Winter was old. He was older than nations, older than humans, older than words and names.
There was little point in paying any mind to humans, whose lives where as brief as a melting snowflake in his eyes. He breezed past them every year when the land passed from Autumn's hands into his own, rarely sparing them a glance. In turn, they didn't notice him either. There were few who were even capable of seeing him, only the most gifted shamans, witches and priests, and of those few there were none who would linger outside when he drew near. The winter was not a season to be loved. That was why he alone of the four seasons had gained a human body and face. Humans always wanted a face on the things they hated and feared. There was no need for Spring, Summer and Autumn to have faces. They were all adored.
It didn't matter. The affairs of humans were not his business. His allegiance was to the cold alone. Every year he made his way through the lands when it was his turn to rule over them, dipping each branch in ice, piling snow up over fields, freezing ponds solid and glassy. There was a limit, of course, to how much of an influence he had over different parts of the world. Some places didn't allow for even the smallest snowflake. He didn't bother treading there, not when there was a wind to chill elsewhere.
The years, decades, centuries, millennia passed all in the same fashion. Sometimes he watched the humans from time to time, out of nothing more than curiosity. Sometimes he saw a few that walked among the humans who weren't human at all. They lived much longer, but Winter had lived long enough to see them come and go over the years. They could see Winter sometimes too, but just like the humans, they drew away and locked their doors to keep him out.
So it had one, until the year he met the boy. He had been hard at work freezing a river that day. Rivers were difficult. Only the fiercest cold could stop the water in its tracks. He had been so focused in the task, he failed to notice the little one until the job was done. He was a tiny, round faced thing, barely old enough to be walking about if Winter judged his age correctly. His thumb was stuffed in his mouth and he sucked on it nervously as he stared up at Winter.
Winter stared back. This was new. He began to work again, keeping one eye on the boy as he painted ice over a leaf that had clung to a low tree branch even in the bitter end. There was a quiet pop as the boy pulled his thumb out of his mouth, gazing with wonder. Winter let the ice grow further up the branch, and the child's eyes widened in response. Winter was wondering what to show him next when an older girl came crunching through the snow, calling out to the boy. The little one began toddling towards her at once, holding his arms out in a plea to be picked up even as she scolded him for wandering away. The girl didn't see Winter and bounced the boy up to her hip, complaining about how heavy he was getting as they walked away. To Winter's surprise, the child leaned his face over the girl's shoulder and waved one pudgy, sticky hand at Winter in farewell.
Winter was curious. The boy was not normal, and he found himself watching for him, year after year. Some years he would be there at the river again, waiting for Winter to arrive. Sometimes years would pass before Winter saw him again. He was growing, but slowly, slower than a human. Winter was oddly relieved to realize that. It meant that the boy would last longer. He wanted more time to observe that strange little child.
Nearly a quarter of a century had passed before they first exchanged words.
"My name is Kievan Rus," the boy announced from his perch on the river bank, while Winter encircled a half submerged rock in ice. His cheeks and nose were red with cold. "That's my big sister's name too, and my little sister's too. You can call me Ivan, if that's confusing."
Winter paused in his work and drifted closer. Ivan was watching him expectantly.
"You have to tell me your name now," he prompted when Winter continued to say nothing. "I told you my name, so you have to tell me yours. It's polite."
"I don't have one," said Winter. He wasn't entirely sure what 'polite' was either. It was one of those human things he didn't pay much attention to.
"But everyone has a name!" Ivan insisted with a sniffle. His nose was dripping, Winter noticed.
"You are mistaken there." The conversation was over, as far as Winter could see, and he went back to work freezing the bank. Start with shallow waters and work your way deeper, that was the trick.
Ivan was quiet for a long time, except for the occasion sniff and sneeze. Wasn't that the sort of thing humans did when they were sick? Humans always seemed to get sick more often in Winter's season, and sometimes they died when they were sick. This was a problem. Winter didn't really like the idea of Ivan dying. The boy was far too interesting to die.
"Go home," he called over his shoulder to Ivan. He waved a hand, dropping the temperature a few degrees to make his point.
"I can't. I haven't thought of...o-of..." Ivan stopped to sneeze again, then rallied on. "I haven't thought of your name yet! What about Winter?"
"That's what I am," Winter replied. "That is not a name."
Ivan folded his arms crossly, determined to work through this problem. "What about General Winter? Because everybody says it's lots harder for bad people to attack me because it gets so cold here. So it's like you're fighting for me! Like a general!"
That sounded ridiculous to Winter. It wasn't his business whether the cold he brought slowed down invaders or not, but Ivan seemed pleased with this answer.
"It will do," he allowed. "Now go home."
"I'll come back to visit you, General!" Ivan shouted to him as he ran off into the woods. For a reason he couldn't quite name, Winter found himself looking forward to it.
"I have a present for you," Ivan said one day, while Winter piled snow up on the roof of the little house Ivan shared with his sisters. Winter spent a moment wracking his mind about this. Presents were something humans exchanged as a show of goodwill, yes? He had been trying to study humans more closely as of late. Ivan wasn't human, but he more or less behaved like one. This research was necessary for future communication.
"And what is that?" Winter drifted down from the roof in a flurry of snowflakes. Ivan scrunched up his nose when they blew into his face.
"It's my treasure," he said proudly, when he had Winter's full attention. "I'll let you have it if you promise to take good care of it." He pulled a dried sunflower from behind his back and held it out.
Winter took it gingerly, turning the delicate thing over and over in his hands.
"It's always cold around you, so I thought you wouldn't see pretty flowers very much," Ivan said. "So you can have my special sunflower, since we're friends."
That gave Winter pause. "You are rather pitiable if you have to count me as a friend. You should have friends among your own kind." That was what he had observed, at any rate. Living things made friends with other similar living things.
Ivan cocked his head. "But I do have lots of friends! Byzantium is my friend. She's really pretty and warm and she has really nice churches at her house. And China's my friend too, although I've only met him once. But he gave me snacks and said I was a good boy." This appeared to be lofty praise indeed, if the pride in Ivan's voice was any indication. "And Lithuania is...I think he's my friend. Sometimes I'm not sure. But he's really nice! And um...my sisters are my friends too. So that's...that's...one-two-three-four-five, five friends! And you make six. That's plenty."
"I see." He didn't truly, but it wasn't worth the trouble to argue with Ivan. Gently he ran a finger down the stem of the sunflower, coating it in ice. "This will keep it from breaking," he said, when Ivan's mouth fell open. "Ice isn't as fragile as a dead flower."
"But ice melts!"
"Not around me. Your flower will stay well preserved, as long as I keep it."
"Hm. It looks pretty like that too, all shiny. Like how the tree branches are pretty after you put ice on them. Can you make pretty things without making it cold? I don't like the cold."
"That is unfortunate for you. Cold is all I can do."
Ivan's eyes widened. "That's okay! I don't mind, not really. I'll still be your friend, even if it gets really really cold! Even if my fingers freeze and turn all black and fall off!"
"Stay inside when it gets that cold. I understand that losing fingers can be very inconvenient."
"Oh, but mine would grow back eventually. It's only humans who lose their fingers for good."
Winter frowned. Regrowing fingers was not a phenomenon he had observed, but Ivan's reckless mentality was dangerous in a child so small. "You should still stay inside. Run along now. I have work to do, and it will get very cold around me soon."
"But I-"
Winter blew a breath of icy wind at Ivan, strong enough to force him to take a few steps back and cold enough to put frost on his eyelashes. "Inside, boy," he said firmly. He waited until Ivan sullenly retreated to his house, then dropped a large pile of snow against the door. Those children wouldn't be venturing outside anytime soon. It was for their own good.
Years passed before Winter saw Ivan again. The boy wasn't by the river, wasn't wandering through the forest, wasn't lurking near that withered field of wildflowers he seemed to favor. Winter drifted near the boy's home, but found only a ruin of burnt wood and ash. He passed through the nearby cities to coat the streets in ice, and found that something had changed. There were new people there, wearing different clothes and speaking a different language. Fear was thick in the air. The newcomers came and went over over the winters, but the fear lingered on, heavy and oppressive.
And then, finally, Ivan reappeared one year, wandering. He hadn't grown a hair taller since Winter had seen him last. He had become thin, gray, shrunken. He jumped at little sounds and constantly peered over his shoulders at nothing. The fear in the air had infected him too, it seemed.
"I'm not Kievan Rus anymore," Ivan said softly, stomping his boots through a drift of snow.
"I see," Winter murmured, bringing down a damp snow as the walked along. "And what are you now?"
One shoulder shrugged weakly. "Just Ivan, I think. There isn't really a Kievan Rus anymore, since the bad people came."
"A different sort of bad people than the ones that tormented you in the past?"
"Yes. I-I..." Ivan's shoulders quivered. "We can't do anything. We can't fight back at all this time. It's hopeless."
"I was under the impression that your people are quite strong and hardy."
"They are! Don't talk bad about them! B-but the Tartars are monsters! Th-they've..." Ivan clutched at the ends of his scarf, hunching his shoulders. "They've done such terrible things...I can't do anything but hide. I c-can't...do anything!" He barely got the words out before the tears began and choked him off.
"Stop that," Winter snapped. Crying was one of those things he simply couldn't understand. It served no purpose, as far as he could tell, and why people insisted on weeping when they were upset was a mystery to him. Ivan didn't respond to the command. He just scrubbed his eyes with his sleeves and whimpered in misery.
How would a human react to such a situation? Physical contact was often used to soothe people when they cried, according to Winter's observations. With that in mind, he slowly reached out a hand and let it rest on top of Ivan's head. Frost dusted his hair almost at once, but sure enough, Ivan slowly began to calm down at his touch, sobs dying down into gulps and hiccups.
"Don't do that again," Winter said sternly. "Crying won't help."
Ivan sniffled and said not a word. There was nothing left for Winter to do, no reason for him to stay in that city when he had finished bringing the cold and snow, but stood by the boy's side a little longer all the same.
"Can you help me, General Winter?" Ivan asked softly after a time. "Could you...make the winter even colder for my enemies? To help me fight them?"
"The affairs of humans and your kind are not my concern," Winter said flatly. "My season serves the interests of no one."
"B-but we're friends!" Ivan choked. Winter looked away, unable to bring himself to say otherwise. "Can't you do anything?"
"I already make your land as cold as it can be. To make it colder still would change the nature of the land."
"And nothing can change that? Nothing at all?"
"Only a sacrifice."
Ivan shivered, but forced his back to straighten. "What kind of sacrifice? I-I'm willing to give anything."
"Anything?" Winter knelt down, staring hard into Ivan's eyes. This was wrong, he knew. The seasons had no place getting involved like this. He had no right to even offer such a thing...and yet he couldn't ignore Ivan's plea, not now. "Even yourself? You are this land, are you not? You will have to give yourself to me. Only then can I do what you ask."
Ivan's eyes widened slightly. "And if I give you myself? Will you make the winter colder and harsher for my enemies?"
"No," said Winter. "I told you, it is not my concern what humans do. My kind serve no one. If you accept this bargain, I will make your land colder, much more than it has ever been. It will be harsh for your foes, yes, but I will not be kind to you. The winter will be as brutal to you as it is to your enemies."
Ivan curled his hands into fists and drew a deep breath. "I-I'm not afraid. I accept."
Winter shook his head. "You can't accept such a thing so lightly. It will be permanent. You can't change your mind later. I will come to you again next year. Think on it and give me your answer then."
"You're going away now?" Ivan's lip quivered, and Winter swore to himself that he would freeze the tears solid if Ivan started to cry again.
"I never stay in one place very long. You know that."
"I know," Ivan whispered. "But I want you to stay. I'm all alone now, except for you."
There was a lake to the east that needed to be frozen, a forest in the north that needed icicles on the tree branches, a town in the south that was overdue for a blizzard. Winter had work to do, but he lingered in Ivan's land just a little longer that year, the last year Ivan had before he gave himself over to the cold.