A/N: Warning: If you suffer from severe arachnophobia ("fear of spiders"), please reconsider before reading this story, as it contains graphic depictions of spiders.
Disclaimer: I don't own RotG.
"Have you ever seen a spider's web up close,
As threads shimmer golden in the light?
Have you ever seen its maker crush its foes,
With apt trickery and vicious little bite?" – "Spider Web", by GoddessOfTechnology
Jack Frost liked spiders.
They were...well, colorful, for one thing. Blue and white and brown and gray get so boring after a while, and sometimes it was nice to exchange the drab hues of winter for a brighter red, or green, or yellow.
That wasn't the only reason he liked them, however.
No, the real reason he liked them was because they were...frankly fascinating. Small, weak-looking, with so many long legs you'd think they tripped over themselves regularly. Yet they were predators, fleet, cunning, venomous, and deadly. It was unbelievable.
He peered at the black widow closely, watching as she wrapped her victim in strand after strand of silk. How strange, how wonderful that these tiny creatures used such fragile tools to carry out their grisly work. It was almost magical.
It gave him hope, in a way. These beings were tiny and pathetic-looking, yet they still managed to etch out an existence for themselves. Certainly, they lead bloody and often cruel lives, but the point was, they survived. They stood up against all odds, and they won. They were admirable, in a way.
He wished he could be like them.
Quietly, the black widow stuck her jaws inside her prey.
He waited until she had finished her meal, before he left.
He caught the first one in 1753.
It was a pretty spider, that much he could see. A brightly-colored creature, finely decorated in vivid shades of blue and red. What it was called he didn't know, but it was beautiful all the same.
He was careful, painfully careful with the tiny creature that was no larger than his fingernail. The process of trapping it in a glass jar had been frustrating (the spider could jump quite high, as he found out), but after half an hour, he had finally managed to capture the furry arachnid.
He was flying now, soaring high over the cliffs of Svalbard, jar held close to his chest as he searched for the perfect place to hide his prize. He decided eventually on a large, spacious cave in the cliff face, with a small entrance that was hardly visible unless you were staring right into it, and he darted inside, prying the lid off the jar and releasing the captive held within.
The spider fell to the ground, bouncing slightly. It stayed perfectly immobile, scarcely twitching, before hesitantly scuttling off.
He waited, tense, until it settled down in the corner. Satisfied that it was happy in its new home, he then left.
He returned the next day with a wife for it, and watched, fascinated, as they courted and mated, and as the female ate her husband.
A few days later, he caught another one.
It was yellow, bright yellow, with black markings and a gray, slightly fuzzy head. It sat quietly in the jar, not kicking up any fuss, all the way from Hawaii to Svalbard, and it took readily to its new home in the cave.
As he watched it build its web, he noticed that the blue spider was now carefully guarding a small pile of eggs in her corner. Intrigued, he decided to keep a close eye on the eggs.
Within a week at most, the mother was dead, and the babies were feasting happily on her corpse.
By that time, the yellow spider was building an egg-sack of her own.
It took a few months, but eventually the cave was filled with spiders.
Tens of different species from all over the world lay in that cave, the rock walls covered in thick sheets of silk. Jack watched, intrigued, as they were born and lived and fought and died, and all the while, he kept on bringing new ones.
Eventually, food ran short, the mass of spiders unable to procure enough prey for themselves. To compensate, he began to bring flies and crickets to his little family of arachnids, and gradually, they continued to grow in peace.
By 1815, he had to expand the cave in order to give the spiders enough room.
It was 1824, and the spirit of Thanksgiving was yelling at him.
Why, he wasn't entirely sure. Something to do with early snowfall, perhaps?
"I can't change the laws of nature, Tisquantum. If Mother Nature said there will be snow today, there's going to be snow today."
The spirit was livid, anger coloring his face. "I will not tolerate you ruining my holiday, you winter brat! Don't you realize you are interfering with my day?"
"I get it, but I can't do anything about it. Go complain to someone else. Like Mother Nature herself."
"You are the Spirit of Winter! You alone have control over your season! I demand you cancel the snowfalls!"
"Correction: I may have control over my season, but as I told you, I take orders from Mother Nature. Go complain to her."
"I insist!"
"Insist away, it won't help."
"Cancel the snowfalls or I'll break your damn neck, you miserable icicle!"
"Nope."
Practically snarling in his rage, the older spirit suddenly lunged at Jack, shoving him into a nearby tree. Then, several things happened at once:
Jack screeched, panicking, throwing an arm in front of his face to protect himself as Tisquantum brought a massive fist down on him. At that moment, a large, hairy black and red spider crept out of Jack's hoodie pocket.
Before either of them could react, the spider had bitten Tisquantum. The older spirit yelped in pain, hastily brushing the spider off, but it was too late.
Within minutes, the Thanksgiving spirit was twitching, sweat rolling down his forehead in big droplets. His chest began to heave as he struggled to bring air into his lungs, and before long the twitches turned into full muscle spasms. He gasped, desperate for air, and finally collapsed.
He was dead within twenty minutes.
That night, the spiders of Svalbard had a feast, and the black and red spider was given the place of honor.
The spiders of Svalbard lived happily in their cave. From generation to generation, they were given all they needed, and so, they were happy.
Unfortunately, nothing lasted forever, and when spiders were involved, all was sure to end in blood and tears eventually.
1987 was a hard year for Jack Frost. A hard, hard year. Spiders, however, were rarely understanding.
Especially where food was involved.
"Jack Frost? Who's he?"
The Cossack frowned, unsure how to answer this question. He carefully sipped his hot chocolate. "A winter spirit, I believe. He is not alive, though."
The feathered woman frowned, clutching her empty mug in her thin fingers. "Not alive? What do you mean?"
"Strangest thing. Winter Court found him dead in a cave in Svalbard. Gave him funeral a few days after."
"What did he die of?"
North shrugged, and polished off the last of his sugary drink, oblivious to Tooth's wince. "Spider bites. Do you want more chai tea? Yetis can fetch some."
A/N: The blue and red spider is a peacock spider, which is harmless to humans. The yellow and black spider is a yellow garden spider, which has a bite similar to a wasp's sting, but is also harmless. The black and red spider is a Funnel-web spider, is extremely venomous, and has a bite which can kill humans within fifteen minutes (if the human is a child).
Also, this story was difficult to write. I'm arachnophobic, and I had to search through dozens of pictures and Wikipedia articles to find the spiders I was looking for. I will never recover...::shivers::
Although...the peacock spider is pretty adorable. It's so tiny and fuzzy!
Also, I'm taking prompts! If you have a horror/angst related prompt to give me, I'd love to write it for you!
...Review?