I was walking far from home
Where the names were not burned along the wall
Saw a building high as heaven
But the door was so small, door was so small

It had been 318 years.

Jack was happy; happier than he had known was possible. He had a family, friends, others that actually cared about him. He had a couple of believers already, too, and though he tried not to pick favorites among the kids he acquainted himself with, the two Bennett children held a special place in the winter spirit's heart for obvious reasons.

There were times when things got too overwhelming—long visits to the Workshop for busy and hectic meetings made him the slightest bit uncomfortable because of all the activity, and the casual way his shoulders were gently gripped and brushed or his hair ruffled in passing—but at the same time he absorbed these friendly touches and tried to remember the feeling of warm hands when the all-too familiar feeling of loneliness crept its way back into his heart.

When the heat of the room North had prepared for him in the workshop (he had politely refused multiple times, but there was no stopping the large Russian when he wanted to provide hospitality) jumbled his thoughts and weighed down his mind, which did its job best in the cold, Jack often excused himself and rushed out on the wind as recklessly as a flurry of snow and let the bitter breeze do what it will. The icy wind did seem to know him best—sometimes he ended up in a remote a place as Antarctica or perhaps a small town in Siberia—but tonight, after laughter and stories of danger and battles won had been shared by the Guardians at the Pole and fun had been had by all, the wind took Jack home, to the small town on the Eastern side of the United States where he had been born: Burgess.

It was here that the trouble started. After skimming the sidewalks with non-lethal patches of black ice and sending chilly breezes into windows and through doors left ajar, Jack felt a deep sense of fulfillment and not unwelcome warmth. His eyelids grew heavy and eventually he had sought out a place to rest in the forest near his pond, where he ended up in a tree graced by frost and gnarled by the harsher, less forgiving effects of winter.

The winter spirit was dozing off, cradled by the branches of the snowy tree with his back and head resting against the trunk, eyelids half-shut and closing with contentedness and breath coming out in slow puffs-

And then, suddenly, he wasn't.

For a split second the winter spirit was aware of a faint slithering noise below him, like sand paper was winding its way up the trunk of the tree—and then something had him by the ankle and wrist on the same side and it wrenched the boy out of the tree and it was black sand, swirling and disappearing into the dark forest around him—

Black sand—Pitch. It had to be. The Guardians had banished him back to his hole in the ground a mere couple of years ago-so how was he here? This stream of thought was abruptly cut short as Jack slammed into the forest floor with a thud. He landed on his back, winded and gasping for air, chest thumping and ribs screaming. The boy scrambled halfway to his feet before a weight pressed into the small of his back, shoving him harshly down from behind. Jack met the ground again with a yelp, face mashed into the thin coating of snow and the layer of frozen dirt below. That weight was firm on his back now, pressing and steady between his protruding shoulder blades. It was digging and impossibly strong and he knew who it was. Jack's ribs ached as he positioned himself so one cheek was resting on the solid, frozen ground. Through bared teeth and a clenched jaw the boy managed to growl. "Pitch!"

The weight on his back shifted.

"Jack." came the simple reply from above. The too-familiar voice wasn't the usual velvety, practiced drawl that sent shivers through the Nightmare King's victims; it was tinged with the slightest whisper of sadness, of regret. Sympathy, thought Jack. Maybe.

"Fancy seeing you here…"Pitch continued, and Jack's heart fell as he realized his words were guarded by malice once again.

"You know this is my place, Pitch," the boy managed to hiss. The harsh weight increased, grinding into the ridges of the back of Jack's ribcage and it hurt and why was he doing this? The winter spirit wheezed into the snow, short, icy puffs of breath clouding around his mouth and nose and disappearing as he clutched at the crunchy, half- buried leaves around him, just hidden under the evening's flurries. "What did you come here for? To hurt me? Haven't you had enough yet?" Jack spat his questions, craning his neck to glance backward at Pitch, not expecting answers and realizing too late that he was going to get ones he didn't like.

Pitch watched Jack as he all but shook with emotion beneath his boot. How endearing. Pitch thought surely he wasn't so stupid to be out here alone, dozing and vulnerable and just begging to be snatched up—but he had been, to the Nightmare King's glee, and he had found the insufferable brat resting in his tree just outside of the town he lingered about incessantly; Burgess. He had found him, like a little bird perched up in the limbs, and he had ripped him down from there as a hungry snake would a fledgling and now he had him. Now the child was asking, always asking and so the Nightmare King leaned down, bending his knee and watching his prey squirm through the amber eyes of a predator and everything was just perfect. "If it is your suffering we are talking about, Jack," he growled down into the winter spirit's ear, taking in the grimace—"then it will be long before I will have ever had enough."

The winter spirit stiffened under the weight of the boogeyman, the desperation of the situation sinking in as he realized just how perfectly vulnerable he was. Jack could be cocky and difficult, but the fact was Pitch was going to hurt him any way that he could, and he knew this. And it scared him. A primal fear of death and dying and pain that even spirits are equipped with shot through the deepest corners of his mind and he was going to die here on the ground, cold just like he was and there was nothing he could do about it—and then Pitch was shifting his weight again, and Jack could hear the fabric of his robes as he knelt next to him, a mass of shadows keeping the boy pinned to the ground even as the digging weight of Pitch's heel was removed. Then came a whisper, searing hot breath meeting cold, pale skin and causing Jack to shiver as condensation formed on his cheek.

"Now, Jack," the slick, velvety voice wormed its way into his head as the Nightmare King tsk'd at him as a grown-up would to a misbehaving child. "Your fear is far too pungent for your own good." Was that a warning? Jack could hear the sneer in the Boogeyman's voice and decided then and there that whatever happened to him, he would not give Pitch the satisfaction he craved. Not of hearing him whimper on the ground, pinned under an unfathomable force of shadows while his worst fears were being read as if his mind were an open book—not of hearing him beg or plead for mercy, when the time came. No. As long as he kept Pitch occupied and away from Jamie and the rest of his friends—that would be enough to comfort him through whatever would happen.

Jack didn't respond. Instead, he bit his lip and scanned the ground in front of him desperately for the one thing that would be his salvation—his staff. He realized that he hadn't kept hold of it during his fall; shadows had snatched it from his loose grip in the moment that they had grabbed him. With a sickening pit forming in his stomach, Jack realized Pitch must have it. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping for an opportunity that, in the back of his mind, Jack knew probably wouldn't present itself. The boy was pulled from his thoughts and snapped back into the moment, however, when Pitch's long, bony fingers curled into his snow white hair almost gently before his grip tightened suddenly. The Nightmare King wrenched the winter spirit's head up and back, drawing a choked gasp from Jack at the painful twist of his spine and neck as his eyes shot open and he clawed, half-blinded by pain, at the dirt and snow level with him. Pitch leant down to growl into the boy's ear once again, taking cruel pleasure at the pained downward pull on the boy's mouth and how desperately he was trying to hide it under anger and bared teeth.

"It's rude to daydream while you're being spoken to, Frost," came the searing hiss. "You're afraid," he paused for effect, "of your friends getting hurt. Of leaving you. Of getting bored. I can't blame you," Pitch continued, his tone inflecting and thoughtful. "That is a reasonable concern. After all, 300 years of neglect is hard to explain." Jack's eyes slammed shut once again as he attempted and to stop Pitch's words as they dripped like venom into an open wound. He tried to shut his mouth but the angle wouldn't allow it, and something like a choked sob clawed its way out of the boy's throat before he could swallow it. After a moment of shakiness, Jack controlled his voice enough to make a demand.

"Let me go." Pitch didn't fight the razor-blade smile that crept across his features.

"…Or what? Your Guardian friends will get me? Unfortunately for you, that doesn't look like it is going to happen—and I have nothing to lose. Poor child. All alone…" The Nightmare King let a chuckle escape his thin lips before untangling his grey fingers from the boy's hair, letting Jack's head drop unceremoniously on the frozen ground where his pale cheek hit the snow with a soft thud. Bluish eyelids clenched downwards before sliding open again to reveal the same cerulean eyes, defiant as ever but rimmed with tears and then there was that innocent, childlike look there as well…a question nestled among blue irises that seemed to catch Pitch's eye. It was haunting, and searching, and it reminded Pitch of a child and it always caught him off guard. The look in the boy's eyes said Why? Why are you doing this? And the innocence of the question searched and all but unraveled the Nightmare King and it almost, almost made him wonder the same thing.

But not tonight. Tonight, Jack was going to pay for everything, for all the Guardians' little acts of defiance against him as well as his own. Pitch had, admittedly, already spent too much time gloating over the boy—he had a schedule to mind, and a guest he didn't want to keep waiting for too long. Everything was in its place, and as it should be.

When Pitch was finally satisfied with the lack of outbursts from the winter spirit, he decided it was time to move. The sun had finally fallen below the horizon, bathing the forest in a pleasant impossible-to-see dimness that put a strain on the eyes—any eyes but the Nightmare King's, that is. It had started to snow minutes earlier, thanks to Jack's struggle, and thick flurries were starting to accumulate as the temperature dropped.

Miles away, little Jamie Bennett was still outside, hopelessly lost, and probably just now coming to the realization that no one was coming to save him-especially not his dear Jack Frost.

A/N:

Launching the drama bomb. This is NOT going to be one of the hundreds of "Jack gets kidnapped by eeevvulll boogeyman and guardians must saaave him" fics, I promise. The song lyrics are from "Walking Far from Home" by Iron and Wine. If you listen to the whole thing, it is very bittersweet and it reminds me so much of Jack.
Also, if you are wondering, "Congelatio" is the medical term for the condition of frost bite. Did you know, the early stages of frost bite are actually called frost nip? Cute, right? Bet you don't think it is cute when your foot turns grey.

Anyway, what do you think? Is this a keeper? Reviews are much appreciated. Thanks for reading!