This story is very old, yet it is told time and time again. Perhaps it is a story we need. Perhaps it is a story we live.

It is the story of a prince who lived alone for many years, so long that his heart turned to ice. How can one live with a heart of ice? This is how the Prince lived: slowly, regretfully, ever-wary that his heart may crack into a million shards and be scattered to the four winds, he crept from room to room.

The ice grew so thick upon his heart that it began to effect his country and his people. Winter arrived on the heels of Autumn, as she always did, but this year she did not lift. "Ah," sighed the people, "Our Prince is so sad that he makes the snow fall down upon us always; does he not know we will freeze? We do not have a heart of ice for our protection."

The Prince knew of his people's plight, yet he could not melt the ice that encased his heart. Their suffering filled him with anguish, but it's chill only set the frost more firmly in his soul. His prosperous kingdom was dying.

The light grew and grew, then fell from the sky like a comet, plunging into the center of a snow-choked cemetery. A radient winged figure stood there, it's skin licked by unearthly light, it's wings of pure crystal. With bloodless fingers it opened an ancient mausoleum, then wrapped it's body around the bones of a woman long dead. With the bones at the light's core, she then swept herself with great handfulls of snow that covered the skeleton like skin. Her hair was the fillament of the stars, her eyes the bottomless dark of the ages. Satisfied, she stepped into the night.

In the palace, the Prince suffered strange dreams. Though his bed was warm, the cold had eaten into him so that he always shivered. Huddled in his icy bedclothes, he dreamed of a Princess trapped in ice, as full of longing as he was. Yet in her diaphanous gown she did not seem chilled. In her hair she wore fresh flowers, and cupped them in her hand. Looking closer, the Prince saw that she was not trapped but sleeping. "Who are you?" he whispered to himself, and though she did not move, her heard her murmur in his head, "Promise."

The Prince awoke with a jolt. What had she meant by 'Promise'? Was it a promise to him? To his people? He had to return to her and discover what she had meant. But even as sleep overcame him, he knew that he would not find her. His dreams were chaos - strange and frigid witch women, tormenting him with their brittle laughter. Haunting music dogged him into wakedness, the Siren's lute fading slowly from his mind. Yet sitting up in his bed, the music remained. What could it be? He arose from his bed and strode to the front door of his palace.

A strange girl with haunted eyes stood before him, a mandolin in hand. "I have come, Oh Prince, to melt the ice from your heart. I have come to free your soul from Winter."

Suddenly the Prince was afraid. He had lived for so long with the cold that he had forgotten what it was to be warm. "Who are you," he asked, "To come before me with such pretentiousness?"

Her laughter was cool and sweet. "I am Winter, the mother of Promise. Do you not recognize me?"

"Why have you come?" the Prince asked stiffly, "There is no need for you here." With helpless hands he indicated the snow-shrouded world about them.

"Promise is the spirit of Spring, and I hold her within me," Winter said. "Your heart of ice prevents her from fulfilling her duty to this kingdom."

"Am I then to die?" asked the Prince wearily, "With this heart unfrozen and these tears unwept?"

"Oh no," replied Winter, "You are to live, and live as you never have before. You think that with a heart of ice you cannot love at all, when in truth you have loved deeply and well."

The Prince shook his head. "I do not understand."

"Without a frozen heart, you cannot love me," she said softly, and held out her hand. "The choice is yours, but I promise you that even cold can burn."

I do not know the end of this story; it lies between Winter and the Prince. But as Winter comes, so Winter leaves, and her daughter Promise comes behind her, followed by her sister Spring. I would like to think that Winter smiles as she goes home to sleep in the arms of her lover.