North Wind

Note: I was thinking about how in fairy tales and in mythology, the winds are always personified. I thought it would be cool to try to write something from the perspective of the north wind. I'm not entirely happy with the result, because I feel like it is kind of confusing, but here it is anyway.
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They call me Boreas, Thracion, Aquilo, Septentrio – I have a name in every language. I am the One who Devours and the Great Hunger. I am the sharp chill of winter, and those who breathe my essence weaken and fall into infirmity. I cause the earth to harden and I throw storms at mankind. I am powerful, strong, and deadly.
I have left children pale and lifeless behind me, their laughter silenced and their eternal wonder stifled. I have buried grown men in snow, left them to die. I carry screams of grief and pleas for mercy, and I share this burden with the world.
But despite my nature, I once experienced love.
Her name was Tryphosa, and she was beautiful. While other humans would look through me, she would look at me, and she would marvel at me. Where others saw cruelty, she saw power. Where others saw ugliness, she saw grace. She heard me sing through the groaning trees, saw me paint the air with ice. She knew my beauty and my power, and I, in my foolishness, thought that meant she knew me. I thought that she wanted me, just as I had begun to want her.
And so I stayed with her, thinking that I was doing right. I would whisper outside her window, compose music of windnotes and hail-caused drumbeats. I showed the strength of my love in my heavy winds and heavier storms, never thinking of the consequences. I was a fool.
I stayed with my love, long after the time that I would have normally left her country. I could not bear to leave her, and I thought that she wanted me to stay. But then, listening outside her window, I heard her crying.
“Winter has its place, and I don't begrudge it that. But this year, it has far outstayed its welcome. Won't this cursed winter ever end?” she asked, and my heart twisted. Another voice answered, “The gods must be angry at us, to send us this neverending storm.”
I stopped listening then. I was a curse to them. My love was spurned, my art reviled. I cried that night; my tears were snow and ice, my gasps were howling winds. That night, I was not alone in my tears. Inside, Tryphosa cried because she feared me. My grief turned into anger. I decided that she was just like all the rest: weak and not worth my time. Everything I loved about her, it was all just temporary, just until spring came. She had not been worth my love.
I was resolved; if she wanted me gone, I would leave. But not without saying goodbye to the thing that I had once loved. And so when she next ventured outside, I circled her. I wanted to say goodbye in a fitting way , a way that reflected her cold heart. I decided to give her a gift, a gift the Tryphosa of my imagination would have appreciated. I cared little that she would hate it in reality. So I bedecked her in ice jewelry, more brilliant than diamonds. I gave her necklaces, bracelets, and anklets of ice. And then I left her without looking back.
When I returned the next year, Tryphosa was gone. I thought that she had migrated, as humans often do. That is, until I heard a young mother warn her child, “Don't stay out too long. You don't want to end up like Tryphosa.” Realization struck me like a hammer. My gift had anchored her to the frozen earth. She had been unable to move, until she too was frozen. I killed her, and I knew that she did not deserve it.
I left that place, and I have never returned. I refuse to desecrate her memory by laying ice on her grave. She was right to stop loving me, for I am by nature a killer.