Jack is lonely.

... Well not that that's anything new, really. Jack's been alive - if anyone could call it that - for a little over two hundred years now, and never once has he held a conversation, been seen, or been touched. Sure, he has the wind, and Jack loves the wind, but, if he is being honest with himself, the wind isn't the best for companionship. Feelings are to it what hugs are to Jack - foreign and bewildering, although perhaps less desperately longed for. Jack doesn't blame it; the wind is age-old, free, formless. (except Jack still finds himself wishing the wind could understand his pain)

Regardless of personal wishes, however, Jack is still used to being alone (ignored, nonexistent) so he's taken to being an observer. Humans are interesting to say the least. He doesn't understand it, really; humans can love, can touch, and Jack doesn't understand why, when people have so much, they claim they must go to war for more. But nobody hears Jack's questions so they all ignorantly continue on with their War to End All Wars while he watches (forevermore, forevermore).

Despite his desperate pleas in the night, Jack is used to being alone (hated by those precious few supposedly like him - who can see him) so when someone suddenly flies in front of Jack, and Jack bumps into him (actually touches! touches!) Jack quickly tries to get away, only to be grabbed at the wrist.

"You're Jack Frost?" The other says, something of excitement coloring his voice. (But it can't be - who would be excited for Jack Frost?)

Hesitantly the frost child turns to be met with hair of shocking orange and eyes that seem to embody the very spirit of every beautiful sun ever set. Jack replies with a small affirmative, his voice still slightly raspy from his repeated shouting at the moon last night.

"That's great!" and Jack is frozen by the genuine joy in his eyes and the soft grip on his wrist, "I've been looking for you,"

Jack's world goes black.

Jack is in pain.

...but then again, that's no longer new. His wrists are bound above his head, ropes chafing as he once again struggles to free himself. His cloak is ruined, torn and bloody, his skin underneath matching. His staff is torturously just out of reach, dangling dangerously closely to a fire. And the room is warm - oh so warm. It's making it hard to think - hard to move - and all Jack can wonder is, why why why? Why me?

But perhaps he was saying it out loud because the man of shocking orange and sunsets just chuckles and replies (as he wipes off a newly bloodied knife and steps out of the room, not even bothering to close the door) "Because I can, Jack, and no one will ever punish me for it,"

And despite how warm the room is, despite how his very soul (does he even have one - he wonders?) feels charred as a bit of hot ash lands on his staff, Jack freezes. He is invisible (ignored, non-existent); he is a fairy-tail, and no one will save him.

...Except don't fairy tales have happy endings? The princess always gets rescued and damsel saved. Why shouldn't Jack? Yes, the Moon knows he exists and so does the Wind; surely they will save him, or find someone to do it (even if the wind never talks to anyone except Jack and the moon ignored him for centuries).

Jack can't give up hope. Someone will come, and he will meet them halfway. So, bloody and beaten, Jack tries once more to break free from his restraints.

Jack is broken.

And he is revolted at how that is no longer new. Scars, both old and fresh, litter his body, his clothes having long been discarded. The door lies mockingly open in front of him, and he is no longer bound, but he can't really find the will to try to escape again. Outside of the ridiculously hot room with the fire is a pitch black maze, and rather than go through that, Jack would rather lie and pretend that the ache in his lower back and the liquid still dripping from him isn't what it is.

"Oh, what's wrong? My little Snowflake doesn't have fight left?" The mocking (evil, burning) voice of the man of twilight rings out. Jack doesn't bother to reply, opting to stare at his staff (still just out of reach, if he would just crawl a few inches...) now heavily pockmarked - nearly entirely black - from the numerous embers that jumped at it, "Hmm," Jack feels his head yanked and suddenly he is back staring at twin sunsets, "What a shame. I think I've finally broken you," he mumbles almost to himself, "Well, you lasted quite a while. I suppose a little reward is due,"

Almost gently, the man picks Jack up, and by instinct Jack tries meekly to escape the grasp, "Oh! So you do still have a little kick," he exclaims delightfully, "well then, you might just actually survive! Good on you," He takes Jack's charred staff and hands it to the frost child; Jack clutches at it desperately as it frosts over - but only just.

Jack isn't sure what's going on as the man who...who did things carries him through the terrible maze, but even though he has his staff back and is out of the boiling room, Jack's powers and strength are near non-existent (just like him, just like him) so all he can do is curl up and hope. Hope.

Hope, still, that someone will come. They'll come. They must. Fairytales always have a happy ending.

Jack has to close his eyes from the suddenly intense light, but before he can even reopen them, he is carelessly tossed into a snowbank. It takes Jack far longer than it should to realize that he is outside. Suddenly not caring about the blinding light, Jack's eyes shoot open and he stares at the open sky. Dumfounded, and more than disoriented by everything, Jack cranes his head to stare at the sunset man from his crumpled position on the ground.

"Well, you're free. Go on. Shoo," The man flicks his hands at Jack as if he is an unwanted rodent in his yard. When Jack just continues to stare, the man seems to come to a conclusion, "Oh, right, I said something about a reward, right? Here, take these. Congrats on lasting over half a century. New record you know," A heap of cloth is thrown on Jack's head. By the time he takes them off to realize they are actually clothes, the man of sunsets and his cave lair are gone as if they'd never been there.

Jack gapes for a moment more before standing up and robotically putting on the clothes (a blue hooded sweatshirt and, surprisingly, his old pants - tattered though they were, they were still wearable). Afterward, Jack remains in his spot listlessly. No one came. No one saved him. In the end, his captor had gotten bored and tossed him like trash (like a broken toy, once again unwanted).

The wind tousles his hair asking why he was gone so long. Does he want to play? Of course he does; the frost child always wants to play. What kind of games can they play?

No one came. No one came. noonecamenoonecamenoonecame.

"Yes, lets play," Jack's voice, still raspy from the wretched pleas, whispers. No one knew he existed? Fine. Jack would make sure everyone knew. Jack picks up his staff, bringing it above his head with both hands, "Lets have a race," Jack doesn't need to elaborate; the wind always instinctively knows Jack's intentions and plays along happily.

"Game. Start," Jack brings down the staff, and the resulting storm lasts for days. Winds blow and frost grows, and people can swear the two are racing against each other. Jack marches along as he spreads his art, the winds raging ever faster in an attempt to keep up with his ever-growing storm. When he reaches the ocean, he doesn't so much as pause, simply walking on, the water obediently freezing below him.

When all is said and done, newscasters will go on for weeks about how a freak snowstorm covering half of North America and most of Europe cancelled Easter on a near global level. The death-toll ends up being frighteningly high and scientists will somehow attribute all this to global warming.

Jack knows none of this, though, as he sits in a low-hanging branch of a tree he found earlier, well and truly exhausted. The winds triumphantly twirl about him (I won I won echoes all around him). Jack chuckles at its antics, momentarily grasping some sense of himself in the wake of the storm. Never had he unleashed himself like that, and the concentration it took allowed him to push aside... Jack doesn't get a chance to shove away the thought before he hears footsteps.

"Hey, you the one that's causing all these storms?" comes a heavily accented Australian voice. Jack is excited, can't help but be excited. His plan worked! Finally, someone to recognize his existence! Someone to prove he wasn't, in fact, trash (broken, unwanted). Jack doesn't even care that said person is a ridiculously tall, bipedal rabbit holding a boomerang in one hand and a basket full of painted eggs in the other.

Jack hops off the tree and walks up to his company, only to be shoved down, aggravating the more recent wounds on his back. The boomerang is thrust inches from his nose, "Listen 'ere. I don' know who ya think ya are, but ya can' jus' go 'round ruinin' people's holidays!" The man (rabbit?) fumes.

Shocked, Jack opens his mouth to explain but is cutoff, "No, shut up ya pommy bastard," Jack hadn't even started speaking, "there's no excuse for - for this! I don't know what ya were tryin' ta accomplish, but people everywhere are dyin' cause of ya. Dyin'! And if I ever see your ruddy face on my holiday again, I will pummel it in. Got that?"

Jack just blinks, but the aggressor seems to take that as an affirmative, pulling back and walking away mumbling about his hatred of "bloody winter sprites and their bloody selfishness," Jack watches as the rabbit (man?) thumps the ground, opening a hole and promptly going down it, giving Jack one last glare.

Jack's body aches, burns, and a bone-deep weariness settles in his soul but that's not what keeps him on the ground. No, the rabbit-man's last words do. Is Jack really selfish?

Yes, another part of him answers, of course he is. How selfish it was, to think he deserved a prince charming. Jack can't believe that he really thought he could have a... a friend (a confidant, a hug). Yes, he sees now. He was selfish, and that was why, when he sought touch he got injury and when he sought attention he gained hatred. Yes, it makes sense. Jack was selfish.

But no more.

Standing up, Jack opens his mouth and tries to call for the wind.

But no sound comes forth.

Jack tries again, to no avail.

Even his voice has left him.

...but perhaps that is for the best too.

Jack does not need to call; the wind always knows what he wants and lifts him up, taking him anywhere, everywhere while Jack resolves himself (silently as his falling snow) to never be selfish again.

It doesn't matter that he will have no one to talk to.

It doesn't matter that he'll never experience a hug.

It doesn't matter that he can no longer call for attention.

Yes Jack will be alone (forevermore, forevermore)

...but after all, that's not anything new.