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Chapter Text

Berk, 893

Sometimes, Hiccup likes to try and race the wind. It’s one thrill to race his friends, and another entirely to race against a force of nature – the wind does not give up, or tire, or settle for a tie. For the thrill of pure speed, there is no better opponent. But it also requires particular conditions. Fine clear days bring lazy breezes, excellent for drifting and swooping, but not great for what Hiccup seeks: the edge to the weather that makes him push Toothless fast, fast, faster, until the two of them are a streak of color against the sky.

This evening is crisp and cold, and the wind carries with it the promise of an incoming storm. It’s the coldest night of the year so far, and the rest of Berk are huddled up in their homes, under blankets and around fires. But the incoming snowstorm is like a siren song to Hiccup, and when the clouds loom on the horizon and the wind blows with a vicious cold bite, he slips outside to saddle up Toothless.

Once they’re in the sky, the wind howls with all its might, drowning out the creak of the leather harness, the click of his metal leg against the stirrups, and the flap of Toothless’s wings. The cold seeps into his bones, even through the multiple layers he’s wearing, and Hiccup gently rubs the top of Toothless’s head to reassure him that they can handle this storm.

They find a clear spot where the wind gusts less violently and where they can see the sweep of the cliff line from the sky. Hiccup’s looking for an air current that runs long and straight that they can test themselves against, but this wind seems determined to sweep and circle, stirring Hiccup’s hair and causing Toothless to make constant tiny readjustments in the changing conditions.

“Sure would be nice if the wind could calm down for a second, wouldn’t it, bud?” Hiccup asks as he pats the top of Toothless’s head. Toothless grunts in response and Hiccup starts to tell him to bank left and look elsewhere, when suddenly the wind all but disappears around them. Toothless flaps his wings in alarm to balance himself in the changed conditions, and Hiccup blinks in surprise.

Vikings are a superstitious lot, but Hiccup is perhaps the least superstitious among them. He trusts his observations and his reason above all else and consults his superstitions last. He is not the type to see spirits in the water or mistake the gleam of light off the mountain in the mornings to be a sign from the gods. But he’s also never seen the weather change just because someone wished it, and the wind surrounding their pocket of calm is still fierce and lively. A wind like that cannot simply be the product of nature alone, and Hiccup wonders briefly if this wind has a consciousness, a spirit.

It is approaching twilight, and everyone else is hidden away, and up here at the beginning of a storm, Hiccup himself is feeling a little more fierce and a little more wild. He allows himself, for a minute, to believe.

"Would you like to race?" Hiccup calls out into the howling wind. The wind howls louder in return. The wind buffets him and Toothless, sending the dragon careening slightly to the right, and Toothless grunts in irritation as he straightens himself out and extends his wings to float on the new air currents. Hiccup laughs and pats the top of his dragon's head. Toothless melts under the touch.

"I assume that's a yes, then," Hiccup yells.

In response, the wind vanishes again. Then there's a low whistle next to his ear, and the wind reforms to their left, blowing so hard that it’s near visible in the overcast sky.

Hiccup looks for a spot on the ground far below that they can use as a race marker. He spies a thin, reedy sapling growing on the cliff edge, and shouts, "First to bend the sapling wins!"

He leans his body forwards so that it's flat against Toothless’s back and winds his hands into the scales covering Toothless’s neck. And then he's gripping Toothless harder, urging him to go, go, go, and they're shooting towards the sapling at top speed, with Toothless's wings flattened to his body – a clean, sleek line to cut through the air. The wind to Hiccup's left roils and howls, and with his cheek pressed flat to Toothless’s back, he sees the second the wind becomes visible as it carries in the first snowflakes from the storm. Hiccup, in awe, stretches out his hand to touch the first snowfall of the season.

But Hiccup's moment of inattention costs him – his outstretched arm throws off their aerodynamics, and seconds before he and Toothless hit the ground, the sapling bends from the force of the wind. It’s won.

Toothless and Hiccup land in a roll, tumbling head over tail into the grass, and Hiccup laughs at the sheer delight and thrill of it all. Back flat against the earth and Toothless at his side, he stares into the sky as the first snowflakes fall around him. The wind has gentled from a swirling roar into a quiet hush that softly blows the snow in from over the sea. He reaches up and catches snowflakes in his hands and wonders if there is someone behind the snow, just as there is clearly someone behind the wind.

But the Wind is alone tonight, and the snow she carries is nothing more than a natural phenomenon. In years to come, the Wind will carry a barefooted boy on her breeze to herald the first snowfall – but it is still eight hundred and nineteen years before Jackson Overland will stand barefoot on the ice.

Chapter Text

Scotland, 952

Merida does not like the cold. She does not like the way that it creeps into the castle through cracks and crevices. She does not like the way that it seeps into her bones. She does not like that there is hardly any escaping it, even when all the fires are lit and roaring. Merida far prefers the warmth of a summer day, or the briskness of an autumn afternoon, or even a spring morning, though it makes her sneeze constantly. 

No, Merida does not like the cold. But there is still something appealing about winter. 

“Merida!” her mother snaps. “Are you daydreaming again?” A frown paints her face. “I was trying to talk to you.”

“Sorry,” Merida says, slumping down further in her chair by the window. “I got distracted. Look - it’s snowing outside.” 

And indeed, it is. Merida’s attention had wandered when she first caught sight of the thick white flakes drifting down from the sky. Already there is a small pile of them accumulating on the windowsill, perfectly white and undisturbed. 

Her mother rises gracefully and comes to stand beside Merida at the window. She folds her hands daintily and leans her face closer to the glass. “I see. It is lovely, isn’t it?” She glances at Merida and her mouth curls into a knowing smile. 

Merida has always loved snow, and frost, and the chunky icicles that hang from the edges of windows and the roof of the barn. The cold chill of winter is unbearable, but its beauty is unmatched. But the chill has always kept Merida safely locked indoors, away from the swathes of pristine snow and the frost that creates almost floral patterns on windows. 

Her mother straightens and clicks her tongue. “Your brothers will have fun tomorrow,” she says, keeping an eye on the quickly accumulating snow. “No doubt they’ll try and rope you into whatever shenanigans they have planned.”

“Ugh,” Merida groans and throws her arm across her face. “It’s going to be waist-high tomorrow. I’d much rather stay inside.”

Her mother laughs. “Of course, of course,” she says, eyes twinkling knowingly. “But I’ve no doubt they’ll drag you into it all the same.”

Elinor’s eyes drift to the window again, where the evening is steadily creeping over the castle grounds. “And I suppose you’d best get to bed. It’s getting late, and I’ve kept you here talking long enough.”

She turns and presses a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. "Good night, my dear," she says, and then she lights a candle and glides from the room. 

Merida turns her face to the window once more. It is properly dark now, the features of the ground below hard to make out from her window. All she can see is the snow that’s accumulated on her windowsill, and the frost that’s creeping in at the edges.

But the night whispers secrets.

Suddenly compelled by a desire she doesn’t understand, Merida rises, grabs her warmest cloak and thickest pair of boots, and dresses. She pulls her hood over her head, lights a candle, and creeps down the darkened corridors of the castle.

The hallways are empty. It seems everyone is tucked up in their rooms now, probably warming their hands against the fire and exchanging hushed conversations that warm the air with their breath. Merida walks the hallways alone and feels as isolated as she did the first time she stood amongst the standing stones.

She turns a corner, and the door lies before her. She pushes it open; the wind snuffs out her candle, and suddenly she is out amongst the winter night. The air is bitingly cold, and she breathes warm breath into the palms of her hands. There are no lamps still lit. All the light she can see comes from the glow of the stars above. The wind ruffles the hem of her cloak, and the twinkling snowflakes that gather in her hair and against her eyelashes make her feel like she is being bathed in starlight. She turns her face skyward and relishes the crispness of the air.

Merida is the sort of person who would not be surprised at all to hear that a winter spirit had come to ice over the trees and lay a thick blanket of snow on the ground. She is, after all, the sort of person who has already lived quite an extraordinary life. She has seen wisps and witches, spells that turned people into bears, and the ghost of an ancient king.

As the snow falls endlessly around her, Merida feels like there is magic in the night. Caught between the shine of the stars and the shine of the snow, held in place by the wild wind that whips her cloak about her ankles, she would not be surprised to find that some higher force had compelled her to this spot.

But as Merida casts her gaze over the winter landscape, the name that she thinks of is Beira. She does not think the name Jack Frost, for it is still seven hundred and sixty years before Jackson Overland’s breath will catch when he notices the ice cracking under his sister’s feet. 

Chapter Text

Corona, 1840

The cold winter wind sweeps into the Kingdom of Corona with a howl, and it brings Jack Frost with it, laughing. He lands on the tallest spire of the kingdom’s castle and clings to the tip of it with his bare feet. He crouches, and for a while, watches the people in miniature go about their day below. One hundred and twenty-eight years since he rose from the ice, and this, he decides, is his favorite part of life. Just watching it. Seeing it. Everyday people doing everyday things. He is outside them, not part of them, but there is still comfort in the normality of it all.

There is comfort too, in the cold he brings. Jack drifts back into the air and sweeps his staff in a wide arc, inducing snowfall. Then he plunges downwards and flies low over the water, letting his staff trail behind him to freeze it. People shout in shock as they notice the rapidly freezing water, and Jack laughs as he finishes. He twirls his staff in his hand, and ducks into the bustling marketplace. He dodges people out of instinct – it’s never comfortable to be walked through – and frosts things as he goes. The pavement, pots lined up in a vendor’s stall, tent poles, fountains, the tips of people’s noses.

In this manner, Jack works his way inland, leaving the waterfront and heading through the town towards the massive gleaming castle. Jack’s snuck into a few castles before, and he decides to sneak into this one as well. He likes admiring the tapestries and ornate furniture and the people in their fantastic, sweeping clothes.

He darts in through the back door, following a maid into the steaming kitchen. The rest of the kitchen staff complains about the draft following her in, and Jack laughs because he knows they mean him. He taps his staff on the nose of the head cook, causing her to jump and yelp in surprise at the sudden icy cold. Then he’s gone – rocketing down the hallway and bringing a chill to everyone he passes.

He doesn’t stay inside long – he doesn’t want to ruin the warmth and safety of the indoors with his frosty cold – instead, he darts out a door behind a brown-haired man wearing a fancy coat.

Jack finds himself in a courtyard. His snow has already started to accumulate, draping some skeletal trees and the flat lawn in a blanket of white.

The man in the fancy coat (rich blue edged in bronze) pauses for a moment to admire the pristine snow, then he stoops and begins to pack a snowball in his hands.

“Eugene!” a girl’s voice calls, and Jack watches as the guy – Eugene apparently – hurriedly straightens and tucks the snowball behind his back. Jack smells mischief, and he approves.

The girl comes around the corner and runs towards Eugene with a smile. She’s brunette, short-haired, and rosy-cheeked. Jack gets a first-hand view when the man whips his snowball out from his behind his back and pelts it directly in her face. She stops short, face painted with shock, and Jack bursts into raucous laughter. 

“Good one,” he tells Eugene, and he swipes his staff to pile up more snow on the ground. “You should totally retaliate,” he tells the girl. He knows she doesn’t hear him, but he still breaks out into a grin when a smile creeps over her face and her eyes fill with determination. The girl’s aim is good, and soon enough the two of them are engaging in an all-out snowball war. Jack laughs and twirls through the sky on the Wind, and if it snows harder here in the courtyard than it does in the rest of the kingdom, then no one questions why. 

Eventually, the two people collapse in the snow, gloved hands entwined, breath spent from running and laughing. They seem tired out, and Jack knows that he is needed here no longer. But before the Wind can pick him up and carry him away, Eugene sits up and looks around suspiciously. “Rapunzel?” he asks. “Does it feel like someone is watching us?”

Jack pauses, mere feet away from the couple. The Wind swirls around him, ready to whisk him away. He frowns and waves the Wind away. Instead, he crosses the short distance between him and the couple, bare feet on the snow, leaving no prints behind. He crouches down so that his eyes are even with Eugene’s, but the man doesn’t appear to register his presence in any way; his eyes skim right over Jack.

Jack asks anyway. “Can you hear me?”

Eugene turns and makes eye contact with the girl – Rapunzel – a frown on his face.

The girl is frowning too. “I know what you mean,” she says. Her eyes examine the top of the building around them, and around the trees and bushes. She’s looking for someone – a spy perhaps? But that’s wrong, wrong.

“I’m right in front of you!” Jack cries while Rapunzel's eyes look elsewhere. “Right here!” The temperature drops. Rapunzel shivers.

“You can feel me here, can’t you? Can’t you see me? Can’t you look at me?!” Jack rises to his feet, too full of some unnamable emotion to keep sitting. He’s so close, so close –

For a second, Rapunzel seems to make eye contact with him, and Jack’s breath catches in his throat. But then her gaze shifts and Jack’s heart drops. Her eyes slide right over Jack in the same way that her face will slide out of Jack’s memories; soon she will become just one of the millions of faceless people who never register his presence. After all, it is still one hundred and seventy-two years before the first time a human will look at Jack Frost, eyes full of wonder, and believe.