Authors note: point of view between characters will change throughout chapters. Jack Frost as well as other characters are open to interpretation, you do not have to limit your imagination to the visuals of the movie, even though this is a ROTG fanfiction, it will not be excatly following with the movie, these are my own interpretations on the characters, and my story is influenced by more then one tale i've heard of Jack Frost. so just saying, it is not strictly ROTG fanfiction, but my own mixture of stories about the characters. Also, this story is supposed to be a prequel to the movie.
My name is Elizabeth Grace; I don't really have a home, my father works as a translator for companies, so we move around a lot. But I don't mind, I enjoy the travel. I love to see the different cultures and the beauty each big city or small town has to offer. Now you would think, it would be unpleasant, being separated from the world, never settling, never making friends whome I would see day to day; never living a normal life of an adolescent girl. But to be honest, I like the solitude; Instead of hanging out with friends at the movies, or going to parties- I would rather take a long walk in the quiet woods, or curl up with a good book. I guess that's just the kind of person I am. As for school, I learn from my reading, and get the occasional lesson from my father, when he's not working. Currently, i am sitting on a plush bed within an old Victorian house in the countryside of France. My dad rented a bedroom from an old lady who lives in this house alone, she was more than happy to have company. It's early mourning and my dad has already left for work. I slide of my bed and instead of the cold wood floor I was expecting, my feet land on top of something soft and fluffy. I look down and smile at a pair of white slippers, the old lady must've left them for me. I left a mental note to thank her and slipped my feet into the slippers. I shuffled over to the vanity across from the bed, sat down and looked in the mirror. My long blonde hair hung disheveled in my face and there were dark circles under my eyes. I pulled out a small make up kit and lightly applied some basic foundation and mascara to make me look less tired. Make up was useful, but I didn't like to pile it on my face. A lot of girls would do anything to have that thin angular face and big eyes they see on models in magazines, even though they have beautiful features of their own. I didn't find myself particularly pretty, my face was round- not angular, my eyes were well proportioned and a nice shade of green- but not huge and spectacularly colored, and my eyebrows were the same color as my hair, a light blonde, not very visible- not drawn on. Like I said I wouldn't call myself Aphrodite, but I could look in a mirror without grimacing like some girls my age do. I got up and shuffled over to the window, it was late November and the ground was covered in a thick layer of fresh snow. I loved the winter, most people hated the cold, but it didn't really bother me. But never mind the temperature, the snow itself, was so beautiful, it was always quiet and peaceful, never making a sound, whilst it covers the leaves with sparking beauty. There was a little old dirt path that leads into the forest tree line off to the side of the house, and, excited to explore the scenery and admire the fresh snow that had fallen over-night, I grabbed my coat and boots and hurried down the steps.
Before I got to the door, the sweet aroma of pancakes and syrup captured my senses, carrying me into the kitchen. There I found the old lady placing a freshly cooked plate of pancakes on the table, topped with butter, melted just right, and hot syrup making tiny waterfalls over the sides of the towering stack of pancakes. The old lady beamed when I came in, she poured a glass of orange juice and set it on the table next to the already filled plate. I stared in awe at her, she laughed warmly,
"Are you hungry, ma fille?" the lady smiled, speaking in her soft French accent. I nodded slowly,
"You made this for me?" I asked still amazed, "you didn't have to do that!" I squeaked.
"Oh don't be ridiculous," the lady chuckled, "it's only called hospitality." She said waving me into the chair in front of the plate of pancakes. I thanked her for the food and the slippers a few times, then mouth-watering, dug into the spectacular plate of food.
After I had finished my breakfast, and thanked the lady a few more times, I zipped up my boots and jacket and headed out the door.
My boots crunched softly through the snow as I followed the path into the forest. The air was crisp and fresh; I love the way cold air smells. The trees glistened with snowflakes, and as I walked deeper into the woods the peaceful blanket of silence enveloped me. Now, I love all the seasons, but winter is defiantly my favorite. It's peaceful and beautiful, but most of all, lonely. The snow and cold seemed to carry a sad story with it, forgotten life and frozen memories, fatefully intertwined with the breath of winter; loneliness was often a price for such peaceful silence. Soon the trees widened into a clearing, rocks and boulders lined the edges of a frozen stream. Nothing broke the silence but my boots in the untouched snow. The spot was so beautiful I was in awe. Overcome by a sudden rush of giddiness, I let myself fall back, the soft snow there to catch me. I giggled and swung my arms and legs to make a snow angel. When I was tired and the giddiness was replaced with peacefulness, I covered my head and face with my thick and fur framed hood, and lay my head in the snow. With the comforting quiet and the sparkling trees encircling me, I drifted off into sleep.