Pocahontas was one with the earth, a Druid whose spirit danced with the wind and whispered to the trees. She could hear the colors of the breeze, feel the pulse of the soil beneath her feet, and speak the ancient language of the forest. Her very being was light, warmth, and fire—alive with the sun's embrace, her soul woven into the roots of the earth and the flames of the sky.
Loki, born of the cold and the night, was a creature of frost. His heart beat with the chill of the void, his touch could freeze a river in an instant, his breath could turn the air to ice. He was the embodiment of winter—unforgiving, untouchable, and bound to the harshness of the farthest reaches of the world.
They were born of different worlds—her's a realm of life, warmth, and endless growth; his a realm of cold, stillness, and endless night. They did not belong to the same earth, nor could their worlds ever truly touch.
Yet in the silence between them, something grew—a love too fierce, too untamed to ignore. Her fire, the very essence of life, could melt his icy form, could thaw the coldness that had long encased his heart. But to draw near to him would mean her warmth consuming him entirely. And his cold, unyielding and ancient, could steal the life from her in a single breath.
They longed for each other, but they belonged to different realms, and their love, no matter how deep, could never bridge the gap between their worlds. To be together was a danger too great, for their very natures could tear them apart. And so, they remained apart, bound by love but torn by the worlds they came from—forever longing, forever distant
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