Chapter Text
There is a legend, a love story as old as time, told around campfires of civilizations long forgotten. It’s the legend of the Son of Winter, and the King of Spring.
The snow was thick and cold, but no colder than the man treading on it. And what a strange man he was, dressing lightly despite the harsh weather, with only a flimsy white tunic, blue pants and a tattered scarf on his small frame. His naked feet didn’t leave even the barest hint of footprint, even though any human of his height would be knee deep in the freezing snow.
“That’s because he isn’t human…” the elders explained, stroking their long beard, as white as the strange man’s complexion - “…He is a Snowfallen.” One of the many children of Winter, who left the comfort of their snow covered mountains to explore the land down bellow when lakes froze over and birchnut trees were leafless.
It was a different era then, when creatures and gods walked the earth and mankind was naive and young. In summer, a beast - part dragon, part fly - roamed the realm. It was larger than life, its scales the size of a grown man’s palms and its claws as big as said man’s torso. It left the ground scorched and forests burnt everywhere it went. In Autumn, you might come across a kind Beaver man within the vast pinewood in the North. He would bring you enough timber to keep the fireplace burning all winter if you praised his fur and helped him find his beloved… and in Spring…
“What happens in Spring?”
“Be patient, we’ll get there.”
The strange man was anxious, the sun was setting, and even he was wary of the beings lurking in the night. That was one of the few things he shared with mortal - his fear of darkness. Men never ventured outside of their home when daylight died, and neither did the Snowfallens. Often, children whispered to each other about a woman in black. ‘Do not go out at night, always bring a torch’ they said, voice low so that she couldn’t hear them ‘Else the Grue comes and takes you away.’
His right hand snaked into his pants’ pocket, searching for a twinkling star within it. The star was six-winged, pulsing and glowing with energy. He pinned it to his tunic - right where his heart was, and let out a breath of relief, feeling slightly safer. He shouldn’t have been afraid, the strange man ridiculed himself, the star would be bright enough to light his path when night eventually fall and ward off the Grue and her nasty nocturnal underlings.
The star had always been with him for as long as he could remember. “A gift from a star-crossed lover from another life” his siblings used to jest, and he would yell “shut up” at them. However, every now and then, on the odd days that loneliness caught up to him, he toyed with the idea. Wouldn’t that be nice? To be so loved that the gods put a star in your possession?
Just then, he saw what he was searching for. A little creature with white, fluffy fur and tiny horns was bouncing toward him.
“Chester! Don’t ever do that to me again! Where have you been?” The man hissed.
The creature answered by lolling out its tongue, revealing blood red petals. Any child could tell you they came from flowers, obviously, but he didn’t know that. The strange man picked the petals up, studying them with eyes the shade of the sky on a clear December morning. Snowfallens rarely, if not never, saw flower in their long existence. The world they lived in was a frozen wasteland of blue, white and gray.
“Where did you find these?” He asked, curiosity overtaking his previous uneasiness. Moment ago, all he could think about was finding Chester and retreating home fast, now he was ready to go and see where these peculiar things came from. He had always been odd like that - even by his people’s standard. He often sneaked into villages and brought back trinkets and trash, worthless to both the Snowfallens and humankind, but priceless to him. The strange man liked to tinker, to see how and what made things work. His siblings couldn’t stand that. It was unbecoming of a Snowfallen, they said. He was too weird, they said.
They blamed him for his sister’s queerness, for her obsession with fire.
Chester turned around and bounced the direction it came from. The strange man followed, quickly and with ease.
They walked up a particular large mound, from where the strange man looked down and saw something even stranger. Flowers, red and white and yellow and purple and colors he couldn’t name, were growing out of a patch of snow in the frozen meadow. Never in his life, in all 250 winters he had wandered, had he witnessed such thing. He scrambled over. It was Chester’s turn to run behind, barking excitedly at its master; its stumpy legs couldn’t quite catch up. But the strange man didn’t slow down. By the time he was kneeling before the flowerbed, his face was blushing blue from the exertion and Chester was only half way down the slope.
He laughed, plucking a heartsease, tearing off its petals to view pistil and anthers. His head quickly memorized their shapes. He did the same to the grape hyacinths, the bloodroots, the daffodils, the tulips… until his lap was covered in colorful petals and stalks. Were he in a bit more rational state of mind, the strange man would think to save a few for later studies. Alas, he kept tearing into them like an oversized child until there was nothing left but a single rose stem. He reached out for it.
Blood red petals
The strange man sobered up at that moment and, suddenly, he was hesitant. It made no sense - he had no qualm about destroying the other flowers, but this one left rocks in his belly. He felt a tingling feeling - like he was being watched. He noticed how the sun was much lower on the horizon now, the sky purple and orange like the blooms he just plucked.
The star on his chest was pulsing harder, glowing brighter.
He should go back.
A hand, or perhaps it was not a hand - it was dark brown, twisting and rough like the roots of an ancient pine tree, shot out of the snow and wrapped tightly around his thin wrist. He yelped, tugging his hand in vain, eyes wide in terror. A creature rose out of the whiteness. He saw first its antlers, then its hooked nose, then lots and lots of green, and finally its eyes - beneath the leaves that stood in place for its brows.
And what lovely eyes they were, like two pools of honey, but so so much colder.
“He is the king of Spring, ruler of the Verdant,” the elders continued, “but don’t let his name fool you, the king can be very cruel, and the Son of Winter has woken him up before his time. The king only rises out of his bed of earthly soil when snow has melted away and the sky starts to drizzle.”
The king wasn’t pleased. He stared down at the fool whom he still had in a tight grip. He easily dwarfed the Son of Winter even without his crown of antlers and leaves.“Say pal,” he rumbled, “that wasn’t very nice of you. What do you have to say for your action?”
The silly creature struggled harder; he saw fear in its eyes, heard its rabbit heart. It even looked like one too, with its thick curly hair like snowshoe hare. A Snowfallen - the King quickly put a name to it. He hadn’t seen one in millennia.
The King of Spring wasn’t unfamiliar with a winter dweller for he hadn’t always hibernated. He used to travel, either on feet or by mounts, to the deepest of caves and the the tallest of mountains. He used to have many friends, too: a silent verdant artist, a Snowfallen warrior strong enough to break rocks with his bare hands…
A beautiful lady draped in dresses as dark as a moonless night.
But one day he stopped. He started digging his own grave and laid in it at the end of every Spring, only crawled out when the frost was over
The King laid his eyes on the Snowfallen’s heaving chest, on its pulsing star, and he faltered.
He used to have a lover, too. Although it had been so long ago that all he could remember was pieces and pieces of their appearances: their charcoal hair, their twinkling eyes, their infectious laugh…
He used to call them his shooting star, because they came and went in a flash of an eye. Such was the price of loving a mortal.
The Son of Winter finally wrenched his hand free and ran before the King could recover.
Even when he was in a hurry, there wasn’t a footprint left in his wake.
