Jack Frost, once Jackson Overland, was winter and fun in all their forms. He was an elemental, dancing across the line of madness and the essence of both freedom and balance. He was innocent, not yet an adult, but could be soft as snow or sharp as ice. It wasn't that he tried to hide it, simply that no one saw - until, at last, they did.

And even if Jack was always alone in the end, he never forgot those who once were His.

Disclaimer for the entire damn story for ya landlubbers that care: I don't own Rise of the Guardians of any of the poems mentioned, etc. etc.

AN: I have no idea why I wrote this at 4 am, or if there will be more. It is 2019, what am I doing returning to this dead fandom.

Warnings: Uhhhhh disturbing Jack, death, blood, violence, mentions of/implied abuse, Jack takes no shit, this was meant to be fluff, he's honestly not a bad guy, though that may be more disturbing depending on how philosophical you are, and also I gave Pitch eyebrows because fuck it he's British-ish he needs them for emotional conveyance.

"Winter raced

down the frozen steam,

catching at his breath;

on his lips were icicles

at his back was death."

-"Winter," Judith Nicholls

He was surrounded by darkness. It was dark, and it was cold. And he was so, so scared.

Then, the feel of ephemeral arms around him, the sound of something whistling from far up above, and the sight of a pale beam of moonlight.

There was the moon above him, the wind around him, and, inside - or was it surrounding him, or at his back? - the comfort of death. He picked up a shepherd's crook that lay abandoned on the ice and watched in awe as frost spiraled out from around him. The frozen pond he was standing on thickened, and the wind strengthened until it picked him up and sent him spiraling into the crystal clear sky.

Suddenly, he was not scared anymore. And, more importantly, he never would be again.

With the Mood to lead him, the Wind to guide him, and Death to protect him, Jack knew that, though a child he may be, there was nothing that he could not face.

A shame, then that loneliness could not be defeated so easily and was so much more dangerous than fear.

Regardless of what some may say, loneliness is not an emotion to be underestimated.

Especially not in terms of isolation.

Jack was surrounded by people of all kinds, he knew. Humans that walked through him, deaf to his cries and blind to his tears as he begged them to just believe. Fairies and creatures of sand, gold and eventually black, too, that flitted in the corners of his vision but were never solid enough to touch or speak to. There were his constant companions, too, the mute moon and playful wind and protective death. His constant companions that felt like guilty secrets even though there was no one to tell. But none of them could - or would, in the case of the moon - speak to him.

And so there was no one for Jack to talk to but himself, and his mind twisted and turned until he emerged on the other side, still an innocent, fun-loving child, but reckless with morals he himself had collected and rationalized and formed with no one to guide him, to explain what was right or wrong or why what was what.

He listened to the parents explain the realities and dangers of the worlds to their children, learned all the human's tongues so that, when the time came that one called out to him, he could reply in turn.

He waited, and he watched, and he learned.

And so it continued, for decades and decades and decades until half a century, always, always alone.

And then, someone noticed.

Jack laughed as he was swept along with the winter wind, dancing across the sky as he spiraled, dropped, and soared. His very presence brought with him subzero temperatures for just a glancing moment, sending chills down backs and freezing every pond thick and solid to the delight of giggling, stumbling children.

The eternal winter child watched with glee as smiling figures tumbled and rolled in the snow, shoving snow down each other's coats as they went to war with soft packed powder until their noses and cheeks were red with cold and glee.

(And if he started some of those fights himself, well, the children didn't seem to mind, and the adults didn't notice.)

Later on - much, much later, after centuries had passed - Jack wondered what the Guardians would think if they knew the other reasons he laughed.

The white-haired boy would watch as he sent frost spiraling along rooftops with each dancing step, and as he peered into windows to trace designs and send cold gusts of wind through open windows. There is nowhere the cold cannot go, and so, there is nowhere that is hidden to Jack.

Secrets cannot be kept from someone with the wind as his ears, the moon as his eyes, death as his hands, and cold as his presence.

There are those Jack watched and those that Jack judged. Mothers turned their backs on the pained cries of their own children, fathers that reeked of alcohol and the bitter scent of blood, solo figures that walked the night with the scent of steel and copper in their veins and breaths. And, in the wake of these people, small figures that smiled at snowflakes that kissed their faces as they shuddered from cold (and, sometimes, as they slipped away to join Jack's companion on the other side.)

"Bad," Jack would whisper, remembering the lectures of worried parents and decisions made in townhouses and courtrooms. "Bad people that do bad things must be punished, and the children must be protected."

That is the way of the world that Jack had seen, and even if he was kept separate from it, he did not mind enforcing its ideals. Surely, he was simply doing what was right, simply keeping the balance. ("Balance," the creature inside him whispered. "You must always keep the balance.")

Jack watched, and judged, and acted.

A patch of ice here, a stronger gust of wind there. A broken bone, a bruise, a fractured skull, the blue and black of hypothermia as it became frostbite.

And Jack laughed, laughed as he swung his feet back and forth from his perch on top of rickety fences as tormentors became the tormented. He smiled with joy and pride as little children relaxed in relief and imagined he could hear the voices and arms of those he was unable to protect in time.

Children, Jack knew, had always been his. His to entertain and his to protect. For even though they could not see him, they loved what he created - what he is. They loved the break from the monotonous as they created forts and reveled in their snowballs and fun times. They loved the cold, they loved fun, and for Jack, who had so very little, that was more than enough to make them His.

Wherever Jack flew, he left fun and fear in equal measure, and the bite of cold and thrill of freedom above all. Jack didn't know, but it really was only a matter of time before the Nightmare King noticed that someone was relieving children of their fear even as so many more adults felt terror in their place.

Jack had just finished another game of winter's judgment and hummed as he watched bright red seep from the head of an unconscious man on the ice below. They were out in the woods, the angelic looking teen, dying man, and three small children - the man's two sons and daughter.

The little children's threadbare clothes were not enough to protect them from the cold, and so Jack was more than aware of the black and blue and red that covered their delicate skin. The children looked at each other nervously, shifting, and then the eldest nodded decisively and turned, guiding his little siblings back to town, leaving their father to the judgment of the elements.

Jack, in respect for their decision, dumped a pile of snow on top of the prone figure and froze it with a tap of his staff. The other did not deserve his patterns of frost and life, and so the pale greyish-blue lump was left as it was to be covered by snow until summer's thaw arrived.

"It is rather uncommon to see a fellow spirit take such interest in the matters of humans."

Jack spun around in the air, floating as he peered up with wide, bright blue eyes at the tall, black-clad figure in the shadows of the trees. A glance around and the assurance of the wind confirmed what Jack already knew - there was only him and the grey toned stranger in this part of the wood.

"Are… are you talking to…. Me?"

Wonder and fear were equal companions in the eternal teenager's voice and, whether it was the words or tone or both, something about Jack's simple question made the man's golden eyes widen with fleeting emotion.

"Yes, of course. Who else would I be talking to, child?" The man hitched a single thin, black eyebrow and Jack shrugged in response, floating up to crouch atop his staff and meet the other's eyes at almost equal height.

"I dunno. You could be talking to yourself. Or you could be crazy and this is all a coincidence. 'S not the first time that's happened." The man sighed, and with a roll of golden eyes, a surge of black shadows reached out from the cover of the trees and swept Jack's staff out from under him, leaving the boy to fall to the snow with a soft thump.

Those bright blue eyes looked up with glee and wonder, and the shadowed man felt to himself that there was something very wrong with this scene, something besides such a look being directed at someone (something - somethings? -) such as himself.

"Wow." It was a reverent word, barely a breath, and there was a moment of hushed silence before Jack launched up, backed by the wind as he broke all the (to him, unknown) rules of personal space to confront the mysterious dark stranger from the forest.

"Who are you? How can you see me? Are there others who can - other people like us? How did you do that, with the shadows? It was so cool! Cool, heh, get it? Where did you come from?" The words rushed out, tumbled over each other as the boy asked the questions that had built up inside him like a glacier about to slip, that reached out and choked him in the quiet of flightless nights. "It's been - It's been a long time, and I've never heard of anyone else. No one… no one has ever seen me. No one has ever spoken to me."

A whisper from the wind and Jack tucked the moon into the idea of a secret, and for once, there was a reason besides the murmurs of his mind. The man frowned and held up a hand for silence, a gesture Jack recognized from stern fathers and patient teachers and amused friends and spouses alike.

(And, just like that, before the man could even introduce himself, he had solidified himself in Jack's easily impressionable mind, and in many, many years, would be unsure whether to laugh or groan at the confessed knowledge from the playful winter spirit.)

"I am the Nightmare King, sometimes referred to as the Bogeyman. You may call me Pitch Black, however." The other's teeth are as sharp as his tone, but the implied threat was heard only by the wind as Jack's eyes grew wide with awe.

"You're royalty."

(And, just like that, a war began between the ego and sensibilities of the Nightmare King that would one day result in a fracture and a necessary creation. Not that either conversational participants were aware at the time.)

"It is rude not to introduce yourself in turn, child." The man's words were not softer, necessarily, but what had been biting instead turned dry and sharp.

Another whisper, and, "Jokul," Jack lied. Blue eyes sparkled as the teen sat upon the frozen tomb of the man he had killed, ignorant of how his dark companion raised another brow in curiosity for the casual disregard of the murdered man's resting place. "My name is Jokul Frosti, and I am hardly a child. I am…" the boy trailed off, looking up as he counted along fingertips in flashing motions. "...I am sixty-six years old," he finished with a decisive nod.

"Well met, Jokul," Pitch replied quietly. For a moment it looked as though he would continue, but then there was a pause as the black-haired man went over the younger's words again. "It has been sixty-six years, and no one has ever spoken to you or seen you? You've never met another spirit?"

Jack nodded in reply, unaware of the reaction he had provoked in the other man. "Yep! I mean, I see the little green fairy-birds sometimes, and the glowing sands, but I've never actually seen another person. All I really know is my name, and the rumors and legends spoken by the humans."

"You have been given a disservice, child." The grey-toned man reached out, carding fingers through Jack's hair only once, even as the boy gave out a keening sound and then blinked in surprise at his own reaction. Jack blushed blue in embarrassment and Pitch merely patted his shoulder once, awkwardly, before withdrawing to the shadows once more.

It was unsurprising that the poor boy would be touch starved, isolated as long as he had been.

"The Guardians should have explained this to you upon your awakening."

"Who are the Guardians?"

Another shift in the air and the wind shivered in anticipation as golden eyes spared a brief glare to the moon. Jack wanted to protest the action - because even if he was left in silence, at least the moon was there - but held back as the taller man began to speak again.

"The Guardians are the main four spirits that protect the innocence of childhood: Santa Clause, named North, the Easter Bunny, Bunnymund, the Tooth Fairy, Queen Toothiana, and the Sandman, Sandy."

"More royalty." Jack might have been just a little starstruck, and Pith scowled in response.

"Yes, but not one that is allied with me." Jack nodded and held up his arms in an x shape.

"Tooth fairies not allies. Got it."

Impressionable spirits, children, and especially child spirits should not be left unattended in the presence of Pitch Black for too long.

(Even if Jack had known this unspoken rule, he would have only delighted in breaking it.)

"The Guardians also should have met you once you came into being in the spirit world in order to explain who and what you are. Since they did not, I will." The man began pacing in his shadowed space, the fresh powder crunching with each gliding step as Pitch prowled from oak to aspen tree and back again and again and again.

"You and I, and all others like us, are spirits. We are beings who depend on the belief of others in order to exist. Should a human believe in us, it becomes possible to directly interact with them. Seeing, speaking, touching: all of it. Though - " he paused, gold eyes flicking to the ice tomb that Jack still perched upon " - it seems as though you have other methods of direct interaction that most spirits do not, or at least do not take advantage of."

Jack shrugged. He was enforcing the balance and playing judge, that's all, after all.

"Besides the Guardians, there are also other spirits. Almost every tale and reference you have ever heard from the humans exist or existed at some point. Some have since faded into obscurity and thus non-existence, as even if their records are kept by humans, it does not matter if there is also no belief. Once we are no longer believed in, that's the end of us forever."

Jack wondered what the other would say if Pitch knew that the frost spirit did not have any believers at all. It wasn't just that he hadn't met any believers - it was a truth, carried from the moon to him by the wind, and sworn as truth by death. With a playful little grin, the teenager tucked that, too, away into a little corner called "secrets."

How exciting!

"Each spirit rules over their own domain, some more literally than others. I am a King, with dominion over nightmares, shadows, fear, and other creatures and spirits of the night. You, besides being incredibly young for a spirit, likely hold some control over the cold." There was something mocking in the Nightmare King's tone, something that hinted at untold secrets and tragic legends, and Jack suddenly wanted to know so badly it hurt.

The pale spirit stretched and then flew up, like a predator springing from coiled muscles, and came to rest atop the swaying breeze that whistled through the eaves of the forest. Clear blue met shadowed gold above a grin as white as its creator's snow, and Pitch was unaware that the boy made another truth a secret from the other.

(He did not have "some control" over the cold; he was the cold.)

"Thank you. Really, thanks… that… that clears some things up. Clears a lot up, actually. It's good to know, after all these decades. But… how did you find me? And why?"

Shadows writhed in the cover of the trees, flickering in and out of the moonlit clearing Jack had settled in and forming silhouettes over the forest floor. "Wherever you go, you bring fear, especially to any adults that have crossed you. I see now why. I want you to join me, Jack. Already people whisper of a vengeful winter ghost that comes to be judge, jury, and executioner to those that do not repent their sins. Together, we could strike terror into the hearts of men, and be believed in by all."

The boy tilted his head to the side, in contemplation, and then grinned sheepishly as he ruffled a hand through his hair. "Sorry, but… what is fear, exactly?" Pitch nearly reeled back, he was so stunned. Spirit or not, fear was a common companion to all. So why…? "I mean, I hear people talk about it a lot, and I've read what the books say. I think… I think I felt it once, in the very beginning, when there was only me, the cold, and darkness. But it's been, I mean, a long time."

Jack trailed off with a chuckle even as the Bogeyman continued to examine the boy like he was a broken toy. "Fear is… fear is the feeling of dread, the knowledge that something bad is coming, the warning to stay safe and the knowledge that reality is cruel."

The boy still seemed confused. "But… reality isn't cruel. It's balanced, and then when it's over, there is death and everything is equal forever."

Ignorance, Pitch acknowledged, is not bliss. Or perhaps it was, to the winter spirit. But to the Bogeyman, it was discomfiting, it was a sign of something broken, half-formed and disconnected.

"So… So I'm sorry, but I don't think I can join you. Whatever… whatever fear is, that's not what I want to be known for." A beaming, snow-white grin, and, "I just want to have fun with everyone!"

Distantly, Pitch wondered if the poor boy had been left in the cold so long he had frozen and fractured into the being before the man. Even the darkest of spirits that do enjoy the feel of battle and violence do not have the same concept of "fun," and there was none of the innocence that Jokul seemed to be made of. Innocence and ice and all things honest stuck together with frozen water in place of glue.

The teenager continued, "Causing, uh, fear, isn't really my thing, ya know? I just want to play and bring happiness to the kids. Sometimes, that means balancing the scales a little bit, that's all. I'm… I really am sorry to disappoint you, so… I'll be going now. I - … Sorry." Before Pitch could even reply, the boy flew up, intending to leave the forest before the frozen crystals can form in the place of tears.

Jack wanted to agree, wanted so badly to have someone else, someone who can speak and touch beyond the glancing brushes of wind and whatever death was. But, more than that, he wanted to be loved, and a world steeped in fear would not accomplish that. (The children were his, and he had to protect them until he became Theirs in turn, and then forever after that into eternity-)

A whip of shadows latched around his ankle, and something instinctive rose in Jack without his permission or control. He lunged at Pitch, unaware of his half-feral, half-childish smile as the white-haired boy took advantage of the other's surprise to flip the Nightmare King into the clearing and pinned him against the frozen mound - the tomb of a failed father - out of reach of the other's strongest shadows.

The wooden staff dug into the grey skin of Pitch's throat as the man swallowed in remembrance of a long forgotten reflex. "Steady, Jokul." The low voice was a mix of a growl and a gasp, but the something in the tone made the boy's grin drop as the staff was pulled away just slightly.

Thousands of years of battle, only to nearly be done in by a child elemental. Embarrassing…

"I was just going to say… I tend to roam the woods of Burgess, in the British Colonies. If you have more questions or change your mind, or simply seek companionship… you can find me there."

Pitch Black had no use of a broken tool, but he knew enough of war to keep an eye on loose cannons.

Jack lowered his staff in shock before shooting the man another blinding grin, all signs of wild animal and warrior vanished. "Definitely! I'll… I'll definitely see you around!" The boy hid a shudder of self- hate and ephemeral arms of biting cold wind tinged with the flavor that Jack knows is death wrapped around him, a steady rock in the storm of the boy's emotions. He saw Pitch give a nod of acknowledgment, and then the dark man was gone, returned to the shadows from whence he came.

To think, he had nearly killed the man who offered him more than he had come to ever expect.

At that moment, first impressions became lasting, and the Nightmare King finished his transition from dangerous stranger to the bitter but amusing Pitch Black, who Jack considered to be undeniably His.

Days after meeting the young spirit, Pitch Black finally realized what was so wrong as he met the winter spirit's eyes across the moonlit clearing with a dead body behind him. Despite the murder(s) that stained the white and blue boy's hands red, those eyes held no darkness, no shadows of guilt or hate or rage or fear. Only innocence, innocence and desperation and wonder and pride.

Distantly, the Nightmare King wondered who created such a broken, dangerous spirit as Jokul Frosti, and what would happen when someone met against the boy in battle.

If only he had remembered such thoughts two and a half hundred years later when meeting a familiar face with a different name.

Their meetings were few and far between, for all of Jack's initial clinginess and pressing loneliness. Sometimes, Jack would visit the small pond where he was created in what was, surprisingly enough, Burgess, until the shadowed man appeared. Sometimes, after a particularly large amount of "judgments" from Jack, Pitch would wonder out of the shadows with stories of other spirits and questions about the boy's murders and motivations.

Jack never did understand why the man called his actions murders when they were clearly judgments and executions.

As the decades became centuries, legal systems became steadily more effective and the need for the winter spirit's judgments became less and less apparent, though small acts of justice through "accidents" were still more than common. Pitch Black, taking the decrease in fear that followed the boy, assumed that the spirit had finally stabilized and decided that it was time to focus on other, more important things - like his plans against the Guardians.

Jack watched as fondness faded from gold eyes to be replaced with bored disinterest and distracted, far off gazes. He knew when the Bogeyman took the time to say "Goodbye" instead of the usual wave or sudden disappearance into shadows that it would be the last meeting between the two, and his already frozen heart fractured a little more.

And so the Blizzard of 1968 began on an Easter Sunday and continued to rage even into 1969. For two years, the world was made to feel the pain of Jack Frost, and the death of "Jokul Frosti."

When confronted by Bunnymund and other spirits after the storm, Jack gave his true name without hesitation, and Pitch, lurking in his distant caverns, and only spared fleeting moments to ponder a connection between the innocent winter spirit Jokul Frost he had found, mended, and abandoned with the lonely and mischievous Jack Frost.

"Hang on, is that… Jack Frost?" The others may think the hesitation was caused by the Bogeyman trying to remember his identity and place him through hearsay alone, but Jack knew it was because the man remembered his face by another name.

An instinctive, wild grin flickered across Jack's face because it has been so long and he has missed His own so much. But then he buried it again because he wanted the Guardians to like him too, to be His own as well, and whatever emotions the smile brought to the Nightmare King's eyes were covered by the assurance that this was, indeed, Jack Frost, and not the untameable but innocent Jokul Frosti.

Nevertheless, there was something not quite nervous but almost concerned in the otherwise confident King's eyes before the Nightmare King speaks again with a laugh, "Since when are you all so chummy?"

A smirk, one Jack picked up from Pitch himself, dark amusement and the thrill of secrets and adrenaline-tinged fun, and, "We're not."

The black-clad man relaxed and Jack wondered if the man recognized his own expressions on the younger's paler face, and, beyond that, wondered if he recognized the feel of wood against his throat and a cold so strong it seeped into one's very core.

"Oh good," Pitch smirked. "A neutral party. Then I'm going to ignore you. But, you must be used to it by now.

Pain seeped from the cracks in Jack's frozen heart even as he bit down the rage and the bitterness of betrayal. But before he could speak, chaos erupted as a Nightmare charged into the scene and everything went to hell in a handbasket.

It was war, and Pitch was foolish because for all that Jack longed for a family, for His own, for someone that understood the hurt of loneliness and abandonment, he never stopped protecting the happiness and joy of children, and he had never let go of his judgments in the name of protecting innocence.

Jack was simply more careful of hiding the bright red that Pitch found so fascinating on Jokul.

In the end, Pitch was dragged away deep beneath the ground, and Jack forced himself to turn away and celebrate with the Guardians, who had somehow managed to become His along the way. He was soft edges and bright smiles as small children climbed him like a tree and laughter rang out in the air.

But despite what the others believed, Jack knew that both Pitch and the Guardians were necessary in the world, meant to balance and increase by contrast. He was, is, and always would be an elemental, able to see the scales of the Earth for more than just the seasons, able to see the black and white and the endless shades in between.

He took his time, let himself celebrate in victory and relax, reveled in newfound friends and family and a core that is Fun, not balance or justice or cold or death.

A month after Pitch Black's defeat, Jack Frost stood at the edge of what was once the hole to Boogeyman's lair and, with wind and ice as his tools, began to dig.

By nightfall, the spirit had broken through the cold hardened Earth and, without hesitation, dropped into the dark below.