[rd][fic][Rise of the Guardians] Shadowlands 7/7

[sakon76]

The rest of this story, for convenience's sake, can be found at my fanfiction-dot-net account



Jane had given Phillipa a robe to wear while her own clothing dried, and had pressed a mug of hot sweet drink into her hands. Kindly, she had not yet asked any questions beyond "Is there anyone I should call?" To which Phillipa had just shaken her head.

She had just raised her hands to take another sip of the hot "cocoa" when the house's front door opened, and--

"Mom, I'm home!" the boy called before he noticed Phillipa sitting there.

She felt her heart catch. This couldn't be so easy, could it?

Jamie Bennett stood before her.

Shadowlands
Part 7: Deathly Deliverance
by K. Stonham
first released 6th January, 2019

"I'm going to kill her," Jack muttered to himself, hands strangling his staff. "I'm going to kill her." Then he slumped forward, pressing his forehead against his staff, eyes screwed shut. His breath sounded ragged, even to himself. "What are you doing, Pips?"

"Jackson?" his mother asked softly. Her voice held an edge.

Jack straightened, opening his eyes. Around him, he saw, there was a six-foot radius of thick snow, the summer grass buried as frost snaked even farther out, toward all the villagers who had come running but now stood a wary distance from Jack.

He was a Guardian. He needed to get a grip.

...His little sister was on the other side of a door he couldn't open, and he had no idea what she thought she was up to.

Jack ruthlessly forced the panic down. He was a Guardian, and there was nothing he could do to open Death's door right now. He was a Guardian, and he would act like it.

Which meant pulling his power back in to his skin, stopping worrying his parents and their neighbors, and letting summer be summer.

(He knew why summer spirits didn't like him. All he could do was wreck their season.)

Taking a measured breath, Jack forced himself to calm and focus. He looked unseeingly into the mid-distance, feeling the chill of winter around him and easing it back, pulling it up into himself like the cold was yarn he was rewinding into a ball.

It was sticky work. It was so much easier for him to make things cold than to pull the cold out of them. Five years ago, he couldn't have done this. Even now it was difficult. But slowly, grudgingly, the chill left the grass and the air. His frost and snow began to melt, insultingly fast.

Jack flexed his fingers, worked the tension kinks out. "Sorry," he muttered.

His mother took him in her arms. "It's all right," she said. She looked beyond him, at the pond. "What is Phillipa doing?" she asked.

Jack shook his head. "I wish I knew."

Jane looked out the window, at the snow that was worryingly thick and fast. The plows would be along come morning, of course, but right now she wouldn't want to be out there. Well, more allowance money for Jamie, shoveling the driveway and walk. "You can't go out in this," she said to Phillipa. "You can stay here tonight. Tomorrow I'll take you home. Do you want to call someone?"

The shorter woman looked at her a silent moment, then shook her head. "No. Thank you. You are very kind."

Jane shrugged. "People helped me when I needed it. Things like that should always be paid forward. Now, I don't have a guest room, but the sofa folds out. I hope that will be okay? We've got some clean sheets and extra quilts."

Phillipa smiled. Even smiling, though, she looked sad. "That would be most gracious. Please, may I help?"

The time swept on toward the midnight hour. Most of the strange lights of this house had been doused, though some things yet glowed: the hearth, faery boxes that showed changing numbers, other devices whose purpose Phillipa could not comprehend. Yet still she waited, warm in this too-soft bed that had been unfolded, magically stored within the "sofa."

Finally, all was quiet and had been so for long enough that she felt safe in rising.

She found her own shift and dress, dry now, in the small room off the kitchen, and donned them, leaving her borrowed night-gown atop the large white metal boxes there. Her hose likewise went on, but her shoes she chose to carry. Returning to the kitchen, she moved silently by the device-lights to where she had seen Jane place knives earlier. She hefted them each, finding the one that suited her hand best. She tested its blade with her thumb. It was pleasingly sharp.

Moving to the stairs, she went up them carefully, slowly. She tested each step before trusting her weight to it. At the top of the stairs was a landing, leading to four doors. One was open; it was the room with the washing-tub that she had bathed in earlier. Another door had a decorative plaque that proclaimed it to be "Sophie's Room." The remaining two doors were plain.

As quietly as she could, Phillipa turned the knob to the right-hand door and eased it open.

Beyond, she could see Jane asleep in a bed.

Closing the door again, Phillipa took two stealthy steps to the other, and opened it.

There lay her quarry, bunched up beneath quilts of his own. Beyond him, his window lay ajar, letting in the cold winter air.

Footsteps as soft as may be, Phillipa skirted the bed and closed the window, shutting out the hated winter that had taken Jack from her and never given him back. She moved beside Jamie Bennett's bed and looked down at him.

He, too, had taken Jack from her.

But if she took him to Jack... took him to the shadowlands... there Jack would stay.

He would stay for her, and for his Jamie, and her family would never be broken apart again.

The knife gleamed by the folds of her skirt.

Jamie had spent five years with the occasional nighttime visitor (okay, always Jack Frost, but it was still only occasionally, it wasn't like Jack stopped by every night or even every week) popping into his bedroom for midnight adventures or just brotherly bonding. So even fast asleep he had a pretty good sense of when someone else was in his room. And barring a recent brush with dreamdust, he was even pretty good at rousing himself up when he had someone lurking over him, ready to wake him either via snowball or repeated shoulder pokings.

That said, something felt wrong as Jamie surfaced, and he muzzily tried to figure out what it was. By the time his eyes were blinking open, he realized it was quiet in his room. He couldn't hear the soft outdoor noises that an open window always brought him. He couldn't hear the wind.

And Jack would never be separated from the wind.

Jamie's eyes snapped open and latched onto the shadow standing in his room.

He had just enough time to recognize her as the stranger his mom had taken in for the night before she stepped forward, knife in her hand catching the glow of his nightlight and gleaming--

--before she was caught herself, a white-silver sickle blade glowing at her throat.

Mort stepped out from the shadows of Jamie's room.

"You have stolen my token and left my realm," Death said quietly to the woman as Jamie's heart thundered hard in his chest. "I remember you, Phillipa. As I remember all."

The woman's eyes were wide. She stood frozen.

"I see you remember me, too." Mort's voice held no tone as she asked, "What do you think you are doing here, tonight?"

The woman swallowed. The arm holding the knife lowered, until it was by her side. "I-- I was going to take him to the shadowlands. So Jack would stay."

"Jack?" Jamie demanded. "What about Jack?"

His question was ignored. "You were going to take upon yourself that role which is mine," Mort said. Her sickle was still at Phillipa's throat. "I could choose to take offense at that, Phillipa. And should I so choose... that which I reap twice ceases to exist in any world."

It was hard to see in the dim of night, but Jamie thought the woman went even paler. "No, please--"

"I will ask you only one more question, Phillipa." Mort circled around to where the woman could see her. She was taller than the woman. The scythe withdrew, was replaced by a guiding finger. "Look into the boy's eyes. What do you see?"

The woman looked helplessly at Death, then looked at Jamie again. He was still sitting up in his bed, not having moved since waking to someone about to murder him. "I-- I don't--" Then she stopped, her eyes widening. Her hands flew to her mouth. The knife clattered to the floor. "He has his eyes," she said.

"Very good," Mort said. Her dark velvet tone eased. "I believe you owe the boy an apology, Phillipa."

"Yes, yes." She was nodding now. "I'm sorry," the woman told Jamie. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know... I just, I just wanted Jack to stay. He loves you so much, I thought if you were there instead of here, he'd stay. But I didn't know."

"You didn't know what?" Jamie asked before any of the supernatural people in his room could just vanish without giving him any answers.

(He had had it happen before.)

With a glance at Mort for permission, the woman approached him. Her hand (the one that had been holding the knife a moment before) touched Jamie's cheek. She felt warm, human. Her eyes shone with tears. "You have his eyes," she repeated. "Jack's eyes, from when he was human. I'm so sorry, great-great-grandson."

And then she and Mort were gone.

"All this panic over one little earring," a voice said behind Jack. He whirled, staff at the ready, only to have it caught in a steady pale hand. Mort raised an eyebrow at him. "Really, Frost."

"My lady!" Behind Jack, his mother bowed her head, dipping a curtsy. Everyone Jack could see did likewise.

He ignored them. Behind Mort stood Pippa, looking upset. Looking like she had every time she'd done something wrong and learned a hard lesson from it. "Pips?"

She met his eyes, then looked back down at the ground. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't mean to. I just didn't want you to leave us again."

"Pippa," Jack growled, and was surprised to find that he was angry at her, truly angry, "what did you do?"

"Nothing irremediable," Mort said, glancing at Pippa. "Fortunately."

"I... I was going to bring him here," Pippa said, then caught herself. "No. I was going to kill him," she said, looking up at Jack. "So you would stay here. Because if he was here too--"

Jack suddenly felt pale. "Jamie?" he whispered.

Pippa nodded.

Panic and rage warred, turning Jack's breath ragged. And he knew, he just knew, he was about to do something he'd regret--

His mother's hand touched his arm. "Phillipa," she said, like she couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

"Phillipa," said their father from behind Jack, and that was the most disappointed Jack had ever heard Thomas Frost. "How could you?"

"Mother," whispered Pippa's daughter.

All around them, Jack heard murmurs of the other villagers.

"I'm sorry," Pippa said brokenly, her tears staining the earth.

Jack closed his eyes, let his breath go.

He opened his eyes again.

"I don't love him more than you," he said, looking at his sister. "I can love you both, and it's different. He's like my little brother, and I have to take care of him. He still needs that. You don't, Pips."

"I know," she whispered. "I know that now. I'm so sorry, Jack."

"Are you ever going to do anything else like this again?" he asked, earning himself an odd look from their parents because how many times had he been the one being asked those words?

"No."

Jack sighed, let the anger wash from him. "Then come here."

Pippa ran to his arms, still crying and shaking with the knowledge of what she'd almost done, almost become. Jack closed his arms around her, and their parents' arms around them, and then family and friends and neighbors, in an ever-widening circle of embraces.

From the middle of the hug-circle, Jack looked up, and somehow still managed to meet Mort's eyes.

She gave him a small smile. "Love makes people do strange things sometimes," Death said, and then was gone.

"Jack?" Pippa said in a small voice.

He looked back at his sister. "Yeah?"

"This is yours." She pulled a small silver earring out of her pocket. "I'm sorry I stole it."

Jack took Death's token back from his sister. "Don't do it again, Pips."

The village picnic ended up happening as planned, even if it was much more subdued than expected... at least until Jack rolled his eyes and packed together a snowball from thin air. With a smirk, he blew on it, blew magic into it, making the snowball glow winter-blue. Throwing it into the air, he launched himself and followed, striking the ball with his staff. It exploded into thousands of glittering blue snowflakes that rained down on the crowd. Everywhere, there was sudden laughter and joy and eyes lighting up with fun.

"Your magic?" his father asked, looking around at everyone suddenly having a much better time.

"My center," Jack replied, smiling as he landed. "It's what I put into the world, what I protect. It's... me."

"Surprising absolutely no one who ever knew you," said Stanley Pritchard, stopping beside Jack. "I'll miss you, Jack."

"I'll miss you, too," Jack said, clasping Stanley's forearm. "Though," he said, considering, "I'm not going to be completely gone."

"What do you mean?"

"Well," Jack said with a shrug, "I'm pretty sure I was told something about being able to see loved ones in reflections on All Saint's Day...."

Stanley's eyes widened and he stared at Jack for a long second. "By God, you're right!" he said with a laugh, clapping Jack on the back. "I'd stopped looking after my last grandchild came here. But no reason why we can't all use that to check in on you!" Laughing, he wandered away. "I'll be looking for you, Jack!"

"Be seeing you, Stanley," Jack murmured.

The feast went on for hours, people excusing themselves to do necessary chores, then coming back. Pippa, Jack was pleased to see, was not being ostracized, but rather was being more taken care of than before. Even her husband was being more solicitous.

But eventually it was dark and not even the torches and bonfires could disguise sleepy children yawning. Jack sighed, wishing the evening could go on forever, but knowing it couldn't.

"Time to go?" his father asked quietly.

Jack nodded. "Yeah."

He got a hand on either shoulder. "Thank you for coming to us," Thomas Frost said. Then, "I am so very, very proud of you, Jackson." And a hug.

Inside his father's arms, Jack closed his eyes momentarily, blinking back tears. All he'd wanted for so long.... "Thank you, Father," he said roughly, hands fisting in his father's shirt.

He collected embraces from his mother, and his horde of nieces and nephews going out several generations, and old friends, and finally....

"Pippa," he said.

She just looked at him. Then she hugged him. "Thank you for saving my life," she whispered.

Jack held his little sister and breathed in, realizing all he had accomplished with that one act. "I love you," he told her, then stepped away. "Be good," he warned her with a smirk.

"You be good!" she told him.

"Who, me?" he asked with a smirk.

"Yes, you! You always play tricks!"

He grinned. "Wouldn't be Jack Frost if I didn't," he told her, and, staff in hand, let the wind take him into the air. It pulled him out over the pond. The water was black and glassy beneath him. He looked back once at the villagers, at Burgess of the shadowlands, and waved.

It was time to go back where he belonged.

Jack dove.

It was cold, and it was dark, but Jack wasn't scared.

At least not until he touched the ice.

It was thick and it was solid. The hole he had made, he suddenly realized, had frozen over long ago. Knives stabbed at his lungs. He was running out of air.

He banged on the ice. Water blocking his ears, he could barely hear the sound it made.

He had made the pond too safe, the ice too thick. He couldn't break it.

He wanted to panic. He nearly did.

But the silver spiderweb earring clutched in his hand bit into his palm, reminding him that he wasn't a mortal drowning in this pond again....

He was Jack Frost.

And he was ice's master.

The pond exploded, water and ice raining down as a figure glowing blue burst forth from the surface, momentum pulling him high into the air, where he took a deep breath.

Morticia calmly sidestepped the ice chunk that would have hit her stomach, and waited until Jack Frost drifted back to land on the surface of his pond. He looked at the carnage around him. The whole surface of the pond was gone, and he stood only on the thinnest skim of ice that formed naturally under his bare feet. "Whoops," he muttered, then looked up and saw her.

His expression was unreadable as he walked across the water to her. "Did you find what you needed?" Morticia asked.

He hesitated, then nodded. "I think so. Thank you." The hand not holding his staff unfolded, revealing her earring. Morticia took it back, hooking it into her ear. In a flare of black cloak, she turned to go.

"Hey, Mort," Jack called out from behind her.

She turned back.

"Does anyone there look for you on All Saint's Day?"

She felt a thin trickle of sadness, but it was muted. It had been so long. "Not anymore, Frost. Those I have to reap twice... cease to exist."

She could hear his intake of breath across the distance. She waited for him to ask. But he didn't. Instead, "What does that mean for me, someday?"

Morticia glanced up at the moon and remembered the game they had played. It had taken three days, and his win had been so narrow. But Tsar Lunar had thought Jack Frost's life worth risking everything for. "It means nothing. When your time comes, you go home, like everyone else."

He looked shocked.

"I never reaped you, Jack Frost," Death told him quietly, and left.

Reeling, Jack didn't know what to think.

(Bunny said he had a pulse.)

He re-iced his pond, making himself pay attention to it and do a good, thick job of replacing the ice he'd shattered.

(Mort said she had never reaped him.)

If he wasn't really dead after all....

Jack let out a deep breath, checked the ice one more time, then let the wind take him. It didn't carry him far, just up the slope and over the road to Jamie's window, which was left open, as always, for Jack.

Jack swallowed, pushed the window wider, and snuck inside.

He just needed to check that Jamie was all right, that whatever Pippa had done hadn't been too bad.

He was not expecting the tackle-hug he got the instant he stepped inside.

"Hey! Whoa!" Jack flailed for balance.

"Where have you been?!" Jamie, wrapped up in a blanket, burst out.

"The shadowlands, remember?"

"I almost got killed by a crazy lady, but Mort stopped her, and then she called me great-great-grandson, then they vanished, and I want to know what's going on!" Jamie demanded.

Jack almost fell. "Pippa said what?!" Jack demanded back.

"She said I had your eyes," Jamie told him.

His sister had said what?! Which meant Jamie was....

Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Let's sit down and compare notes," Jack told him. "Because I'm running on one too many shocks right now, and," he said, looking at his blanket-swathed honorary brother (...his ever-so-great-nephew?), "I think so are you."

"Right." Jamie sat down on his bed, and looked around, clearly trying to get his thoughts in order. Eventually, "Can we do this with some cocoa?" he asked plaintively.

"Yes," Jack said decisively, and they decamped downstairs to the kitchen.

Some hours later, fortified by chocolate and marshmallows, they had exchanged stories and figured things out.

("They can revive people who've drowned in cold water, didn't you know that, Jack?")

("I think you mean 'Uncle Jack'.")

("Rack off, as Bunny would say.").

"See, I knew we were family," Jamie said drowsily, leaning on Jack's shoulder, the both of them sitting in the downstairs window seat. "Knew it from the day I met you."

Jack shifted so he was better supporting Jamie, one arm around the teenager as he finally fell asleep. "Yeah. Family," he said softly, looking out the window at the night sky, where the storm had cleared away and the full moon shone down brightly, smiling.

Jack smiled back.

Author's Notes: I have to dedicate this final chapter to the anonymous reviewer on fanfiction.net whose review ended with "even tho, ya know, this is never getting updated ever again and whatever". Which, given that the last update was just over four years previous, was a fair judgement. I have two very active little boys who are not yet in school, and getting sentences and paragraphs and whole chapters written around that obstacle has often seemed an insurmountable task. But somehow that comment got under my skin and got my fire burning again. Spite, as they say, can be a powerful motivator. So, three very late nights of writing later, here is the final chapter, mostly as I'd always planned it to be. A few glorious surprises crept in, reminding me of why I've always loved writing. Thank you, anonymous commenter, for leaving me words that I needed to find my way back. And thank you to everyone who never gave up hope on me returning someday.