A/N: Guys...I need someone to attach a boxing glove on a spring to my computer, so it can punch me in the face every time I start a new story.

Like, seriously. This is getting excessive. I already have five works in progress, I don't need another one.

That said, hope you enjoy this.

Warnings: This story contains violence, cursing, and depictions of attempted suicides (key word being attempted).

Disclaimer: I don't own RotG. Also, cover image is a drawing by Gustave Dore and is in the public domain.

He walked alone, a perfect melody of fear and courage, darkness and light, hated by all and loved by none. Walking on the thin edge between good and bad, love and hate, he was thus rejected by both sides, with only the dark coils of nightmare sand and the shadows to serve as his companions.

Some, most, would have gone mad, had they been in his shoes. His love for children was equally balanced by their fear of him, his yearning for friendship negated by the despise all spirits held towards him. Strangely enough, however, in his time alone he did not either succumb to madness or to bitter hate. It was brutally unfair, that all living beings should judge him based on the power he wielded, but such was life, and he could either get used to it or suffer.

He was only seven years old, and yet he already felt much older.

His black shoes click-clacked sinisterly against the wet pavement as he walked, and he made sure to strategically avoid the streetlights as he kept to the shadows. Some part of his mind, the same one that knew his name, told him that light would be hurtful to him, and while he had no way of knowing if this was really the case, he preferred not to take any unnecessary risks.

The shadows whispered to him as he walked, telling him of things they had seen and heard, and he felt strangely comforted by their presence. They meant safety and security, company and protection, and as pathetic as it may sound, they were his only friends. Yes, he trusted the shadows, would trust them with his own life, however sad a life it may be.

Suddenly, as confidently as he'd walked before, he now stopped. The shadows whispered into his ears tales of a hurting child, and although he knew his appearance would only frighten the little one, he refused to even think of not helping. The child needed him, and only him, to help.

He started walking again, his rapid gait soon shifting into a sprint, and then into a run, shoes click-clacking impossibly fast against the cobblestones as he looked for a large-enough shadow that he could travel through, his fragile grasp over his powers still not permitting him to teleport though anything except the darkest of shadows. At last, he found a suitable one, and he dove into it, the tendrils of darkness wrapping protectively around him as they swallowed him and he faded into black.

He reappeared on a rooftop, in the shadow of the moonless night. It took a few moments before he found the child, and what he saw both shocked and saddened him.

A teenage girl, no older than fifteen, stood at the roof's edge, navy-blue skirt fluttering feebly in the light breeze of the spring night. He could hear her sobs as her shoulders shook, and with a shake of her head, the girl extended one foot over the edge, ready to fall to her death. Without a minute of hesitation, he focused on pouring fear into the girl's soul. Through the haze of irrelevant fears the poor girl was experiencing, he noted a crippling fear of heights, and with the tenacity of a limpet he latched onto that, bringing it to the surface and swelling it.

It worked. The girl made a queer sound between a sob and a cough as she tremulously stepped away from the edge, still shaking her head. When she spoke, the German lilting off her tongue, her voice sounded choked and terrified. "I'm scared...I'm scared..."

She turned away from the edge, tears pouring down her cheeks, gray eyes filled with fear and self-hate as she spoke to herself. "I am a coward, a coward!"

She crumpled, then, falling to her knees and burying her face in her hands, body racked with sobs. Unsure what to do, he stepped out of the shadows, walking hesitantly towards her, his shoes click-clacking against the rooftop.

As he kneeled by her, she looked up, eyes hazy before they focused properly on him. When they finally did, they widened in fear. "Who are you?"

The same part of his mind that knew his name took over, and he responded in her language, while as yet uncertain as to how he knew it. His voice held a queer accent, somewhere between British and American, as he held her attention. "I am the Boogeyman."

If it were even possible, her eyes widened further, and she scrambled backwards. "You are real?!"

"Of course. Have no fear, I will not hurt you."

She looked doubtful, yet intrigued. Glancing back at the edge, she seemed to come to a realization. "You saved my life..."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He struggled to find the correct words. "You have a whole life in front of yourself. It's not right that you should die so young."

"For the Boogeyman, you're very kind."

He grinned. "Looks can be deceiving."

She cracked a small, broken smile. "That is true."

He smiled back, relieved that she was feeling better. Some of the frenzy seemed to have left her gray eyes, and now she looked less despairing and depressed. Still, the problem had not been fixed entirely, and he still had a job to finish. As gently as he could, he asked, "Do you have friends? People that can help you?"

She looked down, all traces of a smile vanished from her face. "One. Only one."

"It's better than nothing. Can you speak to them?"

"Yes, but..."

"But?"

Silence.

"Please, talk to them."

"But...I don't want to. This is my problem."

"...For me? Please?"

She chuckled at his puppy-eyed look, and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "...For you, then...Thank you, Boogeyman."

He smiled, and stepped back into the shadows, ready to leave, certain that now she would be safe. Before he could vanish, however, she grabbed the sleeve of his black jacket. "Wait! Please, what is your name?"

For some reason, the question made him laugh, and he answered, smirking at the name which both did and did not fit, a forgotten memory of an equally forgotten past.

"My name...is Jack Frost."

A/N:

It's...okay? I think? Maybe? It'll get better from here, I swear...

As to why a teenage girl can see the Boogeyman...well, I'm not entirely sure myself, but I suppose she has some sort of mental illness of some kind (which would also explain why she wanted to commit suicide). This is only speculation, of course.