Maaan have I been outta the game. Sorry to all the peeps who may or may not still be following me from my days as a YGO writer, but look something new and exciting! I'm just gonna post up any rotg drabbles in here, just explorin' some ideas.
Please note also I have no beta reader currently and I only just wrote this, if someone wants to volunteer to beta I can only say "oh gods yes". I waaaants one.
Anywho I hope you like this little drabble
How They Talk
or: Communication between a not-a-boy and the wind
He needed his staff to hear the wind, for the wind to hear him. Without his staff he could hear the faintest of whispers, curling against the shell of his ear, could feel the wind pluck at his clothes and tousle his hair playfully, and if he yelled, roared and pled with the wind, sometimes it would hear him. Jack Frost and the wind were friends and had been for three hundred years but neither could understand the other without the twisted bit of tree, for what new the wind better than the trees.
The wood held the memory of the tree, of the playful wind rustling its leaves, the vengeful wind ripping the leaves and branches down. Trees knew the wind, and the wind knew the trees, but not what to make of the frost child. Jack knew the staff, its gnarled surface and shepherds crook bend, as well as he knew his own hands. He felt as though it was something he had held before he was Jack Frost, something familiar and so known to him that when he'd picked it up, he knew immediately that it had always been and would always be his.
It was through this mutual party that Jack knew the wind. He recognised the wind as the laughing voice that pulled and pushed and swam around him. Through the memory of the staff he could hear its ringing voice and silent questions. It's speech a collection of words stolen from the lips of laughing children, the sighing elderly and groaning adults. It was snatches of conversation lost in great distances and parties held in open fields where the wind could race through the talk and collect the words.
The wind could not comprehend the strange frost child whose frame they wrapped around, whose figure labelled him human, but he was not. They knew the branch, tree's lost limb, and the branch knew the boy as shepherd. Keeper of flocks and the spirit of bitter cold. Now the wind could hear the snowflake with its strange shape, but it was light and cold, like so many snowflakes that the wind had carried laughing through the air. This one was different, powerful, their shepherd, the one to corral them to his will.
The winds grew fond of their frost child, who played with them and joined in on their mischief. They shared his grief and triumph and embraced him and threw him, let him fall to catch him, delighting in his joyful cries and exhilarated whoops and cheers. There were no cheers now, their snow child was aching, and desperate to flee. They obliged him, carried him to the coldest place they knew and tried to balm his wounded heart. Then there was anger, terrible anger. The wind joined his rage, and then stilled with his confusion. They felt the dangerous shadow man, and became still, waiting for their snowchild to tell them what to do. And then they couldn't hear him. One moment they could feel him, his confliction and anger, then suddenly they felt nothing at all. He was gone.
They couldn't feel his desires, hear his voice and they worried. They frantically searched for the chime and cold, searched for the playful, powerful, snowflake who formed the shape of a boy. They tried to find the tree limb, tried to find the memory of leaves and sunshine and creaking in the cold, but they could not. They were gone.
It searched and searched and searched for its frosted boy and the frozen staff but it could not hear them, feel them or see them anywhere. It heard a soft voice, so soft, so hard to understand and gently tugged a familiar and strange frame.
"Pitch was right. I make a mess out of everything." Said the boy forlornly and cold, but softly. So hard to understand and the wind could almost, almost make it out, it thought maybe this was the snowflake they sought amongst the storm of them, but where was tree's lost limb?
There was shuddering and cold in the bottom of the chasm, and wind didn't know what the boy wanted, and the boy couldn't understand that the wind was there. But there was a little fairy, a baby tooth there to help him, and soon the chasm was a glow with frost and ice and power. Suddenly sound came roaring into the wind and joyfully it swept up the powerful snowflake boy. Jack whooped in glee, the winds ephemeral arms crushing around him, its fingers searching him for change and injury. He laughed as it flew up and under his hoody, rushing over his icy skin in worry. He felt a mother's chiding at his unexplained absence and relieved grin at his safe return, and he loved the wind back.
He threw his arms wide and embraced it. He showed it his determination to save the Guardians, save the children and stop Pitch. It showed him their determination to help, grabbed tight hold of their boy shaped snowflake and careened towards a bed with monsters hiding beneath it.
AN: So there you have it. I have been pulled into the conscripted belief that Jack needs his staff to fly, and I've taken that as he needs it talk to the wind. His frosty powers should pretty much be inbuilt, but the staff is a focus. Maybe in another three hundred years Jack and the Wind will be familiar enough with each other to not need the staff but for the time being the staff is required.
Hence why he doesn't fly out of the chasm til after the staff is repaired. I'm gonna take liberty and say if the staff is close enough then wind kinda associates and what not magical proximity limit etc. but broken? No Dice.