So, erm, yeah. This happened. Also it is embarrassingly short. Oh well. This is neoneco, brought to you live from The Kitchen Table.

She's there when he's born. Or reborn. She isn't picky.

He's small, and fragile, and alone, scared, but so, so alone. She doesn't like that. She wants him to be happy. She doesn't know what this is, but it's not happy, and it's not angry, and not knowing is making her angry, not at her frost child, never at him.

It's not in her nature to dislike things. She knows this too, and it makes her angrier.

She finds that when he frowns, he looks like the leaf child, the one that one of her siblings helps all autumn tug down leaves. The one who scowled if she tried to play, saying she was too rough, or too cold, or too biting.

Nipping, she insists. She thinks it's a charming word, and isn't quite sure why.

She likes it when he smiles. He looks like himself when he smiles. And that was good, she didn't want to play with the leaf
child anyway was never allowed, always chased away and she would much rather have her own playmate than borrow her siblings'.

The first time he's in her hands, she knows. Before, she only suspected, but now she knows.

This was her frost child. He was for her. He was her playmate, and they were going to play, and play, and play.

She doesn't have a name. She's nameless.

She can't find it in herself to complain, however, when her playmate had such a silly name as Jack Frost.