A/N: Partly inspired by Robert Frost's poem Fire and Ice, and partly inspired by Wintersmith by Terry Pratchett. Also, I suppose, inspired by the strange and painful mystery that is love, and its subsequent loss.

But If It Had to Perish Twice

She was winter, and he was summer, and they circled each other in Time’s vast sky like birds. Never quite losing sight of the other; never quite seeing the other.

In her skin was the chill of cold, of death, of muted snowfall. Pure white, with the faintest shading of blue. Her eyes were pale, a clear and layered turquoise like the endless depths of arctic ice. She moved slowly, silently, as inexorable and dangerous as a glacier. Crushing and freezing all things in her path with calm and steady deliberation.

He, however, was vibrant and shining, his skin nut-gold, his eyes hazel and warm—the heavy golden rays of the sun slanting through green dewy leaves. His steps were lithe and agile and alive. Flowers sprang where his feet touched the ground; buds blossomed into color when he was near. With one finger, though, he could burn a forest and parch a sea. There was a reckless danger in his gaze that said that he could consume and burn the earth if allowed to.

These two extremes, balancing perilously, perfectly.

And as they circled each other…Each were enthralled. Who was she, the Summer wondered, who was so cold and foreign and beautiful? And Winter marveled at his grace, his speed, his warmth. These two beings were never meant to meet, trapped at either side of the year, fulfilling their duty, reigning for a brief period over the world.

But still Winter fell in love with Summer, and Summer with Winter, and they spent fall and spring—the only time where they could finally stop circling and exist side by side—together. But they could not speak with each other, for the seasons have no language. Instead she made him pictures of ice, painted them on windowpanes, and he grew her beautiful flowers and emerald green vines.

But his touch melted the ice, and her breath froze the blossoms.

And at last they resigned themselves to silence, knowing it was futile. Went back to circling each other in the year’s endless cycle, no longer glancing longingly at the other across the distance of time and space.

And, still, still—

Of course the Earth continued on, as it always had; of course it knew nothing of either love or loss.