Once, Winter summoned her Weaver and said,

"Weaver, my turn comes to take the world.

I am not Summer, to warm on days good

And burn on days that he feels scorn

Nor am I spring, the Herald of Beginnings,

Life and Magic

I am not Rain, to wash the filth of the heart

To feed gentle, the seeds sown in season

And Autumn may be the only companion

Who knows what it is to carry

Death in your touch.

Weaver, but I am hurt that I'm Decay

The Ender of Things

Champion of Frost

And have only a sense of Gloom to offer

Please dress me, then, in such beauty

That the world embraces

Absence, with the same longing

Of that for a long-lost love;

That the misery lights in them

A hearth of Hope for the next;

That I am only a part of the cycle

And the wheel shall always keep turning."

The Weaver, Winter's

Spun a cape of Wishes

That kept his Queen's fire safe

To be passed on

To Spring and her Clothes Master.