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The snow doesn’t crunch under his feet, nor will it melt. Overhead a bell tolls and, were it not for Tooth’s fit of giggles, it would seem that he wasn’t even there, just a breath of chill wind and a sheen on the ice.
It’s the first snow of winter here, he made it special when he heard she was visiting.
“You’ve really never made a snow angel?” he asks her, pushing back his hood and smiling at her. She flutters around shoulder level, her feet tucked up and away from the frozen ground.
“No, what is it?” she tilts her head far sideways (an inhuman motion, but an endearing one), “Is it like a snow cone? North gave me one once, it was pretty,” she runs her tongue underneath her lips, “but it hurt my teeth.”
Jack chuckles, “Nah, I’ll show you.” He stamps his staff into the dirt, so that it stands bolt upright, and flops down into the powder. He spreads his arms wide, burrows himself a divot in the snow. He doesn’t even need to think about it, he just does as he remembers, in that way all cold weather children have (the inborn knowledge of angels and snowballs).
All the while Tooth perches atop the staff’s peaked rim, staring with rapt, if not slightly bemused, anticipation.
When he’s finished he doesn’t need to worry about leaving hand prints. Instead he simply lifts away, like a flurry caught in the wind, and lands beside Tooth to view his handiwork.
“It doesn’t look like an angel,” she smiles and ruffles the excess of snowflakes from his hair. Her hand feels blessedly hot against the back of his neck.
“Use your imagination,” he takes up his staff and she bobs with it. She laughs again, and spreads her wings