AN: So, I wasn't actually planning on working on fanfiction any time soon, but once in a while there is a really, really long airplane trip and nothing else to do but write angst. The topic, however, surprised me.

I liked Rise of the Guardians, but it wasn't until I read Rufftoon's comic about North that I sat down and thought about it. In the movie, Jack's problem was becoming a legend without memories of his own, which caused a lot of relatable content for the target audience. The other guardians, however, remembered their mortality all the while, which would present a different set of challenges.

This is a story about Nicholas St-North, an impossible man who chose to become a legend without realizing that doing so would force him to watch those he cared for die. Time brings pain, and this focuses on his lowest point when he seriously questions his resolve to become a legend...and what inspired him to become the legend we know him as.

It doesn't matter how young or inexperienced you are now.

One day you'll suddenly grow up, all because you met somebody.

+Anima

O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O

The thing that caught North's eye was the color: crimson red against virgin white. It was not the first time in his long life to see blood lace the snow. In fact, he had stood his ground in many a battle, turned the tide of some with the sheer impossibility of his actions. But as the years went by, and even the greatest of his deeds began to grow as cold as the corpses at his feet, he began to stay far from the cries of bloodshed and war. The cries of a mortality that he had sacrificed for this cursed existence.

The years had gone on, and he could feel himself growing dimmer with every passing day, as his legend passed through the generations and slowly became nothing at all. But even now, this blood stood in stark contrast against even his memories. It was in the center of a town, where people walked and talked and lost his story among the daily hubbub of life. But it was there nonetheless, and it intrigued him, the way it trailed away, until he found himself in the shadows of a church.

In his travels, he had seen many grand cathedrals, with winding spires and stained glass that sparkled like the gems of the sea. Never had any enticed him to enter, so it was a strange thing that one so plain and ugly as this should succeed where others had failed. It was squat and low, tucked into the surrounding buildings in a way that implied a history as old as the town.

And for what? To be forgotten and left to rot? He wondered, briefly, if God were no different than he. If He would simply fade away if all and one stopped believing.

The thought made his stomach sour, almost enough to turn him aside. But then, there was blood on the doorstep, and a mystery left unsolved. It had been this aspect of his personality that had set him on this thrice cursed path originally. But then, he reasoned, it really was too late to do anything about that now. With an internal sigh, North pushed his way into the building without even bothering to open the doors.

The inside of the church was surprisingly well kept, despite the outward appearance. Candles burned with careful diligence, bouncing light off wood and ornaments whose meanings he had long ago forgotten. But for all its care, the hall was empty.

Or so he originally thought, because there again was the blood on the stone, out of place against the careful, perhaps sacred, order of this place. Without the churned over snow, he could see more clearly the shape of the feet that had left it, and just how small they were.

North drifted down the aisles, his heavy boots thudding loudly, if only to his ears. Something about this place set deep in his bones, but he could not quite decide whether the feeling was a positive or negative one. Perhaps both at once, if it was possible.

Or perhaps if it were impossible, since that was what he was.

High above, a stained glass window painted them all with yet another scene. The window was not intricate, but in a church such as this, it had no doubt cost a life's wages. Even now, the love with which it had been made and cared for seemed to radiate all around them as it captured them in its colorful scenes.

A shuffling noise behind him drew him rapidly back to reality, reminding him as to why he had entered in the first place. Looking back, he saw what he had missed the first time: a small child, probably no more than six years of age, huddled silently against one of the nearby seats. He could hardly tell if it was a boy or girl, beneath the matted hair, grime and rags, and for a moment he thought that the child, obviously of the streets, had come here to escape the winter's bite.

To his surprise, though, he saw that the child was simply meditating, watching the light and shadows with such wonder that for the first time in many a year, caused something to spark within his chest. And then, much to his shock, the child turned and fixed its solemn gray eyes on him.

"Are you Jesus?" The question was asked with such sincerity that North could not stop the laugh that escaped his lips. It warmed him, from the inside out in a way that he hadn't felt in so long, and suddenly he found himself taking a seat besides the child. The child did not shy away, but continued to fix him in that stern gaze.

"Why would you say that?" he asked at length, hoping not to shame the child out of any more merriment.

"I heard it once, that Jesus wears a cloak of red," the child replied simply, "And none in this village wear a cloak like yours." North looked down at the bright red that had been his signature for as long as he could recall. Indeed, most people wore colors closer to the earth, but he had gone unseen for so long that he had forgotten that he had chosen to keep the color because it stood out.

"No, I'm afraid I'm not nice enough to be Jesus," he replied. "My name is Nicholas. Nicholas St-North."

The child's face fell. "Shame then. I would've liked to see him, because I shan't have another chance." Before either could pick up on that line, the child's face was wracked suddenly with a fit of coughs that left its small body shaking like a leaf in a gale. Little hands, delicate and eerily thin, cupped the mouth until the breathing again came easier, but when they came away they were died the same crimson that had marked the child's footsteps. All the merriness that had filled North fled in an instant as he recognized the symptoms.

"The priest says that I'm gonna go to Hell, since I was never baptized," the child spoke these words with terrifying acceptance, marred only with a bit of sadness. "But I wanted to see Jesus, so I come here every day and wait." Another cough, less violent this time, but still leaving the small frame trembling. "I don't think I'll have another chance, though."

North stared at the child, unable to form words. That certainly explained how the child had seen him. He had believed hard enough that Jesus would come, that when somebody that came close enough to the expected, he had seen….even if that somebody was just as impossible.

"It's almost Jesus's birthday," the child continued, completely unaware of North's state, "I thought if I brought a gift, then perhaps He would come." From somewhere in the tattered clothes, the brittle hands revealed a small wooden toy, a wooden horse crude in make but worn smooth by love. "It's'not much, but it's all I got." Suddenly the eyes were upon him again, and he could hardly meet them.

"Will you please take this to Jesus, mister?" North stared flabbergasted at the tiny offering, and for the first time, the child seemed embarrassed. "You said you were a Saint, so you can see Jesus and give it to him for me, right?"

Once more he stood facing an impossible task, this one more important than any others previously charged. It would not do to fail now. Silently, reverently, he took the tiny toy in hand.

"Of course," he promised. The child relaxed into the seat, eyes wandering back to the stained glass. Only then did North notice that the trembling had never stopped, and that the breaths were each a struggle. Suddenly, he threw away all his reservations, and unbuckled his red coat, in turn wrapping it around the tiny figure.

"A gift for you," he declared.

"Tisn't my birthday," the child argued, although without much force.

"Nay, it's a time for remembering, and giving gifts is what will keep us from ever forgetting."

Surprised, but clearly pleased, the child snuggled into it further, soaking in the warmth although it did not stop the trembling. Minutes passed in silence, as the two of them watched the light fade from the stained glass window.

O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O

Later, the priest would arrive and find a child in his chapel, recognized as one of the many street children that would wander in from time to time. He would see the blood on the floor and on the now still white hands and know that the child would never again arise, and with compassion to his credit would give the body all the rites and care within his power and resource. He would wonder, briefly, of the origin of the magnificent red cloak that had enwrapped the still form, but after some debate would bury it along with the body, all the while feeling as though another presence looked on.

Disclaimer: Please nobody skewer me over historical and cultural inaccuracies. I kept the time and place vague for a reason.

Rufftoon's comic is here: post/56910605346/legendary-having-fun-with-a-young -north