Massive thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read this story, and even greater thanks to those who have taken the time to gift me with a review! I really appreciate them, and if you want to tell me what you think at the end of this then do not hesitate!
Which brings us to my next point: last chapter :'( I feel slightly bad that I have taken so much pleasure in making you all cry, but you seem to like it, otherwise you wouldn't have read so far into this incredibly depressing story! With that in mind, however, I have taken your requests into consideration, and am ending this with a hopeful note. Perhaps that will make you feel better and help to heal your broken hearts :)
Read, review, and please enjoy the final 2000 words of Abandoned in Antarctica.
2 years later
Jack's sketches lined the walls of the room that was now his room, the room that they had first brought him to. The windows glowed, an iridescent rainbow of stained glass for a winter spirit who never wanted to see ice and snow again, particularly not the ice and snow of a pole. In the corner of the room sat two halves of a staff; though deep down he believed he could fix it if given enough motive, he'd just never found the strength, and though he pined for it on every level, he convinced himself that seventy years was long enough to get over it.
Instead, North had fashioned him a new staff, with the same weight, balance and dimensions of his old. It was no good as a conduit, but it was a comfort in his hands, and it helped him to get around: his foot had been too damaged to heal properly, and it was now deformed. He walked with a limp, and would do for the rest of his immortal life. When asked about how he had gotten the injury, he'd simply shrugged- Jack genuinely did not remember what had happened, though it certainly must have hurt.
The shelves were lined with books of every kind- when they'd first found him, one of the guardians would come in every night and read to him. When he was better, when his mind and thoughts were clearer, North taught him to read for himself. He didn't know whether he'd been able to read before or not, but he suspected not- who would have bothered to teach Jack Frost how to read?
In one corner was a chest of drawers and a wardrobe, both intended for clothes. The wardrobe, however, was filled with other things- toys from the workshop, googies that Bunny had given to him, a bowl of dream sand from Sandy for when he wanted to sleep, and his teeth. Tooth had given them to him a few months after he'd been returned- for that is how they all called it; being returned, as if Pitch had been keeping a hold of him all those years- but he didn't want to look at them. Not after all the trouble they'd caused. They were shoved in the back, underneath a scrap of velvet.
On top of the chest of drawers was a music player, with CDs piled high on either side. Jack had discovered a love for music, from classical to metal, and even though the discs were now outdated he didn't like playing his music through anything else. As a result, he had very little music from after 2020. Some of the songs he recognized from the Before, others were new to him: he hadn't really had the means to get music until recently.
In the chest of drawers was a large amount of new clothes, most of them various shades of blue. The yetis had had a field day with sewing him an entire wardrobe, and he suspected the elves had pitched in too, because he had woken up one morning and found the guardian shoes next to his bed. He felt slightly guilty about the effort they'd gone to, because he rarely wore anything except for a pair of ice blue pyjamas and a navy beanie that he jammed on his head when he was upset. He could vaguely remember doing the same with his hoodie, and during his time in Antarctica when he still had it he'd practically lived with it on.
Strange to think it was still out there, surrounded by his frozen blood. Jack briefly wondered if it would ever be found by the mortals or whether it would be out there, buried in the ice forever. Sort of like he almost was...
No! It didn't do to dwell on such thoughts. The slips into madness, darkness and fear clouding his thoughts, 'relapses' as the guardians called them, were getting ever rarer, but they still came, especially when he thought too deeply on stuff he knew was best left alone. The guardians had fixed him up as best they could, but there were still three jagged, parallel scars down one side of his face, a memory of a particularly violent fit that seized him a few weeks in to his recovery. His torso and arms were covered with similar scars, but his worst reminder of 'being lost' (a term insisted upon by Tooth) was his missing finger. He often forgot it was gone, often swore he could still feel it, and the very sight of his mutilated hand revolted him. It was a reminder that he was, and always would be, broken.
Rather than think about it, he took out a blank canvas and his favourite paints, and began to work. He never sketched out what he was painting first- he just let it come to him, to flow from his fingers almost as naturally as frost once had. It was comforting.
The painting was very bright, like the rest of the paintings decorating his room. There were several of Baby Tooth and various elves, a couple of scenes he had seen in his dreams, a few still lives of objects found around the workshop, and one of a little boy with brown hair and brown eyes, who had once been important but Jack didn't know how. Tooth had choked up a little at the sight of the painting, but then, she cried a lot when he was around.
This painting was different to the rest- it felt like a dream, but he knew it was real, a place where he had felt accepted, once. It was green, with lush grass and leafy trees, dotted with bright flowers and colourful rivers of dye. Large stone statues guarded various tunnel entrances, and a rainbow procession of eggs marched towards the surface. The warren his mind provided, and it felt right somehow. He carefully printed it at the bottom, next to his signature- an intricate snowflake that he painted on using just eight brush strokes.
He didn't know how long he had been painting- there was one clock in the entirety of Santoff Clausen, hidden in a coat pocket at the back of a closet in the corner of North's room, used to see how far away Christmas was- but he knew it had been a long time. His stomach growled and he remembered what they'd told him: he needed to eat, often and in small amounts.
He propped the painting up on his bed, leaning against the headboard, so that it could dry. The winter spirit took a step back and gave it a good look. It was, without a doubt, the best thing he had ever painted. The colours contrasted beautifully, the whole canvas seeming to glow with a vibrancy that Jack wished he still possessed. It was flawless. He was ready.
The trip to the kitchens was surprisingly quiet, something the immortal child was grateful for. He didn't know why, but the elves had a tendency to push him over the edge, and he wasn't feeling his mental strongest. The yetis were also missing, probably sleeping in their quarters, and without the mad bustle the workshop was eerily quiet. He crept through quickly, not liking the deserted atmosphere.
In the kitchen he rummaged through the shelves, grinning when he found what he was looking for. He slowly savoured a frosted gingerbread man, crunched a Christmas cookie and nibbled at an apple in the hope of appeasing his inner Tooth. Then he poured himself a drink, added a few ice cubes- he could have just grown them himself, but he preferred to avoid using his powers, and anyways, North's ice was in novelty shapes- and started back to his room.
"Jack!" called North cheerfully from the sitting room as he passed by. He and Bunny were relaxing on the reclining chairs, toasting their feet by the fire. Jack wondered what month it was; perhaps July, since they both looked so calm. "Come and join us! He is telling me about how he makes his rivers flow dye!" Jack hesitated- that sounded awfully familiar- before smiling and shaking his head.
"Thanks, North, but I'm really tired; I just came down for a drink, and now I'm heading up to bed." He felt a pang at lying, but it was almost the truth- he really had come down for a drink, and he always felt tired. In fact, he was going up to his bed- he just wasn't planning on sleeping. What would they call it then? Misdirection? He didn't know, so he just held up his glass, bright lights of the workshop diffracting in all directions through the clear liquid. North nodded in understanding.
"Okay, I will be seeing you tomorrow, da?" Jack nodded, another pang running through him as he turned to go up to bed.
"G'night mate!" called Bunny. Jack didn't reply, but then, he doubted they were expecting him to. Instead, he trudged up the stairs, feet feeling heavier with every step. His room was right at the top of one of the towers- they had hoped he would enjoy the view- and despite the physio they had given him, despite the fact that two years had passed, he wasn't as strong as he should have been. He had heard them talking about it, one night outside his room when they thought he was asleep, Bunny voicing his concern that he was still so weak. He knew it was true, but the truth stung. Didn't it count that he was trying?
When he got to his room, he set the glass down on the windowsill before crossing over to the now dry painting. He briefly wondered if the paints were magic before forcing his mind to focus on what was important right now. He had been planning this for weeks, and now he wanted- needed- to get it right.
Uncapping a sharpie, he turned the painting over and, in his best cursive writing that Sandy had taught him, wrote on the back:
Dear North, Tooth, Sandy and Bunny,
Thank you for trying. I appreciate it, I really do, but this isn't working. I'm sorry, because it's going to hurt you, and it's going to upset you, but this is something I have to do.
Good luck,
Perhaps I'll see you one day,
Jack
Next to his name he drew a small snowflake.
He put the painting back on the bed, propped against the headboard like it had been before, before turning to the window. They were large, some of the largest in any room in the pole, and now he opened them for the first time in two years. The icy, barren pole stretched out before him. Beneath him was the tower wall, aged and covered in handholds, easy climbing for anyone strong enough. A breath of wind curled around his head, tousling his hair. Wind, his old friend, his first, and for a long time his only, companion. Wind, welcoming him back, calling to him to come, come outside and play.
Tears filling his eyes, Jack smiled, his first true smile in over seventy years. He swung himself onto the ledge, careful not to knock the glass over, and let his legs dangle over the edge. Freedom was so close he could practically taste it, but a small part hesitated, wondering if this was the right choice. Then the wind blew again, and he knew that yes... yes it was.
He took one last look at his bedroom, a sharp note of sadness echoing through him. He felt guilty, like he was betraying the guardians after they'd worked so hard to help him, but they had to understand: he couldn't go on like this any more. Taking a deep breath, he whispered a last goodbye to his caretakers, reached his hand out-
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-and downed the glass of bleach in one gulp.
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I lied XD