A garland for your crowning glory

In which punctuation is sacrificed on the alter of poetry, shipping, and tumblr blogs specifically . Go and be amazed at the cute.

(such a sky and such a sun

i never knew and neither did you

and everybody never breathed

quite so many kinds of yes)

-ee cummings

She remembers the fall.

The moment of vertigo when the floor slipped into sky and someone screaming her name (jack, she decides, jack, jack, jack because mother is a word that still too tender to touch even now), the rush of air against her ears, a barest breath of chill against her wrist (his eyes were so wide) and then her hair yanked—

I remember waking up in a field of flowers with the moon over head and I wasn't afraid, she lies unhesitating, then I saw you sweeping down on the wind and I knew everything was going to be alright.

She remembers the fall.

She tries not to.

Jack remembers for her.

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The others are kind to her.

They come a 'calling as soon as the wind can get word; instructing, imparting, implanting knowledge like flowers blooming in their wake (you'll have to learn to control that or learn to tolerate shoes Konohana chides).

The earth is yours they say.

The forest, the fields, and the flowers of course; she finger paints forget-me-nots around her feet and laughs when Brigit and Jack throw frost flowers and fire blooms at each other.

(Jack refuses to leave her, to let her out of his sight no matter how vehement the girls get—he simply flies to highest branch and settles in to keep watch.)

She soaks up the learning with the thirst of parched ground and delights in the texture of mud between her toes, but her secret favorite is when Jack steals her way to the city (nothing, not even the slip of leaves between her fingertips can compare to the touch of vellum and cold hands as more and more words widen her world.)

The others are kind to her but she doesn't think they truly understand her.

Her desire might bring a garden to bloom but her delight comes in seeing people enjoying the blossoms she colors so carefully.

Gardens are meant to be seen, smelled, walked through, grubbed in; you can't do that without people, she tells Jack offering him an apple she made.

He bites it down in one hand and summons a snowball in the other.

Naturally, he says aiming the snowball at the bushy back of May's head, it would be like having a snowball fight by yourself— the birds burst out of the trees at the sound of the May Queen's screech—boring.

She couldn't help it; her laughter peals out, echoing over the antics in the meadow.

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She meets Mother Nature only once.

(A gentle hand ghosting across a brow and tucking a wayward strand behind an ear—her heart breaks and breaks and her hair yanks taunt in her hands until her neck hurts.)

Child be still, the command weights down like a throw of warm fur, it is necessary to go through the dark and deeper dark and not to turn—you will endure and triumph, because not despite what you have lived through.

So live well.

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Jack will always find her.

She knows this like the certainty of the sunlight under her skin or snowdrops trailing in her footsteps.

Jack will ways find her.

Usually elbow deep in paint and petals depending on if it was the workshop or the warren they were visiting, but Jack doesn't mind. (The sight of Bunnymund trying not to pass out from the sheer pleasure of being petted expertly behind the ears—precious. The potential blackmail for years to come—priceless.)

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He is so very still when she shows him her affections, running over his face with her hands, memorizing his eyes, nose, brows, the softness of his hair under her fingertips.

Her hands press on his shoulders, wet-warm, cleverly skimming the skin of his neck and collarbones.

He shivers imperceptibly.

You can't be cold, she whispers against the shell of his ear, you're Jack Frost.

He faces her and he won't act, she can tell by petrified lock of his arms around her waist so she does, hand on his shoulder, hand at his nape, meeting him mouth to mouth. He groans and responds, palms twitching tight, fingers rising over her spine, so cool, flushing out the fever fire of her skin with sheer welcomed relief.

She breaks the kiss and whispers I won't break, I promise.

A shudder runs through him and he pulls her hard against him as if the any space between them was too much to bear.

She is inclined to agree.

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She binds the black sand in net of yarrow and a ring of anise. Her hair gleaming like dream sand and an iron pan in hand, the children will steal their mother's cookware and play and replay the fairy princess defending the village against the dark king.

They make merry among the rings of wild marjoram and thyme cast up overnight on the town's edge.

(She lays her head down in Jack's lap and refuses to weep—no matter how many times fear pitches her mother's voice at her, Jack will be the one to call her back.)

Jack will always find her.

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Tell me the story how we met, she bids as they lay exhausted in the bows of the oak.

Once there was a girl in a tower and never being told not to, believed in everything.

(I wasn't ever that naive, she complains, shifting her body over his until her head curled over his heart. He tucked her in closer, kissing the crown of head, no he said, only that trusting but let me get on with the story.)

She was so open-hearted she could see everything most people are blind to. Like the handsome young man who brought frost and fun every year.

(If you keep giggling like that I can't finish the story, now can I?)

The girl in the tower never having seen any boy, let alone one who could fly, called out, how are you flying?

(I do not sound like that, she grumps, pushing him deeper in the sweet chill of the earth in order to look up into his eyes.)

And the young man was so surprised; he stopped and sneaked into the tower to talk to the girl. Again and again, until he couldn't keep away because he had fallen in love with her.

(Jack, she gasps as he reaches to draw her down again, her limbs long and loose between his. The equinox isn't over yet, still my turn, he grins up at her.)

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Summer is never gone from Corona they say.

Regnum Solis, they say, because the sun's daughter lives in our hills and even winter loves her. Snow even in summer but never more than a light frost in winter. The children see her when the summer lanterns go, glowing like a falling star with garlands of flowers in her hands to bring glad tidings and joy to any child lucky enough to catch one.

Sometimes the children see a young man with a shepard's crook with her, but those are only stories they say.

Just a story, a folktale to explain the lines of rapunzel flowers that spring up in odd stretches through the country.

Still it was my favorite story growing up.

Rapunzel.

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References

Konohana-Konohanasakuya-hime is the Japanese blossom-princess and symbol of delicate earthly life.

Brigit-the Celtic goddess/saint is associated with fire, fertility, and the first of spring.

May- Queen of May,a holiday/mythical figure who rules over May Day and Beltane.

Mother Nature- duh.

Heart breaks/deeper dark-Stanley Kunitz.

Yarrow- herb associated with magic, used to give second sight.

Anise- flower wards away nightmares.

Thyme and marjoram- used as protective influences, can disrupt otherworldly kidnapping attempts (Not that Pitch is a fairy but the theory is sound.)

Equinox- times when night and day are about equal length, and frost and fire trade dominion over the world. (That is a quote from somewhere that got stuck in my head and got really porny as I thought about Jack Frost, Rapunzel, and winter and summer rites. Easy way to decide who gets to be on top, I guess.)

So comments, questions, llamas?