Zephyr

The castle has many names among those who choose to seek it. The Eye and Cold Heart were among the kinder, but to those who lived here it was simply home. That does not mean it was safe.

The boy carried a sword larger than his body with ease, slashing and stabbing in cold, violent arcs of savage skill. The boy was chunky and pale, though one glance into chill eyes would stop all but the bravest from calling him fat. He moved swiftly and with purpose, but was wheezing just a little as he moved through a courtyard of cobbled stone.

His target was clearly related: their faces bore the same structure, though the other boy was smaller, thinner, skin tinted blue and his eyes a shocking brightness of green. He carried no weapons, partying the blade and movements with his body alone. He was not yet breathing hard, but unlike his brother he was no longer smiling.

“You are trying to kill me.” His voice was soft, gentle without being compromising as he stepped aside from another strike. “Father will not approve of needless murder of another wind. Look at Eurus, who has lost all favour when he first killed the south wind.”

“That was not deserved! Notus stole from him!”

“Notus is a thief, made of fog as much as wind as you are ice. We are what we are, and you are normally colder than this by far. Is something wrong?”

“I am trying to kill you.” The sword was swung again, with force enough to shatter hoar frost. “What could possibly be wrong?”

“You have before, yes. But there are – degrees of trying, of attempt.” The thin boy spread his hands, pulling them back before one could be cut off. “This is not like you, Boreas.”

“This is everything like me, Zephyr!” Frost stabbed forth from the top of the blade, but Zephyr melted it with a touch.

“Not quite.” Zephyr moved back from another blow. “Coldness yes, hatred, yes: we are what our father made us.”

“You? Could? They sing your praises for melting my ice! For bringing them spring. For rainbows,” Boreas hissed, the words shattering ice crystals.

“And there is less cold every year: this, too, we both know. But do you remember Hyacinthus, brother?”

“We are brothers in name only. Our father made us from wind as images of him.”

“Hyacinthus,” Zephyr continued mildly, “was as close as a mortal could be to bring a wind. No, not a wind: the west wind. I loved him as winds love fire. I killed him as easily as I bring rainbows. I can be cold as well, Boreal.”

“I would have killed him. If you had not.”

“Truly? Because you cannot kill me?”

“No. You melt, Zephyr. You are the kindest of us. You destroy my power, but have never mocked me for it. Every winter, I hate you less. Every spring that comes early I rejoice in my heart.”

“Oh.” Zephyr almost stopped, the blade barely missing him. “Does father know?”

“He created us. Winds given flesh. How could Aeolus not know?”

“This is – complicated. I did not suspect,” Zephyr offered, very softly indeed.

“I did not wish you to know. Now I fear you not knowing even more. That Notus could steal you.”

“We are winds. I do not think it is meant that the north wind and the west are together?”

“We could find out,” And Boreas had no blade at all, and looked somehow small despite being the artic and the ice and the empty wastes.

They kissed.

And so the chinook was born.