Perhaps he could have been a child once
Maybe he could have spent lazy springs shoeless, he could have dance with the fireflies in the sweet aroma of spring. He could have been just another rosy cheeked child that lived on stories and only ever knew happily ever after. He could have wasted his life in the bowls of spring spiting watermelon seeds and insisting he was NOT SHORT! But he didn't.
He could of learned of war in the winter, learned the first taste of frost from a breathless laugh. He would have been just another snow smoked kitten that never knew a winter that did not taste of joy. He could of scampered thought sleeping forests perusing his childhood friend with a deadly snow ball. Death would only last as long as it took for the happiness to give you breath. But he didn't.
He could of ignored the throb in his chest and drowned out the roar behind his eyes, he could have pretended that the only thing odd about his was his white hair...He could have lied.
Maybe
But in the spring while sticky fingers sought adventure, he tasted the cold, and during winter in the cold he tasted power.
Maybe not
Because in the end there was no choice, not really, he could not untangle his veins and undo himself. He could not have chosen forget me not spring or bright skied winter.
The dragon was always there
It was there be for spring and winter, before a kind grandmother, and a smiling friend, it was there before the dark.
It never yielded
It rebelled, for a dragon can not live with out pride or die with out strength, it could not come give in or break. It could not bow. They are the truth, what must be paid before happily ever after, what must be face before you look in to the abyss.
For fangs and swords are the same
But in the end he is not a child
He knows the feel of blood under his nails, the reality of killer and murderer. He knows how much forgiveness is really worth.
He is not a child; he is too old for regrets.