Darkness overthrew the underground caverns like an eclipse of the sun. They were littered with ancient marble pillars, crumbling from age and wear, and the corridors and halls were damp and cold. It was vast- like a lost city- but it belonged to him now. The man of dark. The man who ruled over anything dark. The man who was dark itself.

Pitch Black was his name, and still is to this very day, but it wasn't always. Sometimes he's known as the Boogeyman, and people have always been afraid of him.

In his cavern, Pitch Black has worked tirelessly for weeks, months, years to create his masterpiece. These were the final stages. He pulled a thin blade from his robe and looked over a pot hung over a fire, its contents heating until smooth and melted. He lifted the knife to his arm and smoothly sliced through his own flesh, wincing as little as he could, and let his blood drip into the pot. He watched as the molten metal fizzed and bubbled, spluttering stomach churning smells out into the already stagnant air. That was it- the last ingredient- a blood sacrifice.

Pitch took the pot in a gloved hand and carried it cautiously over to a table with many tools strewn across it, where he lay it gently. He prepared his instruments, then lifted the pot again before it got too cold, and poured out the bright coloured sludge into two casts. They were the exact opposite of each other, and as soon as the liquid hit the moulds they began to change colour to a deep black. An enormous stone bowl of water stood next to him, and he took the two casts in tongs and held them under the cool water. They hissed and bubbled, then the red all died out of them, and when they were brought out, they were a shining silver. Pitch took them back to the table and held his works up to look at them. Slowly, and with surgeon's precision, he forged together four pieces of metal. On one, he engraved writing that was understood by no one and smiled, his sharp and dull coloured teeth glinting through his thin onyx lips.

As all four pieces came together, the fate of thousands of people shifted, but for one boy in particular. Not that anybody knew that- the boy wasn't even born yet- so the years would take their part in the delay of Pitch's evil work.
The Boogeyman lifted his creation into a single stream of light that fell from above, and stared at its glistening form. It was hypnotising- every inch of it shone in pure evil magnificence, and he grinned like a child given chocolate. The handle was thin and curved, curls of metal twisting outwards in deep black glory. But it was the blade… It glowed silver and bright, and Pitch laughed. Every wave in its smooth form would cause more pain, and he knew it.

It was his perfect weapon- to start his perfect reign.

3000 years later

The wind whistled through the trees and the streets of Burgess, the heat catching the town off guard. The crisped leaves that had settled across the ground shuddered in the breeze and the sound of the city buzzed around, cars and people and children playing.

Joe, a forty-going-on-sixty year old man, sunk against the wall of the small hut. The red bricks were frosted over and stained with years of tarnishing weather, but he leant against it despite the ivy and moss that crawled the walls. A thermos flask in one hand, he sipped at his morning coffee and looked out across the town only slightly below him, enjoying the heat in his throat juxtaposing the bitter cold at his hands and cheeks. After finishing his mug, he cracked his knuckles and arched his back to stretch out all the aches and pains of his laborious work.

He collected his tools from the shack and dumped them tiredly in a wheelbarrow, then followed the paths of the graveyard that he did everyday, on his way to dig whatever pit some unfortunate soul would end up in today. It was a difficult job- he could use the big machines that they use nowadays to dig, but they always left horrible tyre tracks over graves nearby, mutilating whatever peace there was in the land. He'd been working there for far too long to want to do that, knowing full well that he'd rather put his back out a hundred times over than spoil the grass and land he worked so tirelessly to preserve. Every stone and plaque was important to him. That was what made him so good at such a dreary job- he cared about every plot, and made sure that any memorials stayed intact. No words on headstones would be left to disappear with weathering- every single one was still clear and easy to read, some even dating back from the seventeenth century. He took pride in his work.

On the way to today's job, Joe stopped at one of the farthest corners of the cemetery. Every week, on this exact Tuesday ever since Easter, he would stop and stare in amazement. Snow settled on the graveyard every seven days, completely ignoring the rest of the land and the fact that it was summer. A headstone- one of the oldest that was in this place- was always marked in the same way.

On the powdered ground in front of the stone lay flowers. No ordinary flowers, though- these were made completely of ice. The clear carvings glittered in the weak sunlight, and Joe admired them just as he did every Tuesday. The one thing he wished was that he could meet whoever left them. They were beautiful- they were delicate and precise, and only a very skilled craftsman would be able to create such a thing.

They were no random flowers, either. Every week the same- lilies.

One time, Joe had been so determined to see who had left them that he stayed up all night just watching the grave from the cover of trees. They must have come by very early, as Joe himself arrived at work and saw them at around six in the morning. But as hard as he had tried, he still missed the person. He'd felt a chill wind brush against the trees behind him, shaking the leafy branches. Snow had fallen delicately over the whole area, and he had been baffled. It was summer.

At the sound of the fierce wind picking up and snapping a twig behind him, Joe had turned his head away from the grave for a split second. As soon as he turned back to look, the ice flowers were already in place, and the griever was already gone. He swore at himself for missing it, but then sat in wonder at it all. The snow was just... impossible. It had turned out to be a boiling hot day later on, and it was well above zero degrees all night. And the amount of time it had taken for the person to leave the flowers... It was baffling. He'd only looked away for a second, and they were there. The person had been and gone in a second. That was impossible.

Joe sighed at the sight, no longer upset that he didn't meet the person that night. Instead, he accepted that he was either going crazy, or something magic was happening. He'd like to think the latter. Something very special was happening with that grave, and he wasn't one to question it- who knew about afterlives and invisible people?

Joe continued to push the wheelbarrow full of tools, listening to the sweet humming of birds that chattered with each other across miles and miles of land. The impossible snow that was left once a week crunched under his feet and the wheel, and he smiled at the miracle of the flowers. He knew who left them, deep down he knew, having looked into the story behind the grave that was matched with three others, but part of his mind still wouldn't let him believe it. So he started to dig.

Only a couple of weeks later, Joe didn't feel the same confidence he had done about the flowers before. Last Tuesday, there had been no lilies. This Tuesday there had been no lilies.

Not once in the months passed since they had first been showing up had a Tuesday been skipped by the mourner, but now there wasn't even a snowflake across his graveyard. It was unnerving, to say the least, and he couldn't help but shudder at the uncomfortable warmth that surrounded him. Something was wrong, very wrong, and he knew it, maybe even more than some of those who were supposed to be looking after the grieving visitor.

Jack Frost was gone, and he had a horrible feeling that he was dying.

A/N: Hello! So happy to see you've reached the end of the Prologue, and are maybe perhaps enjoying it so far? I just want to let you know that as this is a prologue, the rest of the story is not about the same things. In case you hadn't guessed, it's all about the Guardians a few months after the defeat of Pitch (in the movie). So, please, don't give up on the story if you didn't like this one chapter- the rest is different! It has lots of loopdy-loops, twist, turns, tears, laughs, shock and all sorts... A quick warning- later, there will be spoilers ahoy! But I presume everyone here has seen the film :) See you soon, I hope! Reviews are very, very welcome, any time, any day. If you do review, I will respond to them in Chapter 30, which is dedicated to you all! Keep this in mind as you go. Thanks again ~Emily!

This story is dedicated to C.M.
She has been a devoted supporter of this story and introduced me to ROTG, along with T.W, which I can never thank them enough for. She has always been a wonderful friend and partner in crime, and hearing (well, internet hearing) her squeal every time I update makes me giddy beyond belief! Seeing her comment on each chapter in excited capital letters never fails to delight me, and she's just amazing.
My constant friend, always there for a chat, who's one of the sweetest people I know. Thanks for everything, C, I wish I could express my feelings better in writing than that ^.
Many thanks also to all my friends who've supported me, and S.A.M, my little Bunny!

(Here's the boring bit...)

Disclaimer: I do not own Rise Of The Guardians or any of the characters therein it, all rights go to those at DreamWorks and William Joyce. I am merely running around in the playground of the writers, thoroughly enjoying myself! This applies to all other chapters within this Fic, from beginning to end.
This story can get quite violent and dark, so all I can say is...

You have been warned...