Chapter Text
The moon, which had started off as just a splinter in the sky, had turned full and fat by the time they slowed down to rest. And in that time, Jack had found that it was the moss that bewitched him the most. Of all the comforts of pillows and blankets he had at his disposal, nothing had come close to its springiness, its gentle softness. Jack had lain amongst a large patch under the pale sun and marvelled at how he sunk, how its dense green clumps would compress underneath his weight and yet, when he removed himself there was no mark of him ever being there. It was a marvel to him, so much so that he could not help but bounce into any sort of moss patch that came into sight of him.
Naturally, this perturbed the stranger to no end.
“Spirits!”
Jack looked at him quizzically, raising one eyebrow just a slight too high.
“Why on the sacred earth are you throwing yourself around like that, like, like you’re a new borne babe.” He chastised, a calloused hand placed on his hip, attention elsewhere as he looked around for a good place to make camp. “It’s disturbing.” He muttered finally.
Jack was thankful they were about to stop, he had been dragging his feet for two moons now, looking as pathetic as he could hope. His fever was inching back, subtly at first, but although the thrill of the outside had yet to wear off, his body was starting to protest the lack of rest. His stranger, catching on, muttered about the weakness of winter sprites, and announced they would be stopping at noon.
Winter sprite. Jack had tasted it on his tongue, said it wordlessly through a breath and then tried it on, awkwardly at first, tugging at its edges to make it fit. Jack thought it could suit him, whatever it meant.
When noon came, Jack settled himself down, curling on top of an undisturbed moss patch, marvelling at its softness once again. He dug his toes into it, scrunching and wiggling them around, laughing breathlessly at the new sensation.
The stranger, who Jack had kept in his peripherals at all time, shook off the pack he was wearing on his back. The pack, being at about the same height as Jack himself, thudded heavily amongst the floor of woodland debris, the stranger stretched himself out, he reminded Jack, not of the first time, of an aged Oak, solid and firm in his joints, stable in his stance that held up his impossibly large mass.
Jack watched as the stranger rummaged purposely through his bag, he pulled out two items, both wrapped hastily in white cloth, paused, and then shoved one roughly back in. Then, using the bag as a rest for his back, the stranger unwrapped it and starting placing the contents within his mouth, seemingly moving his teeth back and forth. Jack watched him curiously, following the stranger’s movements eagerly, eyes widening as the others throat bobbed up and down, vanishing whatever had been in his mouth.
The stranger’s movements became stilted and awkward, he reached for the object again. Jack’s eyes, eagle like in their intensity, followed the small red object as it came up to the stranger’s lips, once again, disappearing inside of his mouth.
Jack’s curiosity bubbled and then boiled over. His entire body tilted forwards, bottom lip held firmly behind his upper jaw and his eyes focused in narrow concentration. He was close, so close to the stranger and he felt it, sharp and hot on the surface of his skin. Unlike Jack, whose own cooled skin preserved his fingertips in frosted patterns on any surface he touched, the strangers were heated, buzzing and, oddly, in some way that Jack could not quite grasp, alive.
But it was not the stranger’s skin that Jack took notice of, although it was hard to ignore, it was the tiny small red plants that he had in his hands that Jack wanted to, well, he didn’t quite know.
The stranger had watched all of this in quiet observation, which Jack was grateful for, there was no need for questions that Jack could not comprehend the answers to.
Movement. Unexpected, fast. It took him by surprise and he lurched back so quickly that his head spun, violently reminding him that he was in fact, still sick.
“Spirits, slow down kid” the stranger warned, wide eyed, his hand hovering in the air, his palm facing Jack in a placative manner.
But Jack wasn’t there anymore, his entire being had been grabbed from just behind his eyes and pulled backwards and now there was an empty, dark space between himself and where he was supposed to be.
His mistake, he thought distantly, for thinking he was fine.
Jack felt tethered to his body, held on by a short leash, as if himself had shrunk into nothing more than a newly sprouted bud, floating aimlessly within his own body. He could only watch, in muted disinterested as he reacted to the situation in front of him.
His mouth pulled back, baring his teeth. His skin, bristled in agitation as it splintered hotly through his body and yet, despite this he felt cold. Not the settled cold he was used to, no, this coldness felt sharp, he could feel it, clawing its way out from the centre of his chest, cracking it apart as it cut through his skin like a well-whetted axe.
He was at a complete loss at what his body was trying to do, it felt like his entire being was in flames, his fingers crackled and burnt but not of heat, no, Jack did not feel one lick of warmth.
Beneath him, Jack noticed idlily, no longer felt soft and squishy but unlevelled and jagged. But he could not see this, could not see what had become of the ground beneath him, for he saw one thing and one thing only, and that was the stranger, whose face had paled, whose body had stood, poised to run and whose hands were still palm up, as if Jack was a wounded animal.
He snarled, a sound he was sure had come from the trees behind him but his throat contracted around the foreign sound and he sputtered over a breath he did not need to take. He could hear a cracking, but paid it no mind, he tried to step back but found he couldn’t. Jacks throat let out a guttural moan, he couldn’t be trapped, no no not again.
Never again.
He jerked his foot again, his panic so thick it hung heavy in his chest. Jack forced himself to look down, to break contact with the stranger, but when he looked down everything simply, stopped.
He blinked, dazed as he returned, stretched tightly and pinged forwards as he settled back into himself. He realised he could not possibly fathom what had occurred on the ground between his legs.
Ice, rough, serrated shards of blue so pale it may as well of been white had creeped over his feet and clung onto his legs. He bent down and poked it with his fingers, lightly and first, testing out his firmness, its existence. Then the tips of his fingers became his palm and he could feel a whispering sort of fondness that emanated from its surface and, almost shyly, curled playfully onto his skin.
Jacks hand yanked back in surprise.
Weird. That was super weird.
Jack bent down again, poking it once more for good measure, it felt no cooler than his skin, in fact, it felt very much like it could have been an extension of his own body, which would be ridiculous, right?
Confused and very much raring to escape whatever mess he had gotten himself into, he tried to yank his left foot free, then his right, then both at the same time. Nothing. Jack huffed, no longer feeling in danger, the ice was practically purring against his skin.
Purring. That’s it! Jack concluded smugly, maybe it’s sentient, maybe it will let him go if he asked nicely.
Please let me go. He thought meaningfully. Nothing. Spirits, perhaps we will have to actually say it out loud.
Jack peeped shyly at the stranger, who was now simply standing and watching Jack in open confusion.
Jack bent down so that his mouth, and therefore his voice, was close to the ice, and, gathering up the small piece of courage he kept hidden away in the far-left corner of his mind, he whispered loudly;
“Please let me go”
Approximately two things happened at once: the ice, ever so polite, began redacting, sliding off his skin as easy as a wet cloth and the stranger, throwing his arms into the air, letting out a guttural scream of what Jack could only identify as hysterical distress because by the time Jack reached him, the stranger was holding his head firmly in his hands.
Jack felt like he should apologise but he wasn’t quite sure why. The stranger though, appeared to have regained his composure fairly quickly and now was looking at Jack with an odd expression on his face. But whatever he was thinking, he did not find it within himself to share.
--
It was a short while later and Jack was the only one conscious. The stranger had, much like Jack, not slept for their entire journey, but now it seemed not even a snap of a twig could rouse him.
Jack sat and watched the stranger, observed how his dark lashes curled onto his cheeks, how his chest moved up and down. He placed a hand on his own still chest. Jack may be naive about how the outside world ran but he wasn’t clueless to the facts presented before him. Everything seemed to breathe, from the birds with their fat little bodies, puffed chests and melodies to the trees which swayed and even the wind, as it collided into his body with its back and forth currents.
The stranger had said something about him being a winter sprite. Maybe that was it, maybe he was different because of that fact. Yes. That was it. He nodded to himself too, just for good measure.
Jack stared some more, then some more, then he stared past the stranger and into the woods around them. It was a cold night, that he could tell because the temperature was unnoticeable at best. Which, unfortunately, couldn’t be said for the last few times the sun had crawled its way across the sky. It had been a struggle, with the sun becoming increasingly warmer, almost unbearable when it lounged directly above. It had done no favours to his receding fever at all.
He was exhausted.
But he could not bring himself to shut his eyes, too terrified in case this was all a dream. In case he woke up, in his bed, under his blankets, wide eyed and sick as the feelings of everything he experienced unravelled out before him like some sick cosmic joke. Would he chase the lingering dream, grasping onto the edge of it as it slipped through his fingers or would he die, screaming as everything within him exploded in desperate fury.
No. He wouldn’t even think about it.
So instead, he thought about other things. About how the forest looked so still when you were sitting, how the trunks seemed so deeply rooted within the soil that he was almost sure that they had sprung where they stood, fully formed in thickness. How far below them laid pieces of themselves in twigs and leaves who had made the ground their home and how they must gaze up to the highest of branches and yearn to be up there again. And Jack, laying down, yearned with them, for he too wanted to be up there, amongst the trees that danced and swayed together, illuminated by the moon and moved by the wind whose music must sound so sweet and high and yet, Jack could hear none of it.
Content for the time being, Jack closed his eyes. Letting all the sensations curl around him; how soft the moss was beneath his legs, how soothing the wind was as it played amongst his hair, how it cuddled against his face, his neck, how it tugged at his clothes as if willing him to play. He giggled breathlessly, he wondered, not for the first time, how it would feel to fly. To feel the wind rush over him, to be able to escape from whatever he may need to escape from at any moments notice. He entertained the idea, saw himself flying, weaving amongst the trees, up in the clouds, twisting and turning as he sped through the day, as he lounged on a cloud at night, bouncing from one to another, spinning and dancing under the stars. Oh what a gift it would be, to be above it all, to see it all as if greed was never a sin.
He opened his eyes, then landed with a thud.
--
He was still there, wide eyed just as the sun came up and the stranger stirred.
“I flew” Jack whispered, hoarse.
“Don’t be ridiculous, only powerful spirits can fly, and trust me kid you’re not one of them.” But even then, the stranger could not sound convinced.
---
On the last day of rest, the stranger pulled out the strange red plants again, but this time, he left a small pile near Jack. Jack couldn’t deny he was curious, he was sure the name for these little guys was rattling around in his head somewhere, the name of them was sat so far on the tip of his tongue that one slight prod would push it tumbling out between his teeth.
Gingerly, he picked one up. It was slightly bigger than his thumb, and appeared to be made out small little bubbles, all squeezed together, Jack poked at its hollow middle. It smelt sour, and, Jack noted, was extremely squishy. By accident he had perhaps squished one a bit too hard and now his fingers were stained red and the droplet of juice that had run from its burst skin had started to freeze along his arm.
“Spirits! Eat the damn berry already”
Ah, berry. Jack put the berry in his mouth, settled it onto his tongue and tasted nothing. He frowned in disappointment, but tried to remember what the stranger did the last time the sun was low in the sky. He moved his teeth up and down, sideways, back and forth, nothing was happening, no taste, no burst of flavour, nothing. He stuck his tongue out with the berry still nestled in its centre.
“You’re supposed to bite into the berry you imbecile!”
Enlightened, Jack took the berry between his teeth. His eye twitched and his whole face grimaced as the taste spread around his mouth. He rolled the taste around his tongue for a bit more, then, more on reflex than on purpose, he swallowed it.
Jack took a moment to collect himself. Then as if struck by the most ingenious of thoughts he was sure he would ever have in his entire existence, he grabbed a chunk of moss from the ground beneath him and stuck it in his mouth.
A sound of protest could be made on the other side of the camp.
Jack started chewing anyway. Surely, surely if something as bizarre as a berry could taste so nice then something as beautiful as moss could too? The bitter, watery taste that flooded his mouth begged to differ.
“Kid, you are insane, spit that out of your mouth this instant! Spirits” the stranger yelled, quite emphatically and with such underlying exasperation that Jack paused his chewing and slowly began to shovel the moss out his mouth with his fingers. Of course, glaring at the stranger as he did so.
Spitting the last leaves out, Jack went to make an obscenely rude gesture at the other being, a gesture which would have been a complete surprise to Jack himself and yet he knew his body would pull through and deliver.
And yet, as soon as Jack began to move his entire body went rigid. His shoulders and chest tensed; the pinpricks that had pierced his stomach evolved into jagged stabs of pain. With such a new, overwhelming sensation being saturated in so much agony, Jack couldn’t help but cry out. Tears began to gather pitifully around the edges of his eyes, freezing just before they fell, he looked desperately at the stranger. And for the first time, the stranger looked unsure of himself, half hovering, half waiting to flee.
Jack grabbed his stomach and wished so very hard that he was detached from this body, this cage, He was tired of it, tired of how he could feel it, how it sat heavy on top of his soul, tired of how it ached and dragged at hurt all the time.
He let out a pathetic whimper and, the stranger, who was still hesitant and still useless and pathetic sat down, obviously opting to sit and wait this one out.
Oh, just wait until you’re in pain. Jack thought bitterly, piecing the stranger with a glare so intense that stranger averted his eyes.
And then, just as suddenly as it came, it went. Jack sobbed in relief and then retched as all he consumed punched its way out of his stomach.