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The Chieftain of Ice assaults Nohr with the most brutal of winters, one year, and biting frost gnaws at the flesh of all those who dare venture outside.
Market operations cease, in those most frigid days, even the oceans beginning to slush where they meet land. No trading vessels can arrive when the North wind takes the seas for its domain, howls holes in the sails of each boat. Rations run low, lethally low, even in the manors of the best-stocked nobles, and thieves who make no place their home break in to find there is nothing more to steal-- save heat from a rolling hearth. Common citizens show up to the castle doors with blackened fingers, and King Xander rushes them into the foyers, the ballrooms, where almost certainly Princess Elise awaits with a heal stave at hand, and Lady Camilla with a fire-pit stoked by tome magic.
And for his part, Prince Leo lays siege to the Ice Tribe that spring, bearing in his arms a spellbook that casts flowers and branches out across the land. Not even an onslaught of snow can bring his journey to a halt, nor a blizzard that could have killed a thousand lesser men-- the prince has spent all winter buried in the lore of Krakenberg's library, and knows how to combat this cold better than any. There are spells that will keep a piece of armor warm for hours on end, and Leo wears four turtlenecks beneath that, besides.
Daffodils bloom wheresoever he points his hand; snow gives way to dainty clusters of snowdrops. The arching, gnarled branches of dogwood trees shed their icicles for flowers, and too do brave farmers venture out upon the thawed earth, their fields at long last liberated from that oppressive reign.. Winter melts under the hooves of his steed as he travels north through Nohr, and it is a credit to Chief Kilma that the frost has not given in already.
Or so they say in the village, Flora thinks, and watches as newly-grown green begins to creep over the southernmost hill. There is something about that sight that captures her by the heart, something in that nature that takes hold of her and will not let go.
"It's beautiful," she cannot help but whisper. It has been many, many years since the grasses last grew.
"Dad made a great winter this year, didn't he?" her boisterous sister grins, passing by with their tea. Then-- "Oops!"
"Felicia!" Flora snaps from her reverie and barely, just barely, manages to prevent her from tripping. A little tea has sloshed out of the teapot, but nothing is broken, nothing has been scalded, and nobody is hurt. She exhales with relief, "I should have paid more attention, Felicia, I'm sorry."
"Huh?" Felicia, for her part, seems perplexed. "But shouldn't I be the one to say...?"
"No... I should be sorry, Felicia," Flora shakes her head, wry. "Father asked me to keep an eye on you while you were practicing. You'll have to have the tea ritual memorized by next winter, after all... when you'll be inheriting the chieftainship."
Felicia bites her lip, "And... you're sure that you're still okay with it?"
"I've never been much of a leader... and you've always been more popular among our people," Flora shakes her head, tries not to sound bitter. She glances out the window, "Besides... father said he thought it would be best. May it be far from me to argue with the Chieftain of Winter."
"Oh! That reminds me," Felicia visibly brightens, "Dad taught me how to cast a real blizzard the other day! The kind with hail in it, and everything. Do you want to see?"
"Well... I'm not sure it would be prudent to cast one now," Flora says diplomatically. "Especially without father's approval."
"It's okay... dad said we're going to try and make it winter all year, this time," Felicia beams.
"This is certainly the first I've heard of it," answers Flora, pursing her lips. "It's hardly responsible to allow winter to run into the other seasons... spring is exceptionally late, as it stands currently."
"He said it was something to do with tradition... that inheriting a cold year makes for a strong Chieftain," Felicia shakes her head. "I guess he must want me to be really strong!"
"Still... I'm not sure how much of a difference it would make for us, here in the north," Flora sighs. "These past many, many years have been colder than ever. We haven't seen spring here in the village since..."
"Since?" Felicia turns her head, perplexed. Her memory has always been worse, between the two of them-- and it is no wonder she has forgotten spring.
Flora remembers that it is forbidden to speak of it, there in the castle, and shakes the thought from her mind. "Well, that's another matter, I'm afraid. Here... let's go for another walk with the tea-tray. This set is easily replaceable, if it breaks... but the ceremonial tea set of our ancestors is not."
"Right. I've got to learn to be a proper servant of the public. And I'll have to learn how to serve one cup of tea before I can serve over a hundred at the ceremony!" Felicia's gaze is determined as she lifts the tea tray from the table once more... perhaps too vigorously.
The tea set goes flying through the air, and all Flora can manage to catch before it falls is the teapot... but not its contents. Felicia tries to catch herself with her ice powers, and in the next moment the two of them are slipping and sliding over the iced floor. They're both a little bruised, Flora assesses, but nothing seems to be bleeding. The tea set, suffice to say, will not be used again-- though at least she has salvaged a piece, this time.
"Felicia, are you hurt?" Flora sits up, sets the teapot on the floor.
"I'm okay," Felicia sighs, and breathily, begins to laugh. "I just thought... wow am I glad that wasn't the ceremonial tea set!"
"Well, when you say it like that..." Flora answers with an indulgent chuckle before pushing herself to stand.
She calls for someone to begin heating a bath so they can wash the tea from their skin, and lets Felicia use the bathroom first. Flora takes upon herself the duty to set the ceremony-room to rights, tidily sweeping away the shards of ice and shattered porcelain. The job, after all, is of utmost urgency-- perhaps it is merely her imagination, but blossoms upon that southernmost hill seem to multiply each time she blinks.
It would hardly be fit to receive the Prince of Nohr in a ceremony chamber less than immaculate.
Prince Leo rides to the front gates of a kingdom sheathed in ice-- his mare Aschwyn refuses to step further.
The howling winds echo, in that frozen village-- perhaps, he thinks, that is why it seems so much larger than it truly is. He leaves spring in his wake, a thousand acres of grasses unearthed behind him, but the village itself is as frigid as ever. Roses and lilies bloom at his heels when he unsaddles himself, but even yet he makes no move to cast upon the village's territory; he recalls diplomacy lessons of his childhood tutors, his father's own track record in war. He likes to think himself wiser than they, or at least more polite.
"I wish to offer parley," Leo shouts, and hopes the wind shall carry those words to the ears of those who must hear it.
"They won't be able to hear you in this wind, milord," Niles muffles, his face buried beneath several scarves. Warm though his adventurer's cape may be, that still has not saved him from requiring several layers, each one charmed for warmth. (He still does not regret wearing the v-neck.)
"Fear not!" Odin cries, the most audible of the three of them. "Lord Leo, allow me to present my newest master-spell: Odin's Altitudinous Amplification!"
"It sounds like that's not the only thing you invented... I didn't even know 'altitudinous' was a word," Niles snickers, elbowing him in the side.
"There weren't any existing words that sounded cool enough, okay?" Odin huffs, defensive.
"Whatever it's called, I'll take it as long as it works," Leo tisks; there is no time for further debate. He clears his throat, waits for Odin to cast, and speaks more loudly: "I wish to offer parley."
The winds quiet from a howl into a whisper; the gates open with a whoosh that seems to echo into the vastness of empty land. Half an acre behind where Leo stands has been turned to ice-- and he is far from stupid. He knows what hostility looks like when he sees it.
Diplomatically, he leaves it there-- he can always bring spring back to that land on his way out, he thinks. He nods at Odin and Niles, but when all three move to step inside, a voice shouts from above: "Only the Prince may enter for parley! Chief's orders."
"The throb of my prophetic blood belies the treachery of this proffering," Odin frowns, glancing at the open gates. They creak, threatening to shut at any second.
"Understood," replies Leo, and lays a hand on each of his retainers, chants protectively . "Vivahlos, vivahlos tahkay fridi, vivahlos, vivahlos..."
"He meant you, milord," Niles replies, scowling. "You can't expect us to let you go in there alone... besides, Lord Xander'll have both of our heads if something happens."
Odin shudders, not entirely from the cold. Attempting to appeal to Leo's more rational senses, "I'd be more scared of Lady Camilla."
"If you don't hear from me within two hours, I've probably died," Leo answers pragmatically. "And you are free to leave without guilt. Otherwise, I expect both of you to await my command right here, until then. Do you understand me?"
They both visibly deflate, but acquiesce, and when Prince Leo steps beyond the borders into Ice Tribe territory, Niles begins to devise the best way to get past the shutting gate. Odin is already thinking on how best to perform a heroic rescue without harming any civilians.
The winter within the village is colder, frostier than the one that lay outside it-- but, too, is it less tumultuous, and Leo is surprised to see that his escort to the chieftain's halls is but a single woman.
Two thoughts come to him immediately. On one hand, they could be underestimating his power, unlikely though it may be in these circumstances. He has no illusions that they suspect him to be any other than the man who brings spring to wage war on winter, any other than the one-man army who fights the silent battle between the seasons. Unlikely, thinks Leo, but possible. The strategist in him holds that thought, just in case.
The second thought is that the tribe, in some way, considers her his equal. He becomes more convinced of it the longer she leads him through the snowy banks and frozen lakes, silent. The wind parts for her like it does no other; the snow where she steps comes away unmarked and pure-white. He recognizes it, has seen it before-- for hadn't the earth given way to his own touch, hadn't his own footsteps left unmarred the grass and flowers beneath them?
At last, he opens his mouth to speak, "The Kingdom of Winter honors me by sending one of its daughters to escort me to parley."
She stiffens, surprised. Leo is satisfied enough, for now, that he guesses right.
Her lips purse, then form the words: "As does the Kingdom of Nohr honor us by sending one of its sons as envoy. We have been expecting you, Prince Leo... or, I suppose, it may be more accurate to call you General Leo."
"I see my reputation precedes me," he remarks dryly. "Though I'm afraid I can't say the same in turn. I have, at least, heard enough to know that the Chieftain has two daughters... am I speaking to Lady Felicia or Lady Flora?"
"... Flora," she answers, hesitating. "Just Flora. It is... good to meet you, though I wish it could have been under better circumstances."
"Good to meet me... that's certainly an interesting way of putting it," Leo gives pause. Turns his head curiously, "If you'll forgive my asking..."
"Some among us wish we could have offered a... warmer welcome," Flora admits, her voice hushed. "It has been a terribly, terribly long time since we've seen spring and I-- I mean, my people-- some of us have missed the new earth, the grass and flowers."
Leo processes that thought. "I did think... I wouldn't expect 'Flora' as a Princess of Winter's name."
She softens, and checks quickly to see that none are there to hear. Leans in, whispers like a secret: "My mother, before she died... she loved the spring."
Leo's ears redden, and it is not entirely from the cold. Quietly, he inquires, "And you?"
Flora sighs, and snowflakes form on her cheeks instead of tears. "I miss those days."
The wind carries all evidence of those words away.
"I can't offer that back to you," says Leo, and for all the strength of his magic, he speaks the truth. No magic exists strong enough to bring back the dead.
Flora swallows, "I know. But the memories of spring... they are enough."
"If a memory is all it takes," Leo replies, and remembers briefly his own childhood winters. "If it's a memory, I could manage that."
He mutters under his breath for a moment, summons forth from his fingertips a cluster of the snowdrops native to this locale. They seem to grow forth from his hand, with his veins for roots, but Flora sees they are indeed separate when he offers them to her.
"Lord Leo," she gasps, stunned.
"If it makes you feel better, consider them a delegations gift," he answers. Deadpan, "My apologies for dropping in without warning."
It brings a smile to her lips, pale from the cold. "Thank you."
They walk the remainder of the way to the Ice Chief's halls silently, but there are no more words needed. Winter, in that moment, loses its heart to spring, and Flora conceals the tiny buds within her skirt, hidden from her father's disapproving eye.
"All I ask of you is to allow nature to continue on its regular course," Leo entreats, in council before the Chieftain of Winter. "The country of Nohr has been at below-freezing temperatures since last September, when the first frost killed the crops of our fall harvest. Now, it is almost May, and snowfall still ravages our northern lands. Our neighbors and allies to the East are little better off, and far worse acclimatized to the cold. Hundreds have died from cold... illness... starvation. We are willing to negotiate to bring an end to this most deadly of winters."
"Nohr has survived winters far worse in the past," Chief Kilma lifts his chin, however slight. "And you will survive winters far worse in the future."
"In the past, we held an agreement with the Kingdom of Winter," Leo's brow furrows. "A year in advance notice for blizzards exceeding a month, so we could inform the people to begin gathering supplies. And, so rations would not run short, an early Spring. That is what has kept our death tolls so low, thus far. This year, Nohr has tolerated four months of a continuous blizzard. My youngest sister ran a clinic in our home... a hundred and thirty four people died under her watch, Lord Kilma. Many more lay dead, undocumented still."
"No," breathes Felicia, her eyes going wide.
Flora pities her-- for it is now, and only now, that she realizes what Flora's known for nearly a decade. Perhaps the thought that has, indeed, held her back from being Chieftain of Winter herself. Death is inevitable, when the weather grows harsh, and it is not only plantlife that must regrow itself. She prays her sister stays silent, and whispers, Shh."
"Father!" Felicia bursts out, and her sister cringes. "That isn't true, right? Winter doesn't... winter doesn't really kill people, does it?"
"You need not concern yourself, Felicia," Kilma sighs, and shakes his head. Icily, he addresses the prince: "If over a hundred people died under your sister's watch, perhaps Nohr should find a more competent healer. It is not my tribe's concern if Nohr is unable to protect itself from a little chill."
"This past winter was hardly a little chill," he disagrees. With a frown, "You've cast a harsh winter over the world... one that is unprovoked. If it is Nohr you take issue with, then declare so now! Other countries outside of Nohr, their people-- they suffer, too."
"And yet it is Nohr who comes to our doorstep, Nohr who seeks to intrude upon our domain!" Kilma stands, eyes narrowed. He takes grip of his scepter beside him. "Merely listen to this delegate speak, members of the council! The rule of King Xander seeks to control us within our own homes, just as the rule of his father King Garon once did! Even now, he speaks of an agreement that was made at bladepoint. You recall the extent of Garon's control... demanding our obedience by extorting trade, kidnapping our children. Forcing our cooperation by... by murdering our queen!"
A clamor rises from the many officials of the Winter Court.
"The previous king did a great many regrettable things," steel edges its way into Leo's voice, into his breath. He does not have the heart to call that creature father. "My brother, King Xander, has done all he can to right these wrongs, but there are some things that cannot be given back. The citizens of Nohr have paid for the grievance in blood, already; if it's revenge you seek, you've more than had it. Call off this winter before more people die."
"Fellow tribesmen, we will call off winter on our own timeline-- as we always had, before King Garon took the throne," Kilma commands. "Seize him!"
Several tribesmen leap forth at once, prepared to attack, but Flora catches the eye of those who miss the spring as much as she does, those who hesitate. With all the deftness afforded her as a servant of her people, she sweeps in to interfere. One or two of them hesitate, uneager to strike their chieftain's daughter even if she is no longer heiress. The rest, Leo readily blocks with an offshooting branch that springs up from in front of his feet.
Flora grabs his arm, leads him away from the hall through passages few know, unofficial escape routes found while cleaning. She sighs, "I am sorry."
"For what?" Leo asks, and dodges as a blast narrowly misses his head. He turns and casts; an enormous turnip root floods the passageway.
"For father, and his..." she searches for a word. "His misunderstanding."
"A son or daughter isn't at fault for their father's actions," Leo frowned, even as they ran. Grimly, "I think I know that better than most."
Flora at last comes out the other end, "Of course... I am sorry to have brought it up."
"There's no need for apology," Leo replies, and accepts her help out. "I should express my regret... in helping me escape, I'm sure you must have upset him significantly."
"I don't think I can go back home... not for a while, yet," Flora admits.
Leo gives pause, for once, in the midst of all this rush. "Where will you go, then?"
The consequences of her actions seem to realize themselves in droves. She hesitates, "I... I'm not sure."
He purses his lips, "I see. Then... if I may be so forward as to ask. Would you like to see the rest of spring?"
Flora's eyes widen. "There is more?"
"There is more than any one person can learn of in a lifetime, when the earth comes alive again," he answers, and smiles.
Her heart skips a beat at such open joy. She wants it, wants to learn all she can of the spring and of the man who heralds it so beautifully. Tears-- real, liquid tears-- begin to bead in her eyes.
"Yes," she replies, and Leo presses his hand to the wall beside the entrance to the passage, seals it shut with a thick netting of sturdy briar.
"I hope Odin and Niles are still where I left them. It would be an unpleasant home if they wandered off," Leo muses, and lifts his hand from the wall. Holds it out to Flora.
"Your... horses?" she guesses, and takes his hand.
Leo muffles a snort. "My retainers. I left them at the front gate... it hasn't been two hours yet, so they shouldn't be so far off."
Flora laughs, and follows where he leads next. Where he goes next she does not know, only that it is South, and somewhere new to her. But even here, just outside of winter's domain, bluebells and foxgloves touch upon his ankles; the sweetest-scented breeze caresses each of their flushing cheeks. She has missed this, the crisp air of the spring and the wetness of dewy earth, the closest thing to temperate the Ice Tribe ever became, all those years ago.
O, what folly it had been to think Prince Leo had come to wage war! She is certain of it, then: he came to bring them peace.
Epilogue: November
Her people will, in future days, tell tale of the wicked Prince of Spring who came to steal away the Lady of Winter, whose gentle fingers once twisted the arctic wind between them, but had been bound instead to him by a ring. They will speak of legends long ago passed, about the gods and goddesses, and very few of them, indeed, will believe that she makes for a willing bride.
"They're foolish if they say that," Flora smiles, and gently brushes golden hair from Leo's cheek. "You need not worry of it... besides. Usually, the legend goes that the God of Death is the one who kidnaps the Goddess of Renewal... does it not?"
"We call them Pluto and Prosperine," Leo replies, and slides a ring of engagement onto her hand. "And that is the way the story typically goes, though I expect you would have more niche expertise in the legend than I. It's said that Death and Renewal, after all, bear Winter as one of their children... Winter, who is the head of your family's lineage."
"It is as you say," Flora's eyes crinkle at the corners, and she flexes her fingers. A gentle breeze stirs. "But some tellers of the story insist evermore that Prosperine left willingly... that she preferred to choose him over the control of her mother, that she fell in love with him somewhere deep beneath the earth."
"And what story will you tell?" he queries and stands. In Flora's heart, she knows that he speaks no longer of Prosperine's tale, but of their own.
"I will say that... once upon a time, there was a King of Winter, who lived with his wife and two daughters. Once upon a time... he loved all three dearly," Flora began, hesitant. "But his heart grew cold after his Queen died, and he became bitter, too. He cast upon the entire world a winter that was as cold and bitter as he had grown. And while the younger of the sisters held boundless optimism even in these difficult times, the elder sister despaired, and yearned for the spring... and the gods heard that plea, and sent him to her."
"Is that how you'd describe it?" Leo's voice bears a faint amusement.
"I've never been much of a grand storyteller," Flora admits. "What story will you tell?"
"The same story as yours," answers Leo, squeezing her hand. "And with the same breath. I don't intend to tell the tale without you-- who else would ensure my accuracy?"
Flora lets herself laugh, the rarest of all sounds to spill from her lips. The wind rustles the leaves outside, partaking in her mirth.
"I doubt I shall be of much use... you have a certain affinity for fact, milord," she replies. Pauses, and corrects herself, soft: "My love."
Leo's eyes grow warm in spite of the chill. He says, "There are places where my account... would need confirmation."
"Let me know which places those are," Flora squeezes his hand back. "I will endeavor to confirm them as best as I can."
"Then tell me, Flora," he smiles slightly. "Do we live happily ever after at the end?"
She does not know, then, that her sister will be crowned this winter, showing all her devotion to the public by serving each and every member of the tribe a cup of tea. She does not know that, though Felicia will drop the ancient ceremonial tea set, none of the pieces will break-- Flora will be allowed to attend, and she shall catch them with a subtle icy breeze. Felicia's rule will be gentler than their father's, milder, and King Xander with his own noble rule shall too aid in ushering in an age of beauty and light. She knows not if she and Leo will be allowed to wed in peace.
When she accepts the ring, Flora cannot know of the child she will bear many years from now, named for the forest of evergreens that lie between Nohr and the Ice Tribe. It will be years further before she tells the tale that her son will pass down to his children, and they to their own until the story becomes but legend. She has long to go before she fathoms that story, and tells of the brave and noble Prince who travels the land and combats winter's advance, that year; she does not know of how Leo will interject that the Princess of Winter truly chased away the frosts with her sovereignty, nor that young Forrest will ask her to teach him, as well: "Am I not of Winter's bloodline, too?"
Flora glances at the ring upon her finger, and though she does not yet know what will come to pass, she answers with a world of certainty.
She smiles back. "Yes, Leo... we shall."