Disclaimer: I own naughta

A/N: Sorry if it's a little odd, this story is a side story to "To sleep in your arms" and explains where it is Jack got his song. However, you do not have to read either "To die in your arms" or "To sleep in your arms" to enjoy this one.

The Song I Sing

The winter was always cold, the people complained. The crops never grew, the food never lasted, the water too frozen, the fireplace never with enough wood. Yes, people, humans, they always complained about winter.

Jack didn't let this get to him at first, for he somehow knew—just knew, for he could remember nothing before his awakening from the ice—that the humans could not survive in the cold. Yet after seeing those children play, throwing snowballs at one another, forming snowmen, and bunnies, and other strange creatures they would not name—no matter how many times he asked—he had begun to get annoyed.

If the children could enjoy his snow, could play with the only proof of his existence, then why not the adults?

Yet he supposed he should be grateful, grateful for the simple fact that the adults—annoying and mean as they were—would allow their children to play with him…even if they didn't know it.

And so, although annoyed, although depressed, although sometimes allowing his emotions to get the better of him—watching the adults scold the children for being tempted to play in his forts was just plain frustrating beyond belief. Let them play! Let them have fun! Oh, how he wanted to scream—Jack continued to do as his instincts told him to.

Alright, so it was really the wind who told him where to go. But, really, who could blame him for wanting to believe he had something else in common with humans—instincts.

Day's passed, then years, Jack never really counted, why bother? The world would change with or without him. But he got better, studying the children, watching how they threw, taking lessons, and jotting down notes in his head.

Ah, that would be a good prank for latter.

So that's how you make paint…

You can use bread as a baseball bat?

So winning a snowball fight takes more than aim…but ammo.

Yes, Jack learned many, many things over the years. Yet the one fact that he had always known was what stopped him in his usual depressed flight.

Listen to the wind.

And so he did. Or, more precisely, he listened to the song carried on the wind; the ever sweet, warm, gentle voice (most likely belonging to a little girl), begging someone to come, pleading for anyone, anyone, to listen, to answer.

And although Jack knew that it was possible the one singing would not notice him, could not see that her song was answered, he would know. And that, alone, was enough.

At least, it should have been.

But the girl, deep within the recesses of a cave, chained within a small opening, body unhealthy thin, froze him on the spot; which, if he thought about it, was ironic.

The girl did not notice his small gasp.

Not that he minded. For if she had, she would have stopped her dance, her song, and, oh, how he wanted to see this trapped girl continue, for while she looked like she had been dragged threw a muddy swamp, while she stank, while she was anything from beautiful, face covered in scares, bruises, and zits, she was strangely magnificent.

Her eyes shimmering with a life he himself lacked, her smile soft yet strong, so full of hope, so full of love.

How could she still hold such emotion's, he wondered, eyes tracing ever move, how could she still smile, still laugh?

Oh, yes, Jack laughed, but only when he played, only when he could ignore what he was—whatever that was—and yes, Jack found hope in those few who could see him, well, at least he did, until he found out that humans having that many wrinkles where closer to death.

Yet this one child, she had no one, in fact, it seemed as if everyone had turned against her.

Why? He wanted to ask, one simple word, yet encompassing so many questions.

Why do you still live?

Why are you here?

Why are you smiling?

Why are you calling when no one will come?

Why do you still hold onto hope…when you've been so obviously betrayed?

The girl never answered these questions. She couldn't, but her eyes, still sparkling with so much life even as they shed those lonely, lonely tears, flicked over in his direction, and for a second, just one second, Jack was certain he saw his reflection in her eyes.

The song was almost at a close. The dance almost finished, but he didn't want to leave, not now, not when his presence had been, finally, finally, acknowledged in some way.

The girl, although she would not look directly at him, although she could not hear his thoughts, began another song, started another dance, the chains around her ankles clinking and clacking as her all to thin frame dipped and spun.

Her song wasn't calling anymore, wasn't begging.

No, it was welcoming, twirling playfully in the air, as if daring Jack to join in, to add his own lyrics, to begin his own dance.

But he did not join, could not. Instead, he closed his eyes and relished in the sound of this ugly girls warm, gentle voice as it echoed in the ever dank and lonely cave, the fire's flickering and dying due to his proximity.

"Why give you firelight, if they want you to die?" he whispered thoughtlessly, for, surely, no human could be expected to survive in such an environment. Not with that thin frame, screaming of starvation, not with those cuts, oozing and red.

"It's an apology." The girl's voice rang out, song still echoing throughout the cave as her eyes danced with laughter, "they think that by bestowing me with light in my final days, my soul won't come back to haunt them later. They think I'll pass on, soul cleansed and understanding as it's touched by the fires light."

Jack could not reply, frozen in shock. But this did no disturb the dying girl. For someone who has so seemingly given up on life, his shocked brain thought, she smiles radiantly.

"So you're Jack Frost," the songstress continued, plopping down on the wet ground, "here, sit, speak, for surely someone who goes ignored most days has something to say."

Her voice, it seemed, forever held two things, song and laughter.

And Jack could not find it within himself to deny the dying girl her final chance at company. For she would die, he sadly noted, not long before the marrow.

They talked, the girl jumping right into the question's as soon as he sat upon the cold cave floor, dully noting the amount of bugs and rats that ran—and almost smiling at those that keeled over (for they resembled death far too much, and he hated it). Yes, they talked for hours, Jack revealing most everything about himself, the girl aptly listening, but never uttering a peep about herself.

Jack found that he didn't mind her silence, her refusal to speak of herself, for if she had, he knew her death would have more impact, carry more pain. The songstress knew this as well, knew this was on his mind, and eased it, greatly, gently, by teaching him a song.

"You see," she began, after standing up and fruitlessly dusting herself off, "if you continue to sing my song, then I'll never truly die."

"Huh?"

The girl's laughter, bright, cheerful, and oh so far from broken or weak, sent a wave of anger through him, how could they? How could anyone sentence someone so alive to death?!

"If you sing my song, if you remember it, that means a little piece of me, my memory, will forever exist. And, thus, I shall continue to live."

It didn't really make sense; at least, it didn't then. But Jack agreed nonetheless.

And so he danced, and so he sang, the laughter, the eyes—so alive, so real-softly guiding him, egging him on.

Oh, how he wished he could stay in that cave, the deep, dark, dank cave full of flickering firelight and twinkling laughter and songs, ever lively, ever begging, ever welcoming, forever echoing through the walls.

Oh, how he wished he could forever watch this ugly girl dance, and see her eyes light up in glee as he, too, attempted to dance.

But the time he could spend here was drawing to an end, the wind called for him, softly tugging him out of the cave, and the girl, her eyes, oh, they dampened in supreme sadness, but only for a moment, a blink, a slight closing of eyes, a soft, gentle sigh, and the fire, the light, it was back, and her smile, ever radiant against her ugly, ugly face, told him all was well, and the song she sang as he left, told of her goodbye, her thanks.

He had just gotten into the sky, halfway across the forest, when he saw the men marching, torch lights at hand, toward the cave, but Jack knew, just as he knew humans could not survive in the cold, that the songstress—the dancer, the so very alive, so very playful, girl—was already dead.

Yes, the songstress, her name unknown, her age unknown, she had stopped singing, she had stopped dancing, and she never would again.

But she had left an untold legacy, an unknown mark on history.

The winter was always cold, the people complained. The crops never grew, the food never lasted, the water too frozen, the fireplace never with enough wood. Yes, people, humans, they always complained about winter.

But, Jack smiled sadly as he flew into the clouds, there had been one, one human to sing the winter praises.

One who had asked the bringer of winter himself to sit and have a chat.

One who had taught the winter how to dance, to sing.

One who had uttered no word of complaint as the cold enveloped her stony prison.

And, in her memory, in her forgotten, lonely memory, the winter danced, the winter sang.

With tears streaming down his face, with a smile on his lips, Jack knew, as he spun, forever free, forever unchained, that the girl would never, ever, truly die, he wouldn't let her.

And so the memory of that deep, dark, dank cave, alight with flickering torches, and full of the ever echoing voice of the girl who had never given up, who had always smiled and danced, until the very end, that place, that presence, it was forever etched into the snowflakes as they fell, forever etched into the heart, the very heart, of winter.

And so, with a smile, a grin, a mocking laugh, Jack took off to deliver winter to the world, but this time, this time he wasn't alone, and as he sang her song loudly, whooping as he dived, dancing, playing with the wind, he heard her sing along, a memory, a presence, forever etched into his very soul, his proof of existence.