Disclaimer: I do not own Rise of the Guardians

Spring is the dawn of life, the season of new beginnings and renewed hopes. Mother Nature wakes from her slumber and all living creatures rejoice, for the season of rejuvenation has finally arrived. People welcomed Spring. Summer is the peak of life, a season of warmth, laughter and joy. Lush greenery covers the lands, and the forests bustle with activity. People loved Summer. Autumn is a time of reward, the season of harvest. Wheat, planted in vast fields during Spring, took on a charming golden hue, stalks bowed and ready to be harvested. Leaves are dyed red, yellow and orange, the colours of Autumn, creating a scenic and breath-taking view. People admired Autumn. Winter…what is Winter?

As the spirit of Winter, he ought to know this season better than anybody else. He had thought he knew what Winter represents, too; but as the years go by, he wasn't so sure anymore. Is the white colour of the snow he created a symbol of purity or a symbol of plainness? Is the ice he layered on lakes and ponds, the very same that enabled people to skate and have fun, really a killer in disguise? Is the weather he brought merely a nuisance (or worse, a danger) to mankind? Is Winter really just a cruel, dull and miserable season? If it was, then wouldn't that make him, the very embodiment of Winter, the bringer of disaster and death?

He may have tried to push all these depressing thoughts out of his mind, kept believing that his work did mankind some good, but if there was one thing he could not do, he could not change what others thought of him and his job. Humans do not welcome Winter. No celebrations were ever held in honour of Winter. Children occasionally venture out to play with his snow, only to be called back to the warmth and safety of their homes by their mothers. To them, Winter meant months of bleak weather, where they have to face the biting cold and the constant threat of starvation. Even his fellow spirits rejected him. They might have been civil to him, but they had largely ignored him, partly because of their misconceptions regarding his element, mostly because they were simply too busy to pay him enough attention. Some, particularly the spirit of Autumn, seem to dislike him for reasons he could easily guess. Autumn does not show her distaste towards him openly, although it had been she who had suggested that Winter was not exactly a season of joy and laughter.

He really did not want to believe her words, but the problem was, they were true. His ice and snow had indeed claimed victims. He had seen with his very own eyes, poor families huddled together around a pitifully small fire, bulging eyes and sunken cheeks indicating prolonged starvation; lone travellers caught in blizzards, suffering from frostbite and finally dying from hypothermia; unwanted babies left outside in the cold Winter winds, wailing and squirming as life slowly seeped out of their tiny bodies; children drowning in lakes after having the misfortune to skate on thin ice… And no matter what he did, he could never forget the dying forms of Winter's victims, his victims…

Dwelling upon these thoughts often made him depressed, and with no friends to share his grieve with, he drew comfort by visiting his favourite haunt-Lake Geneva in the Swiss Alps. The tranquil blue lake and the snow-covered mountains that surround it never failed to bring peace to his troubled mind. The lake was also a very significant place to him, for it was here he had accepted the gift of immortality. It was here that he became the spirit of Winter. The events of that fateful day are forever etched in his mind. He walked on the familiar forest path, his cloak billowing behind him, as he recalled the memories of his past.

He remembered treading across freshly fallen snow in the forest, accompanied by his young wife and their infant son. He could not remember the exact reason he and his family were travelling in an evergreen forest in the twilight. It has been nearly five thousand years, after all. They had the misfortune to cross paths with a pack of hungry wolves along the way. He remembered running, running as fast as his legs had permitted, all the while dragging his frightened wife and screaming child, in a desperate attempt to flee from the predators. But it was of no use. The wolves, being efficient runners born to hunt, were gaining upon them. The distance separating them was shrinking at an alarming rate. If this continues, the entire family would be doomed. Seeing no other way out, he decided to remain and try to create a distraction to give his wife a chance to escape. He quickly narrated his plan to his wife and, before she could protest, pushed her forward and commanded her to go on and not turn back. After a series of arguments, his wife eventually complied (for the sake of their infant child) and ran off into the dark forest.

It was cold, dark and frightening, especially when he was deprived of any form of companionship. The horrible cries of the wolves echoed through the forest. He quickly scanned his surroundings, desperately looking for a weapon, anything that could give him a fighting chance. He found it in the form of a long branch. He had just managed to break the branch from its tree when a pack of seven wolves emerged from the darkness, encircling him. He took on a defensive pose, all senses alert for any sudden movements. One of the predators made its move. He managed to strike it down and break free from the circle, running towards a large lake, trying to lure the pack away from the general direction of his wife's escape route. He fended off several more attacks from the pack and had succeeded in knocking one of the beasts out cold with a blow on its head. He started to grow confident. Maybe he could pull this off. He could win this fight. But amid the chaos, he failed to sense one of them moving towards his back. The animal pounced and he was caught off-guard, the force enough to knock him to the ground. It took only that moment of weakness, that precious few seconds of vulnerability, for the rest of the pack to close in for the kill. He felt sharp claws digging into his body, massive fangs tearing at his flesh. He shrieked in agony, the terrible cry piercing the cold night air. That was it. That was the end. Lying flat on his stomach, in the scenic unnamed mountainous region, being torn apart by starving wolves, he wondered what he had done to deserve such a horrific end. His breathing became shallower, his heartbeats more irregular, he could feel himself slipping away. Was this dying? He did not want to die. He was afraid of death. It was all he could do to stay conscious, knowing that to close his eyes for a moment's rest would mean his departure from this world, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep this up.

That was when he heard it.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, an unfamiliar voice spoke, soft and whispering, yet strong and clear. It offered him another way out. It offered to make him a spirit, immortal, never aging, immune to death. He did not know the origins of this strange voice, whether it was real or just a figment of his imagination. Nevertheless, his disorientated mind had assumed the voice was real and it demanded an answer. He did not hesitate to shout out his answer towards the star-spangled sky. The words had barely escaped his lips when a shaft of moonlight shone in his direction, the unnaturally bright light illuminating the gory scene, causing the wolves mauling him to jump back in surprise. As the wolves retreated back into the forest, he flipped onto his back (with immense effort) to face a dazzling moon, brighter than he had ever seen it in his whole life. He felt himself being lifted, his shocked brain still struggling to process the situation. At once, powerful energy began to surge through his body, making its way towards his very core. He felt his wounds closing, his broken bones mending, his energy restored. It was as if he was being reborn.

After a while he felt himself being gently lowered to the ground. As his feet touched the earth, frost began to cover the hardened banks of the lake. He gazed at the intricate patterns it formed, his mind unable to comprehend the strange happening. He looked down at his limbs and body. Where there should have been open wounds and bloody flesh, there was flawless pale skin, not even a scar was visible. He stared unbelievingly. Surely his eyes were deceiving him. His hands that were hitherto feeling around for wounds of any kind, touched his face. Maybe he ought to check his reflection. He stepped towards the lake and peered into its mirror-like surface. Nothing. Not even a scratch. He saw the same young man in his late twenties which he recognised as himself. Nothing was changed. Except…

He ran his hand over his tousled hair. His once jet-black hair was now a beautiful shade of white. His eyes, too, had become a magnificent sky blue, as opposed to his previously dark brown ones. He was stupefied. This was wrong. There must be something wrong with the reflection. He stretched out his hand and touched the image on the still lake. Instead of ripples, ice began to form, spreading out from the point where his finger had made contact with the water. His eyes widened. This wasn't possible. It defied logic. The only explanation left was the one given to him by the strange voice ringing inside his head, the one telling him that he was now the spirit of Winter.

Shocked and confused, he backed away from the lake, only to slip on a long cylindrical object. He composed himself and glared at the offending object. It was the broken branch he had used to defend himself from the wolf attacks. Only now it looked more like a staff than a branch. The jagged edges which marked the area where the branch was broken from the tree were now smooth, as if cut and carved with a sharp knife. The intricate spiraling patterns engraved on the branch were also skillfully done. Somehow, he felt that the staff was meant for him. He picked it up, and immediately the staff began to hum with energy, a faint bluish glow emitting from its engravings. He had scarcely begun admiring the beauty of his staff when a piercing scream broke the silence of the night. His blood froze. There was no mistaking it. The voice was that of his wife.

He tore through the woods, running so fast he felt like he was flying. (come to think of it, he might have been flying) Swiveling between trees with ease, he soon arrived at the scene. The wolves that had attacked him have found a new prey - his family. His wife was cornered. With her back against a tree, sheer terror was written all over her face as she looked into the hungry yellow eyes of the predators which surrounded her, trapping her. She embraced her child, as would any mother in dire situations such as this. The pack prepared to strike, and she shut her eyes, brace herself for impact. That was when he made his move. He brandished his staff and sent a strong gust of wind blowing towards the creatures, which were immediately pushed back. While the wolves were distracted, the petite woman took her chance and fled the scene as fast as she could. Before the pack could give chase, he raised his staff and unleashed blast after blast of ice and snow at his opponents. He didn't know how he was doing it, but he did not stop until the last of the wolves had retreated back into the forest. With that taken care of, he proceeded to follow his family from behind as they continued their perilous journey through the evergreen forest.

After what seemed like hours, the small party finally arrived at the edge of the woods. In the distance, he saw many settlements built in a lush valley and people going about their daily activities. He smiled. This must be their destination. He turned to his wife, but was surprised to find her running towards the village, shouting for help. He followed her, and was just in time to hear her breathless explanation to the village head, stating that her husband was attacked by wolves and was still in the woods. He raised his eyebrows at her statement. Wasn't he standing right beside her? The village head seemed to believe her, for he summoned all the able-bodied men in the village and began leading them into the forest, with the young woman as their guide. Completely baffled, he followed them as they marched into the woods. He shouted. He waved his arms. He walked beside them, waving his hand before their eyes. Everybody seemed focused on marching ahead. He got to the front of the group, where the village head held the weeping woman in his arms, leading the way to the forest. He stood before them, blocking their path, begging to be noticed. Instead of stopping in their tracks, the two walked right through him. So did the search party behind them. It was as if he didn't exist. He gasped in shock. No. this can't be happening. He ran towards the group, who was now beginning their search, and tried everything in his power to get their attention to no avail.

Hours later, the group returned to the village, exhausted from their fruitless search. After sundown, near a huge bonfire in the middle of the small village, sat a grieving young woman and her infant son, comforted by the womenfolk of the village who huddled beside her. The men were at a loss for words. No one noticed a lean white-haired figure walking dejectedly away from the bonfire into the dark recesses of the woods.

Many a time he had wondered whether it was all worthwhile, to be blessed with immortality and powers beyond his wildest dreams, and yet, doomed to eternal loneliness, denied even the simplest forms of human interaction. He had watched from afar his wife as she grew old and died a widow. His son, too, grew up, grew old and eventually departed this world. So did his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, while he himself remained eternally youthful. This is the price of immortality, to watch his loved ones wither and die, one by one. He had thought that the grief that came with each funeral; each loved one lost would pass. He was never so wrong. Instead the feeling weighed upon his heart, the load becoming increasingly heavier with each passing. The pain worsened when there was no one to console him, no one to turn to in these times of great need. After four or five deaths, he decided he wasn't going to care anymore. He tucked away all his pain and sadness, devoid himself of every emotion, willed himself not to feel. From then on, he was going to focus on his duty and nothing else. And yet, the dead weight on his chest was still there, the void inside was growing, threatening to envelope his heart…

Eventually he has had enough. This was not what he wanted, to be forever plagued with the images of his broken hearted widow and fatherless son, to be eternally haunted by scenes of humans and other living creatures suffering in his cold weather. He found no joy in his eternal life, heck, simply existing had become a tedious chore. Had he known that this was coming, he wouldn't have accepted that accursed offer proposed to him many moons ago, the offer that had made him into what he is today. He knew that accepting the proposal was his own choice, but he just wanted someone else to take the blame, someone else to be responsible for his misery, and the perfect candidate would be his creator - the Man in the Moon. Walking on the frozen lake of Geneva, frost trailing in his footsteps, he looked up to the Moon and was about to just scream at it when an idea formed in his head. If the Man in the Moon can bestow immortality, he can take it back…right? Then, he could have the rest and peace that he had always craved. Well, it was worth a try, so why not? The Moon seemed to have heard his thoughts, for before he could open his mouth, it had replied that an immortal has no chance of becoming mortal again. To take away his immortality would mean the destruction of his body, mind and soul. He would cease to exist.

The Moon's words rang in his head. He would cease to exist. There would be no afterlife for him; no heaven, no hell, just pure nothingness, should he choose to give up his immortality. He pondered over the matter for a few moments, and then decided that non-existence would be better than this living hell. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and gave the Moon his answer. Then he waited. Waited for the familiar beam of moonlight to descend upon him; waited for the Moon to take back everything that it had bestowed upon him - his gift, his curse. Nothing happened. He opened his eyes and stared at the Moon in confusion, its silence beginning to worry him. After a long pause, the Moon eventually explained that while he can bestow powers and immortality, he cannot take it back. All his powers, his eternal life, should he choose to give them up, must be transferred to another individual, who would then take his place as the spirit of Winter. In other words:

He needed a successor.

Over the next few centuries, he had met many people. People from well-to-do families, people from the lower walks of life. Rulers and aristocrats who held lavish banquets constantly; peasants who worked on the fields tirelessly. Brave warriors who fight valiantly in a battlefield, defending their homelands; compassionate mothers who cared not only for her own family, but also for the well-being of others. None of them, however, was ever good enough for the Man in the Moon. Whenever he tried to present what he thought to be a suitable candidate for his replacement, the Moon would just stare at him in a silent dissent. He honestly did not know what the Moon wanted. What are the qualities that best define a spirit of Winter? Cold, cruel and emotionless, maybe? He has not a clue. Finally, he gave up. How is he supposed to find a successor if he doesn't know what he is looking for? Maybe he really was doomed to this accursed existence, destined to wander this Earth aimlessly, to search in vain for the peace of mind he was always denied…

The night was calm. The luminous full moon shone in the sky, its beauty enhanced by the myriad of stars surrounding it. Tall trees cast shadows on a lake, its frozen surface reflecting moonlight, making the entire place eerily beautiful. He stood by Lake Burgess, wearing a melancholy expression, unblinking eyes fixated on a single point on the iced pond. Earlier that day, a boy had drowned at the exact same spot. He had been there, but he had not done anything to save him, to spare the child from his horrible fate. The boy's death was entirely his fault. He moved slowly towards the lake, lost in thought, his bare feet creating a trail of frosty patterns across the cold, hard surface of the frozen mere.

Jackson Overland Frost. Yes, that was the boy's name. He had taken a liking to this remarkable child the instant he had laid his eyes upon him. Brave, loyal, kind-hearted, adventurous, smart, these are the terms he would have used to describe the eighteen-year-old. But the child's most distinct quality would be his insatiable thirst for fun and games. It was his mischief and playfulness that had made him quite popular among the village children. He first met the boy some eight years ago. There was a harsh blizzard that year, and after the frozen body of a fellow pioneer was found buried under two feet of snow, children were taught to fear the snow and ice. And fear they did, until this ten-year-old boy grabbed a handful of snow and started pelting another kid with it. Soon, the village children were engaged in an exhilarating snowball fight. From afar, he watched as the children threw snowballs at each other, the atmosphere impregnated with joy. They played for about an hour and were stopped only by their mothers who had arrived at the scene to drag their children home, but not before giving them a good beating. He smiled when he saw the impish grin on the brown-haired boy's face, as he was being led away by his own mother. This boy, the boy who, instead of evading the cold and snow, had made a game of it, he was special. He just felt it.

From then on, he had watched the child as he grew into a lanky and rather good-looking teen. But, although the boy had changed physically, his playful and mischievous personality never really left him. Every day, when the boy was not helping his father in the corn fields, he can be seen playing in the forest with his sister and friends, or pranking the villagers, much to their annoyance. It was hard, no, downright impossible not to like the young lad. He was quite the attention seeker. His sprightly ways often landed him into sticky situations, but he had so far never failed to charm his way out of trouble. His witty arguments with the village butcher were particularly enjoyable, and so were his…very creative tricks and pranks he would play on the unsuspecting villagers. And then, there were the snowball fights. Really, he often wondered how anyone could possibly have so much fun with frigid snow. But, whenever there was snow, the village children (led by the young lad) would gather in an open field and start pelting each other with snowballs. Watching snowballs fly around and the looks of innocent joy alight on each child's face, the spirit had to smile. Perhaps, Winter wasn't so bad after all…

That morning had started well enough. The boy's sister had dragged him to the nearby lake to ice-skate. He could tell that the young girl had been waiting for this for a long time, judging by her excited looks and energetic motions. Her brother was more than happy to accompany her. He looked on as the duo skated happily across the lake, the sounds of their laughter filling the air. He felt calm, contented watching the two children, seeing their happy faces as they skated and had fun in the silent woods. And so, he sat down on the banks of the frozen pond, watching the pair, a warm smile playing on his lips.

It was a while before he realized that the ice formed on the lake was not thick enough to bear the two children's weight. Snapping out of his daydream, he stood up hurriedly, praying that the worst had not happened. The children, oblivious to the fact, were skating away on the thinning ice. He started walking towards the lake, intending on thickening the ice on the lake. As he approached the mere, however, the children suddenly stopped skating. Tension was in the air as the girl looked down onto the cracking ice beneath her feet. He hastened his pace but stopped after a glance at the boy. The boy appeared cool and composed, and he was trying his best to calm his panicked-stricken sister, telling her that everything was okay. It was then that he decided to let the boy save his sister, by his own means. He backed away slowly and assumed the role of an observer.

The boy had removed his skates, probably to prevent himself from slipping on the fragile ice. The ice beneath his own feet was cracking, too, but if he was afraid, he did not show it, for the sake of his sister. He focused on his sister, trying to draw her attention away from the ice. He suggested playing a game of hopscotch, and leaped towards the region where the ice was thicker. He then reached for the hooked staff he had brought with him to the lake, and prompted the girl to move towards him. When she did, the faint sounds of splitting ice could be heard. Before the ice could break,however, the boy managed to snatch her away from the ice. Everyone breathed a sigh of immense relief. The Winter spirit turned towards the boy, clearly impressed, and then saw the cracked ice he stood on. The boy had ended up exchanging places with his sister. The spirit's eyes widened. He raised his staff, but before he could do anything, the strain on the ice proved too much, and it gave way.

He knew at once that it was too late for the boy. The temperature down there was below freezing. Fully-grown adults couldn't survive those temperatures for more than a few minutes, much less the skinny lad barely out of his teens. Shell-shocked, both he and the girl were rooted to the spot. A few moments later, the girl started stumbling towards the opening, desperately calling out her brother's name. With a jolt, the spirit realized that the girl was still in danger. He awoke from his stupor and hurriedly worked on strengthening the ice and (reluctantly) closing up the aperture. The shock of losing her brother, combined with witnessing the strange phenomenon of instantly-freezing lakes must have been too much for the young girl, for she stopped right in her tracks and fell to her knees, and remained in the same stunned state until a couple of villagers found her, pale and shivering, still kneeling in the middle of the lake, looking down at the flawless ice.

Said passers-by brought her back to the village and into the arms of her worried parents. Another search party was dispatched into the woods to find her missing brother. Soon, the forest was filled with the crackling sounds of disturbed bushes and ferns as the villagers tracked through the forest, calling out the boy's name, searching for the lad that was never found.

Silence hung in the air as he neared the center of the lake, the place where his ice had yet again claimed another victim. The villagers have long gone, having abandoned their futile search hours before. Funnily enough, no one had thought to search the lake. All they did was took a quick glance and moved on to search other areas of the forest, never considering the possibility that the boy might have fallen into the pond. But then again, the lake was frozen solid. It would have taken days, even in this harsh climate, for thick ice to form on a pool of that size. Who would have believed that the lake could have frozen solid in mere hours of the boy's disappearance (should he had fallen into the lake)?

He stopped just before the center of the lake, starring down at the spot where the boy had fallen in. He tried to look into the depths of the mere, to search for the child whose body rests beneath the cold waters. The thick ice was as opaque as ever, obscuring his view of the deep lake. He recalled a time not so long ago, the boy's answer when asked what his favorite season was. He said it was Winter, because it was the season where he "don't have to work on Father's fields, and I could have snowball fights all day long!", according to the child. That statement, once filled him with happiness, now mocked him with irony. Winter was the boy's favorite season, but it was Winter that had robbed the boy of the life that had barely begun. And he, as the spirit of Winter, could not even protect the boy from his own element. He had failed the boy.

He was so deep in thought, he was only vaguely aware of the full moon shining in the midnight sky, its brilliant light illuminating the entire lake. It was not until the Moon spoke did he lift his head to face the orb of night. In its gentle, whispering tones, the Moon told him the boy has a noble character and would make a fine Guardian of Childhood. This child could be his successor, if he is still willing to give up his position as the Winter spirit.

The spirit was considerably shocked. For centuries he had searched in vain for a worthy soul to be his successor, and then out of the blue, the Moon chose this boy? He looked down onto the frozen lake. What does this child have that others don't? He's frolicsome, wayward, always making it to the top of Santa's naughty list (so he had heard), but fun. Definitely fun. Fun…

Whatever the Moon's reasons may be, this boy was not a bad choice at all. Winter is not merely a season of death or destruction. Winter is fun, and the boy can show the world precisely that. This boy could change the people's perception of Winter, something he could never achieve. Finally, the world will view Winter as it is: joyous, captivating and wonderful. And for that, he would gladly give up everything he has – his powers and his life. Smiling, he looked up to the Moon and nodded.

Immediately, a shaft of moonlight began streaming down from the heavens, illuminating his entire form, lifting him ever so slightly off the lake, just as it had done when he was first created. But now, instead of giving him energy and strength, the light was slowly sapping away his powers, his energy. In his weakened state, he saw as another beam of light shone above the center of the pond. He could almost see all his powers travelling through the moonlight, transferring them to whatever the light was lifting from the lake. Moments later, the icy layer on the pond cracked, revealing a teenage boy, the very same who had died in the pond in place of his sister. His hair, formally brown, now a brilliant shade of white, shimmered under the bright light. Bright blue eyes stared at the moon in wonder and confusion, as wintery powers, represented by shafts of faint blue light, continue to surge towards the lad.

As he witnessed the amazing spectacle, the birth of a spirit happening right before his eyes, he felt himself getting weaker. He looked down at his hands and feet. They were slowly fading, the outlines blurring. He was becoming more and more exhausted, and had to fight to stay conscious. But, as his strength gradually waned, a peculiar feeling began to blossom from his heart. This feeling, it was strange, alien, and yet, it felt good. It was calming, comforting. It was as if all his troubles were gone, all his pain and suffering were slowly lifted from his heart, fading away, along with his entire being.

He had finally found the peace he had so longed for.

The transaction was nearly complete. The boy was lifted so high he could almost touch the Moon. Those curious, childlike eyes continued to stare at the Moon as the newborn spirit gradually gained strength and energy. He himself, however, was dying. No, not dying. Fading away. The lower part of his torso was now completely transparent, while the moonlight continued its work on his upper body. His staff that had hitherto never left his hand fell to the ground. Stripped of its magical properties, it now no longer differed from any other ordinary rotting branch. Now the light started work on his mind, erasing memories, ebbing away everything that defines him. His mind was becoming blank. He was slipping away. White flashed before his eyes.

As he neared his finality, in his last moments of existence, his last moments of consciousness, one final thought crossed his mind; a message neither heard nor acknowledged, directed to the boy who gave his life in exchange for his sister's, now reborn as a spirit, destined to carry on his job of spreading Winter to the lands; the boy chosen as his successor:

Good luck, Jack Frost.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yeah, my first RotG fanfiction. I know it isn't half as good as the many stories circulating the site, but hey, at least i tried.

Do me a favour: see that review box below? Just type something in it and post it. I don't care whether it's a compliment, a critique, or even an insult, JUST GIVE ME SOME RESPONSE, PEOPLE!

...okay...uh...your reviews are much appreciated.

*EDIT 17 APRIL 2013: finally got around editing this story (oh god look at all the mistakes)

Many thanks to Von Cathy and Nicki K for their critiques, and everyone else who has reviewed and favourite this story.