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He was Spring—still a naïve sprig on the tree of life.
Brógán has few memories of his birth parents.
When he was young, his mother gave him to Lavarre, an old friend of her and her husband, to raise in their stead.
For decades, Lavarre told Brógán that his parents had left on a dangerous adventure and would one day return to Frostbirn with tons of stories and treasures.
Brógán believed her.
He was Summer—the warmth of the sun, volatile flames, and the melding hues of the sunset.
By his third decade, Brógán had begun to suspect that his parents would not return. Had they left him in favor of travel? Had there been a snag in the journey?
The other fey children would question, but he had no answers. Rumors spread that he had been abandoned, which he refuted wholeheartedly, though he wasn't unaffected by the words of his peers. Finally, he confronted his mentor.
Just a few years after Brógán's birth, the fomorians of Mag Tureah launched an attack on the Silver Dragon Rizleth, guardian of the Vale of Long Night, in one of many exploits to overtake the Feywilds. A small-scale war broke out, the defense led by The Prince of Frost himself. After a long battle spanning many days and nights, the fomorians were finally pushed back, but the fey had suffered terrible losses. Brógán's parents were among them.
The eladrin was shocked, of course. Then came denial, and finally, anger.
Anger at the fomorians and their slaves, for launching the attack in the first place.
Anger at The Prince of Frost, for failing to keep his parents safe (though in his heart of hearts, he knew that only so much could be done.)
And anger at Lavarre, for lying to him all these years, instilling false hope into the mind of a child for his parents’ eventual return.
The Calico Flitch was shut down for repairs for a week.
He was Autumn—decaying leaves, ripened crops, a fresh apple, a peaceful respite.
Brógán's anger eventually gave way to despair, and he entered what felt an eternal state of winter, cold and distant and lifeless. Any “friends” he once had were no more, left to prance among those with a kinder presence. It was just as well, he supposed; he need not drag the other fey eladrin down into this pit of despair alongside him.
Yet as he sat whittling away all on his own, a boy materialized, causing Brógán to drop his knife in shock. He was warmer in hue, of reds and oranges, and his countenance serene. This boy—Decleo, Brógán would soon come to learn—sat beside him. Asked him questions, tried to converse, even made a few jokes.
At first, Brógán refused to answer; better to nip any relations in the bud, than to have their spirits bitten by bitterness. But Decleo persisted. And many moons later, for the first time in fifteen years, Brógán smiled.
Decleo clapped for joy, nearly entering a springlike state, so bright were his eyes.
Ahh, those eyes, an amber so vivid they appeared to seek to swallow their beholder into their warm embrace.
In spite of their differences, or perhaps because of them, Brógán and Decleo grew to be the closest of friends. When Decleo had a new tale or tune, Brógán was the first to hear it, and when Brógán struggled to sell his wares, it was Decleo's advice he sought to learn to persuade customers.
Of course, when Decleo finally set out to follow his dream of becoming a renowned bard, Brógán supported him entirely. But as the years passed, he began to see less and less of the other eladrin, who now only returned for local festivities and an occasional visit to family.
And though Brógán told himself that this was a good thing—that it meant his cherished was freely following his heart, as all fey eladrin aspire to—a part of him, deep within, felt emptier than ever before.
All was silent as soft flakes fell upon the mountain peaks, cloaking the isolated Vale of Long Night in eternal snow that pricked and tingled Brógán's pale skin.
He was Winter.