“Then the wyrding spoken by Urdr has the right of it?” the taller of the two elves asked.

His fearsome silver and black armor flickered like crystal as he passed through the shaft of sunlight that intruded on the throne room, the harsh lines of the silver crown on his brow catching the light and scattering it in whites, cold blues, and greys. His skin was pale as winter snow, his eyes were the color of mirrored steel, and his hair was a shimmering cascade of silver left unbound to flow behind him as he paced the dais.

“You know the norn-mother has never given a false prophecy in all our history,” the other replied.

His golden crown, decorated in sapphire and emerald, sat in his lap, too heavy for his weary head at the moment. His royal raiment was woven like interlaced leaves in a riot of spring colors, and the stole of his office was the brilliant blue of a mountain spring. His lips smiled at the Winter King, though it did not reach his bright green eyes. His golden wheat-colored hair was tied back in an elaborate series of coiled and pinned braids that gave way at the shoulders to allow his hair to flow down his back.

He sat in the larger of the two thrones, a great affair of wood and stone, rendered in hues of spring leaf greens, warm water blues, and gemstones like the stars of a clear summer night. The other throne, empty of the elf pacing the dais before it, was a stark thing of black iron thorns, pale white icy crystal, and white wolven furs.

“Then it is too late. The humans will slay the Nightfather’s Chosen and this unholy creature will torment our lands for another century. I cannot imagine there will be anything left of the kingdom by then,” he despaired.

“You know that isn’t what the prophecy foretold,” the Summer King replied.

He stood stock-still, deep puffs of steaming winter breath escaping into the throne room’s warm summer air. After a moment of composure, he turned back to the throne.

“You think a flock of orphan babes will escape the clutches of the White Empire, pass through the Red Stone, and arrive here just to happily traipse to our doorstep?”

He snatched his crystal blade from its scabbard, kneeling before the dais and saluting the throne in the fashion of the White Empire’s paladins.

His voice dropped into a passable imitation of the imperial accent, “Verzhung, herres kings, haff you any quests for us today? Oh, go to an abandoned forest at the edge of the kingdom and kill an immortal beast that feeds on the greed of men and elf alike? Oh, there is a prophecy that only the Chosen of the great serpent can slay the beast? A dozen parties of adventurers have fallen to the beast already? And nearly a hundred mercenaries have been lost in the Godswood? And the Winter King, lord of slaughter and greatest swordsman in the Greenbough, bearded the creature in its very den and struck it down with the Edge of Winter, a living sword of unimaginable power? Only to have the creature rise again with the next moon to terrorize your citizens once again? Oh, and each time it is slain, the creature grows stronger and ever more rapacious? Well, we will leave right away!”

“Are you finished?” the Summer King replied blithely.

“Yes,” the Winter King answer with a grim scowl.

“Then yes, that is exactly what I think,” he smiled warmly.

The larger elf threw his blade to the ground, the clatter of crystal on stone ringing through the vast circular throne room, chips of stone skittering across the floor where the sword gouged into the floor.

“We are doomed,” he intoned.

“That is not what the prophecy said,” the Summer King rose, and walked slowly to where the pale elf stood, a shattered shadow entombed in his resplendent armor.

He took the Winter King’s face into his hands and laid a gentle kiss on the pale lips.

“And you are not the Chosen of Ouroboros, my love,” he held the Winter King’s face close.

“Do you think I do not know that? I have failed my kingdom because the Nightfather did not choose me, even in our greatest hour of need,” he leaned against the warm hands that held him, unable to meet his lover’s eyes.

“No. You are the mightiest warrior in Verdantes, perhaps in all of Austrvost. And it is not your fault that Ouroboros chooses only those from beyond the skin of our world. They will come. And we will welcome them with open arms, as the humans would not. And they will go to the Godswood and free our people from this scourge, no matter what it costs,” he lifted the face of Winter and stared into the shining silver eyes.

In those radiant emerald eyes, the Winter King saw something he had not seen for years, despite the strength and fortitude of spring that forever shined within his consort’s spirit.

Hope.