Jack, not Jackson

Chapter 7: Scolding a Forest and Seeing Smoke.

Frost: p.o.v.
-
Jack usually liked forests and they liked him..
usually.
He'd slept in forests for the last two thousand years at least so why, pray tell, did He feel different about this one? Something was different here, but what, he was uncertain.

It wasn't that it disliked him, as far as he could tell everything within the forest was fine. It was that the forest seemed to be expecting him to turn around or give up.

No. maybe it was looking down on him?
Yes, it was definitely looking down on him and it seemed almost giddy about it.
Irritated and giddy.
Jack didn't like when forests, or anyone for that matter, got arrogant.

He scowled at a tree as he stumbled
over a root, still feeling like the tree was radiating smugness.
"Do that again I dare you. "
He growled lowly, keenly aware that he probably looked like a wolf.. or a fool.. maybe a weird mixture of both?

Without realizing, Frost had begun to chill the air.
The leaves above getting crisp from frost and the water in the fauna hovering between liquid and solid states as if unsure which it was currently supposed to be.

The effect was immediate.
The birds silenced, the ground creatures stilled, and the forest stopped radiating an expectation of failure.

Though alittle stunned it had had an effect, Jack nods grimly in satisfaction.
"That's what I thought."

——-
Change of POV.
——-

The Forbidden Forest was many things. Magical, Vast, Powerful, Foreboding, Cunning and most importantly, pretty much endless. it had spread its roots far and wide, folding the land with its magic and connecting places that wouldn't normally connect and scaring pretty much anyone who dared to enter.

Let's just say the Forbidden Forest had put a lot of effort into earning its name.

The magic of the Forbidden Forest was an old magic. One that had been old when Witches and Wizards first received magic and even older when Hogwarts was built.

So it may be understood why the Forbidden Forest was a little miffed when a boy carrying a glorified stick came wandering into the forests folds without seeming even slightly put off.

The Forest tried hiding the light, hoping that this small human intruder, now known as Stick, might turn around.
It didn't work.
It tried creaking it's trees and making the animals move about as if in terror but the boy ambled on.

For days Stick the white-haired boy refused to turn around and the Forest was disgusted. How dare this measly, short lived, thing traipse through like he was on a picnic without the slightest bit of screaming, panicking, or any such signs of terror?

The longer Stick stayed, the more agitated the Forest became. It tried changing the positions of trees just slightly to create a pattern meant to turn him around and he ignored it.
Finally fed up with the boys trek, the Forbidden Forest attempted to trip him.

It was not. a good idea, but the Forest would learn that the hard way.

—

Since the last attempt to rid itself of Stick, the Forest had grown to like the boy. Frost, who had taken a guess that the Forest was sentient, had told it his name.
This resulted in the Forest calling him..Frost-Stick.
So imaginative.

The Forbidden Forest had listened as Frost-Stick had explained how old he was, why he could sense the Forest and why he knew he wasn't crazy for talking to a Forest. He was crazy for other reasons, he explained. Long, complicated reasons that involved five different kinds of magic, several wars and 3,000 years.

The Forest understood.
He had lived long enough to have seen many odd things but not often had he seen something unique. One kind of crazy was enough, but Frost-Stick seemed to be about 1,000 kinds of crazy.
That suited the Forest just fine.

He had lived long enough to see that Frost-Stick wasn't crazy at all really, just Old, like him.
——

Frost POV:

——

Jack had been talking to the forest as he walked. It had been ages since he had had a companion that couldn't spill all his secrets and he had enough to fill a pond, or a well; or maybe, even a Forest.

As he let fate tug him where he needed to go, he told the forest of his beginnings. Back when wars were scary and he had had loved ones to lose. He told the forest of hell and loss and pain and torture. Of isolation and numbness. And insanity.
And Forest listened. No longer trying to sabotage his path, Frost's journey went  much quicker.

It also helped that he occasionally took his most comfortable second shape. A white wolf, which he normally didn't do unless he was absolutely sure no one was around. He wasn't supposed to know how to shape shift.

Soon (maybe) he was standing on a hill and saw chimney smoke. Columns of dark smoke trudging grimly into the gray cloudy sky as if knowing he was approaching and wanting nothing to do with it.

Frost agreed with the smoke. His arrival was something he wanted nothing to do with either.