There was a page of the House of Wind who walking through a field spied
a white rabbit with red eyes.  Not knowing what possessed him, the man
picked up a stone and with a clever throw managed to strike the rabbit
dead.  He picked it up, the red eyes still glowing even past the veil
of life, and brought it back to his house.  He skinned it and cooked
it, but since a bull had been slaughtered that day, none other of the
house would eat the rabbit and much of the coney went to waste,
lying on the plate until it was thrown out.

The next day, in the crowded marketplace, the page bumped against
someone and caused them to stumble.  Turning around, the page saw a man
with pink skin and white hair with eyes as red as the rabbit.

The white-haired man, picking himself up, pointed to shards of a glass
bottle broken in his fall.
"You have destroyed my vessel," said the red-eyed man, "You carry
yourself as a noble, but you are of no worth save to your own eyes.  I
am a spirit of Fire, and for having wronged me you should suffer in
your measure."

With a flash, the red-eyed man disappeared and the page of Wind was
covered in fire.  The flames did not consume his skin, but he felt
them burning him, immolating his flesh in unbearable pain.  No where
could he go, for none would have him, for upon touching any object of
lesser solidity than metal or earth it would burst into flame.

Also there was a knight of the House of Water.  Though the knight was
a generous man and held high by those who knew him, he courted the
maiden of the darkest lake where the sky was always drenched in fog
and the waters carried no reflection.  Fair their courtship was, for
the knight took great benefit from the lady who was old when the world
was new, and yet untouched by time.  But so confident did he grow in
her hands that he desired another in his arrogance, 
and seeking out in furtiveness a
peasant woman of no character, he bed her, while the maiden of
darkness knew only that the water in her lake grew covered in scum and
oil and her vision was occluded.

Crying for her lake, the maiden came upon the living torch that had
become the page of Wind.  She pitied him, and she loved him, and she
doused him with water giving him the only relief he knew from his
incessant turmoil.  Each day for a year, she doused him in water, and
the flames died down, but each night she returned to the knight of
Water. 

At the end of one year, the lake of the lady bore one reflection:
that of the peasant woman that her lover had taken.  She cried into
the lake, her tears melting the oil and scum until only the reflection
was clear, and she thought to leave him.  The knight, dissatisfied
with the passivity of his House, had become an agent of Fire, and now
sought not to love her, save with that part of him still held some
place for her heart in his memories, but to burn out this precious
maiden so that no one could call her their own, and to take a wife
from the realm of the inferno.

Those that sew fate may take a kindness to creatures of
insignificance, even if their toil is endless and they prick their
fingers upon their very needles.  All got their wish for their true
desires.  The page of Wind went before his House and petitioned that
if they did not grant him asylum from his pain, at least to give him a
single star from their heavens.  This they did, and he took this star
and offered it to the dark maiden in return for her hand.  Her heart,
which had always been covered in ice, melted, and the water doused the
flames that engulfed the page and lifted his curse. The knight of Fire
found another that did not plunge his heart into darkness and
remembered at last what he was before he lost himself in his
greatness.  And they all lived many years with their beloved, thinking
back on how dark and silly all had been.