EDIT: This story started out just as an exploration of how Jack met the other guardians before being asked to become one himself, but then it turned into a series of chapters about Jack's life, and then it turned back into its original form so if you're looking for the series of drabble's I made, I moved it out of convenience because keeping up with everything in one story was exhausting. I kept the Frosty the Snowman chapter though.

I never forget a child.

In all my 100 years, I've never forgotten a face or a name or a voice. I can sit in a kid's room or suspend myself above their town and just see the map of their life pan out around me. Each kid is a story that only a select few will ever get to hear, a private friends-and-family concert. Of course, I'm not family, and I'm not what you would consider a friend, either, how many of your friends bring blizzards and snow days with them wherever they go? No, I'm not a friend. But I guess I'm friendly enough. I'm more of a friendly wallflower — wait, no, that's not right. Some people see wallflowers. I'm that feeling you get, that sparkle in your eyes when you're dying of laughter on the floor with your best friend and there's no other place you'd rather be. I'm a friendly observer, and in my years I've seen so much life in the eyes of kids. Every town is like a pocket world, with so many other worlds tangled up inside it. There's so much vivacity, so much cause for celebration in everyday life, but it seems like I'm the only one who sees that. And it's ironic, my life is just one sad little parallel of irony, I am the only one who sees the beauty, the majesty, in children, in life, in this wonderful, wonderful world and I'm the only one who doesn't get a slice of it. I've never been acknowledged, not once, for as long as I've haunted the Earth.

My name is Jack Frost, I'm a winter spirit, and no one can see me. That's all I know after an entire century.

There's a man in the moon, some call him fate, some call him God, but he's the only entity who knows I exist, so I can only assume he's the sick guy who brought be into being. Every time I look up at the craterous pearl, I can't tell if I want to thank him for always being there, or curse him for making me like this. He doesn't talk to me, though, just the same as everyone else.

I know the wind's not alive, but it moves like it is, so I consider it a friend. It takes me where I need to go, and I think it doesn't forget easily, like me.

It remembers a girl named Jill who's father and sister died of the plague, who lived the rest of her life with her estranged mother, and they never would say a word to each other until a huge blizzard swept in and brought them together. It remembers a boy too shy to propose, and a snowball that chucked it from his fumbling hands and into his soon-to-be-bride's. It remembers an odd friendship derived from two enemies when they tried to chase a large, floating snowflake and ended up getting lost together in the woods. It remembers every snow ball fight that ended in kissing and every snow day that delayed tax collectors from a particularly poor house, yeah, me and the wind, we remember every moment of it. Even if it never talks to me, either.

But still, it's the closest thing I have to companionship, so I jump from a steep roof and spread my arms, letting the air move through and around me, take me by the hand and lead me to my next location.

It takes me to London, where I remember every member of royalty or of peasantry and the history of their families dating all the way back to 1712. There's the Smiths, and the Whites, and the Corduroys, and the Jacksons, they're all still here, and there are even a few new faces, and I'll find out where they lived before in no time. I get to see how Rebecca's been doing, or if Nathaniel has worked up the courage to ask Mary out yet, and maybe —

Wait, hold on a second.

There's a man dressed in red trying to break into Penelope's house.

See, in addition to bringing the best season of all to mankind, I also keep the crime rate low, whenever I can. The thieves never know what hit them. Well, they do, actually, but they think it's snow, in the form of a ball or falling from a tree that had no frost at all moments prior, but, you know, they don't know it's me, so…

The red man jumps down the chimney, a plume of smoke rising from his descent. I form a sharp icicle in the palm of my hand and throw it down as hard as I can. I slip down the chimney myself to investigate.

He must've hit up several houses, his sack is enormous. It's no big deal, though, it's pretty late. I'm sure I can just return everything to its respective house before anyone even notices it's missing.

But there's no gold inside the sack, no sterling or silver or diamonds. There are dolls and jack-in-the-boxes (I try not to laugh at the irony any more than I already have), toy trains and brightly-painted balls. What kind of a thief steals junk like this? These toys could be making some kid's night, why would a man go through so much trouble to take it all away? The sack falls limp in my hands as I spot a tray left near the fire place. There are pale cookies sprinkled with powdered sugar, and they smell absolutely wonderful. In a glass next to them is some sort of beverage, white as the moon that's neither friend nor foe to me. I take a bite out of one cookie, moved by pure curiosity. I've seen kids eat pastries, but I've never had any myself. It turns out winter spirits really don't need to eat, and I'm always just living in the moment I never really… It's so good. It's as sweet as the feeling I get when I sit in on a wedding where the bride and groom truly are in love, or when a kid starts a playful snowball fight on his own and I don't have to. It melts my very core, and that says something, coming from Jack Frost himself. I take a sip of the drink and I can wager a guess that it's milk. It's creamy and purely delicious, it goes with the sugar cookie so nicely. I only take a small cookie, and an even smaller sip of the milk, because this is someone else's food and I really shouldn't be having any.

"Oh, boy." The man in the red suit says, staggering to a stand.

That's…weird. No one ever gets up after I peg them with an icicle.

I turn around and he's got some weird snow globe in his hand. He flicks his hands around the snowy, imprisoned water beneath the glass, and the image inside changes. There's an egg painted in pastels, a plume of peacock-esque feathers, a snowy castle, and finally a fountain of glittering gold sand.

"Sandy, there's a kid here who stayed up for Santa, do you think you can work a bit of your magic?"

For a moment, I swear he glances over at me, but then he looks back, and he is full on boring holes into my own eyes.

But then I turn around and my near-heart attack end there. He was staring at the cookies, obviously.

It was nice, if not absolutely terrifying, to pretend he could see me for a moment.

His sight hasn't left the cookies.

"Cancel that order, Sandy. I have message from belly."

Okay, this gentleman is clearly off his rocker. Who name's a snow globe Sandy and gives it orders in between stealing some kids' toys? Oh, and he's still staring at me, and by me, I mean a plate of admittedly delicious cookies.

But then his hands wrap around my collar and he drags me up to eye-level.

"Who are you?" he yells.

I can't speak, I can't move, only my eyelids work properly, but blinking multiple times doesn't really get us anywhere.

"I asked question, boy, who are you?!" he shouts, shaking me wildly.

"Y…you…you can see me…?"

I can barely use my own tongue. I have no idea what to say, I've never talked to anyone before, maybe this is just…what are those things called? You know, they happen when you're asleep? Um…dreams! That's right, this is just a dream, but…I've never dreamed before, so I don't know if that's entirely true. Both possibilities are impossible, but when you realize it's a dream, don't you wake up? No, this can't be a dream, his hands are very real and… warm? Am I using that right? It's weird, wherever I go, it's always cold, I am the embodiment of ice and snow, I've never felt warmth. But his hands…something stirs in my brain, and I just know in my core that what I'm experiencing is warmth.

"Of course, I can! We are legend, no?"

I can't say a thing, all I can do is stare at him.

"Who are you supposed to be, kid? You look like the snowflakes that fall, what is your name, legend?"

"…J-ja-ja…Jack! Jack Fr-rost, sir!"

He looks at me, confused. I guess I can't blame him, I'm plenty confused myself.

"You are bad legend?"

"No, no, sir, I… You can really see me?"

"Yes," he says, slightly annoyed, "I am legend, you are legend. I see you, and you see me." He explains slowly.

"I…I'm a legend?"

He slowly lets me go, back onto the floor.

"Yes. You have never been seen by child?"

"Never." I admit, slightly dazed. He was so warm.

"That is too bad. I am who the children call Santa, you hear of me?"

"No…"

"Ah, I bring toys to good children once a night every year."

"So you're not stealing them?"

"Stealing? No, never, not from good girls and boys. You see there is a naughty and nice list for everyone. Child naughty, no toys. Good, good toys. See?"

"'M I on the nice list?"

"After stunt you pull tonight? Never."

"Oh."

"Yes, the oh is right. You have delayed me good deal, if I do not get to all the houses, it is on your head."

He leaves a couple toys, and for the first time I realize every one has a tag with a name on it. Penelope is written on all of them. He gives me one last look before ascending back up the chimney.

I sit on the floor of the living room, criss-cross applesauce for some time, before I can fully process what just happened.

Someone saw me.

Someone looked me dead in the eye and said words that were aimed at me and I said words back and the words were heard. There's a man who knows I exist, and he knows my name too! He knows the sound of my voice, he knows what I looks like, and he knows what I do too! He talked to me! I talked to someone, and it was mutual! He heard me, I heard him. I'm so happy I could cry, but then I also remember that apparently the first living being who has ever seen me probably thinks I'm trash, but… But he saw me! He really did, I wasn't dreaming, whatever that actually is.

Not only that, but apparently I'm a legend? That sounds a lot sweeter than the gig I've got going, but…

What exactly is a legend?

Pale moonlight makes its way across the floor, and I know there's a man in the moon who knows exactly what a legend is.

But he'd never tell me.