George & Winter

George was freezing. He huddled under the scant shelter of a lean-to, his arms wrapped uselessly around him, shivering away, and he was completely miserable. He watched the snow drift to the ground, relentless in its pursuit of burying the city. It was doing well. Fourteen centimetres had fallen in the last hour and a half, and the usual dirt and grime was now wiped clean by a white that was blinding. 

Half an hour earlier, a man rushed past him and shouted something about 'getting indoors' and 'staying warm'. George had simply huffed at him. The guy had no idea what wonder can come from days like this. You just had to be patient and wait for it.

George was an optimist. Albeit, a miserable one at the moment. But though his body was crying out for warmth and a hot chocolate, his heart was loving every moment of this. When else do you get to witness the slate wiped clean, even if it did only last for the length of the storm? Nature had blasted its way into the city to bury the rush hour traffic, to close the doors on commercialism and capitalism, and to hush the noise. For it was quiet. So very quiet.

There's a stillness that falls with snow. The winds may whip the snowflakes around in flurries, but the quiet will always bring a stillness with it. Like the gap between two heartbeats. It's a pause. And George was here for the pause, for he knew that it's in times like this, that magic happens.

He'd been watching his breath puff out before him, watching the snow drift closer and closer to his feet, watching the wind whip flurries around and over cars and up against buildings. It had become almost hypnotic to him, and as he relaxed, dropped his shoulders, a warmth flooded through him. 

That's when the wind stopped. The snow didn't stop, but it did fall straight. No more flurries or gusts. The quiet surrounded him, and he knew she was coming.

She glided over the snow toward him so she didn't leave a single foot print. Her pure white cloak billowed behind her, as if touched by a wind that George couldn't feel. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her long white hair plaited in to a single braid that whipped about behind her. She had no age. She looked as young as a child but with a wisdom that showed her centuries.

"Hello," she whispered. She was still twenty feet from him, but he heard her clearly. "You've been waiting for me; I think?"

George nodded.

"I am Winter," she said, "and I am death."

Smiling, George stepped toward her. "I've met you before. Many times. I wait for you every year."

She raised a pale eyebrow inquisitively.

"You always tell me then that you are death. But I don't believe you. I have never believed you."

She laughed, and it was the sound of scraping ice, like taking something out of a too-cold freezer. It sent shivers down his spine.

"I am Winter," she repeated, "and I take life."

George shook his head. "Everyone here thinks that you do, but that's not how it works, is it?"

She had a short memory. Every year was like this. And she never remembered him.

"You are not death." George said now, as he faced the coldness that he had waited for. "You are not death. You are a carnival. A travelling carnival."

Winter didn't like that at all. a wind howled from nowhere, whipping the snow up from the ground and her cloak up around her. "Who are you to insult me?" she cried.

"I will always beat your ass back to where you came from." George stepped forward in to the snow, toward her, head held high and back straight. "I lay the seeds for summer. I give warmth back to the ground and melt your snow and ice into waters that feed the bulbs and bud the branches." His words were like knives to her, and for every word he spat at her, she took a tiny step backwards. "You are a travelling carnival," he continued, "and your time is limited. Pack your bags, Winter. The days are already getting longer."

Pushed back against a wall, Winter looked physically shaken by the ordeal. "Who are you?" she cried in fear.

George smiled as he stopped barely two inches from her face. "I am Spring."