She was the freezing ice, always cold; regardless of it being winter or not.
And she was the warmth of spring, blooming everyday into a charming flower.
When the princess reached out her hand to her, sunlight peeking into her life, she could not help but grasp those delicate, soft fingers, much unlike her own scarred ones.
Pink. It had always been her favorite color.
She could not help but find solace in her words, in the crook of her shoulder, to bury her face in and wash the grief away. She could not help but hold onto her till the other had to surrender herself to mortality. She could not help it.
One so distanced from humans, she could not help but seek a home in her.
Both spring and summer she was to the icy woman, the one who melted in her presence.
And when it ended, when her life ended, then the monsoon arrived.
A shower of tears.