Didn't rewrite this one, just a few tweaks made.

Disclaimer: Still own nothing recognizable.

There was something about him, North thought. Something familiar. At first, he had dismissed the thought as being spawned from passing sightings of the boy over the centuries, but there was something else that twinged his memory, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It bothered him more than he liked, honestly. Nicholas St. North was well known for his good memory; after all, he was expected to remember who was naughty and who was nice year after year, so this lapse in recollection irked him immeasurably.

North watched the lanky winter spirit as he walked carelessly over his furniture, twirling his staff in his hand as he spoke idly with Bunny, who looked rather grouchy, which made North vaguely interested in what was being said, but he repressed the thought, deciding instead to focus on the problem at hand. Jack Frost was strangely familiar, though North was certain he'd never been this close to him before the whole Pitch disaster, let alone spoken to him; and yet there was an insistent nagging in the back of his mind, ordering him to remember remember remember, you must REMEMBER! It's IMPORTANT!

Annoyed now, North, on a whim, moved over to his desk, absently rifling through the stacks of letters by the end. These were not the recent letters of the year: those were sent to the Yetis first, who sorted them by age, gender, and country before transferring them to North himself; no, these letters were those that held special importance to North for varying reasons. One he kept because it was written by his oldest ever believer a few years ago, another because it was written by his first ever believer, and yet another merely because the child had only wanted selfless things, not expensive toys and gadgets. For some reason he found himself pulling out an old letter, several centuries old yet well preserved, and pulling out the paper, glancing over the words and tracing the tear stains with his finger.

It snapped very suddenly, and North whipped his head around to stare at Jack with wide eyes, mouth falling open. Was it possible …? Jack had been made a winter spirit, what, three hundred years ago, give or take? Roughly the same time as the Overland boy. Coincidence, perhaps. But all the same …

"Jack," he called, halting the mostly-good-natured argument between the frosty boy and his long-eared companion, waving him over.

"What's up, North?" the boy questioned, looking only marginally wary as he easily collapsed onto the chair across from North, spreading out in such a way that, by all rights, should have been severely uncomfortable, but he didn't so much as bat an eye.

North pondered for a split second what the best way to address the issue was, but he had never been extremely well versed in the art of subtlety, so he simply decided to barrel straight ahead; besides, Jack seemed to respond better when they didn't bother to beat around the bush, though that could merely be because he didn't want to waste more time than strictly necessary. "Jack, did you have sister before you became winter spirit?" North asked outright, waving the letter in his hand and drawing the boy's attention to it. Jack nodded suspiciously, looking annoyed, which North could kind of understand; he was probably wondering if North had known his past the whole time and had been keeping it from him on purpose in a cruel attempt to make them assist them in fighting Pitch.

"And did you, maybe …. Drown?" North winced even as he said it, shuddering at the very thought. It had been awful enough when he hadn't known the boy mentioned in the letter, but now that he was standing in front of Jack, speaking to him, having fought alongside him, befriended him, even, maybe even become close with him in time, gain his trust … it was infinitely worse.

Jack tensed and looked guarded as he swung himself around with impressive, sprawling grace to face him with a stony gaze. "Yes," he said hesitantly. "How did you ….?"

In answer, North simply handed over the letter, watching as Jack skimmed it, sinking lower and lower into his seat as he neared the end. Finally, when he finished, the letter slipped from his hands to flutter to his lap, and North slowly moved forwards to place a hand on his shoulder.

"She blamed herself," Jack said faintly, staring blankly at the fall opposite. "She wasn't at fault, but … I left, and she blamed herself."

"You did good, brave thing, Jack," North said gently. "You saved your sister from terrible fate, at cost of your own life. It is only expected that she was sad for a while afterwards; she loved you very much. If it helps," he added when he didn't seem to be getting through, "she wrote again two years after. She seemed very happy: she had a new little brother, and said she was going to be as good of a big sister as you were a big brother to her. Emma lived a happy life, Jack, because of what you did. She did not always blame herself, or dwell in her grief."

Jack smiled faintly at him in gratitude. "Thanks," he whispered. "Can I – Can I keep this, North? Please? It's the only thing I have of …," he trailed off, looking sadly at the letter.

"Of course," North acquiesced immediately. "'Tis yours to keep."

And long after the Workshop had been vacated of all Guardians except himself, North remained by his desk, deep in thought. He had told Jack no lies, nor had he said anything he had not believed in fully himself, but it still seemed hollow to his own ears. Jack had lost his family, and even worse, he hadn't remembered them when they were still alive. It was a shame Emma had never known the fate of her beloved brother, but North supposed it may have been for the best, as she had been able to move on eventually, aided with the arrival of a younger brother.

Perhaps North should think about digging up some more letters from Emma Overland … he knew he kept them somewhere … hmm … maybe Phil knew ….