Frosted (Frosted #1 | Jackunzel)

{ Chapter Three }

Jack had never flown for two days straight—he'd never had reason to—so he was surprised to see how much it exhausted him. Sandy had warned him before he left the Workshop that a fresh thread could only last twenty four hours at most, depending on how strong it was, before vanishing. He'd been planning on stopping then. Get his bearings and rest.

But just as it was about to disappear, it had started fading in again. That same night. Given Jack still didn't know how far the string of golden dreamsand went, he decided (to his body's loud protests) that there was no time to waste. He flew fast—even his formidable skills couldn't outfly the passing of time.

When he finally saw the dot of an island in the far off distance, he was willing to bet on the truth of Bunny's identity as a rabbit that it was a mirage. But only human's experienced those. Not him. Not anymore. Despite his very vague memories of his time before being Jack Frost, Jack had a hard time trying to understand what it must've felt like being something other than himself. He couldn't imagine a life without his abilities, without knowing he had an eternity before him.

The island became larger by the second until, finally, he found himself above land again. Though he couldn't feel the heat, he could see it rippling in the air. This was by far the most far down South he'd ever been, and he wasn't exactly sure he liked it.

The thread led him to a cliff, where he dropped down tiredly to his feet. The rock felt nice underneath his bare feet. Grounding. Relaxing. As a spirit of the wind, Jack never thought he'd be so glad to feel the earth underneath him. The trees shadowed him from the moon in the sky, but Jack felt his presence nonetheless. Twinetender—a long, wooden stick topped with a wide hook—rested comfortably in his palms as he leaned his weight onto it. He gazed at the thread, already faint; if he wanted to reach the girl, he'd have to hurry. This was only an 8-shaped island, but it had seemed big from the skies. He'd rather get her location down now before having a whole country to search. With a sigh, Jack dug Twinetender into the stone and pushed himself airborne again.

It didn't take long to get to the village; it almost reached the shores of the small island, save for a thin lining of trees. Almost immediately as he entered, a strange sense of nostalgia threw him to a hoverstill. It wasn't that the town had any resemblance to Burgess, the small log-house village he'd grown up in before the moon chose him—in fact, this one had more of an olden European look to it more than anything—it was the feel of it. Something didn't quite fit. And, as he approached, he began to see exactly what.

It was the people, and how they walked about, baskets full of fresh goods hanging at the crook of their elbows, greeting most everyone they passed with the brightest, most genuine smiles he'd seen in a long time.

It was the air, and how clean it felt around him, how fresh it tasted in his lungs.

It was the skies, and how mesmerizingly clear they seemed to be. Everything, it appeared, was completely untouched by both the technology and pollution that now plagued the rest of the world.

Jack's feet fell lightly upon the cobblestoned ground of an alleyway near what appeared to be the town's main market. He made his way closer, peering around the corner just in time to spot the little girl. The golden thread ran straight through her. A grin stretched across her face, from one eye to the other, as she stared at the colourful lollipop in her hand. It warmed Jack's frozen heart like fire against snow. And when the girls wide eyes looked directly his way, he could almost imagine he was right there in the square with her.

That was, until the girl lifted a tiny, chubby hand toward him.

Jack stilled for a moment. The feeling of being seen and not glanced over was something he was still enjoying getting accustomed to. He took a single step forward, the girls eyes forever curiously glued to him. Jack's stomach fluttered with something familiar—love and hope and everything being seen delivered.