A beautiful year. Rain and sun as needed, seasons come and never overstay their welcome, sweating in the hot sun over a hoe in the loamy soil and then cooling off in the shade of the orchard trees. The crops are plentiful. The traders come and never overstay their welcome. The game in the forest is abundant. There are more deer than the earth knows what to do with, so we hunt the excess, salt and store them for the winter. Today, the princess turns fifteen. It will be her first appearance at the tithing ceremony, so we make sure to bring our finest ears of corn, our strongest calves and softest alpaca wool. We drive our carts to the palace, a parade of colors and fragrances stretching down the path that leads to the gates. 
We each take our turn to present our goods to the king, the queen consort, the princess. She is thin—thinner than royalty ought to be—and sallow. Her hair is so fair that it is almost white, casting a shifting halo around her head in the bright light of the stained-glass windows. She is quiet and gracious. Accepts our grain, our meat, our wool. We know she will grow plump and rosy on what we've given her. In return, we will receive protection, guidance, care. 
The last one in line, the butcher, presents her tithe, and the princess's lips tremble. 
"I don't want any of this," she says, "I don't like it! I don't like venison, I don't like mutton, wool makes me itchy, I absolutely hate turnips! I don't want it! I don't want it!" 
Her mother places a hand on her arm. The girl starts crying. Sobbing. The window light fades. 
"It's my birthday," she says, heaving the words out between sobs, "it's my birthday and there's nothing for me!" 
For the rest of the year, it rains. Heavy and constant. Our livestock and crops drown in the floods. 
 
 
A gray year. No sun. Barely any rain. Just looming gray clouds. The king has declared war. There are very few of us at the tithing ceremony this year. Only those of us who could not march in his name. Still, we bring what we can. Whatever did not die for want of sun. Skinny, deficient animals and discolored crops. We do our best to please her—better gray than torrents.  
She does not seem to mind. Or pay us any attention at all. Instead, she stares out the window with empty eyes. 
One of the kitchen workers tells us that a young squire had been made knight and drafted into the war. He was a particular friend of the princess. He'll likely die. "The damn fool," she adds, "couldn't hold a sword to save his life." 
 
 
A year of famine. Of blight. Cicadas come up from the valley and devour our crops. Many of our sheep and sows succumb to parasites. Many of us become poxed, cannot eat, grow thin and shriveled in the sun. Still, we gather up what we can and bring it to the palace. 
The princess is thinner than ever before. Her eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks are hollow, her skin is tinted yellow. She coughs with a rattle. Yet she still comes out to perform her duties, to receive the tithes. 
"My daughter is sick, your princess and future queen is sick, my husband is at war, and this is what you bring us?" the queen consort asks. "You have no sympathy, no respect, no loyalty. Remember all we have done for you. Remember all we could do." 
Despite what her servants and tutors had whispered to us, the princess recovers on our broth and our meat. We never quite do. 
 
 
A bright and sunny year. A dry year. A year of fire. Tame, natural wildfires become voracious furies, scorching the land. The king has died. In battle. They tell us he died heroically. They tell us he saved us all from the vicious invaders from another land whom we've never seen. 
The queen consort dies soon after. 
The sky is red. The sky is red and the sun is a blazing, hateful orange. The land is blackened and dry. 
The princess—the queen, now—takes the crown. We bring what offerings we can to her coronation. She will save us. She will protect us. Like her parents before her. 
"I don't understand," she says, "have I done something to offend my people? Why would you bring me such a pitiful harvest? Is this how you wish your new queen to feel welcomed?" 
 
 
A year of new growth. Baby plants, springs of green burst from the charred earth. The animals breed and produce fat, healthy young. There is rain and sun alike. The sky is blue again. 
The war has ended, and our neighbors, friends, family come home. 
Including the princess's favorite knight. 
They marry in the summer, and we bring fruits that burst and dribble with ripeness. Tender meat and rich vegetables. We spin and weave and knit tapestries, dresses, linens, everything. 
She is gracious. She is rosey. She accepts our gifts, almost laughs, almost smiles, and there has never been such a beautiful day. 
We hold our breath. 
 
 
A year of drought. The rivers dry up. The lake recedes. The rains stop. Dust settles, colors everything dun. We beg at the palace for aid. For anything. We've withstood so much, but we are fewer than we once were, and we are weaker. 
No response. Not even a rebuke. We are ignored. 
One of the servants tells us that the princess had a child. A new princess, with white-blonde hair. Plump and rosey from our meat, our crops, our blankets of wool. 
She tells us that the baby died anyway. 
When the tithing ceremony comes, we give as much as we can. Our mothers, our wives ache for the new queen. They've all lost children. They give more than they can. 
We're turned away at the gates. They take our gifts and point us back home. She won't even see us. 
 
 
A year of storm. Fierce winds and hail and sleet and biting cold. Our houses are battered and knocked down in the gale. Several horses freeze to death. We wrap up in what little we have, but most of our wool has gone to the palace. 
They say the king consort has left. No one knows for sure, but the servants like to talk. They tell us that he and the new queen never spoke to each other, could barely stand to be in the same room. So he has left on some business or quest or campaign. Left for greener, milder lands. 
The tempest only worsens. 
The few children we have left die of cold, of hunger. There's no fat on their bodies to sustain them. There's no wool to keep them warm. There's no firewood, for the old trees have burnt and the new trees are still young and green. 
We go to the palace, with its sturdy stone walls and glowing torches and thick blankets and hot food. We go to the palace and this time we do not beg. Those of us who are able scale the walls, hit the guards on the heads with hammers, open the gates from the inside. The hungry few of us still outnumber those in the castle, and we bring the storm in with us. 
The next morning, the sun rises. The sky is blue once more. The snow in the mountains melts and pours into our rivers, our lake. 
The queen is found dead in her throne.