Only in dreams does snow still blanket Mount Gildran, child. There once were four seasons, times for sowing, blooming, harvesting, and resting, but now we all wilt in this interminable heat. It was the Goblin Prince, did you know, that put us in this predicament. 

To think we all celebrated when His Majesty was born. From the palace balcony at the foot of the Gildran, the king lifted the wiggling babe for all of us below, while we climbed over one another like ants for a mere glimpse. His gleaming fangs, his well-appointed snout and cheekbones. He would be perfect. He already was. 

As the child grew, the queen took to calling the prince beautiful. The most beautiful in the land. It’s not a compliment our caretakers often offer, usually ferocity or bravery or cunning are merits most honored. The prince skipped his lessons in math and politics, in swordplay and shielding. Royal maids would say, after they came down the mountain and soaked their aching feet in the town square taverns, that the boy stood in front of the mirror all day. Turning, posing, pirouetting. Pressing his brow against the silver surface, rushing backwards to observe his form shrinking. Tailors and barbers and beauticians ate well, if they ever left the palace from the prince’s constant requests. New outfits, new trims, new rouge. 

The prince approached goblinhood and something changed. Well, nothing changed exactly, but only the same thing intensified. He discovered mirrors outside his royal chambers. Visiting townsfolk and royal staff felt tirelessly on edge, for sudden genuflections and disruptions turned common. Might they turn the corner and find the prince blocking the way, polishing his fangs for the eleventh time that hour? Might he stand unmoving in the center of the ballroom, nudging dancers and merry goers alike, peering at a thousand copies of himself in the mirrored chandelier beads overhead? 

It seemed quaint to the king and queen, the prince’s habit. Our caretakers’ lifeblood spans ages or longer, so perhaps they felt no pressure in the prince’s training for the crown. They only prodded gently that his beauty would remain on the morrow and went back to their business of ruling.

Soon after the prince’s voice deepened, we learned to lock our doors at night, to sleep with one eye open, our foothill villages were havens no longer. We’d wake to find our hand mirrors missing or our shiny spoons bent in anger, their reflections bulbous and untrue. No, my child, we only compared stories after our third tankards of ale, whispered about it over the springhouse ladling. For what proof could we share to the king and queen? Us puny, magick-less beings blaming their son of vandalism and worse. Staying quiet, we might pretend at things keeping the way they were. 

For a time, matters improved. No break-ins reported across our towns for a fortnight, and the palace staff came home to dinner early, their dark-circled eyes healing and lightening. The prince hadn’t been seen for weeks. His chambers lay untouched, his precious mirrors reflecting dust. Perhaps he ventured to find a royal match, we gossiped.

Had we known where he journeyed, we might have followed him. Braved treachery and treason to save ourselves from this current mess. In his earlier nighttime raids, he must have discovered the mirrors of nature. Rivers and streams, lakes and puddles, all trailing from the mountaintop down through our towns to the valleys beyond. And to the greatest of these, Lake Grythisa near Gildran’s peak, we later learned he went. 

Lake Grythisa froze over most of the year, so near she was to the cloud’s cool breath and surrounded by mountain snow. So the woodswomen and hunters and foragers now tell us as they spied through the frost-wrapped pines, the prince gave up his finery and made camp by the lake. This most beautiful body of water, one that graced all our legends, must reflect the most beautiful specimen of the royal family, it seems he decided.

Day after day, the prince stared at the lake, willing the ice to melt so that he might see his reflection. His perfection. The wind ripped his clothes ragged and he tired of the harsh miles of bright white. So he cast a summoning spell of blood, of snow, of shit, of spit and the Witch Mother arrived, only her magic surpassing his family’s own. Melt this Lake oh Mother of Nature, we heard his cry echoing far below, make it so the Grythisa may always reflect the blue sky above. To which, the woodswomen say, the witch lectured about magick’s unintended consequences and the prince bared his fangs and demanded the melt. The witch shrugged — she didn’t have to live here, anyway! 

All of it, she took all of it. The ice, snow, frost, chill, breeze, anything that might return the lake to opacity. 

And we assume the prince still crouches at the lake’s edge, nose hovering above the silk smooth water. We’ve not seen him for an age. The king and queen grow fat on their thrones, delighted their son brought about an everlasting harvest. Pass another damp cloth, won’t you? It’s a furnace in here, like always.