It's spring, by the turn of the weather if not the calendar. Snow melting, a few bare patches of almost-dry among the steadily fading patches of snow and the steadily increasing damp. The two lovers are sitting in a field. They meander through a conversation, familiar enough with each other to barely need to pay attention, interested enough to focus on each other anyway.
"No one's quite sure," he says. "I named myself, you see. Chose it from some names I heard floating around. For all I know I crossed two names, or more. I've mostly heard it associated with fire, and most would likely accept that."
"You're being honest today."
His grin glints in the rare sunlight. "You have no way to be sure of that."
The woman rolls her eyes and corrects herself. "You are being exceptionally lengthy if you lie."
"Not as if you've ever had to worry about your clear name, Miss Victory," he replies.
"What else have you heard?"
"You said you've mostly heard your name associated with fire. What else have you heard?"
"Oh..." He hasn't had to dig this up for a while, and sorts through the memories. "White light. Air, more rarely."
"Everything else is to do with me," he says, turning to smirk at her this time, brighter for all that the sunlight doesn't hit as directly. "Trickster, sly, clever..."
She laughs, though more for the bald-faced satisfaction in his voice than his words. "Your humility becomes you." She lies down on the grass, staring up at the break in the clouds that got them to choose this spot in the field. "Maybe you're that," she says, almost absently.
"Your name. That," she says, gesturing towards the light breaking through the clouds, though the sun was still hidden from this angle. "Fire, air, light...burns, the motes that flutter through, shining down." She looks amused. "When he deigns to, of course."
"Of course," he replies, every inch the gracious king.
She throws a handful of melting snow at him; they laugh and start a scuffle, ending up soaking, a little muddy, and laughing fully.