She was born in the longest summer known in history. The time of her birth and youth was of the greatest peace, the most plenty and she embodied all that a season of summer meant. Warmth, brightness, cheer. She was carefree and hopeful; hopeful of all the things to come. Strong and brave, she found adventure within every corner. Small worlds came to her under every rock, every cranny, calling her to themselves. Under mid-night moons she ran, she danced. Warm running-waters beneath her cold feet, cool moist earth in her hands. She was the dark princess, loved by all; dark skinned, dark eyed, dark from the hair on her head to the tips of her toes. She was hope, she was life. Thus they called her Sommer.
He was Wynter, son of the cold. Pale skinned, white haired, red faced from frigid winds. He was a warrior, a young man, but old as one could be. He lived as a roamer, casting his lot to the north wind and following it’s whims. He took to the icy Tundra wilds, finding shelter as he could. He killed, he ransacked, he stole away the livelihoods of men. His mighty, meaty hand yielded sharp iron and commanded men. With it, he beat his white mare into submission. That same hand that caressed his dying mother’s cheek, held the orphan baby’s fingers in his own, also bathed in blood and relished it. He was death, the epitome of destruction.
Then one day summer moved into winter and their once parallel paths crossed. He spied her in the cool night prancing, the silver moonbeam glowing off her skin. He watched as she danced, found himself smiling as she laughed with the innocent air of a child, as if no terrible thing could touch her or come near. He gazed on as she twirled in the cool mists of autumn and he knew he could not live another day of this death, this empty life that was his own. Drawn by the power of her alien joy, he dismounted, and for the first time in his life, came out of the tree line.
She stopped. She did not cry out. She did not fall back, but froze eyes transfixed on the strange dark figure before her. He said nothing approaching slowly, but no words were necessary. She could feel his pain, his rage, all those things he carried inside him. She smiled, the moon glittering gently in her eyes filling with tears. She approached and took his hand. When their skin met, it was electric. She laughed a sweet full-hearted laugh, interweaving her fingers through his and led him into her world. A world of good, of radiant joy, where dark clouds meant a promise of fleeting terrors.
They said it was a tragedy, that theirs was a terrible love, two opposite lives merged, two kingdoms destroyed, but who’s to say what love is a good or the right kind? For them, Sommer and Wynter, they learned to live in opposite worlds and transformed. They became milder forces to contend with and meshed into Autumn and Spring. Ultimately, they lived in awe of the world, in strongholds of beauty and ferocity until they passed into legends that live eternally in every season.