A Rise of the Guardians Fanfiction
A Touch of Frost
It was cold and lonely in your house as you sat by the fireplace, a thick, leather-bound book cradled in your lap. Winter had sprinted across the land’s hard surface, sprinkling snow and beauty across the grounds and fields. The next city was draped in winter’s curtain of snow, but your town had yet to be visited by the winter chill. You eagerly awaited it with your trusty book beside you.
The book, however, lay in your hands, ignored and completely forgotten. It was the fireplace that had drawn your attention, and it was only when the flames decided to dismiss you, dimming and curling unto themselves in a little pile of ash, would you look away from them.
The warmth of the flickering reds and oranges washed over your bare feet as you edged slightly closer to the fireplace, looking deep into and beyond the wavering golden tails of the flames. It was as if the fire were speaking to you—no, even more than that. It was touching you, tapping at every inch of your body. You felt it on your face, fighting through the fabric thick corduroy trousers that graced your curved legs. It lapped at your nose like a puppy and lashed out at your toes with a want for attention.
That was something you gladly gave.
Your hands grasped the corners of a long-forgotten tale, and you smiled as you listened to the conversations and chatter of the lives of your new companions and friends as they unfolded: distant qualms of a farmer and his wife, of three missed and foolishly-used opportunities for wealth and glory; the wails and despair of a woman for the fate of her daughter, who would be carried off in the arms of a winged Morpheus in her mid-teens; the child who was so ruthlessly and yet so gracefully pulled away into the depths of a glistening, ice-cold world of a white-faced queen.
Your new friends. You couldn’t see them, but they were there. You had sat down to a mug of firewhiskey in the morning with the boy who possessed great power and love in his heart, who bore a lightning-shaped scar upon his forehead. You had waltzed alone in an immense throng of celebrators as they watched their princess, newly awakened after a century of death-sleep, rise to the love of a prince. You had been gracefully swept away by the tantalizing tale of three wishes bestowed upon the farmer and his wife.
Each of the fairytales in your book, which you now clasped in your pale hands, had come to life with such ease that they seemed to be almost real.
Fairytales. There had been so many that as you had flipped through the endless pages, none could appeal to you over all the rest. So many tales of a Santa, of a Hansel and Gretel, of an Easter Bunny. None had been overly unique or creative, and with each passing traditional, non-original story, you craved a truly inspirational piece.
As you had passed midway through the old, well-known tale of the child Rapunzel, you’d turned to the fire at last in an attempt to find a story. It served you well—its foreign tongues danced with interpretation and gentle nimbleness, and you found yourself lost in a speech of long-forgotten fire language.
It held more of a history than the tedious stories you had been flipping through. Each spurt of flames offered a thrill of excitement, and the waves of slowly and oozing laziness calmed you down and pacified the intensity of the fire’s well-told tale.
And now, the fire began to splutter. It had grown old with age, its short half-life coming to an end. Its words began to slur and fade, and it bid you its last farewell as the bright, ethereal shades of gold and red started to blur into a dark, dim orange.
You had been dismissed. The last of the flames flickered and died as you turned your eyes back to the fairytale book that now fully enraptured you once more. You wanted a new adventure now—Rapunzel and her lovely golden locks of silky hair could now be returned to her rightful place as you scanned across the concluding paragraph.
And now, off to a new story.
Your eyes dashed across lines and paragraphs of useless information. No, this story would not do—Cinderella is an old piece already, and you needed something more exciting. Perhaps this—no, much too modern.
Maybe a long-forgotten piece would serve a better purpose than a new one. After all, no one remembered those—to you, it would seem new.
After pages of fruitless searching, your eyes caught an interesting title.
It was a line of text, written in an icy blue, weaving the graceful words: “Jack Frost Was in the Garden.”
You stopped at this line. You knew Jack Frost, right? Although you’d only ever heard a detail or two of his existence, you knew well enough that he was a winter spirit. A sprite. A little fellow who went here and there, spreading snow and frost across the land.
It occurred to you that you’d never heard that much about this Jack. Maybe he was an old man—maybe he was a boy. Perhaps he was handsome—or maybe old and gnarled with age. With age came wisdom, and that could be why they called him the “Winter King”. Because he was old with age and wisdom, wisdom that came from deep inside hills and piles of white, pure snow.
This piece would be an interesting read. Without further notice, you dived into the poem that was written in faded, black ink before you on thick, yellowed pages of old parchment.
“I saw him there at dawn;
He was dancing round the bushes
And prancing on the lawn.
He had a cloak of silver,
A hat all shimm'ring white,
A wand of glittering star-dust,
And shoes of sunbeam light.”
Your imagination suddenly danced with the figure that appeared instantaneously in your mind. A tiny little dwarf-like creature hopped about before you, short and shriveled. The resemblance to an elf was uncanny, for he danced and hopped with such spirit that you couldn’t help but feel giddy.
“Jack Frost was in the garden,
When I went out to play
He nipped my toes and fingers
And quickly ran away.
I chased him round the wood-shed,
But, oh! I'm sad to say
That though I chased him everywhere
He simply wouldn't stay.”
Oh? Now this was a different image. Perhaps this Jack was not an elf or a dwarf, but a young boy. A boy ripened and filled with excitement and fun, someone who ran and played and nipped at your fingers and toes with such exuberance that you couldn’t help but feel young as well.
With a bubbling curiosity suddenly pouring through your veins, burning and boiling as it rushed through your body, you read on hungrily.
“Jack Frost was in the garden:
But now I'd like to know
Where I can find him hiding;
I've hunted high and low-
I've lost his cloak of silver,
His hat all shimm'ring white,
His wand of glittering star-dust,
His shoes of sunbeam light.”
There it was—you had lost him. He had run too quickly, too fast, and his cloak of silver and his hat of white had vanished all too soon. In your mind’s eye, you saw his wand of star-dust, a sparkling, silvery dust that shone and flashed across the snow’s bright surface. And those shoes!
And then you saw it out of the corner of your eye. A shining drop of pure ice.
It was snowing.
Rushing to the window, you pressed your nose against it, smiling happily as you glimpsed the next few flakes drift after the first, following its lead.
It was snowing!
You went to grab your winter coat and rushed to the door, throwing open the front door with excitement. You had been waiting for this for days on end, and you couldn’t contain yourself.
At last, the first snow had come to your town!
Your boots weren’t even properly laced, but you ran outside, leaping off your porch and laughing cheerily as the snowflakes brushed your cheek. Your coat was pulled around your shoulders, but you didn’t push your arms into the sleeves. Instead, you let out a shout and jumped onto the grass of your lawn, running around and allowing the coat to flap behind you like a cloak.
You began a frenzied dance, skipping across the thin layer of snow that covered your grass.
“Snow day,” you shouted happily. “Finally! It’s here, everyone! The first snow of the season!”
You must have been as loud as you’d hoped, because the neighbors, locked inside their dreary, darkened houses, had begun to creep out from the solitude of their over-heated, too-small-for-comfort prisons.
“Hey! (Name)’s right! Guys, it’s snowing!” One of the boys shouted down the street to his friends, who whooped and cheered in return. “Now we can go outside and have some real fun!”
You had been too overwhelmed by the sudden released from your house, where you’d been feeling cramped and unhappy for much too long, to realize that some of the snow had slipped into your boots.
“Oh… that’s cold…” you murmured as you sat down on the stiff, dried-up grass, pulling off the brown, rough boot to observe its insides.
A small pile of snow had accumulated inside the thick material of your unlaced boots, chilling your toes and feet. Your hands felt cold too, because you’d forgotten your mittens inside the house. The wind and cold had been nipping at your fingers and toes.
Which reminded you of the poem you’d read.
You stood up in the snow in your bare feet, shaking the unwanted snow from your boots back out onto the ground. You wouldn’t need those heavy, old things right now.
Winter deserved a proper thank-you.
“Thank you, Jack Frost!” You shouted out, standing on your toes and spreading your arms out. The jacket fell from your shoulders and onto the ground.
A few of the neighbors who had finally started to pour from the surrounding neighborhood houses gave you a cursory glance, and a few nodded and laughed in welcome appreciation of such childhood memories they had of themselves doing just the same thing.
“Thank you! Thank you, Jack!” You smiled into the cold and biting wind, realizing just how much you needed to appreciate winter.
But the moment the words escaped from your mouth, you glanced around, seeing that it had grown suddenly dark and colder than before. Night was falling.
“It’s cold outside…” You bit at your lower lip and shivered, digging your toes into the ground. The grass seemed like ice now—your bare feet didn’t like being unclothed. “I’d better get back inside.”
“Hey, going so soon? And we were just about to have some good fun!”
You paused—a voice had called out to you somewhere.
“Jamie?” You shouted down the street.
The boy turned back just as he was about to enter his house after a snowball fight. “Yeah?” He called back to you.
“Jamie, did you call me?”
“No!” He shouted back. Then he waved and went into his house, disappearing from sight.
“Huh… that’s strange…” Jamie had been the last one left on the block. If he didn’t call to you, then who did?
You started to walk back towards your front door. The horizons were now painted with dark, lovely hues of navy blue, red, and pink.
As you pushed open your front door, you could’ve sworn you heard the voice of a boy say: “Well, I guess that’s that. I’ll see you around—maybe for a little bit of fun!”
And with that, the wind picked up and nearly blew your coat off of your back as you stepped into the house and shut the door, blocking out winter in all of its furious glory.