In the end it’s not because he c a n ’ t
He can. And he wants to.
He’s just been a l o n e for so long that…
— He doesn’t k n o w what
↣ ☀ ↢ There it was—however brief it may have been. That flash of a genuinely hopeful smile had tugged at her features in response to his own curled lips. As if the rain around them wasn’t a depressing enough display of the pathetic fallacy that seemed to spin from their existence, the whistle of the winds in the trees seemed to sing its own disheartened melody.
Her smile faded. “Jack, ye don’ really believe tha’, do ye?” Her heart wrenched in her chest. What she wouldn’t have done to raise all of Scotland to see him. He spent so long alone. No one deserved that. Not ever. “We can work i’ out.” She promised, gingerly cradling her hands in her lap. “Ye cannae jus’ give up. Ah’m sure there somethin’.” Her gaze turned pensively towards the muddied earth as she gave her lower lip a gentle bite. “Ah’ll make ‘em believe.” She swore in a whisper that was more to herself than anything.
❅—- The discouragement reverberated between them as the pelting rain sopped the ground around their makeshift shelter, any stray droplets foolish enough to venture too close to his countenance icing over to finish their inherently short journeys from the sky to the ground as a soft fall of snowflakes. Disheartened; yes, that was the perfect word to describe the wintry spirit. He was disheartened by the perpetual isolation he was forced to endure, even more so by the lack of a reason for why he had to suffer so in solitary. And beneath that… he was afraid. Afraid that no matter what he did, no one would ever see him.
"Ah’ll make ‘em believe."
❅—- And with the simplest of syllables, his fears were abated. His azure gaze sought her crestfallen countenance from beneath the frosted hood of his cloak, searching her disparaged features in scrutiny and sheer disbelief. …what was he saying? The fear that no one would ever see him was irrational… for here she was, wringing her calloused hands in her lap beside him. She saw him. She believed in him. Even if no one else ever did… just one child, a drop in the bucket…
❅—- His smile returned, blossoming across his frigid features like the first thaw of spring, his spindly fingers unfurling to drag back the hood of his indispose. “…yeah.” He breathed, feeling rejuvenated and revived, “…I know you—-we will. …we’ll make them believe.”
↣ ☀ ↢ Even with the uneven rhythm of rain against the canopy above their heads, the faintest of smiles somehow managed to grace the young Scot’s lips. “Yeah, well. Ye should’a seen her face. She was ready tae kill.” She chuckled. Her mother was a powerful woman, but her strength lay not in her own physical prowess but in her mind and that was perhaps the most dangerous weapon the redhead had ever dared come against.
"Y’know, yer nae so bad. Ah think yer pretty great— most ‘a th’ time, anyway. Ah could do wi’out th’ accent jokes but Ah’m nae complainin’." She gave a sheepish grin. "They jus’ donnae know whot they’re talkin’ abot."
❅—- Her words were kind, and despite his crestfallen disposition they managed to draw the corners of his lips apart by just a few centimeters… if only for a moment. He exhaled a soft breath, the chill of it fogging on contact with the humid, rain-sodden air.
❅—- “…it doesn’t matter.” He muttered, his cerulean eyes drifting off in an unfocused haze across the rainy forest, “…they’re right. I don’t exist; not to them. They don’t see me. …no one ever sees me…”
”Have you ever had a period in your life where your clothes were, quite literally, never dry?”
It was sort of what was happening here in Berk, only instead of being completely soaked they were more caked in mud and weighed down with melting snow. Rough, unpleasant, and unfortunately commonplace for a few months out of every year.
To accentuate this he hiked a chilly, sodden pant leg up and wrung out the stiff hems. Dried mud flaked off; under the fabric, faint red marks on his legs indicated where it had chaffed.
He scowled and, from his crouched position, craned his head to look up at Jack. “Not entiiiiiirely pleasant.”
❅—- As Hiccup craned to demonstrate his point, the spirit’s smile only grew wryer. Swinging his frosted staff up over the breadth of his shoulder, he tipped his pointed chin in a placating nod. “…oh, yeah yeah… I see..”
❅—- “Unfortunately…" He pushed the syllables through clenched teeth to emphasize the painful point, "…I’m afraid I can’t help ya. Y’see, Lent’s begun, which means only fourty days left til Easter… that’s where Bunnymund comes in with Spring, and I make my exit for the year. Last time I crossed that line, it took him thirty years to let go of it.” He chuckled, clearly amused. “…yup, ‘fraid all I can do now is sit back and watch my hard work thaw… which, believe me, is every bit as painful for me as it is for you.”
He instantly regretted even making the effort to will somewhat of a smile onto his furry features and it fell, a paw waving the frost spirit off. “Might be.” He growled, and the brush he was holding began to paint patterns over the surface of the egg yet again. “Probably gonna be the last darn time, too.” Bunny still made room for Jack to his side, expecting him to come over and have a decent conversation with him. Or at least try to.
“So how’re you holding up? I s’ppose you’re not in trouble, I wouldn’t be the first one you’d come see, so that’s good. If you’ve come looking for trouble, though, I’m gonna tell ya that I’m really not feeling for it. Come back after Easter and we can go for a rumble in the meadows.”
❅—- A chuckle reverberated through his frosted chest as he crouched beside the rabbit to garner a closer glance at the egg he was meticulously tending to, studying the pattern with mild curiosity as he planted the base of his staff firmly against the warm patch of earth beside him.
❅—- "Me? Trouble? Never." He taunted, blinking at the overgrown rodent’s latter offer. "..Aah, right. What is it.." He tipped his gaze back, as though counting down through the passed days of Lent mentally, "..38 days now?"