathtaking and all those positive, feel-good quotes from Tolkien really lifted my spirits. Stories do help ease the pain, all kinds of pain. When you're in the darkest rough patches of your life, your favorite memories are your solace, and sometimes books that you've read and characters you can relate to can what keeps you moving forward.