Born in the winter in the wind, you are quiet, and will be quiet all your life. You're never a problem, until, of course, you are. It's as inevitable as time passing: you find friends easily, and love them.
And then sometimes you keep them, and sometimes you don't. You change as the seasons and they don't know you anymore. Weeping in winter with the rains, turning your face to a silvery sun in springtime, you set yourself on fire for the summer and rise cloaked in ashes in the autumn. But this next winter you coax hellebore out of dead land, catch the wild east wind to blow you across frozen roads, weave vines into wreaths and hexes to set against the night.
There's a trick of it, kept up your sleeve, in your pocket, stashed always on your person, never set aside no matter how comfortable you get. It's not so much a shapeshifting as a multi-tool, maintained carefully in the small hours between faces and sleep, when no one else watches.
Once or twice, you've taken it apart in front of others and shown them the workings, and they look at it like pigs staring a wristwatch, audience members at the violinist demonstrating the angles of her bow on stage. The art is honed over time, the tool is a Ship of Theseus. Worse than the lack of understanding is the horror: you show them the tool and they tell you weapons aren't allowed. They invite you out of their door, and close it behind you.
Whatever stories they tell, or don't tell, are no longer your concern. And so you sail with your weapon, your multi-tool, your soot-stained cloak of autumn and rebirth. There are hellebores inked in black and purple over your shoulders, a key up your sleeve. You ride the east wind, you set yourself on fire: you've a trick in your pocket, and you are loved.
And sometimes, just sometimes, you come home, and someone else takes their own tools out of their sleeves, and you sit down at the kitchen table to see how the screws are fitted and the how the seasons have changed you both.