I woke up to the comfort and warmth of a heavy cover on my skin and the tickle of the feathers that decorate my neck, back, the area around my eyes, and some areas on my arms. As much as I didn't want to leave the plush bed I lay atop, I sat up and moved my legs carefully over the edge of the mattress, being cautious of anything nearby that I can stub a claw on. 

I made my way through the room to the door, feeling my way to the living room.

"Jake," a cold voice called out to me, "you should not be out of bed yet."

I took a breath, preparing a fake peppy voice like always.

"Oh, I know. I'm sorry, Jack. I just wanted to get a snack is all!"

Truth was I wanted to get out of my room. I almost remembered Jack's old house burning down with his father and mother inside. I went into a fit of coughing at the memory, as if I was breathing in the smoke right there and then.

I felt ice hold hands patting my back.

"Slow down, there."

When the coughing subsided, Jack got me some water to ease my throat. Of course, the water was ice cold, nearly frozen itself. I got a small brain freeze from it. 

Ugh. The cold. Everything about him was cold. Cold to the touch, cold to the heart as well, it seemed. Of course he took care of me, but to others, he wasn't so nice. I shuddered at the memory of meeting him the first time, remembering how cold it was.

He hid behind father's leg, and looked at me and my mother with frosty eyes and cheeks. That was what I remember what he looked like when I could still see. Icy blue eyes, fluffy white fur lining his arms, legs, and torso, even some on his rosy, but frost covered cheeks that made him look like he was freezing. Hell, I only found out later on that he was the cold. When he cried, his tears turned into frost the moment it touched his sickly pale skin. 

I remember so well what he looked like when he was 6. Now Jack's 20 and he's just not the same shy child that would get frightened at his own shadow or get frantic when he cried too much and there was too much frost on his face. 

I felt myself get shaken by the shoulders.

"Jake!"

Jack raised his voice at me.

"You need to go to bed. You have been twitching and shivering for a minute. Allow me to lead you. The house is a mess today."

He grabbed my arm and led me back to bed.

"Jack, I'm fine. Really, I am. Swear it."

"I do not want to hear so much as a peep from you. I swear you worry me to no end with your outbursts and fits."

He talks as if he's worried, but his tone stays the same cold, stale tone as unusual. He speaks as if his face doesn't show emotion to match his voice. That's how I imagine what he looked like. A face with no emotion showing, eyes that looked dead and cold, a glare that followed you. Funny thing I also imagine him as very short considering where his cold tone comes from was always lower than where I was standing. When I would ask him about it, he would freeze up and walk away. I guess he's a little self conscious about his height. He never shows it, though.

I sighed and turned on my side. I pulled the covers up to my shoulder and eased myself into the pillows. I could still remember father and mother. Father's silly grin and mother's laugh. Her warm arms, soft hands. Just like you expect any other mother to feel like when she embraced her precious child as if they were porcelain. Mother and father were seen as the ideal parents, or so I have been told when I was younger. They loved each other like a couple in a fairy tale and worked well as a team.

They weren't prefect, though. Father wasn't home everyday, and when he'd come back, he was always hurt. Mother always got angry at him for making her worry, sometimes cried when she was overwhelmed. Father always promised her that he was far too stubborn to die on her.

I don't quite know exactly what he was doing to get hurt so badly, but I remember him telling me that he's the town's protector. The one that scared off monsters and evil spirits because our village wasn't very weaponized like a couple of our neighbors. Now that I'm older, I'm thinking he was fighting off monsters and thieves. I don't really know about evil spirits, though. I've never heard of them.

Whatever it was, he came back occasionally with a new scar to show off. The way he acted when he did made him my hero. He told me every scar he had showed he survived when life tired to kill him. By life, I mean whatever theif or monster that tired to kill him. He showed off every scar as if it was a shinning medal. You never saw that man ashamed of anything. Father can break a vase and still not feel shame, because he knew how to make do.

The vase wasn't just any example. He really did break a vase. He made it up to mother by sanding down some of the pieces and we strung her a necklace out of it.

Mother cherished that thing. She wore it every day and kept it clean. Mother looked like an angel to me. She played her pipe like one too. When I was 4, I loved listening to her. Eventually she started teaching me to play, which was something I loved. To this day, I still remember how to play. I never stopped playing it.

I flipped over to face the nightstand and "stared" at it for a moment, and by stared, I mean I put my hand on it to feel it was there. I moved my hand to feel my way to the handle of the wooden drawer and pulled it open. I stretched out a little bit to feel my way to the pipe that sat patently there, remaining untouched for perhaps a week or two. The moment my fingers brushed against the pipe, I felt dust piled on top of it, feeling it rub off on my fingers.

I pulled it out and dusted it off, propping myself up. I ran my fingers against the smooth wood, feeling every hole and every engraving.

"For love with love"

For love with love was what she told me when she gave it to me. I've always cherished those words, knowing how much my mother loved me. My mother was an angel to me, and she is someone I will never ever forget. 

Damn, I miss her smile.