A Trapped Winter Spirit - completed

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴇɴ: ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ᴏʀ ɴᴏᴛ

Pitch's POV:

As I pace around my hideout, my nightmares trailing after me in concern, I let myself ride my train of thought. I wondered if Jack was ready. He seems ready, but the last sprit I tried this with was never really the same.

I've pushed him, again and again, but he keeps getting hope. Next time he gives into exhaustion, I've made sure he'll have a nightmare about Ol' St Nick. One that is guaranteed to make him terrified of him. Just like he is now with Bunnymund. Maybe then he'll realise there's no hope.

But it still puzzled me. Where did his sudden burst of bravado come from? I replayed my encounter with the Guardians in my head over and over again. They wanted his staff, but for what? I only wanted it because Jack might need it if he survived his transformation. But they didn't have him. They didn't know how it worked. Why would they need it.

There's a loud, pained scream coming from his holding cell, and I inhaled the smell of Jack Frost's intoxicating fear. It's bitter, like he's more upset then afraid. But it was like this when he had the nightmare of Bunnymund.

I rush to the boy's cell, not wanting to miss his screams of agony. They make me feel so powerful, kind of like adrenaline. Which is why I might be able to finally defeat the Guardians. Finally put the world and its children back to the Dark Ages where I rule, and all hope is dead.

The winter spirit is curled up against the wall. Trying to stay warm, I don't know. His blood-stained hair and ripped clothes make me so proud of my work of him. Maybe he is ready. I have to be sure, or I will have to find another spirit to work on. I can't have Jack Frost, the boy who is so close that I can practically feel it, dying on me. I don't want to start again.

He sobs, muttering in unintelligible sleep talk. Waves of fear flood over me, reminding me of the old days when more children feared me. He's the first one in centuries.

I give him a sharp kick, straight to his stomach. "Jack!"

His eyes shot open, revealing that dim blue, but he struggled to get himself sitting up. I slide my hand through his blood-stained once white hair and yanked on it. He yelped, and his chained hand shot to his head. Then they slide down his face and cover his eyes at the sight of me, still sobbing.

I can't help but leer at him. He's ready. I know it.

"It's time, Jack," I say gently.

"T-Time for what?" he whispers.

"You'll see..." I say. I stand up.

With my eyes closed, I conjure all my magic, my dark sand and my nightmares. It slithers down my robes towards Jack, but I keep my eyes firmly closed. Jack yells out, and I can hear chains dragging and clanking against each other. Fear hits me again and again. Poor Jack's terrified. He makes a gagging sound and it all stops.

I hope I did the ritual right. 

When I open my eyes, Jack is standing up, the chains no longer on his wrists and at his bare feet. But he's very different, and I am very happy. My plan, my effort, my time, my risks, everything was worth it.

(Look at the picture at the top)

Jack's blood-stained hair is now pitch (pun unintended) black. His usually very pale skin was darkened, so it looks yellowish grey. All his cuts, bruises and scars were gone from his flesh. His jumper is fixed, without the blood stains and holes, but is now black instead of blue. His eyes were back to their usual blue but had a cold, hard look in them.

Oh Jack, the fun we will have.