A young child cried as the wind howled around him, the cold never seeping into his small body. The village was buried in snow now. The inhabitants were blue from cold and dead. So very dead. All the child wanted was to have a friend. He knew it was his fault that they were gone. He had stayed and watched them freeze to death, sadness in his heart blinding him to the souls finding peace. He turned his back, heading to a cave to hide in for the rest of eternity. He never witnessed the spirit of a warrior rise above the desolate earth and whisper to him. The wind blew the spirit's words away from the child but the wind still remembered what the spirit had said.
"The dead are not dead
yet. Always they take
their time, and we wait
politely, dreading
how real it will
have to be, sooner
or later, and at the
same time longing
to know that reality.
Nights, as we reach to
switch off our bed lamps
and close our eyes,
we dare it to take us
into its mouth
that smells of tar,
saltwater, sludge,
take us up then let us
tumble endlessly,
blameless again
and helpless as any new life
forced out for the first time
into the terrible light." (Poem from Patricia Traxler and used with her explicit permission)
Jack Frost gave a weak smile to the Guardians after waking up from a strange memory of what once was. He didn't know why the were staring at him, Bunnymund in a way that was wary as all spring spirits are.
"Hey, what'd I miss?" Jack croaked out from his sore throat.