It has been one hundred fifty-three years since he was birthed from the Lake, and now he is standing before it admiring it's reflective surface.
He had spent the day trying to cheer some of the children in the neighboring village, but upon his arrival he realized it was too warm for his presence to be welcome, so he flew further north, catching a wind current to aid him in his travel.
The day still shone bright, and the wind chill across his cheeks caused a small smile to form on his chapped lips. He heard the Wind giggling in expectation, and found himself being twirled down to the ground in a flurry.
He landed in a thin tree, his limbs graceful and his body smooth movements. He saw in the distance a small pillar of smoke, and thought maybe he would see if there were any children present. Maybe he can guess the language they spoke if he stayed long enough.
Making his way along on a draft, he landed not ten feet away from the campsite. The people consisted of a man, a woman, an older woman, a small child, and a babe wrapped around the older woman's chest. They were all dressed in layers of animal skin and fur, and distantly he wondered if he should replace his own worn coat to match the fashion of the times. His had too many holes to deal with now, anyways.
He noticed that they all sat huddled together, shivering, near the small struggling fire, and faintly he could make out the edges of an igloo in the blur of the snow.
Chewing his cheek, he decided that maybe they could wait for a snow-day, and eased the winds from their mild strengths to a gentle breeze.
Turning away, he sprinted a few steps and flew up to the clouds. To the south he would go- maybe make a couple stops on the way there.
He made his way over the America's, smiling softly at the children frolicking through fields and farms. He wished that the winter season would come sooner.
When he made it to the South Pole, he landed on a glacier floating next to the mainland. He laughed at the penguins diving off the ice and into the water, sticking his staff in the water to create fluorescent fish for them to chase. As the sun seeped into the horizon and the light faded and the air chilled, the animals left to their respective safe habitats for rest.
Laying on his back, arms crossed behind his head, he wondered what the Guardians were up to, if the Sandman was making his rounds in the Northern or Eastern hemispheres right now.
He watched the clouds float by, darkened with a heavy snowfall. Absently, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his ice-dagger he forged a few years ago. The tip and edges tinted red.
He wondered if the Man in the Moon would ever talk to him, if he were to ever find his purpose. If the children would ever stop going right through him not noticing and leaving this big empty void in his chest and stomach that hurt so much the first time he just might cry thinking about it it hurt so much.
He stretched his arm up straight in front of him, trying to catch the last of the sun's rays to shine off off it's crystal frame, but it never caught. It was too dark now for him to see his own feet.
The next morning he made his trek back to the Lake.
He made sure when he arrived to say "Hello" to every tree in the area, to make sure they weren't feeling lonely in their age. He also apologized for the new frost of the morning but promised that when he went away they would be bright and green and colorful again.
The sky is overcast still and the light struggles to break through the bleak clouds. He does not give them a second glance, instead he walks straight to the center of the Lake, where he can still make out frozen-over cracks and shadows in the ice from when he first broke through.
With grace he kneels down on the ice, knees spreading a frost pattern on the block. He tries to find his reflection, but sees nothing but the white of the ice and the black of the water.
His palms are starting to blue against the ice, and with a rage he starts slapping and punching and scratching away at the surface, brows furrowed and eyes frenzied.
He is gasping and grunting and giving out a frustrated yell when he sees nothing but the frosting droplets of his cool blood and patterns fading away into the ice. He takes out his dagger and drives it into the ice with both hands, but with a yelp it slides away and he falls on his side.
His cheeks are frozen over now with a heavy slush from his eyes and he is cursing at the Moon that has started to peek through. "Let me in!" he yells. "Let me go back!"
He is standing now and around him the wind is still but he does not want it to be so he swipes his arm from his side to his front and a gusts forms out of his will. He hears the wind softly moaning, no longer giggling. He cannot bring himself to care.
He starts to pace, gasping, asking why why why why please just say one word just once more but nothing but the sound of the wind rushing around greets him.
He brings his dagger up to his wrist where it has been a time before, and digs it deep in one swift motion. The blood bubbles and pools and starts to rush down off his arm but then it is frozen and broken into a thousand pieces of glass now and flies away like snowflakes in the wind, leaving only a small filigree pattern that has already started to fade away on his pale skin.
A desperate sound escaped his throat, and he flings the dagger into the snow lining the edges of the Lake. He has fallen now onto the center of the Lake where he can still make out the frozen-over cracks and shadows in the ice from when he first broke through.
His name is Jack Frost, and he knows this because the Moon told him so, but sometimes he wishes the Moon had left him inside the ice, forever frozen in peace without a care of his existence, because surely that would be better than this. Anything is better than this.