I've heard him murmur it of me, in particular moments - that I am the falling leaves of autumn to him. I'd always thought him poetic, from the way he speaks his prophecies, but I confess I'd never thought he would express it on my behalf.

     As for him, his season is winter, no doubt. He drifts through this corrupted land, this ruined city, like a snowfall; everything he touches, no matter how foul, seems purer when he has claimed it. Seen from afar, from the safety of a window or the Sight, he is serene and comforting.

     It is only those who find themselves lost in him, knee-deep in him, fighting to find strength beneath the dark ice of his gaze and the biting cold of his fingers - only such a man knows how bitter winter can be.