AN: Ok, I was literally up until 6 in the morning writing this. I started writing an angsty drabble a few days ago inspired by Sleepsong by Bastille's lyrics:

"Oh you go to sleep on your own

and you wake each day with your thoughts
And it scares you being alone
It's a last resort
All you want is someone onto whom you can cling
Your mother warned of strangers and the dangers they may bring
Your dreams and memories are blurring into one
The scenes which hold the waking world slowly come undone"

Anyways, yeah, great song, check it out. Getting back to the point; I really wasn't expecting this drabble to go anywhere, but last night I decided to revisit it and this is what happened. Of course, I added a bit more to the angst, mwah. I guess this is sort of an AU, but not a wild one or anything. Just diverges from canon. Chapter two is already well on its way to being completed, so expect an update within the next couple days, a week at most. Enjoy! Reviews, follows and faves are greatly appreciated as they are the only reward an author gets. If you take a quick second to drop some words in the little box below, I'll be much obliged! Thanks. /AN

Chapter 1 - Dreams and Memories

Jack Frost was used to being alone.

He spent his nights and shared his tree branches only with the phantoms that drifted outwards, born of his breath, (more like phantoms of phantoms—the winter spirit's inner temperature didn't clash with that of the icy air outside much to form as distinguished clouds as a mortal's breath would) and when he was in a particularly good mood, he called upon the skies above for some flurries to keep him company. He had spent this particular evening dusting Burgess—a town he loved dearly, for it was as old as he—with the season's first snowfall. Already he had laid down a good three inches and had insured good cloud cover for tomorrow; more beautiful flurries were in store. Tonight, Jack felt content and comfortably exhausted after the right mixture of work and play.

However, there were days—years, in fact; 300+ years was, decidedly, far too long to be in existence-when Jack was filled with a mixture of loneliness and hopelessness so deep and so dark that it threatened to consume his very core and swallow him up. Not even wreaking havoc in the form of winter weather chased it away—and that was unusual for Jack Frost.

These were the days when the winter sky remained gloomy and grey, threatening snow or rain, but never quite grasping the motivation to deliver. These days, he felt like he was drowning, unable to breathe, unable to reach out. In nightmares, this feeling manifested itself as he dreamt of sinking all the way to the bottom of a dark, watery abyss, smothered and suffocated by the icy depths from every direction. The winter spirit didn't sleep excessively, or necessarily often—his energy level usually hovered at a constant buzz that kept him quite active-but on nights and lazy afternoons when he did chance a rest on a snow-covered branch or rooftop, his descent into shallow sleep proved fitful and unsatisfying. These long nights were filled with either frighteningly vivid visions, or simply a cloudy void where his subconscious thoughts drifted idly, trapped in limbo between the closed lids of their owner who hovered between dozing and REM sleep.

Of course, these melancholy spells stemmed from the fact that Jack wasn't visible to anyone. It wasn't just the fact that he was invisible that ate at his usually playful and mischievous state of mind; it was the fact that he didn't exist to anyone. Nobody really knew him but the moon, the huge orb of pale light that had served as the winter spirit's first comfort when he awoke in this world. As much as it should, Jack always thought, that connection didn't make much of a difference.

Sure, children enjoyed his snow days, instigated snowball fights and sledding escapades, but looking at the big picture, Jack knew his sliver of an existence was unfulfilling at best. Worse, as much as he tried to distract himself from his own loneliness with whirling blizzards or snowstorms, his enthusiasm while completing his daily routines around the globe waned over time similarly to the cold, careless moon that had put him there without an explanation. He supposed he was selfish for yearning to be seen-surely other spirits weren't given attention from mortals 24/7. Despite trying to brush off the gravity of his situation, however, Jack couldn't help but entertain the thought that somehow what he had to face was worse. He remembered the horror and disbelief that had shot through him like a bullet that first night; remembered the shocking sensation like it was yesterday. That was the first time a child had run right through him; as much as he wished it would, that feeling didn't fade much over time.

What replaced the horror these days was a cold, empty feeling of hollowness every time he wasn't seen, even though he had grown to expect it. Why couldn't he just be content with showering cities and towns with the snow and ice that resulted in chaos children's laughter as they frolicked on a snow day? "That would make this situation a whole lot easier to deal with," Jack thought as he slid halfheartedly off of a snow covered branch to land crouched on the ground below, fingertips brushing the light dusting of snow that coated the forest floor. He straightened with a sigh, his staff held casually in his right hand where it leaned into the crook of his arm. The familiarity of the dark, frost-varnished wood was his only comfort on long nights, and he had grown attached to his shepherd's crook—it was more than just a weapon.

The winter spirit scanned the quiet scene of the surrounding forest purely out of routine before exhaling disapprovingly at the empty expanse he was faced with. Of course it was empty. What was he even looking for? No children, or adults for that matter, would be out in the forest this close to dark. Jack estimated it was around 6 PM, noting the sinking sun that was barely visible through the barricade of closely knitted trees as it left a soft, orange glow—it's farewell for the night-on the crisp layer of snow. The last of the sun's rays were accompanied by a golden glimmer of hope that emanated from Jack Frost himself, a spark of a hope had stuck with him for all of his years on this Earth; it was the hope that he, for once, was not alone. That is why Jack stubbornly refused to stop scanning his surroundings after rests, brief or long, and that is why he happened to be alert for the whisper of a noise coming from a distance behind his left shoulder. It was a simple sound, but it brought a prickling sensation crawling over the nape of Jack's neck and knots to his stomach.

It was the crack of a twig that had caught the boy's attention; though not of one broken carelessly in passing by an animal. The sound was a deliberate, single snap that echoed in the seemingly empty forest. Jack whirled around, staff held at chest-height and at the ready, knees slightly bent and poised to spring into action, eyes narrowed as he scanned the dimly lit forest for the source of the noise.

In seconds, the winter spirit laid eyes on the mysterious source of the sound-and immediately he wished he hadn't.