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Chapter Text

1. In this river, all is found

Honeymaren exhaled, a cloud of foggy breath swirling about her in the relentless wind. The next inhale of air sent cold prickles down her throat as the barrage of icy needles blew in her face. She readjusted her hood, the small wisps of fur sticking to her forehead—a mix of sweat and melted, then refrozen, snow. Her scarf, almost solid with the frozen condensation of her labored breathing, had since slipped from down her nose leaving her cheeks painted red with cold, rubbed raw by the snow-ladened gusts. Honeymaren grit her teeth, her mittened grip on the reigns tightening. Her reindeer companion, Sunná, snorted, a sound quickly swallowed by the whistling winds. Honeymaren silently agreed—the two of them needed to find shelter, and fast.

The snow had gotten too deep, and the winds too strong to continue on the back of her reindeer many footsteps ago, but there was nowhere to stop. The landscape was barren, dotted only with a handful of trees, stripped bare of their branches and needles on one side, and tilted near horizontal from the constant wind. Digging out a shelter would be the same as digging a grave, with how fast the snow shifted and piled. Honeymaren and Sunná would be sure to wake to a dense, inescapable layer of snow, counting their last breaths until the last of their oxygen left, and committed them both to an icy sleep of forever.

And so, Honeymaren and Sunná trudged along, eyes squinting against the haze and glare of blankets of windswept snow, desperate for any sign of suitable shelter.

Every footstep was torture, the powdery snow giving way to her heavy footfalls, forcing Maren to blaze a trail through knee deep snow. Her boots had been recently oiled, the fur lined leather dutifully keeping out the wet of the snow, but her toes still relented, pin pricks of icy pain in each step, protesting in being left so near to the biting cold for so long.

Honeymaren’s companion fared better. Sunná was built for the harsh snowy landscape. Her hooves, webbed and splayed, made the journey through icy powder more tolerable. Her pelt was rich and tightly woven, insulating the creature from the harsh winds. Her eyes had changed colors with the seasons and, though squinted against the wind, were far more adept at surveying the landscape. But even with Sunná’s advantages, she shook her head, jerking the lead in Maren’s hand, protesting the journey.

Honeymaren paused a brief moment, if only to catch her breath. She reached a gloved hand to Sunná’s face to steady the beast. The fur of fox and leather of past reindeer separated the two before Maren leaned forward, connecting their foreheads together. Plumes of frost breath mingled for a moment and Honeymaren closed her eyes. Sunná grunted, pawed the snowy earth, then steadied. Maren patted the side of Sunná’s face, whispered a promise of carrots and warm fires soon. Sweet nothings swept away by the frigid wind.

Maren steeled herself, leading them both forward, ignoring the screaming in her exhausted legs, the raw grating in her throat, and the pervasive chill in her bones. She closed her eyes, inhaling a lung full of frozen air, and put one foot in front of the other. This was for Ryder; this was for her brother. This was for Yelana; this was for her matriarch. This was for her tribe and her land and her very life.

Honeymaren was a child of snow and ice. Of ragging rivers full of snow melt. Of hot summer days with baskets filled with fish. She was borne to the musk of reindeer and the distances they traveled chasing the sun. She was a child of endless days and endless nights as the seasons moved. She worshiped the wind the day she cried loud, first breaths from her mother’s womb. She was anointed in water the first day she greeted this land, barely cleaned of muck and blood before her brother tumbled into the world, singing his own loud prayers to the spirits. She praised flame and earth as she built her home out of steady branches that grew from the soil, and gathered around fire pits with her kin as they ate the gifts of the land—sustenance to survive another day. Honeymaren was borne of this Earth, and would one day return to this Earth. But now, now Honeymaren had a mission. Appease the spirits, end this eternal winter, and bring rebirth to the land.

Honeymaren had felt the anger of spirits before. Of the crashing of waves, the sting of fire, the rumble of the earth, the howling of the wind. But never before had she endured the ire of Winter such as this. She only prayed her resolve would stay true and that she was able to give what the spirits asked of her.

It felt like a lifetime before Honeymaren and Sunná stumbled upon a cave. More of a shallow scoop of rock than a proper cave, but shelter nonetheless. Maren collapsed at the entrance, grateful prayers spilling from her mouth in swirls of fog. The eddies of wind had banked the snow around the entrance, leaving the ground mostly clear, and small stones dug though the leather and fur of Maren’s pants and into her knees. Honeymaren barely registered the additional pricks of pain, too relieved at finally finding a spot for respite. Sunná snorted in agreement beside her, happy to be sheltered from the assault of the wind.

Maren hauled herself upright, despite her every desire wishing her to curl up on the rocky ground and rest immediately. She untied her light pack from Sunná’s back, fingers fumbling, fighting against the set-in chill. The bundle of wood clattered to the ground next, small offerings from the naked trees she had chipped away at with her hatchet along the way. Maren unrolled her sleeping mat, extracting the blanket bundled up within it. She threw the woven cloth over her companion’s back, securing it loosely under her belly, and undid Sunná’s reigns, trusting she would not stray far. She procured a small disc of oatcake and fed it to Sunná with soft praises of a day well done.

Fishing a pouch of flint from her bag, Maren quickly stacked kindling under larger pieces of wood in the most sheltered part of their camp. It took a frustrating amount of tries, frozen fingers cursing at the stray gusts of wind and shaky striking of flint. Soon, a small ember caught and grew, eating at the frost covered sticks before springing to life, a flame of hope in the barren landscape.

Maren sat close, holding her hands and feet as near to the fire as she dared. A piece of frozen jerky rested in her mouth. She nibbled and gnawed on an end, using the exercise to both defrost a portion, and to pre-sate her hunger. She had packed light to aid in the haste of her journey, but that meant her provisions were low and needed careful rationing. She set a small pot of snow to boil, parched from her journey, mouth and tongue dried by the frosty air. As the snow melted to water, and started to bubble, she set her eyes into the contained chaos of flickering fire. She hoped the heat would last for the night, that her and Sunná could curl up to the embers. She hoped that, come morning, the storm will have abated. And above all, she hoped her journey to the Spirit of Winter was almost over.

Honeymaren wasn’t sure if it was the blinding glint of the sun against the snow, the bone deep exhaustion, or just the taste of salted fish churning uneasily in her gut. But it couldn’t be an illusion. It was almost too bizarre to be conjured from one’s imagination. This had to be the place. The endless days of travel had come to an end.

Only mere steps away, like a broken colony of mushrooms pushing through decayed wood, was a palace of pure ice cut between the sharp sides of a frozen glacier. The split sides of the glacier yawned open, the palace springing forth like a geyser of frozen water, a pathway extending down from it like a mighty waterfall frozen in time. Sunná stamped her hooves, uneasy. Honeymaren shared the feeling.

Although the storm had abated two days ago, there had still been the sound of the earth around them, however faint, noises swallowed by the blanket of snow. The sparse trees creaked, simultaneously unsteady and held fast at their uncomfortably bent angles. A fox would chatter, darting away across the snowy landscape with its matching white fur, only to disappear into a burrow. The snow would crunch and squeak under her boots. But now, in the shadow of the castle all Honeymaren could hear was her and Sunná’s ragged breaths.

Sunná tugged at her reigns, unwilling to follow her master as Honeymaren ventured towards the castle. Maren stopped, retreated the steps that separated her and the reindeer and brought her forehead to Sunná’s. She released the reigns and took Sunná’s head in her hands. “We’ve made it so far,” whispered Maren her voice rough with disuse and icy air.

Sunná snorted. The hold on her was loose enough that she could slip away, trot off into the tundra and leave her companion behind.

“Come, let us finish our journey together.” Maren kissed her companion’s muzzle, frozen lips brushing soft fur.

Sunná bowed her head, butting her wet nose into Maren’s chin.

Honeymaren laughed, an odd stilted sound. A sound mixed with the fear of the unknown and the hope of a mission soon accomplished. “Alright, old friend, let us see what the spirits have in store for us.” Maren picked up the reigns again, loose enough for Sunná to pull away, but Sunná dutifully followed her master towards the towering castle.

Both hoof steps and leathered footfalls rang like crystal glass on the floor of the icy palace. As far as Honeymaren could tell, every part of the castle was made from solid ice, sculpted with the finest of care. As if a master carver had spent centuries with a scalpel carefully freeing the likeness of the castle from one seamless, gargantuan block of ice. Honeymaren had long since draped the reigns over Sunná’s neck, allowing her to wander freely. The reindeer snuffled in a corner of the grand entrance room, pawing at the ice in a show of instinct, as if even in this logic-defying, magical palace there would still be lichen under the snow.

Honeymaren opened her arms and spun slowly, taking in the impossibly tall ceiling where a grand chandelier glinted, frosty and delicate, as if suspended only on a breath of air. The entry room was magnificent in its own right. Etched in the smooth floor, radiating from the center, was a sprawling snowflake like pattern, it’s tendrils reaching to the far corners of the room. Maren had seen this design before, woven into the blankets of her people and painted on the hide-lined sides of their domiciles. It marked this place as a spirit’s domain, unmistakable in addition to in its apparent magic.

Two grand staircases, mirror images of each other wound down the side of the room, framing a large icy door, easily requiring the assistance of four men to open. Honeymaren neared the banister of one of the staircases, marveling at the delicate swoops and curves carved into the ice. Whisper thin scratches were etched into the railing and Maren could almost swear she saw knots and whorls as if the ice contained the grain of wood.

Honeymaren had tied her mittens and hat onto the sash around her waist, and allowed the hood to fall from her head. The palace was strangely warm despite its material, and an unnatural light seemed to radiate from the walls, casting the room in a pleasant glow in the absence of any candles or hearths.

A dais rose up in the room from the radial center of the snowflake pattern on the floor, a short lectern-like pillar in its center. Maren cautiously approached the pillar and noted a carved disc resting on top of the lectern of ice. She brushed a naked finger along the disc’s carvings, a shiver running through her spine, as if the disc contained an icy gust of wind within.

Maren traced the familiar symbols on the disc. “Air, Fire, Water, and Earth,” Maren named the symbols out loud. They all circled around one larger symbol, nestled in the center. The same carving as the one on the floor. “The Fifth Spirit.”

Honeymaren’s voice was shaky, as if breathing air into their names would unleash a sudden power, but none came. The uneasy silence continued. Sunná huffed in the corner, either unsettled by this place or frustrated at the lack of lichen.

Maren waited with baited breath for something to happen. Anything. The seconds trickled by and the thundering in her chest started to abate, replaced with confusion. She had made it to the Spirit’s home, just as the Elders said there would be. She journeyed across snow and ice, just as the Elders said she would. She battled the elements and never strayed from her path. And now, Honeymaren didn’t have a clue what to do. None of the stories the Elders told around campfires, none of the tales children would trade, whispering in the dark to scare one another, none of the instructions she was given before she left, none of it prepared her for what to do now.

So, feeling half foolish, yet devoid of any better ideas, Honeymaren took a deep breath and called out. “Hello?”

Sunná’s ears pricked up as Maren’s voice reverberated around the castle walls like a gust of wind trapped in a jar. But silence was her only answer.

Maren huffed, and walked over to one of the smaller doors on the left side of the room. She grabbed the handle, shocked to feel warm metal instead of the cold ice it appeared to be. Still, Maren gripped the handle firm and tugged. Nothing. The door did not yield even a fraction, cold and unrelenting as Winter itself. She crouched down to inspect the hardware surrounding the door, but the carved hinges were little more than decorative, rather than structural, and the space under the handle lacked any sort of keyhole in which to peer through.

Honeymaren, feeling foolish still, knocked. “Hello? … Spirit? Your… most Excellency?” Maren kicked herself. What did one call the Lord of Winter? The Bridge to the Spirits?

Silence continued to answer back.

Maren moved to the next door, tugging at the handle, with much the same result. And so, she moved to the next, and the next, and climbed the staircases and tried those doors too. Maren even tried the gargantuan double doors in the center of the room, but couldn’t even reach the large ring handles. She tried knocking and asking any question she could conjure. At one point Maren found herself in the middle of the room, speaking down to the carved disc on the pillar, saying any word she could think of, hoping perhaps one of them would summon the spirit.

“Please.” No answer.

“By the power of lakes and rivers.” Silence.

“The strength of snow and ice.” Nothing.

“In the name of the forces of gales and fires. I beseech you.” Only the echo of her own voice.

“Please, through the dominance of Earth, trees, and rock. I beg an audience.” The clip of Sunná’s hooves echoed and for a fleeting half second, Maren thought she received a response.

Perhaps an inane password would do. “Black footed foxes in pajamas?”

No. Answer.

Honeymaren could scream.

Maren slid down onto her knees in a foreigner’s prayer stance, ignoring the jolt of pain as her abused legs knocked against the icy floor. She had seen traders pass through beg their gods in such a fashion. Perhaps this would appease the Spirit.

“The winter has been long,” explained Maren, now acutely aware there would be no answer. “We are accustomed to the stretches of dark and cold and we eagerly await the glint of sun. Yet spring has long since passed and all we know is the endless winter. Our people suffer. We grow cold, weak, too little food to go around. My brother suffers. Sickness spreads. They have sent me, to ask forgiveness. To bring you any desire you wish, and allow the seasons to cycle as they have for my mother, and her mother, and all of our ancestors.”

The silence was deafening.

Maren’s stomach clenched in despair. She journeyed so far and endured so much and now the Spirit wouldn’t even bother with an audience. A terrible thought washed over her. Perhaps the spirits had abandoned them. Perhaps there was no one to parlay with, nothing to try to appease. Perhaps, they were forsaken.

Honeymaren crumpled further into the floor. She thought of Ryder and his sickly face, the sharpness of his cheek bones, the smile he continued to try to muster. She thought of many that had passed before him and she allowed her mind to tumble into darkness and imagine her life without him.

Maren was known as stalwart, stubborn, stoic. Yelana would say she inherited it from her mother, though Maren had lost her mother too young to know if that was the truth. Maren had grown to be a natural hunter, able to endure long stretches tracking prey across the wilds. Trained as a warrior, deft and nimble with a staff. She had sported many a bruise and broken bone defending her worth in the sparring ring. As soon as she was able, she had provided for Ryder, tried desperately to fill the hole her parents had left them. She was the first to wake, the last to sleep, and ever the volunteer for tasks around the village. Always striving to be the best… to be better… to prove that she was worth… Something. As if the jagged hole in her heart could be filled with accolades and finished goals and smoothed over by the exhaustion of work.

Yet here in this mysterious frozen castle, Maren felt the many years of toil catch up with her. Of her constant reaching… reaching… reaching… for something, anything. For it always being not enough. Not the right thing.

This mission to return Spring to her people, Maren knew would be her greatest accomplishment or harshest failure. It would be her demise either way. For if accomplishing this task did not bring a sense of fulfillment in her never-ending quest for happiness, then that would be the end of her. And if she failed, then that would be the end of them all.

Honeymaren can’t remember the last time she cried. Perhaps when she was little, when the reality of losing her parents was understood within the confines of a child’s mind. Those days were lost to a fog in Maren’s mind. She refused to remember them. So perhaps she cried then.

She never shed a tear when she fell from the tree breaking her arm in two places, trying to return a fallen egg to the nest, at the insistence of her brother.

She may have shed a tear at the loss of what she thought to be love. Of a bright smile and a tussle of brown hair. Of a trader’s daughter and of a secret she thought they could live in forever. But only the one tear.

Yet, now, Honeymaren openly wept. Upon the steps of her failure and the crushing weight of all who depended on her, Maren—a woman of action—had no tricks left to try. No arrows to fly. No punches to throw. No traps to weave. Nothing more to do but weep.

Sunná responded to her master’s distress, ambling over, and kneeling down in the funny knock-kneed way Maren would always tease the reindeer about. But no wry smiles were to be had, Sunná instead rested her large head in Maren’s lap, and Honeymaren responded in a haze, griping the creature’s fur as if the action could ground her, if she griped hard enough the terrible dream would be over. But no time was reversed and no dream was ended. So, Maren buried her face into Sunná’s soft side and continued to shed more tears.

A soft glow interrupted Honeymaren’s despair. She didn’t know how long she clung to Sunná’s side, or how many tears she shed, but upon the dais, her tears became pin pricks of light. Where they fell, now a warm glow shone.

Maren pushed herself upright and hastily dried her face with her sleeve. She blinked away the water and fog from her vision and watched in awe as her once frozen tears rose from the surface of the icy floor, reforming into liquid water, then into brilliant shards of snow. The jagged flakes glowed soft hues of blue and purple, lazily spinning in a flurry around the central pillar of ice.

Honeymaren scrambled back, Sunná following suit, as the snow flurry grew in speed and number. It spun in its own personal tornado, whirling so fast Maren thought the world would be drawn into its pull. But just as suddenly as the flurry started, it stopped, bursting to a halt and throwing itself upwards, creating a suspended, opaque wall above the lectern of ice.

Small portions of the floating wall moved, shifted hues, and Maren watched with red rimmed eyes blown wide in amazement. She watched as a likeness of her brother was depicted in the moving snowflakes. Ryder appeared as he was before the long winter had set in. He was holding a fish, desperately trying to keep the wriggling mass contained, the summer sun glinting down on his dusty brown hair. The fish leapt from his hands, springing back into the river, but not before slapping Ryder soundly across his face with its tail. Maren grinned toothily at the memory, recalling her brother’s astounded face before they both dissolved into fits of laughter.

The moving snow wall changed; the shifting hues of the snowflakes formed a fire pit. Around it, she spotted several Elders, small children and adults alike were huddled around as Yelana stood and told a story passed down from those before. Yelana cast her hands upwards, pointing to the stars, and returned them to her head, spreading her fingers like antlers. Maren knew this story well, of Sarva the great moose and of the hunters who pursued him. When Maren was little, she dreamed of wielding a great bow like Fauna davgge, of shooting an arrow so far and true that it pierced the Boahje-navlle and set the island free of the constant cycles of the seasons. To live forever in the abundance of Spring and the warmth of Summer.

The wall of snow shifted again, morphing into a memory she didn’t know she had. A mother holding a babe, humming a lullaby. Though the screen of snow offered no sound, Maren thought she could almost hear the gentle song around her. Was this her mother? Was she the babe in arms? Maren stumbled closer, but the features seemed wrong, even in the haze of Maren’s childhood memory, she didn’t recognize the person depicted in the snow. The mother moved, pulling back the blanket and a shock of red hair tumbled out, a far cry from Maren’s own chestnut locks. A small child bound up to the mother and baby, bright smile on her face, and tucked herself into the crook of the mother’s other arm. The mother smiled, warm, collecting her daughters in a strong hug.

The image caused Honeymaren’s chest to tighten, to stir with a desire she long since thought she overcame. Of a need for a mother’s love and a warm embrace.

The woman on the screen settled in and began to sing again, this time the words bubbled up from around Maren and from within her own chest, as if she was remembering a song lost to time and memory.

A choked sort of whisper was torn from Maren’s lips, joining the song that swirled around her—in her ears or in her head, Maren did not know. The last line floated out from her frozen, cracked lips, joined by that of another’s voice. Crystal clear as the ice around them.

“…When all is lost, then all is found.”

The screen of swirling snow vanished in a flurry, raining down snowflakes around Maren and Sunná. Honeymaren whipped her head up in the direction of the voice, startled to see a figure now at the top of a grand staircase.

The woman. The Spirit? Stood regal as a queen of old, back straight, hands laced in front of her. The woman was clad in sparkling white, as if her own blanket of freshly fallen snow draped her figure. Blonde, almost white, hair tumbled down the woman’s head in the form of a neatly done braid. The Spirit moved, and it was if the light shone half through her, as fully formed as a gust of winter wind.

“Water holds memory,” stated the Spirit. Honeymaren was shocked to hear the voice—clipped, clean, and as musical as the crack of shattered ice reverberating along a frozen lake. “Yours are pleasant memories.” The Spirit shifted, moving like a fog of breath on a cold winter’s night. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve had a pleasant memory.”

Honeymaren froze, unsure of how to greet this being. Whether to prostrate herself prone upon the ground, or walk up and shake her hand. Her legs felt like lead, her mouth like cotton.

The Spirit made her way down the staircase, bare feet hardly touching the carved steps. “Sit,” she commanded, a lazy sweep of her fingers caused a lump of ice to unbalance Honeymaren and send her falling into a chair made of ice that had not existed a second ago.

Honeymaren stared, wide eyed. A small voice in the back of her head could hear Yelana reprimand her actions as rude. The Spirit approached the now seated Honeymaren and stopped a few footfalls away. Maren cast her eyes upwards, towards the shimmering visage of the Spirit. Amongst the pure awe and terror Maren felt, a bolt of something different struck her. The absurd notion of attraction ricocheted around Maren’s brain like a guilty bug, drunk on wine and bumbling off the walls of her head. The very reason for her journey was in front of her, the key to ending this endless winter. A woman of such power could freeze Maren into an icy grave and leave the land and its people to wither away. Yet Maren could not deny the beauty contained in the form in front of her. Dangerous and alluring, as a sharp as a snow-capped mountain.

Honeymaren internally slapped herself. She swallowed, throat heavy with the recent events. “O Great Spirit,” started Maren, lowering her eye line in deference and clasping her hands together in a show of subjugation.

“Elsa.”

“I—” Maren stopped, cut short by the Spirit’s voice. Maren’s elegant speech fell dead in her mouth. She never was one for words. “What?” Honeymaren kicked herself. The fate of her people and every winter to come hung on Maren’s words and all she could muster was: What?

“I was called Elsa. I think.” The figure hummed, and swept her fingers to conjure her own chair, which she floated elegantly into. “It has been many years. But I think I would like to be called Elsa.”

“Well, Elsa,” said Maren, her lips forming pleasantly around the name. Honeymaren kicked herself again. Think of Ryder. Think of Yelana. Think of all that is at stake. “My name is Honeymaren,” she introduced. Names seemed to be of importance to this Spirit. “Maren, if you’re my friend.”

“Friend,” hummed Elsa, eyes drifting up to the ceiling, as if watching another snowy memory unfold.

“Yes, I’d like to think we can be,” said Maren. “Friends, that is.”

Elsa hummed again, before barring down her eyes directly at Honeymaren’s. The blue reflected in Elsa’s eyes were sharp, dangerous as the thin ice at the center of an azure lake. “Most people are not friends with Winter. With the snow and the biting cold. With the absence of green and the long, dark nights.”

“That may be, but—”

“Your flattery and platitudes will not save you. I saw your memories. I witnessed your hopes. I know why you came here. You have come to beg for a stop to this. To stop Winter. A stop to me. I am a thing to be endured. To be wished less of.”

Maren scrambled; the Spirit was angry. This much she had known. Why else would Elsa curse the land in eternal winter? Yet, Maren did not know what Elsa wanted. What would satiate the Spirit. “Without the cycles of the seasons, the seeds of spring could not rest, the land could not sleep, and the waters would not be replenished,” said Maren, quoting Yelana. The words felt hollow, but Maren could think of little else.

Elsa scoffed, seeing through Maren’s feeble platitudes. “I held court once. I pandered to nobles. I drafted alliances, secured trades, weaved my way through politics to secure the best for my people. I have sparred words with kings and queens with twice your experience and half your foolishness and emerged victorious.” Elsa stood, somehow appearing taller than she first did. The frozen throne she had made herself disappeared in a gust of ice. Elsa stalked near to Honeymaren, her face dangerously close. Eyes steeled, containing the fury of a snowstorm. “Do not insult me again.”

As if in a dream, Elsa disappeared, much like her other ice creations, leaving only a trail of snowflakes in her wake. The chair Honeymaren had been perched upon vanished, causing Maren to hit the floor in an uncoordinated fashion, knocking the wind from her lungs. Elsa, leaving Honeymaren breathless in more ways than one.

Honeymaren didn’t know how long she laid upon the icy floor of the castle, dazed and unable to process the multitude of emotions and events that had transpired in such a short time. Sunná nudged into her master’s side, rousing Maren from her supine position. Honeymaren rose, dusting herself off and running a hand through her travel-mussed hair. She had sensed she failed with speaking to the Spirit—to Elsa, yet Elsa’s use of the word again gave Maren pause. Was there still a chance? A chance to convince Elsa to abate Winter and allow Spring to come to the land?

As Honeymaren stood, pondering her options, a door opened to her left. It was silent, save for a slight grating of ice on ice—no squeaky metal hinges or groan of wood to be heard. Elsa’s voice reverberated around the space, though there was no sign of the Spirit. “It is late. Stay the night. Leave in the morning and bring news of your defeat back to your village.”

The words stung Maren more than any frost could, yet the small offer of hospitality soothed a portion of the hurt, and stoked a fire of mischief within Maren’s soul. Elsa was not a monster. She could see reason. Honeymaren was settled. Her resolve firm. Maren’s mission was to find Elsa’s desire and offer it to her.

The room that Elsa had opened up was a lavish bedroom, everything was still carved in ice, but the delicate drapery of frost and the fine curve of the furniture brought warmth to the room. A large bed was tucked into the corner of the room, its mattress made of soft, snowy powder, yet warm to the touch. Honeymaren looked warily at the door. She was unable to open it before, and knew that on a whim, Elsa could seal her in, never to escape. Yet Maren also knew, that if she returned to Northuldra a failure, they would all be doomed.

Honeymaren accepted the hospitality, with no other recourse than to trust in Elsa’s word that Maren would be fit to leave tomorrow. Although, Maren reaffirmed, she would be doing no such thing. Elsa would see reason. Elsa will end this winter, or Maren will die trying.

Maren whistled for Sunná, and she trotted dutifully over. With practiced movements, Maren freed Sunná of her harness and pack. Honeymaren spread her sleeping mat over the snowy mattress and propped her pack against the ornate dresser. She wasn’t sure how long it would take Elsa to cease her icy tirade, but Maren figured she’d at least try to make herself at home.

Sunná snorted into Maren’s palm, reminding her master neither had eaten supper. Honeymaren smiled, and stroked the reindeer’s head, scratching the spot between her ears that always elicited a happy huff. Maren dug in her pack and offered a bar of dried oats and berries to Sunná before fishing out her own rations. Honeymaren chewed thoughtfully. Her mind drifted to that of her friends and family she left behind in her homelands. In Northuldra. Of the many snow-coated miles she traveled to get here. And of the mysteriously beautiful spirit that inhabited this castle.

Tomorrow was another day. Another chance to chase the sun, and Honeymaren was not one to squander second chances.

Chapter Text

2. Resonance

Honeymaren awoke to the most curious of scenes. A tray of warm porridge and hot tea floated into view. Maren glanced over to see Sunná munching on hay in the corner of the room. The events of yesterday buzzed about her head like a strange dream, but cooled and solidified into memory. She had indeed met the Queen of Winter. The Spirit at the center of her woes. Elsa.

Maren sat up, her bed roll shifting along the downy snow of the mattress. She reached to grab the porridge, a small voice in her head remembering hushed stories of mischievous spirits that would entrap little children with the promise of sweets. Maren stopped short. Not because of the stories, no, Maren knew she was trapped in more ways than one. Effectively trapped here in the castle until she convinced Elsa to allow Spring to come. No, Maren stopped because the tray of breakfast was not merely floating on the air—a fact which should have been just as startling to Maren—but because the tray was resting on a small, snowman-like figure. The ball of snow peeped and chattered, jostling the contents of the tray slightly, before jumping up to rest it on Maren’s nightstand.

Honeymaren glanced down, taking in the odd creature with its round head and wide smile. Small snowballs formed its feet and it danced around, an almost infectious joy radiating from the creature upon having finished its assigned task. It let out an odd squeak of happiness and scurried out the open door. Maren blinked, too stunned to follow the snow creature, and instead turned her attention to the tray of breakfast.

She picked up the bowl of porridge and was stunned to find fresh berries littered throughout. Where Elsa had procured it in the dead of winter, she didn’t know. A serving of thinly sliced salted meat sat on a plate next to it and Maren greedily downed the contents of the tray, trying in vain to savor the taste of fresh fruit, but having the hunger pains of her stomach win out.

Honeymaren slowed upon coming to the tea, sipping the contents of the cup in quiet contemplation. Strategy was never her forte. She depended on the others to direct her arrow, but something about Elsa sparked a kindred connection in her. She had seen the last memory in the screen of snow last night. The one of the mother and the lullaby to her children. Although it was not Maren’s memory, her heart had resonated with it so cleanly. Elsa had alluded to being human, of her life as a queen of a country. Perhaps the memory was of Elsa. Of a time when she had a mother to love her and a sibling to be loved. Of this, Maren could relate. The keening pain of the loss of her mother, the fierce devotion to her brother. To the desire to be held, to be safe. To be… loved.

Maren let out a scorned tsch at the thought. Spirits. Love. They had the power of the very elements at their fingertips. Elsa seemed to be able to conjure any physical desire out of pure ice and snow. Yet the memory haunted Honeymaren, the lullaby, so familiar, yet so foreign, ringing in her ears.

Sunná seemed content to munch on her hay that had been ferried into Honeymaren’s quarters and to relax in the room after such an arduous journey. So, Honeymaren left her companion and padded out of her room, her booted footfalls making an uncomfortable echo every step. Maren was used to making no sound as she stalked her prey, but this infernal castle thwarted any attempt at stealth. When she emerged back in the main entrance room, she was surprised to see the large double doors open. The halls were still unnervingly quiet and there was no sign of the strange snow creature that had delivered her breakfast. Maren forged onward, stepping through the giant double doors and into a grand hall.

The hall felt like it yawned ever forwards, a long dining table stretched its length, ending at the back wall where the main hearth resided. A strange blue flame burnt icy facsimiles of wood logs. The heat it gave off wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but did little to warm her bones like that of a traditional flame. Maren padded around the dining table, which was set as if a host of fifty were to arrive any minute for a lavish feast. She touched an icy salad fork, picking it up and observing the fine craftsmanship before setting it back down and running a finger along an intricately folded napkin made from a lace of frost. Her eyes traveled around the room and to the many monotone paintings set in what looked like gilded frames. Finally, her eyes rested on the large family portrait above the hearth. Its tones were set in various hues of ice blue and white, but something about it allowed Maren to imagine the shocking red accents of the man’s military uniform, the soft royal purples of the woman’s dress, the fiery red of the littlest girl’s hair, and… Maren leaned forward, squinting against the unnatural blue hue of the hearth. The other girl, the one dressed in blue with hair white as a fresh snow fall. It couldn’t be. It must be…

“I thought I told you to leave.” A sharp voice like ringing glass echoed through the Great Hall.

Honeymaren whirled around. “Elsa,” she greeted in breathy surprise. The Spirit had graced her with a physical form, still clad in the same white dress as the night before. Maren’s heart leapt in her throat at the sudden arrival of the spirit, and absolutely for no other reason.

“The Snowgies informed me you had not left this morning.”

Honeymaren stifled a snort of laughter. “I’m sorry, the Snowgies?” Such an odd and funny word juxtaposed against the prim and proper mouth of the Queen sent Honeymaren into a small fit of poorly disguised laughter.

Elsa squinted her eyes in annoyance at Honeymaren’s laughter but continued on. “Yes, the little creature that delivered you your breakfast. A breakfast I had hoped would provide you sustenance for your journey home.”

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I would much rather have a full stomach before returning to a village where I will assuredly starve to death.” Yelana always did say Maren had a big mouth that would get her in trouble. Yet, Maren felt bold. Playful. Determined to melt Elsa’s frozen heart.

Elsa huffed and looked away. “My hospitality has its limits. Do not force me to summon Marshmallow.”

Honeymaren widened her eyes, incredulous at the amount of vitriol Elsa could add to such an inane name as Marshmallow. Maren couldn’t contain the large belly laugh that sprung forth. High and loud, Maren barked a peal of laughter.

Although, this was not the action to take. Elsa’s eyes hardened, her voice snapping, sharp as a branch yielding to a blanket of snow. “Why do you find everything I say so amusing?”

Maren sobered quickly at Elsa’s tone, wiping a stray tear of mirth from her eyes. The bead of liquid flicked off Honeymaren’s finger and landed somewhere on the floor of the Great Hall. Elsa twitched ever so slightly, yet Maren, eyes sharp as any hunter, cataloged the action. Water holds memory, Honeymaren recalled Elsa’s words. “What did you see? What did that show you?”

Elsa tightened the grip between her laced fingers, annoyed at the question, but did an excellent job hiding her ire. But little escaped Honeymaren’s sharp gaze. “I asked you a question first,” bit back Elsa. A voice trained in handing out demands.

“Well,” said Honeymaren, allowing her own question to stay unanswered. “Have you ever considered how unimposing the name Marshmallow is?”

Elsa huffed, and Honeymaren once again celebrated the small victory of a needle under the icy armor. Maren’s joy was quickly dashed away at the sight of a hulking snow beast. The beast easily filled the gargantuan doorway into the Great Hall. Its teeth sharpened to wicked icicles, and its hulking formed was carved from sharp angles in all the ways the Snowgies were round. It stepped forward, a menacing growl like that of a collapsing snow tunnel reverberated through the castle.

Honeymaren jumped back upending a chair in her haste to get as far away from the creature as possible. A string of profanities leapt from her mouth, which would have earned her many a cuff on the ear from Yelana. “That’s Marshmallow?!” Half screamed, half yelped Maren, clutching her chest as her heart did its best to leap out of her mouth.

Elsa’s mouth turned upward in a wicked smile, a glint like sun on broken glass shone in Elsa’s eyes. She snapped her fingers and Marshmallow vanished. Maren continued to stare at the spot Marshmallow once occupied, eyes wide like a rabbit cornered by a wolf. Elsa laughed, clear as crystal. As refreshing as a breeze through frozen branches. Maren relaxed, yet her heart leapt again, for a reason completely different to that of fear.

“Lunch will be served in the Great Hall,” stated Elsa casually, waving her hand and righting the overturned chair. She turned and exited the hall, pausing at the threshold to look back at Honeymaren “If you wish for a final meal before departing.” And in a flurry of snowflakes the Spirit vanished, leaving Honeymaren floundering.

Honeymaren wasn’t sure what to make of the Spirit. Elsa had threatened that snow beast against Maren, yet offered her lunch. Elsa held the power to end Maren’s life in the tip of her finger, yet allowed her to freely roam in the castle. Honeymaren walked around the Great Hall in a daze, contemplating the events that had transpired since her arrival at the castle. Elsa was a mystery. A dangerous, cunning, enigma. And most of all, she was a scorned Spirit. Angry as the howling winds that brought endless snow and ice to Northuldra. Elsa was a beautiful mystery and if Spring were ever to arrive, Maren needed to decipher the tangled web that was Elsa.

The hall and the castle itself held an abundance of clues to Elsa’s past life. Elsa was human once, of this Maren was sure. The portrait hung in the Great Hall was proof enough that Elsa was borne to flesh and blood like Maren. Water holds memory, echoed in Maren’s mind as she ran her fingers over the finery of the furniture, the exact cracks in masonry carved into the ice walls. No, not carved. Remembered.

Honeymaren’s hand stilled on the detailing of an upstairs door leading away from the main entryway. The way the carved brass-work seemed to lose definition the higher it crept to the ceiling. A small, imperceptible shift from startling detail to imagined craftsmanship. Maren crouched down, running her finger up, up, until she found the transition. A shiver traveled down Maren’s spine at the discovery. She noted it changed at the height of a child.

What memories built this door? Whose memory built this door?

Honeymaren fled, suddenly unnerved at the number of clues she uncovered.

Maren had hidden herself away in her new room, unsure how to process and piece together the many breadcrumbs of Elsa’s past life that littered the castle. Honeymaren scratched absently away at her journal. The pages were heavily stained with travel, wrinkled and worn. The leather bindings had seen better days, but still dutifully kept the pages contained. The charcoal in her hands stained her fingertips as Maren sketched an outline of Sunná. Her reindeer companion’s familiar form brought calm to Maren’s mind. She shaded Sunná’s haunches and added more fluff around her neck, before halting, satisfied in her likeness of her companion committed onto paper.

Honeymaren’s fingers stilled, unsure of what to draw next, though unwilling to put her charcoal down. Her eyes flitted across the room, trying to find an interesting subject of still life, but feeling empty at the thought of replicating any of the ornate furnishings of the room. Maren allowed her fingers to wander, to form a vague oval, then cut away at its curves to form a sharp jaw. A series of feathered strokes formed a braid trailing down the now emerging figure’s face. Select lines formed a suggestion of lips, quirked in that wolfish smile. Eyes, filled with dangerous mirth. Filled with sadness. Filled with anger. Filled with… Maren scratched at the page, smudging the drawing. She growled and blackened the page. It was no use. Charcoal black could never convey ice blue.

A Snowgie, as Elsa had affectionately referred to the creature, arrived in Maren’s room around noon, though the time escaped Maren. Amongst the long, dark winter days, and the unnatural glow of the castle, Maren had little clue what time it was, apart from the growl of her stomach. The Snowgie peeped and squeaked a happy dance, its simplistic features and simple round body somehow conveying a range of information and emotion. Maren tossed her journal aside and followed the creature. Apparently, it was lunch time and Honeymaren was to follow.

Maren stepped foot in the Great Hall once again, yet this time a small feast adorned the table. Elsa sat at the head of the sprawling dining table, arm propped up, holding her head, and looking outright bored at the lavish spread in front of her. The blue fire glowed behind the Spirit, casting her sharp features in an unnatural glow, shadows highlighting the curve of her jaw, the shell of her ear, the length of her fingers…

Honeymaren mentally shook herself. She instead focused on the food laid out on the table. Hunger had been a constant companion for what felt like forever. She could barely recall the last time she had seen so much food, let alone so much for only one person. Her mouth watered; she felt like a feral dog being offered a steak. Suddenly self-conscious of her travel clothes and unkempt hair at this grand feast with royalty seated at its head.

Elsa gestured for Honeymaren to sit. Maren made her way to the head of the table, choosing a seat to Elsa’s right, but tactfully leaving a chair between them.

“I have little need for food,” stated Elsa, rolling the stem of the wine glass between her long fingers. “I don’t recall ever truly enjoying it either,” reminisced Elsa. Maren tried to focus on the Spirit’s words, but the promise of food, a luxury withheld from her for so long, made concentration difficult. “I remember I was always angry that the body needed so much sustenance. It got in the way of my work and I regularly abstained. Much to the chagrin of…” Elsa trailed off, lost in thought.

Honeymaren stared down at the food, swallowing discreetly, trying to usher away the most uncouth strand of drool. She wasn’t sure about the etiquette of royalty, let alone the etiquette of spirits. If she should wait, or serve herself, or simply stare. Perhaps this was a cruel test laid out by Elsa. Of how much Maren was willing to endure for her people. How strong her will was.

Elsa blinked, startled out of her own memory upon Honeymaren’s inaction. “You may eat your fill,” stated Elsa. “I have no need for decorum. My court has long since faded into memories of the past. And the Snowgies… they never learned the intricacies of court to begin with.”

As if a sharp whistle to start a race sounded, Maren sprang into action. She deftly cut a large portion of meat off the steaming, roasted bird, spooned a mountain of flame kissed vegetables—vegetables! Green and lush! Maren wasted no time sawing off a large portion of bread, nearly placing the slice directly on her nose to inhale the comforting smell of risen yeast and freshly baked dough. Her knife dipped into the pot of butter, warm and yellow as the absent sun, spreading it along the length of the slice. A decadent amount of jam followed—again with the berries! Where had Elsa procured such finery?

Yelana would probably describe Maren as a messy eater. Honeymaren was never one to waste time on her meal, immediately locating the most efficient way to put food in her mouth chewing only enough to not choke. Though Maren would relent that she wasn’t messy, there was never a crumb wasted or carelessly dropped on the ground, or sauce spilled to the side of her face.

Ryder would describe Maren as a fast eater, if only because Ryder would grab at her portions if Maren wasn’t speedy enough to finish hers.

Elsa… well, Elsa would describe Honeymaren as an eager eater. Elsa observed Honeymaren with a wry smile. It had been such a long time since she shared a meal with anyone. Had need for any food at this table at all. Elsa watched as Honeymaren devoured her meal with the speed of a starved beast, but also, with deft restraint and skill. Elsa tracked Honeymaren’s hands as sure fingers gripped the hilt of a knife, or curled around the stem of a fork as the tines plunged into its prey, never missing their mark.

Elsa too noted the split-second long pauses of reverence Honeymaren showed. The smile on her face at the sight of jam, the sinful sound of pleasure as Honeymaren bit into a roasted vegetable—something green and living after a season of snow. Elsa frowned. Her snow. Her winter that kept the seeds frozen in the ground.

The Spirit looked away, taking a sip of her wine. It tasted ashy on her tongue, but was a welcome distraction.

Honeymaren sat back, sated, with an uncomfortable pain in her stomach, one she had not known in many months. Not of hunger, but of fullness.

Elsa noticed the stilling of Honeymaren’s actions and glanced down at the table. The other woman had made an impressive dent in the offerings in an even more impressive time. She glanced over at Honeymaren, who was casting her eyes ruefully at the remaining food, a clear wish she could share it with those back home, or at least eat more if not to waste it all. “Do not fret,” said Elsa, causing Honeymaren’s sharp eyes to snap to hers in an uncomfortable amount of scrutiny. “The scraps will go to the pigs.”

Honeymaren blinked, owlish and startled. “You have pigs?”

Elsa nodded. “And a garden.”

“A garden?!”

“I do not merely make winter,” scoffed Elsa, tutting as if talking to a child. As if talking to… Elsa shook herself, halting her line of thought. “I can also direct it away.”

Honeymaren wrestled with her sudden flare of anger. “Then why don’t you—,” Maren stuttered at the withering gaze Elsa shot her. “I mean…” Maren sat up straighter adjusting her shirt and wiping subconsciously at her clean mouth. “Can you show me?”

The sudden request caught Elsa off-guard. She had known the comment would be cruel, to stoke Honeymaren’s ire. Elsa needed to know why this woman—this lowly human was so persistent. Hers would be one of many villages frozen to the ravages of winter, lost to the past, committed only to the memory of melted snow. Why did this human—this… Honeymaren think her story would be any different?

Elsa frowned, unwilling to lose her edge over a simple question. “Perhaps I’d be willing to show you the Gardens.” Honeymaren perked up at the offer, clearly taking the concession as a win in their constant verbal sparring. Elsa smiled, sharp and cold. She still held the upper hand, and she’d make sure Honeymaren knew it. “After dessert.”

The widening of Honeymaren’s eyes, like that of a dinner plate or a dog offered a juicy bone, was all it took to know Elsa had won this match. “Dessert?!”

Elsa nodded, waving her hands and summoning the Snowgies in with a slice of chocolate cake. Her next sip of wine tasted sweet as victory on her tongue.

Honeymaren marveled at the small courtyard. Behind one of the ground floor doors was a veritable paradise, an oasis of warm and green amongst the ever-pervasive, cold, white and blue of the ice palace. In a manner that defied all time and sense, sunlight filtered in through a clear, icy glass roof, dappling the small grove of trees and sunning the patch of tilled land before her.

Near the back, a pen of livestock made a small cacophony of sounds. Two pigs, a cow, and a handful of chickens puttered around, content to forage in the grass and relax under the shade of the trees. Sunná, who had trailed behind Elsa and Honeymaren, ambled forward, eager to meet her peers, leaning over the simple wooden fence to snuffle at the unbothered cow.

Honeymaren couldn’t help but smile. It had been so long since her skin felt sun, too long since her eyes beheld such light. She reached her hand out, as if she could capture a beam of sunlight in her palm. She rotated her hand and instead stroked the delicate leaf of a berry bush, touch lighter than a whisper, as if any more would shatter the illusion and send her back into the cold tundra of winter. Maren knelt, biting back tears as she threaded her fingers through the warm grass at her knees. This was the Spring her people needed, so longed for, and here it was so casually existing like a perverse storefront display. Captured behind glass bars with an angry Winter Warden holding the keys.

Maren closed her eyes, unsure whether to turn sharply upwards and challenge the Spirit with a blade to her ethereal throat, or whether to thank the Spirit, to bow low and pepper kisses at her feet. As Honeymaren continued to kneel, she felt the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck. A hunter always knew when she was being watched. But as Maren’s fist repeatedly opened and closed around a clump up lusciously green grass, she allowed the observation. Let her watch. Let Elsa see how selfish it was to hoard away such treasures of Spring.

Surprisingly, Elsa broke the silence. While Honeymaren was usually the first to lead with a jab in the sparring ring at home, Maren allowed the Spirit to speak, the two dancing around each other in a now familiar verbal duel.

“Mother had a penchant for a green thumb, one I did not inherit. That fell more towards…” Elsa shook herself. “The Snowgies have managed the upkeep, though I rely on help from the other spirits from time to time to maintain it.”

Maren rose, dusting off her knees, almost savoring the damp that the grass left behind. “Why maintain this? You said yourself you have no need for food. Winter must call to you, why indulge in the exercise of keeping it at bay?”

Elsa’s lips pursed. Honeymaren could tell the Spirit was regretting saying so much already. But a beat of silence passed, and Elsa’s tightened jaw relaxed a hair. “It was a favor. A promise to… someone long ago.”

Honeymaren’s sharp eyes read Elsa’s defensive stance, looking for a way to widen the opening given. “And this someone…?” Maren trailed off, leaving the reigns loose and allowing Elsa to offer more if she desired.

“She… wished for me to have more than ice and snow as my companion. And for herself to have a place to indulge in on her visits.”

Honeymaren’s ears perked up. She. Who had this person been to Elsa? The words were spoken fondly. Was it tinged with the grief of mortal loss or broken ties? Maren had seen a sister and a mother in the portrait and in the projected memory the first night. Or perhaps it was a fellow spirit? A past friend yet to be uncovered? Or even, Maren dared to think, a past lover?

Maren knew her next words needed to be chosen with care, lest she break through this thin ice she stood upon and be drowned in the freezing cold. “Did she have a hand in designing this room? It is marvelous to behold.”

“Yes, she did,” stated Elsa simply. She cast her chin upwards, only a tick, allowing the sun a small stretch of additional skin. She smiled, lips turning upward a fraction. Maren watched the ligaments in Elsa’s hands relax just so, the tight clasp of her hands easing ever so slightly. Something odd struck Honeymaren. Aside from the imposing figure the ice queen gave—bright sparkling white amidst a sea of rich earthy greens—something was different. Elsa’s skin, once as translucent as the snow filled North Wind, had solidified a drop. The delicate shell of her ear no longer wavered with the breeze. The dip of her collarbone no longer felt as if it would drift away in a flurry of snow. Instead, it sat hollow, a solid shadow from the unnatural sun above stretching across the modestly exposed valley of her chest.

Honeymaren took a deep breath, like holding a spear over glittering water, still and poised to strike any fish that unwittingly swam too near. She mentally readjusted her verbal spear, gripping the wood in her mind, quietly accounting for the shift of perception of the target through the film of rippling water. Maren struck quick as a snake. “Who was she?”

Elsa clamped her jaw shut, hard lines returning to her features. Maren internally winced as she watched the fish dart away. “A memory.” Elsa closed her eyes for a beat, as if unable to behold the sight of green any longer. When the Spirit opened them, icy blue daggers met Honeymaren’s. “I believe it is time for you to return home.”

Maren dug in her heels and fought back. She had shattered the delicate moment before the arrow flew and now was in a dirty hand-to-hand brawl. “I’ll have no home to return to. No Spring such as this to look forward to. Why do you insist on sending me to a winter’s grave?”

Elsa’s eyes sparked fury, containing the same eerie blue flame as the Great Hall’s hearth. The Spirit made quick work on the distance between them, long legs propelling her into Honeymaren’s space, footsteps of frost in Elsa’s wake. Maren stumbled backwards, surprised at Elsa’s sudden movements. Elsa advanced, unyielding. The back of Maren’s knees connected with the icy wood of a bench nestled under a large, central tree.

“What makes you think I care?” snarled Elsa. “I have watched countless humans like you struggle and succumb, and countless more be borne to fill their place. Villages like yours have risen and fallen and been buried under the snow, lost to time. Lost to memory.”

Elsa raised her left hand sharp as a hawk descending on their prey. Though the motion was not to strike Honeymaren, instead a tableau of snow and ice rose from the grassy ground. The images shifted almost too fast for Maren to comprehend. A father knelt, mittened hands erecting a gravestone marker. A collection of huts in various stages of disrepair, the cold wind ripping at the loose seams, hungry to tear down the structures. A child, alone, one boot lost to the wilds, crying as the wolves howled in the distance.

Just as quickly as Elsa summoned the ice, she clenched her fist and willed it away, only a small patch of black, deadened grass left in its wake. Elsa leaned forward; an accusing finger thrust its way at Honeymaren’s shoulder. The shock of centralized cold sent Maren tumbling onto the bench. “Why do you think you differ from them? Think yourself to be more than a footnote of the past? Even my own land and country have vanished, people living in the shadow of a crumbling castle, whispering tales of old. Names of Kings and Queens, lineages lost to time and memory.”

Honeymaren knew she should be terrified. Yet, she also knew the Spirit’s strike could have been much worse. What only stung, could have been a mortal end. A flash of ice and Maren would be no longer. The restrained show of power sparked something deep within Honeymaren. A fire roared to life, challenging the wall of ice in front of her. What pain Maren had consumed and burned to stoke her own flame rang in terrible resonance with the frost Elsa brandished against her. Yet, in her wrath Maren heard a distant, crystalline ringing in her ears, like a chiming bell of a lighthouse among the fog.

Oh. A moment of crisp clarity clicked in Honeymaren’s mind, as clear as her own reflection in a polished blade. It was as if Maren could hear as hers and Elsa’s battle songs crashed against each other, rippling in syncopated waves that muted into a pool of frighteningly calm water. And so in this moment, Maren mustered the strength to speak.

“Those people, those villages,” started Honeymaren, voice steady and level even in the face of the Spirit’s full ire. “They are not lost. Not forgotten. They are remembered. As you have said, by ice and snow and water there is memory. By you they are remembered.”

Elsa growled, fists clenched at her sides, yet she took a single step back. “An unfortunate effect of my station,” bit the Spirit, averting her eyes from Maren’s.

Honeymaren was not foolish enough to think Elsa’s aversion was a concession of victory. The hunter could still see the coiled power resting just under the surface, ready to strike. But under the swirls of ice and raw power, the guilt—the anguish and pain that Elsa radiated collided sickeningly with Maren’s own. It was this resonance that Maren had so achingly connected to at first.

Honeymaren’s breath caught in her throat. She was on the precipice of something so foolish it may be considered brave. Staring down the chasm of her doom, Maren did not hesitate in taking one step forward and leaping into the abyss.

Maren surged to her feet, collecting one of Elsa’s hands in both her own. Maren marveled at the touch of skin to hers, delicate and frosty as a layer of freshly powered snow. The hand shifted within Maren’s grasp like a wisp of wind through the branches of a tree, but stilled, solidified, cold and smooth like porcelain. “Thank you,” stated Honeymaren.

Elsa remained silent, shocked eyes burned into the juncture of Honeymaren’s hands over her own.

“Thank you for remembering those lost when we cannot. And… I’m sorry.” Maren resisted the urge to raise a hand to Elsa’s exquisitely crafted chin. To soothe its sharp edges on her hand and have the ice blue of Elsa’s eyes melt in the warmth of her own. “I’m sorry you must remember alone.”

Elsa snatched her hand back as if burned. She took another step back, her figure shifted, losing definition before reforming again, as if she wished to disappear in a flurry of snow, much like all her icy creations. “The day falters,” said Elsa, turning away from Maren and staring at the patch of deadened grass. “Go. Sleep.”

Honeymaren nodded, knowing she had gained all the ground she could today. That she should be more than overjoyed she could exit this battle with her life. Maren took one last look at the Spirit, shoulders hunched in defeat, guilt written plain and clear in her features as Elsa resolutely stared at the patch of frozen grass. Maren made it halfway towards the door when Elsa’s voice rang out to her.

“Goodnight,” called Elsa, still refusing to meet the gaze of the other woman. Maren turned, watching a thin line of tension coil under the back of the Spirit’s shoulders. “Sleep well… Honeymaren.”

Maren’s knees nearly buckled, the sound of her name tumbling from Elsa’s lips was unexpected to say the least. Her name rang true and crystal and pierced Maren’s heart with the thrilling chill of the first snowfall of winter—before the cold sets, and one only needed to marvel at the fractalline beauty of snow.

“Goodnight, Elsa,” called back Honeymaren, her heart soaring at the slight twitch in Elsa’s shoulder. More evidence that Elsa was human. That Elsa had emotions beyond rage and anger. That under the frosty fury of the Spirit, there was hurt and pain and loss. From that, Honeymaren knew that Elsa desired. And it was Maren’s mission to deliver Elsa’s desire and herald in Spring.

Chapter Text

3. Strike for love and strike for fear

Honeymaren awoke once again to a tray of breakfast carried in by a Snowgie. Maren accepted the gift and thanked the small snowman, which caused the Snowgie to trill with extra excitement as it bounced happily out the door. Maren noted that Elsa must have observed Maren’s fondness for fresh berries and had offered a bowl piled high with fresh fruit accompanied by a pot of tart, honey drizzled yoghurt, and a slice of warmed bread.

Maren had been quite sated with her large feast yesterday and allowed herself a rare moment of calm as she ate her bowl of berries, savoring the sweetness on her tongue. There was no Elsa to observe, no Yelana to scold her manners as she licked the juice from her hands instead of wiping them on a napkin, and there was especially no Ryder with his greedy fingers trying to steal her share. The thought sobered Maren from her enjoyment, she could only hope her brother still drew breath, that while she dined on berries and fresh vegetables, her people were fighting to see another day.

Sunná snorted, breaking Maren from her dark thoughts. There was, however, an eager reindeer that wanted a taste too. Maren laughed and tossed a small handful of berries towards Sunná, who gratefully cleaned them off the floor. Honeymaren tossed back her tea and polished the last of the yoghurt with a scrap of bread. She had a job to do. Find what Elsa desired. Find what would ease the Spirit’s anger and bring about the start of Spring. Easy.

Yesterday had been a revelation in the mystery that was Elsa. Honeymaren had learned much of Elsa’s human past, of stringing together the clues left behind in this remembered facsimile of Elsa’s old castle. Honeymaren also felt emboldened, thrilled at the victory of battle and the singing of her blood as she skirted the line of death. Maren had watched a shade of color return to Elsa’s face and extracted a small wealth of information from her lips. Honeymaren had even gotten Elsa to use her name. Her name! Sweet as a berry on her tongue. Her chest warmed with what could only be a sense of pride in a job well done.

Honeymaren rose and did her best to tame her hair back into a manageable braid, but still frowned at her messy locks in the icy mirror. Huffing with annoyance she conceded this one defeat and instead placed her hat snug around her head to hide the worst of the infractions. Maren chided herself. She must be getting more self-conscious spending so many hours around Elsa the Royal, a stark difference to her usual days with only a reindeer for company.

Maren padded out into the main entry room. She planned to re-examine the Great Hall, let Sunná graze the Garden, and perhaps see if any other doors branching from the entry room would open for her.

Instead, she was greeted with Elsa. The Spirit stood near the center of the room, poised in her usual ramrod straight posture against the backdrop of the icy lectern. No remaining vestiges of yesterday’s battle hung on her shoulders. Upon noticing Honeymaren, Elsa pointed one elegant finger in the direction of a now open door. “Bathing chambers.”

Honeymaren colored, pulling her hat down as far as the material would allow. “I…” Maren swallowed the protests and excuses and instead, she said, “Thank you.”

Elsa nodded, not pressing the issue. It seemed Honeymaren’s embarrassment was enough of a win for Elsa in itself. “The Snowgies can launder your clothes as you wash.”

Honeymaren hurried away, unwilling and unable to continue the conversation further. Even the greatest of hunters understood the value of a tactile retreat.

Maren found herself in another lavish room. Much like the rest of the castle, the bathing room was no exception. Frost-laced curtains hung from the ceiling, providing privacy around the facsimile of a large, iron-wrought tub. An ice-carved vanity of what Maren figured was from a memory of wood and delicately hammered brass held a variety of different soaps and oiled scents. As Honeymaren sifted through the many phials, four Snowgies bumbled into the room, hopping and chirping in their usual jovial fashion.

Honeymaren regarded the strange creatures. They were incapable of speech, save the happy trills and peeps, and were crafted with much more simplicity than that of the rest of the castle. Merely simple, round snowballs stacked on each other, adorned with pleasant coal eyes and a gash of a mouth set in a welcoming smile, an errant square of snow denoting a tooth. Something a child would draw. The Snowgies were unperturbed at Maren’s blatant staring. They burbled and bounced in place, one Snowgie even absentmindedly spun in a slow circle, humming a nonsense tune while balanced upon its round snow foot.

The Snowgies were most certainly here to fetch Honeymaren’s clothes, but Maren hesitated. She wasn’t shy about her body. Living in close quarters did not afford one much privacy or modesty, but it did lead Maren to wonder just how the Snowgies were connected to Elsa. Were they her eyes and ears just as much as they were her helping hands around the castle? In fact, did the Snowgies themselves have a sense of decency towards the human form?

One Snowgie sneezed, a small smattering of snowflakes clouding around the air in front of it, and distracting Maren from her odd line of inquiry. Honeymaren quickly settled on the answer that the Snowgies were no more nefarious than a band of puppies and eagerly rid herself of her travel worn clothes. The band of small snowmen took the bundle of clothes without complaint, happily bumbling away, though a few got caught in Maren’s jacket and tumbled to the ground in the process.

Finally alone, Maren stared down at the water. It steamed pleasantly, inviting her in. A quick swirl of her hands to diffuse a couple drops of lavender oil confirmed that even contained in a vessel of pure ice, the bath water itself was luxuriously warm. While running her hand through the water, a wicked thought popped into Honeymaren’s head.

Water held memory.

Then remember this, grinned Maren.

Honeymaren climbed into the tub, eagerly letting the warm water hug her every curve. Maren absently wondered if Elsa was somewhere in the castle, red faced and embarrassed. Someone raised in such a rigid world of etiquette and court politics must balk at the naked form, figured Maren. It gave her immense joy to think of a simple bath as a victory in her never ending fight with the Winter Spirit. What Honeymaren would pay to see such a prim and proper Queen lose her stately composure at a mere slip of an ankle. To see her poise undone.

Maren submerged her head, washing out the scented hair soap, and to keep her thoughts and hands from straying dangerously too far. She had a mission to attend to, and playing with Elsa’s probably prudish sensibilities was not going to aid Maren on that mission. Or was it?

Honeymaren shook herself again. Yelana would have her head if she knew what errant thoughts bounced around Maren’s skull. The mission. Elsa’s desire. What could Maren give that the Spirit could not simply conjure from ice and snow? Maren thought of the palace and of its many sealed doors, wondering at why Elsa had so readily allowed her to see the rooms currently opened, and if the key to learning her desire was hidden behind one of them.

As Maren scrubbed off the days of grime and grit of her travels, she cataloged the many objects in the castle she had observed. There were very few personal effects, only the royal commissioned paintings of Elsa’s family seemed to hold any clues. Elsa alluded to being queen of a country, and if her court ascribed to the foreign monarchies the Elders told histories of, she must have inherited her land from her father. The other sister in the portraits and in the projected memory was undoubtedly Elsa’s younger sister. To what end the mysteries of their relationship held, Maren still did not know.

Honeymaren’s room, as far as she could tell, seemed to be that of a simple guest room. No objects, ice-made or not, were hidden in the dresser drawers or hung upon the walls. The Great Hall, too, was impersonal at best. Finery meant to impress visiting statesmen and common folk, their value cold and monetary. It was clear Elsa did not desire wealth or abundance, she seemed to look on such things with almost a disdain, as made clear during their lunch together.

The Garden, though! What a thing of awe and wonder. Maren was certain there was more to uncover. Elsa spoke so fondly of the place. Did she perhaps desire greenery and growth that she herself could not conjure?

The closed doors continued to tug at Maren’s curiosity. What other secrets existed beyond them? And the one door, so ornately carved—so startlingly remembered—Maren corrected herself. Why was it so hauntingly detailed only to the extent of a few feet above the ground?

Honeymaren’s thoughts were halted as the Snowgies piled back in, burbling and chirping as they held a stack of freshly laundered clothes aloft. Maren blinked. The time had gotten away from her, the water was still as warm as the minute she entered, yet her fingers had started to prune. It had been so long since she had indulged in a bath outside of frigid streams, she protested leaving the delicious, muscle relaxing warmth. But there was still a mission to attend to and the mystery of Elsa to solve. Though, graciously, Maren could now proceed with a clean body and clean set of clothes.

Maren slipped the clothes over herself and inhaled the unfamiliar floral scent. It was much the same smell as the fancy bath oils and soaps, and was a far cry from the usual smell of reindeer musk and pine trees. Once clothed, the Snowgies jumped and tittered, spinning around, in what Maren guessed was their way of asking her to follow them. And so she did, back out of the bathing chambers, into the main foyer, and back into the Great Hall.

Honeymaren was greeted yet again by a spread of food with Elsa at the head of the table. Elsa thanked the Snowgies and dismissed them with a wave of her hand, disappearing them in a flurry of snow. As Honeymaren walked nearer, Elsa flicked two of her fingers, pulling out a chair, and biding Maren to sit in a wordless command.

Emboldened and determined to make progress with Elsa, Honeymaren resolutely ignored the command and pulled out the chair direct to Elsa’s right, seating herself rebelliously close. If Maren was feeling particularly brazen (and stupid) she could reach out and brush Elsa’s hand on her way to grabbing the pitcher of wine.

Maren smiled in greeting, her teeth bared in a challenge, yet Elsa did not rise to it, merely shifting slightly out of Maren’s space and raising her wine glass in a silent toast before taking a sip.

“As before, please, eat your fill.” Elsa gestured to the food, more conservatively plated this time. As if Maren’s saddened face at the previous amount of leftovers had changed Elsa’s behavior. But that thought was ridiculous, admonished Maren. The first meal was meant to astound and impress. To have the abundance be a show of power.

Honeymaren ladled herself a bowl of soup, marveling at the bright orange carrots and verdant green leaves that swirled in the broth. She broke off a piece of bread and made to dunk it in the bowl, commencing her efficient clearing of her meal. But Maren stopped, hand suspended midway to her bowl. She set the piece of bread down. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Elsa observed Maren with rapt attention, poorly disguised behind her own wine glass.

Maren picked up another bowl, again, ladling out a portion, careful not to spill a drop of precious food, and extended it to Elsa. “Will you not share in a meal with me?”

Elsa startled, and Maren internally cheered. An unseated and surprised opponent was one prone to mistakes, to showing their vulnerabilities. “As I have mentioned, I have no need of food.”

“But you do drink,” stated Maren, nodding to the glass of wine. “You must still have the ability to eat, if not out of necessity, then of choice?”

Elsa narrowed her eyes, suspicion evident on her features. Maren wondered if Elsa had royal tasters as her time as Queen. Wondered at how many treaties were negotiated over an elegant steamed trout or extravagant rack of lamb. The silence was deafening and Maren struggled to keep her resolve. She worried her brazenness had gone too far. Pushed Elsa too soon. That the Spirit would slip from her fingers like a gust of wind. Thankfully, blessedly, Elsa acquiesced. “It is true, I have the ability to sup if I so chose. Though, it has been many years since anyone has given me a reason to make that choice.”

Maren extended the bowl to Elsa, almost allowing their hands to touch on the exchange, so close Honeymaren could feel the cold emanating off of the tips of Elsa’s fingers, sending a small shiver up Maren’s spine.

Elsa took a dainty spoonful, barely enough to call it a bite, yet Maren marveled at the precise action of it all. As a child, Maren delighted in watching their village’s craftspeople weave baskets, work metal, and carve wood, yet the grace Elsa displayed seemed to dwarf it all. Elsa’s eyes met hers, and Maren cursed internally. Now she was the one caught off guard.

“If I may be so bold,” said Maren, fighting to not get straight to the business of her food and save their verbal sparring match for after she was well and sated. “May I ask you some questions?”

“I fear only the eternal silence of ice would stop you from asking,” replied Elsa, bored and uninterested, making it clear she could end this conversation and Honeymaren’s life with a curl of her finger.

Maren readjusted her shield. She had run a gambit play, unsteady and now on the defensive, she had to salvage what footing remained. “Has anyone come before me? Visited you as I have?”

“If you are asking if other mortals have so foolishly set foot in this place, the answer is yes. Though none returned to tell the tale.”

“Yet you feed and house me?

“You still have not returned to tell your tale,” countered Elsa plainly, taking another sip of soup, expression unconcerned as deftly she ran literary circles around Maren.

Honeymaren knew she was out of her depth. She excelled with the use of her body, not her words. She was a fighter, a hunter. Not a politician or a master of tongues.

“There are rumors, that if you bring a spirit what they desire, they will gift you a boon.”

“There are always unfounded rumors.”

“As I dine on the finest of foods and sleep sheltered from the cold, my people do not get to say the same. As an emissary, I have been sent to ask to herald in Spring.” Honeymaren winced at her lack of tact. She knew sparring wit and words with Elsa would be a losing game. That she should cut her losses and cut to the chase. To salvage what little ground she had and regroup her strategy in the debris-laden battlefield after the fact.

“And you can return to your people, proud that you have done what they bade. You made your request.”

“I can’t return with a denied a request.”

“Then you cannot return,” shrugged Elsa.

“It will be to the death of my people, of all who suffer in your lands. Under your winter,” spoke Maren, her anger rising. Nothing Honeymaren seemed to do or say moved Elsa from her indifference to the suffering she caused.

Elsa set down her spoon, controlled, still dainty and as expected of court, but with a force that suggested she could’ve split the table in two if she so desired. There was only the slight tensing of Elsa’s jaw that warned Maren she had made one too many clumsy blunders of speech. “And I have asked you why you think yourself so special? Why your lands should be saved when all others succumb, if not to Winter, then to the ravages of time.” Elsa turned her chair to fully face Maren, the scrape of ice on ice threateningly harsh against the silence of the palace. “Have you once thought in that small, deluded, mortal, self centered mind that I am helping you? Does this constant cycle of suffering not grate on your soul? That if this winter continued, no new life could spring, and no new terrible memories could form. That I have the power to stop it all now from never happening again? That this is an act of grace to be embraced?”

Maren’s clumsy tongue had gotten herself backed into this frightening corner, there was no way out. So, like a beast cornered, she lashed out indiscriminately. “And what? You would be the great and powerful ruler of a barren land. The sole keeper of the histories of ghosts? And you would live out your days hiding in this castle, with the hate of all other Spirits for disrupting the balance? I may be small and mortal, as you say, but I would never be as self centered as you.”

Elsa stood, her ire on fully display. Dangerously calm, Elsa leaned over Honeymaren, planting her hands on Maren’s armrests. “You speak of desires, no? You parade in here playing hero of the village, grand detective, thinking you of all people can ease the woes of decades of hurt?”

“At least I am trying,” bit back Maren, matching fury with fury. If this was to be her end, may it be said she did not go without a fight. “Not giving up. Not doing nothing, and letting everyone and everything I love die.”

“What do you deign to know about my desires?” hummed Elsa, wicked and low. “I am sure your people have told stories around the fire of the evil of some spirits. Those that wander the dark forests, filled with an eternal hunger. Those that wear the skins of friends only to steal the souls of betrayed companions, leaving them to forever wander a plane between life and death. Those that gorge themselves on the flesh of babes and drink of the blood of virgins?”

“Are you such a spirit?” challenged Maren, steadfast, though the temperature of the room caused her to shiver. She straightened her spine, even as the fear crept steadily up it.

Elsa smiled, sharp, dangerous. “I could be, if you wanted. I could ask for your heart, still beating and warm. I could ask for your flesh, unyielding and unabashed. I could even freeze you in a statue and use you as a coat hanger, mind still aware as you rot in the dungeon. And you would give it all.”

“I would,” agreed Honeymaren, schooling the tremor out of her voice. Forcing herself to keep her space, her face close enough to feel the cold of Elsa’s breath. “For my brother, for my people, I would give all of me, unto the very unraveling of my bones.” There was an achingly long stretch of silence that hung between them, the air crackling and snapping with cold frost. Both stood firm, and finally, Maren hefted her shield up and pushed back, its metal reinforced spikes relenting against the body of her attacker. “But you do not ask. You will not ask. These are not your desires.”

Elsa’s eyes furrowed dangerously, but the temperature in the room returned to normal, the frost abated, and the strange blue fire of the hearth resumed its cheery crackling. Elsa refused to sit back down or pull away, and Maren mirrored the sentiment. Still they sat locked in battle, faces a mere hair’s breath apart.

“Perhaps they are not my desires,” stated Elsa, out of tricks, but still not ceding a full win. She raised her hand, and Maren resolutely schooled away a flinch. Carefully, lightly, almost reverently, Elsa raised her hand to the side of Maren’s lips, the pad of her thumb skating against the supple skin and leaving the tingle of gentle frost behind. “You had a crumb of bread.” And before Honeymaren could process Elsa’s smirk, the Spirit vanished in a flurry of snow, leaving Maren and two bowls of stone cold soup in her wake.

Chapter Text

4. All stories in the end

Honeymaren spent the next days at the palace in tense silence. She was certain she had foolishly upset Elsa enough to spell her demise, yet even as Maren wandered the castle, she was not struck down. Breakfast still appeared, delivered by the Snowgies, and a small offering of lunch and dinner would also magically appear in the Great Hall. Sunná was not forgotten either, and her feed and area was kept stocked and swept. Even the bath water was replenished and kept warm and clean. Although Elsa remained hidden, the Snowgies seemed to be near Maren’s side anytime she needed anything.

The evening after Elsa’s threatening outburst, Maren spent it in pure fear, certain the mission was doomed, and that even if she was able to fall into an uneasy sleep, she wouldn’t wake to see another day. Curiously, despite Elsa’s ire, the day passed without consequence. And so did the next day.

Even more curious, the day after next, Maren awoke to find a new door in the castle had opened.

Honeymaren stood on the threshold of the newly revealed room, her feet rooted in place by either fear or excitement, she knew not. The room before her was grand, almost as large as the Great Hall and just as lavish. Rows and rows of warmly rendered bookshelves littered the room, and in its center sat a glowing hearth, within nestled the now familiar blue flames. Around the fire, and scattered throughout what Maren could plainly see was the Library, were plush chairs made from the same remembered icy craftsmanship of the rest of the castle, though Maren now knew from experience would still feel just as comfortable as soft fabric.

Tempted by the exploration into Elsa’s past life, Maren wrestled with the thought that this might be the final room Maren would ever explore. That perhaps this was the end of Elsa’s good graces and she would decide to seal Honeymaren in this room forever.

Maren shook herself and settled her resolve. She had a mission to accomplish, and she had no reason to believe this was a trap set by Elsa, when the Spirit could so easily freeze Maren to death, or simply bar the main castle doors.

The feature that stuck Maren as most odd was, aside from the Garden, this room held the first non-ice items she had seen in the castle. Books! Rows and rows of books! Real books made of leather and paper, string and wood. Stacked high into the shelves, some areas bursting in their quantities, though still kept the semblance that all were meticulously cataloged and kept in their places.

Cautiously, Honeymaren pulled a book from the shelf, its spine creaking as Maren opened it carefully, almost as if she expected a feral beast to spring from between its pages. Maren flipped through gingerly, keenly aware of the yellow and crackling pages. The dense text was illegible, written in a language either too old or too distant for Maren to know. Setting it back in its place, Maren picked another random shelf and another random book. This one looked more modern than the last, with green leather and a golden embossed cover depicting a dragon. The few words that were printed were again in a language unfamiliar to Maren, but she could still tell this book contained a sort of fairy tale. The colorful and masterfully illustrated artwork depicted far off places, the brush strokes rendering daring sword fights and magic spells. Maren flipped through further, gathering the main vein of the story. About halfway through, when a sort of princely figure in disguise cast off their cloak, a voice sounded behind Maren.

Startled, Honeymaren dropped the book she held and it fell with an ungraceful thump upon the icy floor. Maren whirled around to find Elsa, lounging on one of the chairs in front of the hearth. The Spirit’s form wavered in front of her, the blue light of the fire glinting through her skin. Honeymaren blinked in surprise, but didn’t dare speak, worried her very breath would cause Elsa to disappear. With an annoyed flick of her wrist, Elsa summoned a small flurry of snow that lifted the fallen fairy tale and placed it back on the shelf. Maren, though, refused to turn to watch the book, eyes fixed on Elsa, unsure if the Spirit would pounce or flee.

Finally, Elsa spoke, her voice sounding far away, like wind swept through a snowy chasm. “Our last… discussion showed me that you are ignorant of the history of this land. Of all the others to have come before you, of all the Winters that have passed. I must admit,” said Elsa the restless snow flurry of her form stilling a fraction, “You intrigue me, Honeymaren.”

Maren clenched her jaw in an attempt to school away the shiver that came from hearing her name on Elsa’s lips, but Honeymaren could tell Elsa tracked the small movement with her keen, blue eyes.

Elsa continued on, leaving her observation unspoken. “You curse me and my long winter, yet in the same breath you thank me for being a guardian to the memories of those lost. You ask me to name my desires, yet cannot name desires of your own past that of duty towards your people. And even in this dark, endless winter you hold a flame of hope. Hope that this cycle will be different than the last, that even if this one winter would end, that all of Northuldra will not eventually go the same path of loss—be it against foes or the slow ebbing of time. You forget your history, doomed to repeat, and in so I believe you do not understand the terrible mercy I am granting this land.”

Maren floundered. Elsa spoke to her in a way she hadn’t before and Honeymaren did not know how to respond. It wasn’t their usual battle, no show of fangs or force, or even of guilt and hurt. It was simply like a weary soldier, laying their head in the trenches of a long, impossibly drawn out siege. “Mercy?” said Maren, her voice cracking into a whisper. “Extinguishing the last embers of hope should never be a considered a mercy, Elsa.”

The Spirit closed her eyes. With a slow shake of her head, she muttered as if to herself, “The naivety of youth. It still confounds me how she—how you… how you humans can hold so much hope in spite of things.” Elsa snapped her fingers and a book descended onto the table in a gust of snow and ice.

Honeymaren spared a glance over to the large, leather-bound tome, but as Maren’s eyes flicked back to Elsa, the Spirit disappeared with a whisper of wind and a flurry of snowflakes.

Maren starred long and hard at the chair Elsa had vanished from, as if expecting the Spirit to reappear with frost and fury, with her first appearance being merely a ruse to lower Maren’s defenses. But nothing of the sort came to be. Eventually, Maren tore her eyes away and went to inspect the book that Elsa had brought out. Surprisingly, this tome was written in a language Maren was intimately familiar with. Her fingers danced across the raised letters on the cover as she read aloud, her voice slow and clumsy as it traversed the unfamiliar word: “Arendelle.”

In smaller text below that, she read, “A History of its Land and Peoples.” Seized with a burning curiosity, Maren sat and opened the book, wondering aloud to herself, “What’s an Arendelle?”

“I read the book,” stated Maren, crossing the expanse of the Great Hall with purposeful strides. Elsa’s only response was a slight raise of her eyebrow, looking at Honeymaren over her customary glass of wine. Maren pulled up her usual seat to Elsa’s immediate right and began serving herself dinner without preamble from the modestly stocked table. As Maren buttered some toast and placed a thick slice of cheese upon it, she continued to speak. “I read about your kingdom, how it was nestled by the ocean, among the fjords far away from here. How it prospered and grew. How you ruled with strength and fairness. How you created treaties and trade with all people and, to my surprise, with my ancestors even. Though we remember our history more through the passing of words, and I believe the old songs have since forgotten the name of your fair land. Of Arendelle.”

Upon hearing the name of her long-forgotten kingdom, Elsa’s grip on the stem of her glass tightened, teetering on breaking. Elsa knew what she was doing when she opened the library and showed Honeymaren the history books. But Elsa didn’t realize how visceral it would be to hear another speak about her homeland after so many years convinced she was the sole mind left on this Earth that even knew its name.

Honeymaren’s ever-searching eyes observed Elsa’s reaction and though Maren didn’t understand fully why Elsa had handed her a key in the form of this history book to her castle walls during a siege—no, not a key, a battering ram—Maren pushed forth, splintering the wood of the gate and entering the outer circle of the fortress. “Yes, and I read about your parents and their tragic loss on the seas and of your sister. Of Anna, Steward to the city. Of how she lead both with you and later in your stead. How she was beloved by all, a friend of the peoples. The Light of Arendelle.”

Upon the mention of Anna’s name, Maren saw Elsa’s body go taut as a bowstring. The Spirit’s usual composure gone, with no semblance of hiding the grief and ruin the name brought. The very atoms of Elsa’s body flickered and faded for a moment, caught between the desire of Winter and the trappings of humanity.

Maren pushed further, steel and arrow clamoring against the inner fortress gate. “And I read of the account of the abdication of the throne by Queen Elsa, of her travels to an unknown place far away, never to be seen again. I read of Queen Anna’s reign, blessed and prosperous. Of her kin, and I tried to commit her lineage and their deeds to memory. But they were many, and they were great. And I read every word until the end of the tome, as the kingdom splintered amicably, breaking into smaller city states under more minor rulers. And I continued to read as the accounts became less frequent and grandiose, as the city states and rulers bent to the progression of time and the name of Arendelle was modified, and changed, and rewritten. Until, finally, I turned the last page and the history ceased to be recorded.”

Maren looked at Elsa. No more did Elsa appear as the imposing Fifth Spirit, but instead a weary woman. A queen bereft of crown and family. Before Maren lay an open fortress, the city walls breached, and she need only to walk to the front doors of the castle and knock. “I read long into the night and into the next day, and now I sit here before you with a question.”

Elsa was quiet for a long stretch. “Then ask it of me,” murmured Elsa, accepting of the fate she had put upon herself in showing Honeymaren the book.

“Why?”

“I left because my people, because the land of Arendelle, deserved a ruler that could devote themselves fully. My station as the Fifth Spirit did not allow—”

“No,” cut in Maren. “Not why you left Arendelle. Although, I know the answer you were going to give would be much lacking as well. But that’s a different question. No, I ask: why did you show me the book? Why did you want me to read this history? Your history?”

Elsa frowned, a deep crease forming between her brows. Elsa herself did not fully understand why she had shown Honeymaren the book. Indeed, Elsa did not know why she suffered the company of this human for as many days as she had. Lesser men had only lasted a day or two before Elsa locked them out, tiring of them, or they incited her wrath enough for her to dispose of the remainder of their short lives. But even Elsa had admitted that Honeymaren intrigued her. But to what end?

“You repeatedly fail to understand my desires. My desire to cease this unending cycle. To put an end to the pain and misery experienced by all good things. As I said before, you do not understand history, you do not understand all the hurts that are doomed to repeat. I am a Lord of Winter. A Queen of Ice and Snow. I cannot break the cycle with unending happiness and light. I can only do as I have done for centuries: bring death and cold and destruction.”

“And what?” challenged Maren, feeling at an advantage in the sparring of words for the first time since setting foot in this icy castle. This is a battlefield they’ve both entered before. But this time, Maren had scouted the field, understood the terrain. “Because such a great kingdom of Arendelle can fall to the ruins of time, you would permit no other land to prosper?”

“Yes, you yourself are proving my point. If no other lands prosper, then no other lands will fall to ruin. No rebirth. No chance of new heartbreak. It is as I said before, a cruel mercy.”

Maren summoned the words of Yelana, channeled the many tactful adages of the tribe Elders. “A mountain felled by the flowing of the river, does not mean the summit was low, or the rocks weak. Only that the river will bring more plenty in the coming years.”

“Rivers, mountains, fish,” scoffed Elsa. “All things living must suffer to be, and all things will suffer at the end.”

Elsa’s circling words angered Honeymaren. She couldn’t understand how a being supposedly as wise and all-powerful as the Fifth Spirit couldn’t see the value of life, of joy, no matter how rent from the jaws of sorrow. She threw a silent apology to Yelana and all the Elders. Words were never Maren’s forte.

It was Maren’s turn to scoff. “Coward.”

And it was as if Honeymaren threw dry grass on smoldering embers, Elsa’s eyes jumped to fury, burning cold, blue, and bright as the hearth behind her. “It would excuse you to remember whose house you reside in,” spoke Elsa, her voice as dangerous as shattered glass.

“I do not forget. I reside in a house of a coward.” Maren had seen Elsa bare her fangs before, but this time Maren was not afraid. She saw the fear behind the sharpened claws, so cleverly disguised as wrath and righteousness, but not changing the fact that Elsa was indeed scared. But of what? What was so great and powerful that it made the Fifth Spirit cower? What frightened Elsa so, that she felt the need to cover the whole land in eternal snow?

Frost crept up around Maren’s shoes and spread along the length of the table. “You read the history of Arendelle and all that it was, and even its might could not stand the test of time nor the unforgiving seasons. What makes you think your tiny, inconsequential village could ever do the same? That any good that would come from its existence for another short season would equalize the centuries of pain this land has endured?”

“I would never be so foolish or self centered as to compare my people to those of a memory.”

“After all you have read and learned, you still call me self centered?” spluttered Elsa. “The insolence.” She stood up, turning from Maren and fazing out of perception, readying herself to disappear in a flurry of snowflakes.

“You make to leave because you know I’m right,” shot Maren. She’d force sense into Elsa’s head even if it meant holding her down in a barrage of punches, even as her fists froze to ice. “Why did you show me the book? It wasn’t to teach me a lesson on suffering. I am a child of this Earth, as you too are. Because despite the trappings of your station, you once understood humanity. Walked as one of us.

“I ask again, why did you show me the book? Why did you teach me of your family and the love and joys and accomplishments they held? You understood, as I do, of happiness and sorrow and how one cannot exist without the other, no matter how we wish it to be so. I desire not the ending of Winter, but of the continuation of the seasons. I desire to exist with my kin and to be surrounded by the love of my family for as long as I’m able. Is their end—the ceasing of all living things—really what you desire? Is this your selfish, deluded wish? To be Lord of Nothing? To have no joy, and be the sole bearer of misery?”

“No!” growled back Elsa. The room had become dark, no strange fire burned, and a sheen of frost clung on all surfaces and to every fiber of Maren’s clothes. “If you would finally bear to pull your head down and the clouds out of your ears, you would have heard my desires plain and simple. I desire for the cycle of suffering to end. For Winter to no longer rip away the joy of Summer from the people. For my—for the world’s suffering to end.”

Maren pulled deep, angry breaths. Clouds of frost plumed from her mouth and nose. Elsa stood imposing and tall, glittering with jewels of jagged ice. The moment hung between them for seconds or days, neither could tell, until at last the bubble seemed to pop, and both Elsa and Maren lowered their shoulders in a resigned sigh.

“We are at an impasse,” stated Elsa.

“I suppose so,” acquiesced Maren, knowing full well that Elsa could freeze her dead and win this argument. That something was keeping Elsa from realizing her supposed desires of ending the suffering of the world in a perpetual winter. But the question still remained in Maren’s mind: Why the book? If not to highlight the rise and fall of nations, as Elsa had stated, then why?

Something slow and rusty clicked into place in Maren’s mind, back in the recesses she usually dared not delve. But like a persistent seed buried under darkness for so long, it started to bloom forth. Maren connected to something achingly familiar in Elsa’s gaze, and so she reached out like a tentative sprout to the cracks of sun.

“If you’re so set on this being the last winter,” said Maren, a whisper, as if soothing a spooked reindeer. “That this is to be the merciful end of things, as you put it. Then perhaps, just once, after so many winters, you’d like to spend this winter not alone, but with company.”

Elsa regarded Honeymaren silently for a long while, not responding or giving anything else away in poise or stature. Then, silently she disappeared in a flurry of snow, leaving Maren behind, alive. And to that, Maren grinned. She would consider it a victory.

Chapter Text

5. A quiet sort of comfort (The eye of the storm)

The days passed quiet and slow. Honeymaren hated it. Everyday spent unproductive was another day Ryder and all her people inched closer to a cold death. There was nothing more that Maren wanted than to return to Northuldra, but she had indeed reached an impasse with Elsa. The Spirit seemed to come to a silent agreement with Maren, allowing her to reside freely in the castle, but no longer did she sit for meals with Maren or talk much at all to her companion, aside from a greeting or an efficient and brusque ending to any attempts at conversation. Elsa was quick to flit away in a flurry of snowflakes when Maren drew near, and Maren did not pursue, lest she break the delicate agreement between them.

Although, once or twice Maren had stumbled into the library as Elsa lounged with a book. And the two read separately, in tense, though amicable silence, with only a short hello in the form of Honeymaren’s full name against Elsa’s lips.

Honeymaren spoke much to Sunná, her ever faithful companion. She recounted stories about Ryder and Yelana, and even attempted to construct some fantastical stories of her own. Ever did the reindeer silently listen, content to graze in the greenery of the courtyard or splay in the shade of a tree as her master chattered on. The fact made Maren chuckle. Usually, Ryder was the talkative one, much to Maren’s annoyance. But the icy castle felt so vast, and she had only her own voice as comfort. The company of a reindeer, no matter how faithful, was no match to that of a human. Maren missed her home, and worried constantly about the matter with Elsa. She feared she would never be able to convince the Spirit to allow the ushering of Spring. That this castle would be her tomb and she was to spend the long years of her remaining mortal life in this comfortable prison while her people withered away, only to be remembered in the ice and snow of her Warden.

Maren filled her sketchbook with drawings of the castle and continued to halfheartedly explore, but generally felt resigned in the failure of her mission. Honeymaren knew she could not deliver any physical desires to the Spirit—none that is, that Elsa couldn’t craft herself. And despite the initial ominous threats Elsa gave about desires of blood, heart, or hair, Maren was now certain they were meant only to frighten and gave no weight to their words. Although Elsa claimed her desire was to end suffering, Maren knew that could not be the entirety of it, since Elsa continued to allow Maren free reign of the castle, despite Maren’s constant efforts to remind Elsa of the good worth fighting for in the world. And so Maren was left with many questions.

Through her interactions with Elsa, Maren had guessed the Spirit to be lonely, that is if a solitary creature such as a spirit of winter could feel alone. But something in the indescribable kindred feeling she felt towards Elsa told Maren that the Spirit desired a connection of sorts. Was that all Elsa desired? A companion that was not made of snow? A friend? Something more? Maren shook herself. Again, deluding her mind with silly notions of attraction. Spirits most certainly did not think of partnerings in the same way as humans do. Though wasn’t it Maren herself who said pointed out that Elsa once walked as a human, that she was borne of flesh and blood to mortal parents? Honeymaren dashed the idea away, too heady and tangled in her own muddled thoughts to consider it in the moment.

Maren knew Elsa felt sorrow and guilt. It was plain to see when any mention of Anna or Arendelle came up. She hurt deeply, and of this Maren could relate. Maren didn’t know how she might cope with the loss of Ryder, or of her village. But she wondered how long a timeless creature such as Elsa had held onto these hurts. Had suffered alone, in silence, twisting these hurts into the formidable Winter Wind that Elsa was today. Honeymaren absently turned a page in her book, too caught up in her musings to notice she hadn’t read the last ten.

And so the days passed. The Snowgies never failed to bring Honeymaren sustenance, easily finding her in the courtyard, amongst the stacks of books in the library, or in her room. The Snowgies always carried a curated tray of food—whether it be breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Rarely did Maren take her food in the Great Hall, its imposing size was unnerving when dining alone.

It was perhaps a week since Maren and Elsa had forged their uneasy agreement (Honeymaren, in her constant anxiety had stopped keeping track of the blending days), when Maren walked into the library, intent on finishing the most fascinating tale of a band of pirates in the open seas. Elsa sat in her favoured chair, and barely glanced up to greet Honeymaren, but the word that tumbled from her mouth had the other women stopped dead in her tracks.

Maren had slowly gotten used to Elsa calling her by her full name. The syllables no longer struck her heart, or caused her stomach to flutter, or her gait to falter. But no, the familiar long syllables from Elsa’s mouth halted short.

“Good evening, Maren.” Elsa spoke so absently, absorbed by the pages on her own book. But Maren was struck dumb, recalling the words from her own lips from what felt like eons ago. ‘My name is Honeymaren. Maren, if you’re my friend.’ If Elsa noticed the other woman’s distress, she did not comment on it, and instead turned a page in her book. Names were of importance to spirits, further recalled Maren.

All intentions of reading her own book were dashed, and Maren sat in a quiet anxiety, her body humming as if alight. She had chosen a chair further away, as was custom, but was unable to comprehend a single word of text in her open book. Maren kept stealing glances at Elsa, unsure what to make of the use of her nickname. Surely, she was overreacting. A simple slip of the tongue. But Elsa was not one to misstep or misuse words lightly. Honeymaren replayed the sound of her shortened name again and again, like a light song.

Maren. Maren. Maren!

The voice in question startled Maren out of her thoughts, and dashed a smile off her face she didn’t know she was sporting.

“I too enjoy that novel,” said Elsa. “A happy ending to a dark tale is rare these days.”

“Oh, yes, it’s most enjoyable,” stammered Honeymaren, hoping and praying to the spirits (Elsa excluded) that her blush was not as visible as the heat in her cheeks led her to believe. “Though, I am only half way through with the tale, it’s nice to know things work out in the end.”

Elsa nodded, humming softly before returning to her own book. But not before leaving Maren with some parting words. “I believe you would enjoy the book even more if it were right ways up.”

Maren sunk deep into the plush linings of the chair, face aflame. Never more did she wish to be able to disappear in a flurry of snowflakes in the same manner as Elsa could. Honeymaren slammed her book closed and half-jogged, half-stiff walked past Elsa and out the library doors, trying her best to act natural and not cast her eyes towards Elsa, lest she catch the Spirit’s gaze. And as Maren exited the library, she was sure she heard the softest of laughs, clinking like ice melt on a river. The sound only served to stoke the flutter in her stomach to almost nauseous levels. Maren abandoned all pretense and ran to her room, buried herself under the covers, pleasant sounds of laughter replaying in her head, and did not exit until the Snowgies brought her dinner.

The following days passed in a pleasant blur for Maren. She was immediately surprised to find another of the castle doors open to her. It was merely what looked like a storage room. Barrels of wine, sacks of grain, and crates of goods were stacked neatly on shelves with immaculate, flowing script labeling their dates and contents. Some of the labels on the wine Maren had to read thrice, uncomprehending of a vintage so old. She wondered at how they hadn’t turned yet to vinegar, but then stopped herself in her foolish desire to apply logic to the wine kept in a castle made entirely of ice.

The next day, a ballroom was revealed. Maren marveled at the perfectly crafted chandeliers, the intricately tiled floors, the portraits of heroes and landscapes straight from legends of old, and even a full complement of band instruments—all wrought of ice.

The following day, the armoury was a pleasant surprise. The craftsmanship on the various swords, knives, and bows faithfully copied into ice both delighted and fascinated Maren. She even picked a large mace from the wall, its icy chains rattled as if it were iron and the spiked head clunked to the ground, its frosty appearance belieing the heft of metal.

Yet still, Maren encountered Elsa rarely. And even so, they only exchanged pleasantries and greetings, Honeymaren still adapting to Elsa’s new fondness of her shortened name.

Another day passed and Maren found yet another door open. This one leading to a grand kitchen. The oven blazed brightly with the now familiar blue flames that existed throughout the castle hearths. From it, the smell of freshly baked bread emanated. The sound of a knife upon a wooden (yet ice-crafted) cutting board rang throughout the space. And Maren entered to find, much to her fear and amazement, the large and imposing guard Marshmallow chopping away at a tomato. A large pot hung on the open fire, bubbling behind the snow creature.

Its frighteningly sharp icicles for teeth were not bared in aggression, but in a friendly smile. Marshmallow paused in their culinary duties and gave Maren a little wave and a rumble sounded from their throat in what Maren guessed was a greeting. Not to be rude, Maren waved back, too shocked at the scene before her to do much else. She was struck even more surprised as her eyes took in the apron of snow tied around the creature’s massive body, and the comically small chef’s hat perched on its head.

“Thank you,” stuttered out Maren, still trying to comprehend the large snow guard hunched over an assortment of vegetables and deftly wielding what was a ridiculously un-proportioned small knife in their massive hands. “Did you—are you—have you been making all of my meals?”

Marshmallow nodded, their massive head bobbing and scraping against the tall ceiling of the kitchen. A proud glow radiated from its coal dark eyes. “Well then,” tittered Maren, still feeling wholly displaced from her mind and body, “Carry on the good work.” And with an awkward salute, Maren turned tail and fled out the kitchen doors.

Out of all the stories she hoped to bring back to Ryder about her adventures—of the magical castle of ice and the timeless Spirit of Snow made incarnate—this would be the tale most unbelievable.

On her way back, Honeymaren was halted with a soft call. “Hello, Maren,” Elsa said, appearing in a flurry of snowflakes. Maren started, both at the sweet sound of her name, and also of the Spirit’s sudden appearance. Although Maren had witnessed the magical coming and goings of Elsa, she still wasn’t completely accustomed to it. There seemed to be an unusual reticence in speech and a shyness in Elsa’s posture as she stood before Honeymaren. “Would you care to take supper in the Great Hall tonight?”

So simple and sweet was the request, Maren could do little but accept enthusiastically.

The table was lain with the customary loaf of fresh bread and a beautiful dish of what appeared to be slow roasted vegetables, sliced thin and arranged in alternating colors, all nestled in a deep red tomato sauce. Maren thought of Marshmallow, and how they must’ve used those massive hands and sliced all of the produce with precision and care.

Maren served herself in the usual fashion, but halted the start of her efficient clearing of her plate at the motion of Elsa, who reached over and plated herself a dainty serving. Elsa must have noticed Maren’s blatant stare, and she turned, an almost small, shy smile on her lips.

Maren resisted the urge to rub her eyes. It must be a trick of this otherworldly blue light. No, Elsa wasn’t shy. And she most certainly wasn’t shy twice in one day. What had prompted this change in the usually cold, imposing Spirit that was Elsa?

“I rarely indulge in food. As I have said before, I have little need of it. A good vintage wine has always been my one, enduring human vice. But today you have inspired me.”

“Me?” croaked Maren, fork still hanging limply in her hand, unstained by the meal before her.

“Yes,” carried on Elsa, more focused on the plate of food before her than of the floundering woman next to her. “I have noticed your penchant for fresh vegetables.”

It was Maren’s turn to be shy. She was not deluded enough to think her actions in the castle went unnoticed. It was largely unsaid that the two were under constant scrutiny of each other. Though if it was in a manner of opponents sussing out weakness, or evolving into something else, no one could say.

“It has been so long since I have been able to eat something that was not salted, dried, or preserved in another manner. I must thank you profusely for your hospitality and abundance of fresh foods. I know your garden produces much, but the variety still confounds and delights me.” Maren slowed her eating to match that of Elsa’s, content to stay at the table a little while longer. “Why,” said Maren, extending a small olive branch of vulnerability towards Elsa, “I nearly wept at the sight of strawberries and cream on my plate that one night.”

Elsa smiled, eyes far away and foggy in a distant memory. “I cared little for food and doubly scoffed at dessert—it seemed so frivolous. But Anna had an insatiable sweet tooth. She’d steal away to the kitchen for a midnight snack, and insist every dinner end with at least a small bowl of berries.”

Maren held her breath, schooling her face to remain neutral. Elsa never talked freely about her sister, and Maren wasn’t about to scare her away from the topic. Despite Maren’s best efforts, Elsa caught on nonetheless, and answered Maren’s unspoken question.

“Anna has been on my mind much of late. And so have you,” admitted Elsa quietly. “This has been unusual business with the Final Winter, and it has been so long since I’ve hosted a human in these walls. You—It has given me much to think on. Perhaps I thought I could remind myself, even just vicariously, of the small pleasure of a well cooked vegetable, or the sweetness of dessert.”

Maren pondered at the nervous bird in her hand. She was scared to breathe, let alone move, lest it fly away. But also, this was the most progress Maren had made in weeks and she knew not when another opportunity would present herself. It seemed almost a staunch duty to her people to pursue the lead. Instead, Maren smiled and said, “Marshmallow does a fabulous job.”

Elsa laughed, high and clear. A sound that set Maren’s heart alight. “Yes, the best chef in all of Ahtohallan.”

Wait.

Maren halted the last bite of food to her mouth. “Ahtohallan? Like the famed river of memory from the old stories and songs? As in, the potential to be drowned?”

Elsa smiled, shaking her head in admonishment. “Yes. Where did you think you were?”

And Maren swore she heard the sound of her brother calling across the many leagues that separated them: ‘Dumbass!’

The days continued to pass. Elsa would join Maren for dinner, but still abstained from being present for any breakfasts or lunches, of which Maren preferred to take in bed and in the Garden, respectively. Though now, Maren was still reeling at the fact she had found the legendary Ahtohallan. How brazen she had been in this castle. How foolish. Foolishly brave? She hoped.

But of course, the writing had been quite literally on the walls since she arrived. The lullaby that was so hauntingly familiar that Elsa had sung upon their first encounter. The literal Spirit that resided here, shaping the frozen river to her will.

The Elders had bade her to seek the Fifth Spirit, that this Spirit would reside far north of their lands. But never did they explicitly mention Ahtohallan. But only the densest of hard headed fools wouldn’t guess they found Ahtohallan. Even Ryder would have known before her, admonished Maren.

Honeymaren tried to give herself a break, figuring that she had been so focused on her mission, so wholly distracted by Elsa, she didn’t have time to give much thought past that. Though, ultimately, the revelation did not change much, business still progressed as usual. Or as usual as things were around Elsa. Here, in Ahtohallan.

Maren and Elsa encountered each other even less than before, with Maren busy exploring all the new doors opening. (Guest rooms and parlours and cupboards—who knew any one place needed 8,000 salad plates?!) Although, the one door upstairs Maren had first observed—with remembered markings only so high as a child’s stature—still remained steadfastly shut.

Even with Maren exploring the rooms, the two would still find themselves passing the odd afternoon in silence in the Garden as Maren drew in her sketchbook, or the occasional sleepy evening in the library as Elsa reread a book from her collection.

Though, Maren recalled with a wry smile, one such sleepy evening had been cut short when she attempted to withdraw a book with a questionably salacious title on its spine. Before Maren could even lift the book completely off the shelf, a wall of ice and chilly gust of wind drew her back and locked her out of that particular stack. “That,” called Elsa, her voice high and tight, “Is the restricted section. A personal collection of valuable books, you must understand. Publications lost to time. And most certainly not for your eyes.”

Maren had whirled around in surprise at Elsa’s immediate action, with confusion and a tinge of anger at being so swiftly manhandled, but all of that died away at the most obvious blush that bloomed across Elsa’s usually stoic features.

“Prim and proper Queen indeed,” chuckled Maren under her breath. More than an errant ankle to lose that stately composure, thought Maren, a roguish and wry smile plastered on her face the entire walk back to her room. Maren was no monster—she had exited the library and allowed Elsa the small grace to pretend her poise was still intact.

At first, the dinners in Elsa’s company were mostly silent. But soon, Maren filled them with idle chatter about Northuldra and the silly adventures of Ryder, and the many cuffs Yelana would serve across both their ears after childhood mischief. She had hoped her sharing of stories, especially of her brother, would prompt Elsa to speak about the Arendelle of old and of her sister Anna. But, alas, Elsa did little but offer a smile or a quiet laugh at the funny stories, or a contemplative hum at the more serious ones. Sometimes, Elsa would even ask a benign leading question, but nothing more than a request to expound on the species of tree or the color of the sky.

Maren knew that these stories were not new to Elsa. At least new to Elsa’s ears, but not of her mind. Maren had left her imprint scattered throughout the castle. Her initial tears on arrival, the constant fog of her breath, the occasional sweat on her brow as she basked in the sun of the gardens. All water held memory. And all were remembered by Elsa.

Nevertheless, Elsa entertained the stories and Maren hoped this meant that she enjoyed them. Maren, for her part had been enjoying these dinners. Not only due to Elsa’s company, but the meals themselves seemed to grow in extravagance. Though always modest in portions, Maren noticed the touches of care—always a vegetable featured, and always a small, sweet treat of some fashion to end the meal with. Marshmallow, at Elsa’s request, was certainly outdoing themselves.

A Cornish hen dressed with lemon and fresh herbs. A leg of lamb, accompanied by a bed of sauteed, deep green leaves. A dish of roasted potatoes crowned in peppers of all colors. Poached cod on a bed of steamed vegetables, the delicate and flaky fish almost melting into the broth—made from a fine vintage of white wine, commented Elsa.

Maren always marveled at the offerings and sung the praises to the chef. And though Maren knew Elsa’s gardens were plentiful, she still wondered at the magic that brought such variety. And ever did Elsa serve herself a small portion of that evening’s meal, to the frequency that Maren would sometimes wordlessly plate an obnoxiously dainty portion and hand it over to the Spirit before plating a proper portion for herself.

Honeymaren dared not count the days, so long had it felt since she first stepped foot in Ahtohallan, and yet the memory was as fresh as yesterday. She worried that she had tarried too long, that while she had been becoming content in Elsa’s company, Ryder and all of Northuldra were long past saving. Perhaps already dead and buried under snow. It was this thought that swam into her head and would not leave. The after supper tea and sliver of cake churned unpleasantly in Maren’s stomach, and she set down the empty cup into its saucer with a clink.

“Something weighs heavy on your mind,” stated Elsa. There was no question, just a mere observation. Maren hated that she could be read so easily. The time spent in each others company was a lopsided double-edged sword. While Maren learned little more of Elsa, Elsa continued to learn much more of Honeymaren.

“My thoughts stray towards my people. Of their plight and how long I have been absent from fighting at their side. I have spent at least a month in this castle, by my spotty reckoning. The Elders warned me this would be a long journey, but I do not think even they predicted it would be so long as this.”

“They still fight and struggle forward,” said Elsa. “Humans are most enduring.” Elsa paused, the foggy far off look overtaking her for a moment. But she blinked, and continued on, her voice cold and indifferent. “I can assure you, the end of their memories have not committed themselves fully to these halls. Though I am unsure what comfort that may bring.”

Maren nodded, grimacing. It was of some comfort to know that her people still lived. But it was crushing guilt that assailed her to know she was still failing them. That she was becoming too enamored with this place. Too distracted by the Spirit that resided within. Maren scolded herself for allowing simple dinners and open doors to explore to lead her astray from her mission. Admonished herself for allowing errant glances from Elsa to cause Maren’s heart to clench. That a simple meeting of eyes that lingered a heartbeat too long could cause her stomach to flip.

Elsa, for her part, spoke, attempting to answer Maren’s silent battle. Though, not as accurately as Elsa would think. Maren, perhaps, couldn’t be read that easily yet. “Time moves differently here,” started Elsa. “Winter is my domain and so like the cold nights, do the days in this castle lengthen. Hours can pass here, when only minutes have outside. And in the same fashion, Summer speeds by while Spring and Fall largely coincide with the rest of the world.”

“Then how long has it been since I first arrived? By the reckoning of the outside world, that is.”

“Of that, I do not know,” admitted Elsa. “I have long since stopped keeping track. I did for many decades after Anna… After…” she shook her head, unable or unwilling to finish the sentence. “But then I realized it was all folly. Names change, kingdoms and people rise and fall, yet the seasons cycle and the events unfold much as they did before.”

Maren nodded. It was small comfort to know the time she had been wasting was at least less time than she thought. With that, Maren politely excused herself, and made for her room, though sleep did not grace her that night.

Chapter Text

6. Let the storm rage on

Through the passing of days, Elsa continued to surprise Maren. If it wasn’t an errant laugh, or an uttering of her name, it was a confusingly sweet gesture of a book suggestion or a dinner crafted so obviously of Maren’s favorite foods. But today, Elsa surprised Maren in a different sort of way.

Honeymaren laid in tandem with Sunná in the shade of the large tree that was central to the courtyard gardens. Maren had come to sketch the pigs and cows in their pens, but soon was lulled into a midday nap by the warm breeze that blew ever on within this magic slice of Spring. Honeymaren had leaned against Sunná, using the reindeer’s plush hide as a pillow, and rested her unneeded hat over her eyes to block out the sun that still dappled the ground, even amidst the shade.

The Snowgies were always the ones to bring Maren her light breakfast and lunch meals. Though they usually consisted of no more than a simple bowl of honeyed yoghurt, or a slice of bread and cold cuts, Maren was always happy to receive them. Frighteningly, and guiltily, Maren thought to how spoiled she had become on the constant supply of food and comforts Elsa provided.

Instead, Maren was roused from her slumber by none other than Elsa, holding a gleaming tray.

Honeymaren pushed herself upright, lazily attempting to smooth her rumpled appearance, but failing miserably. “Greetings, Elsa,” said Maren her voice still gravely with sleep. Elsa merely smiled, watching as Maren rubbed her eyes and stood up.

Elsa walked the few paces to the bench under the tree and bade Maren to follow. As was custom, Elsa sat first, poised and regal as any queen, and Maren sat to her right, trying her best to keep her legs crossed and emulate Elsa’s ramrod straight posture, but again failing miserably. Wordlessly, Elsa passed the tray of food to Maren, and Maren relaxed, setting the tray across her knees and picking up a piece of buttered bread, laying a slice of cured meat atop it.

Although, to Maren’s great surprise, Elsa inched a fraction of a space closer to Honeymaren and picked up the second plate of sliced peaches from the tray. Never before had Elsa joined her for noon meal. And doubly so, never had Elsa chosen to sit so close to Maren.

Usually, to what Maren thought was Elsa’s chagrin, Maren sat herself near to Elsa’s right hand at the dinner table. She merely thought Elsa was loathe to move from her rightful spot at head of the table and simply suffered Maren’s bullish attempts at befriending her. And in so, with grace, Maren would give Elsa space in the library, choosing a reading nook at least a few paces away from Elsa’s chair. But here in the Garden, Elsa was choosing a spot so near to Maren, that if she be so bold, their knees could touch.

Honeymaren, tactfully, did not point this out. She knew better than that after spending so much time in Elsa’s company. Instead, she chewed her food thoughtfully and watched as a butterfly fluttered by. But Maren was intrigued at this change in behavior from Elsa and could not keep her eyes from flicking to the side in a stealthy attempt to observe her lunch mate.

Elsa ate the peach slices slowly, if because she was taught to take small, queenly bites, or if she was savoring the flavor, Maren did not know. What Maren did know, was how deep yellow the slices of fruit were, so brilliant in color as a blazing evening sun. And further, what Maren knew was how the juice of this fruit snaked their way down the length of Elsa’s fingers. How the drop turned and flowed into the crook of Elsa’s knuckle. Elsa did not allow it to linger long, ever keeping her hands tidy on the delicate napkin woven of frost that laid over her lap.

Maren swallowed, dry bread sticking in her throat. She tore her eyes away and gulped greedily at the cup of tea on the tray. Maren finished the rest of her lunch in her usual efficient manner, clearing all crumbs away with the pad of her thumb. She did not dare look over at Elsa again, lest her eyes wander too far. But if Maren did dare to look, she may have noticed that Elsa tracked Maren’s movements with rapt attention as Maren’s thumb reached her mouth and licked away the stray crumbs.

After the quick lunch, Snowgies arrived to clear the tray, burbling and peeping in their usual jovial fashion. Yet Elsa still remained. The Spirit produced a book, from where, Maren did not know, and opened it, content to stay at her place on the bench.

Honeymaren, though, was caught so off balance from the events thus far, stood up and padded over to the trunk of the tree. Maren had wanted to sketch this afternoon, before her nap and before this odd lunch had waylaid her. She picked up her sketchbook and charcoal where it laid next to Sunná, and tucked it in her pockets. A need to burn off a modicum of energy overcame her and Maren found herself jumping up and clambering onto the lowest of the tree’s great branches.

Maren was no stranger to climbing trees. It was an activity she loved, scaling the tall pines of Northuldra to scout ahead for her hunting party. Or merely in a contest with Ryder to see how high each could make it. Maren glanced back to see Elsa regarding her with a curious gaze. Let her watch, thought Maren with a wry smile. She continued to hoist herself ever upwards, not enough to where the branches skinnied, but higher than she first intended, feeling a bit brazen and grandstanding. It was most assuredly her competitive spirit against Ryder flaring, and nothing else.

Honeymaren shimmied herself against the branch and the main tree trunk. She precariously wedged herself into an inclined position, desperately hoping she looked unbothered and relaxed. Maren looked down at Elsa and gave a cheery little wave.

“Are you certain you should be so high up?” questioned Elsa. “I thought you a human, not a squirrel.”

Maren laughed, “If I had wings, I’d fly to the top!”

Elsa clucked her tongue in disapproval, turning back to her book, but still chuckled, the sound lighting a fire in Maren’s heart.

Maren pulled out her sketchbook and charcoals from her pocket and looked around for a subject to draw. From her position, there was little to see save the branches and leaves that surrounded her. There was one subject, though, that Maren could clearly make out the profile of. Elsa was distracted by the pages before her and so gave Honeymaren freedom to roam across her figure, starting the first light lines of her drawing.

Honeymaren first drew the bench Elsa sat upon, giving the composition its perspective and angles. Then she messily outlined Elsa’s limbs—her crossed legs, her bowed head, her bent elbows, and her open hands as they held the book.

As Maren started to fill in the little details—the creases in Elsa’s dress and the plaits in Elsa’s hair—Maren noticed something she had not before. Elsa’s form sat more solid than she had ever seen it before. Where sunlight usually passed through her skin, now reflected back. An almost healthy pink shone back, rather than a pallor of white and snow. That now, outside of the usual blue flame of the Great Hall or Library hearth and instead in the otherworldly sun of the Garden, Maren could almost see a rosiness in Elsa’s cheeks, a feint dusting of freckles, and a shade of red in her lips. Never more did she wish to have more colors than black charcoal to draw with.

Honeymaren stopped her sketching of Elsa’s visage—of which the profile of her face had now taken up another, separate page. Maren turned back to her original sketch and noted the bend of Elsa’s fingers, the creasing of her knuckles. Honeymaren thought back to the slices of fruit in the midday meal. How Elsa’s fingers grasped them… So absorbed in her own thoughts, and caught up in observing Elsa’s likeness and committing it to paper, Maren did not notice that when her gaze turned back to Elsa’s face, it was met head on. Striking, blue eyes held Maren’s hazel ones, and Maren knew she had been caught staring, red handed. But Maren couldn’t help it, its as if those eyes were frozen lakes of ice, a siren’s call dragging her down to its icy depths. Falling…

Wait, no.

Actually falling!

The swoop in her stomach wasn’t the usual pesky butterflies, but instead of her losing balance on her precarious perch in the branches. Maren yelped, shooting her hands out to find purchase, but she was instead met with a pillowy surface of snow. Elsa had summoned a slope of snow and brought Maren sliding gently to the ground.

Elsa marched up and with a clipped voice of concern said, “I think you had best leave the climbing of trees to squirrels today.”

Maren lay there in the snow and huffed, her face burning with embarrassment and her pride thoroughly wounded. Honeymaren stood, unable to meet Elsa’s eyes as she fumbled through the snow and pocketed her fallen sketchbook and charcoals.

But like prey watched, she could feel Elsa’s eyes burning into her. “What? Go on and gloat some more. I know I made myself a fool.”

Elsa did not respond, but Maren could still feel her staring.

“Thank you for saving me. You were right, I shouldn’t have climbed so far. Is that what you want to hear?” Honeymaren whipped up her head, daring to meet Elsa’s gaze. But the Spirit was not staring at her, but rather at a space below her arm. Maren glanced down and finally registered the sting of pain lancing down her arm. A long, nasty scratch wound down a good length of her arm, most undoubtedly given to her by an errant tree branch before Elsa caught her. It was not a particularly deep cut, but it bleed freely, a scarlet line welling up and traveling down the length of Maren’s forearm, passing down and over the crooks in her index finder. A single drop of blood marred the snow covered patch of grass.

Elsa’s gaze was so intense, and her silence so acute, that Maren first worried that the Spirit were to be sick. Perhaps at the sight of blood? No, Maren corrected herself. She had seen this look before, when a tear of mirth landed on the Great Hall, though this look was amplified tenfold.

A thought clicked in Maren’s mind. Of course! Blood contained water. Honeymaren wondered aloud what Elsa saw, what her lifeblood showed the Spirit.

Elsa did not answer, shaking herself out of her brief stupor and making straight for Maren’s wound. “Here, allow me.”

“It’s fine,” tittered Maren. “It’s just a scratch. My pride is more hurt than my arm. I can just go and fetch my bandages and salve from my pack in my room and patch it up in a second. Truly, I’ve had much worse injuries!”

Elsa grabbed Maren’s arm gently, but insistently, and pulled the other woman over to the barrel of clean water used to refresh the animals and plants. Honeymaren allowed the action, though less out of protest, and more of shock. Maren could count the number of times Elsa initiated any sort of contact with her on the toes of one of Sunná’s hooves. That is to say, twice. Once now with care and tenderness, and once before in anger during their first meeting here in the Garden.

With a wave of her hand, Elsa summoned a ladle of ice and cloth of woven of frost. With a sharp attention and clinical speed, Elsa cleaned and dressed Maren’s cut, the frosty bandage feeling most pleasant on her inflamed wound.

“Thank you,” said Maren, as Elsa released her arm and allowed it to return to Maren’s side.

Elsa nodded, a jerky and uncoordinated motion. One a complete antithesis to the capable hands she had just displayed. “Yes, I…” Elsa’s voiced pitched up an octave, her hands lacing together at her front, and her eyes flitting around in search of escape. “I wish you a speedy recovery.” And with that, Elsa vanished in a flurry of snow.

Honeymaren shrugged, chuckling to herself. How odd. If Maren didn’t have the bandage to prove it, she’d have thought the whole interaction a dream, with how uncharacteristically Elsa behaved.

At a loss on how to fill the rest of her afternoon, Maren walked back to the tree and to the bench where Elsa’s book lay forgotten. Maren picked it up, its cover in another of the many languages of Elsa’s library that she could not understand. But Maren did understand that Elsa was a fastidious sort, and she would most certainly want this book returned to its rightful place on the shelf.

Honeymaren walked into the library, but found it empty. She’s not sure why, but she knew that the Spirit was resolutely avoiding her. She let the notion pass unchallenged, though. There had been much progress made today in their friendly relationship and Maren was not foolish enough to push it further.

Honeymaren poked around the stacks, trying to find a gap in the many books, but she could find none. She looked up at the titles towards the ceiling, unreachable without a ladder. A ladder Elsa seemed to have neglected in crafting, since the Spirit could summon any tome to her with a wave of her hand. Though a wry and wolfish thought crossed Maren’s mind as her eyes wandered over to the walled off section of books. Could it be?, thought Maren, Could this book belong to the restricted section? Laughing at her own joke, Maren set the book on Elsa’s usual library chair for her to find later, and exited the library.

“I must admit,” said Elsa, unprompted one day, “Though surprising it is even to myself, I am glad that you, Maren, are here with me, during this Last Winter, and through the slow ending of things.”

Maren drew in a shaky breath, bittersweet was her heart on hearing Elsa’s words. The fire that had been smoldering under her skin all this time since their last impasse flared just a fraction, a small gust of oxygen stoking the embers. “Ah, yes. The… Final Winter, as you have so put it. I had hoped…” Maren fumbled. Her words had gotten herself in so much trouble before. And like a blind moth bumbling towards a flame, she could not see how to stop the disaster and simultaneously complete her mission. For as pleasant as the time with Elsa had become, Maren still had a duty to her people, a love for her brother, and a dedication to all else that suffered under the blankets of snow in this unnaturally extended winter. “I had hoped, you would maybe have rethought that bit.”

Maren knew that this easy contentment could not last. That the pleasant conversations and the sidelong glances, the amicable companionship she had forged with Elsa was still built on a serious disagreement that concerned merely the fate of the Earth. No big deal.

Elsa paused, a fraction of frost creeping into her voice. This was no longer the usual friendly, post-dinner chat over cookies and tea. “I have said my piece on that.”

“And that has not yet changed my stance on the matter,” prodded Maren. “You said at first our meeting, that it had been a long time since you had had happy memories. Why do you deny yourself the making of more?”

“It is not the memories themselves I deny. It is the events after. The happy events that create such memories themselves cannot last.”

“Then for that reason, we should hold onto them even more.”

Elsa sighed, resigned. “You have shown that you cannot understand. You live but one lifetime.”

“And you live none!” Maren stood, unable to sit in the chair so near to Elsa for any longer. Maren clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from doing anything foolish and paced some length down the long table and back. “This existence you lead is so wrought in self pity and loneliness, perhaps I do understand why you wish for this Final Winter. But yet you welcome my company and show me a land of plenty and tend to my wounds. You have a heart, this I know. You have desires past that of death and destruction.”

Elsa made to speak, but Maren silenced her with a sharp raising of her hand. She would not allow Elsa to continue to dig her circular arguments. Maren had promised herself she’d make Elsa see sense even if it meant her own demise.

“Why did you show me the book of Arendelle’s history? Why do you allow me shelter in your home? Why do you bid me to sup from your table of plenty? Why do you do this, yet allow the rest of the world to suffer in this eternal winter? You open your doors to me, yet keep the one to the outside world barred tightly shut.”

“You are free to leave anytime,” shot back Elsa, unwilling to answer any of Maren’s questions.

“That is not what I mean, and this you know. Don’t play the fool.”

“The opening of the doors are not wholly my doing,” explained Elsa, as if to exonerate herself. From what accusation, even she wasn’t entirely sure. “There is magic here in Ahtohallan that is older and stronger than my own. The snow and ice here bend easily to my whim, and the memories flow clear as a mountain spring, but even further there are forces at work that would take several of my lifespans to understand. If that were even possible.”

“Then I return to my previous questions,” said Maren, planting both her hands on the table. Oh, how she desired to use those hands to take Elsa by the shoulders and shake sense into her. “And if you refuse to answer them, to evade, you must know a hunter will not be outwitted by one mere fox.”

“And here you think me to be the fox? How quaint.”

Maren’s ire leapt at being brushed aside like a child. There would be no preamble. No mincing of words. No tactful, feinting strikes. Honeymaren had spent too long happy to live in comfort and ease in this castle, growing softer by the day. To even think herself content with Elsa. But no, not while the fate of the earth remained so squarely placed on her shoulders. “Then do all my inquires perhaps have to do with the door that remains so steadfastly locked?”

Color drained from Elsa’s face. A pallor returned to her skin, wisps of snowflakes flecking her appearance where once was solid flesh.

“Yes, you know of the one I speak of.”

“My past has nothing to do with this fight,” denied Elsa.

“It has everything to do with this fight!” exclaimed Maren, throwing her hands skywards. She charged forth, a woman possessed. Though possessed by a mad spirit, or a desperation, or a love so bright for all she believed in and all that was at stake, she couldn’t tell. “Don’t mistake my exasperation for callousness. I can’t deign to imagine the hurt your station has caused you. To lose those dear to me, of some of that I’ve experienced. Not my brother, no, not yet at least, and the threat of that devastating blow haunts my every moment. But still, to hold such wounds so long to become black and infected, I do not know. For through the love of others I’ve allowed the jagged edges to become mere scars. And for the memories to be all the sweeter amidst the sorrow.

“The old stories, the histories, that Yelana has told me, that the Elders have told me. Yes, it’s as you say. They’re filled with darkness and danger and no sign of happiness. But in the end, it’s only a passing shadow. This is something you know well. You speak of endless cycles of torment, but you neglect to tell the other half of the story with it. That through this dark, a new day always comes. And with it a brighter sun.

“Our people are of this sun. It’s in my blood to look upon its face and feel joy. For it reminds me, as it has reminded my mother and her mother before, that there’s always good to come in this world. And it’s this good that is worth fighting for. And this is why I stand before you today, why I’ve stood before you ever since.”

A silence stretched and Maren deflated in her righteousness, feeling somewhat foolish in her outburst, even if she knew in her heart it was what had to be said. Maren had surprised herself. Never had she been so eloquent in her speech, doubly so never in the presence of Elsa. She silently thanked whatever spirit or silver-tongued ancestor granted her this audience.

“Your unwavering hope…” said Elsa, her face adopting that now familiar far off look. “That flame you carry. I saw it in your tears at your arrival, the determination in your blood. I knew why I was so drawn. You made me recall memories so long forgotten. So deeply buried they were of such pain to unearth. Of old times, better times, when I could still feel my heart beat in my chest.”

Maren knelt at Elsa’s feet and boldly gathered the Spirit’s hands in hers. Elsa’s form fluttered in icy swirls, and made to pull away, but Maren held fast, concentrating on the scant warmth in Elsa’s hands, the ridges of her knuckles, and brushing of her palm. Elsa settled, and Maren moved her gaze upwards, capturing her gaze to Elsa’s sharp, blue eyes. “Then why do you pull away? Why do you deny yourself these happy memories? Why do you deny everyone, even yourself, joy and pleasure?”

Elsa retreated in a cloud of snow, leaving Maren kneeling and grasping at thin air. But Elsa reappeared only steps away, back turned, unwilling to face Maren. “It cannot happen again. I was burdened with my station against my will. I am to be a powerful spirit, yet this Final Winter is all I can do to prevent this tragedy to befall time and time again.”

“It’s not a weakness. To have a heart is a strength. For when I think of Ryder and Yelana and of all my people, I am stronger.” Honeymaren’s hands fell at her side, though she remained kneeling, almost in a foreigners prayer stance.

Elsa remained unerringly silent. Maren couldn’t help but to think back to her first day in this palace. When her prayers fell on deaf ears in a castle she thought long abandoned, and how that caused her to despair.

“I just,” Maren growled, frustrated, and tired. She thought of Ryder’s sickly face, sunken and sallow. And she thought of her kin in the village, their stomachs gaunt and their limbs unnaturally gangly and skinny. She thought of all who dwelled in this land that were to be robbed of future joys of Summer, or even the joys of Winter. Of the awe of the sunset glinting off of fresh powder snow. Or of crisp winter nights when the air was so clear, one could reach up and pluck a star from the sky like a brilliant, celestial jewel. Maren could not make Elsa see the beauty and joys that existed on her very doorstep.

Honeymaren swallowed hard and thought of all that was at stake. She knew the next words would scorch the land, set all she had worked on in fire. Though if the flames were to be cleansing, or utterly destructive, she could not tell.

“Anna would not have you choose this path.”

Maren expected the full force of Winter’s wrath. Perhaps a shout of such furry to shake the mountain tops. Perhaps a cold so bitter to freeze her heart and all living things in this land. Perhaps a thousand daggers of ice to spear her, carried swift as the North Wind.

But instead, what she heard was one word. Low, almost a whisper. Anger. Pain. Sorrow. Loss. All this radiated in this one, broken whisper. “Out.”

Maren rose and took one step towards Elsa’s still turned figure. A tendril of ice clasped firm around Honeymaren’s ankle and prevented any further progress.

Elsa’s voice grew in timber and sharpness. Jagged as the face of a broken iceberg, and with the tidal wave of such displaced frigid water as it plunged into the sea. “Get. Out.”

Honeymaren was not given the choice to comply. She was cast out of the castle in a blink, through what magic, Maren could not comprehend. The castle doors slammed shut with a terrible grating of ice that shook Maren’s very bones. Honeymaren flung herself upon the doors, banging her fists against the frozen exterior with no care to her own well-being. She shouted the Spirit’s name, but it was dashed away in the howling winds that surrounded her.

A blizzard of such magnitude that Maren had never beheld before, raged around the palace and the surrounding area. The biting wind stole the very breath from her lungs, and the swirling ice bit deep into her skin, cold settling in her very blood.

“Please,” begged Maren, voice croaking as tears and rending cold gnawed at her throat. “I know you are in there. Not the Fifth Spirit, but you, Elsa. I beg. Please, just let me in.”

Maren slumped against the locked doors, utterly defeated. She had worried about the failure of the mission before this, but still held out hope that her befriending of the Spirit would change Elsa’s mind. That perhaps Maren could finally determine the Spirit’s desire and deliver it to her. But this storm, this resolute banishment from Ahtohallan. This was the final nail in the coffin of the mission. Maren would perish here in this storm, and Ryder, Yelana, and all of her people were soon to follow. This would be her final winter. And the Final Winter of all living things.

It was as the old song foretold. She had delved too deep, and now she had drowned them all.

A warm muzzle nudged into her side. “Sunná!” exclaimed Honeymaren, wrapping her arms around her companion’s neck. The reindeer snorted and stamped at the ground. “Yes, I know this storm is harsh. I know you can’t understand why, but this is the full force of Winter. I have brought upon us the wrath of the Fifth Spirit and all of our doom.”

Sunná nuzzled in closer, licking the fast freezing tears from her master’s face.

Maren laughed, watery and sad. “Go, my faithful friend. Save yourself while you still can. Thank you for the years of unending loyalty and service. You have been so good to me, even if I have sealed our fates.” Honeymaren rose and held the beast’s large head in her hands and rested her forehead against the reindeer’s, as she had done countless times before. Maren placed a parting kiss to the crown of Sunná’s head and stepped back, waiting for the reindeer to depart. But Sunná remained steady, even as the sharp winds threatened to blow them both away.

“Oh, you foolish and silly beast,” sighed Maren. “Yes, I shall hold fast. And you stubbornly insist to do the same. Very well, I’m glad for your company. I… don't wish to be alone in the end.”

Honeymaren turned, caressing the icy exterior of the door, whispering almost to herself, but she knew her words would be carried through the water of the ice swirling around her. “You do not need to be alone either.”

With that, Maren sank to the ground, curled in on herself, and waited for the cold to take her.

Chapter Text

7. The next right thing

Maren awoke, much to her surprise, still alive. Sunná had curled herself around her master’s body, sharing life-giving heat. A thick sheen of snow covered the two, but they had passed the night blessedly and remarkably alive. The storm had abated, but the skies were still gray and the clouds still swollen with snow threatening to fall.

Sunná rose and shook the snow easily from her pelt. She was borne for the harsh winters, even a Winter so harsh as this. Maren praised Sunná, showering her with love and an elation of waking to a day she thought would never come.

Sometime in the night, her pack and all its contents were cast outside the door. More curious to find, was that of fully stocked provisions. The usual traveling provisions of dried meats, pressed oat cakes, and hardtack were wrapped in waxed paper. But so strange and oddly touched to find the next items, Maren nearly wept. A bundle of carrots were tied in a string, for both her and Sunná, bright and orange as a dazzling sunset. And in a small pouch, a handful of strawberries were nestled next to a thimble of cream.

“Elsa, you wildly confusing woman,” muttered Maren, shaking her head. The Spirit clearly meant to send her away, back to die in Northuldra surrounded by her family that shared her fate. But not before supplying her with fresh vegetables and an after-dinner sweet.

“Have you found reason?” called Maren towards the doors, in a last attempt. “I’m still out here for you, if you’d let me in.”

Silence answered. The doors remained shut.

It was final. There was no changing of the Winter wind. No relenting of the Frost. Just as Elsa had said so many times before, she was granting Maren this one last mercy. A stocked pack for the long, defeated journey home.

Honeymaren led Sunná down the long, icy staircase and away from the palace. At the end of the stairway, Maren looked back and beheld the towering sharp points of the castle and the cresting frozen glacier it sprung from. She gazed upon Ahtohallan, a land she had almost dared call a home. Finally, Maren turned away and mounted Sunná, the feel of her faithful reindeer companion beneath her, grounding her. Maren took solace in the small kindness that this journey of defeat back home would at least be spent with Sunná’s company.

Sunná and Honeymaren trudged through the snow, first strides of many to cross the long leagues that separated them from Northuldra. As they walked, Maren’s head swam with all that transpired since first she set out on this journey. Of Elsa and all about her that would forever remain a mystery. Of the castle and all its glory. Of the quiet nights spent around that blue hearth of the Great Hall, or nestled in the Library. Of the calm, warm breeze that flowed ever through that magical garden. Of the rare smile Elsa would allow, a crack of ice in her frozen facade. And of her laugh, so clear and crystalline. So ringing and sweet. And of Maren’s name, that she would never hear uttered from Elsa’s lips again.

The traveling duo plodded through the midday sun, though masked behind an imposing blanket of gray clouds it was. It pained Maren to think of stopping and taking lunch. It reminded her too much of the Snowgies and their unadulterated, constant joyful demeanor. Even of Marshmallow, content to prepare all sorts of wonderfully delicious meals.

Through her sorrows and grief of losing all Ahtohallan offered, of losing Elsa, Maren did have a bittersweet glimmer of joy. Her heart sung at the prospect of returning home. Though it had been less time spent in Ahtohallan as by the reckoning of the mortal plane, Maren still felt she had been gone far too long. And she desired to look upon Ryder once more. She knew, with a stab of guilt, that even though she would bring news of his impending death and the death of all in Northuldra and beyond, that Ryder would still smile. For his sister was home, and he knew that now he would not pass this life without her by his side. Together they would leave this earth, just as together they came into this earth.

And yes, Yelana would be saddened at the news Maren brought. But Honeymaren knew she would be forgiven, told she had done all she could. That she fought bravely to the end. And indeed, this was the end. Yet Maren would have it no other way, if this was truly to be the way it went. To pass in her homeland. In the forests of her birth. To the same earth would she return, side by side with those she loved.

It was as if a bolt of lightning struck Honeymaren. She sat, suddenly rigid in her saddle. Again she swore she could hear the sound of her brother calling across the many leagues that separated them: ‘Dumbass!’ Maren slapped her forehead with an open palm. Idiot indeed.

All this time Honeymaren had wondered about the desires of spirits, but never thought to wonder about the desires of humans. Of Elsa’s desires.

To be not alone.

To be not abandoned.

To be loved.

Honeymaren pulled sharply on Sunná’s reigns, spinning them back around. Sensing her master’s haste, Sunná quickened into a gallop, and bore them swiftly back towards Ahtohallan. Back towards Elsa.

Maren leapt off of Sunná’s back, any weariness from her travels cast aside. A clear singing of kindred understanding thrummed in her veins. A crystal resonance rang in her ears, and her heart reached out to Elsa’s.

Honeymaren flew up the icy steps, her leather boots nearly slipping on every other step in her urgency. Turning towards the imposing palace doors, Maren drew in a shaky breath, steeling her resolve. Maren refused to walk away and give up on her mission. To give up on Elsa. For Maren understood how it felt to be alone, misunderstood, unloved. Yes, for Maren was human—and so once was Elsa.

Honeymaren raised her fist and hurriedly knocked.

Nothing but the all consuming eerie silence of the castle answered her.

Unperturbed and unwavering in her new mission, Maren raised her fist again to knock, but this time, the door creaked open, just a sliver. Holding her breath, Maren pushed against it and despite the massive size of the door, it opened easily, allowing Honeymaren to step inside, Sunná dutifully following behind.

Honeymaren looked around. The castle was much the same as it had been, though no Elsa could be seen. Maren strode forward to the Great Hall, but it was dark and empty, not even the blue flame of the hearth was lit. The Garden also did not contain Elsa, and, most concerning, was set in an overcast—never had Maren witnessed the courtyard basked in anything but full sun. Maren shuffled cautiously into the Library, but too found this as cold and dark as the Great Hall—Elsa’s usual chair abandoned and no blue fire lit.

It was then on Honeymaren’s third return to the main foyer when she noticed it. The upper floor room. The door that remained ever shut, was unlatched and sat open just a hair.

Maren climbed the stairs warily, expecting them to slip out from under her. For the Spirit to appear as a mad banshee and exile her once more. But no such thing happened, even as Maren set a shaky hand to the door’s handle and pushed inwards.

Stepping inside, Maren was first drawn to the large, triangular window at the end of the room. Its diamond patterns wrought in panes of ice shimmered, almost in a myriad of different colors. As all things in the palace, every wall, item, and piece of furniture was created from snow and ice. The ornate bed pushed against one side of the wall looked too small for an adult, but was still stately in its craft and framed by curtains crafted of frost.

Maren turned around and gasped. For on the back of the door she had entered from, and spanning almost the entire wall, was an icy blast of frost. Something powerful, great and terrible, but so utterly sad emanated from the blast pattern. Maren stepped forward to touch the back of the door, but halted. Upon the tall chair that sat next to the door, was draped a scarf. Not one of spun ice, as all of the fabric in Ahtohallan were, but of true cloth.

It was a deep, scarlet red. So shockingly bright against the icy hues of blue and white, like blood upon the snow. Maren picked it up, reverently. Aside from the garden and the books, Elsa kept nothing that was not made from the ice she created.

The wool was soft in Maren’s hands and the fabric was well looked after, for there was not an errant hole or tear in sight. The tasseled ends of the scarf flowed through Maren’s fingers like a river through a mountain pass. Honeymaren lifted the scarf to her face, observing the intricate border woven along its edge. She knew these symbols. They were the same ones on the disc in the center dais in the main foyer. The symbols of the Spirits. “Air, Fire, Water, and Earth.”

“And the Fifth Spirit.” Elsa’s voice joined in. Honeymaren jumped, dropping the scarf and turning to face Elsa’s sudden appearance. “A bridge between humans and the magic of nature.”

“Elsa! You… I…,” Maren grasped for words. She had said so many words last night, yet none seemed to be correct. And she had cursed her inability of possessing a politician’s tongue. That words failed her when they were needed most. That all she could offer were her hands. But now, standing in what clearly was Elsa’s childhood bedroom, Maren could only be silent. Be still and wait.

Elsa brushed past Maren and scooped up the scarf, laying it back onto the chair. A movement that struck Honeymaren as odd, when she knew full well that the Spirit could simply wave her hand and summon a pillar of ice or flurry of snow to perform the same action. Elsa took a step back, and regarded Honeymaren a moment, before looking past the woman and speaking to the empty air and the door behind her.

“Anna had once told me that when she despaired, when she felt as if she was directionless, alone, and lost. That when all she could do was take one painful step after another, stumbling towards any semblance of light. It was then that she made a choice. To hear a voice deep inside her that told her to do the next right thing.”

Elsa drew a deep shuddering breath. No longer was the wrath of the Fifth Spirit before Maren. But instead a broken woman, years of hurt and constant blind stumbling weighing heavy on her shoulders. “I fear I have strayed far from this path. Far from what I had promised Anna. I stopped doing the next right thing.”

Elsa walked towards the door and placed shaky fingers against the patterns of hurled frost. She allowed them to linger there for a moment before snatching her hand back, cradling it near her chest as if her fingertips had been singed. “In Arendelle, there were countless days spent here, locked in a cage of my own doing. With me and Anna separated by the mere width of wood in this door.”

Honeymaren held her breath, afraid that any movement would shatter this moment.

“I despised every facet of this room. I despised myself and the curse I was born with. I despised my parents for loving me one day and shaming me the next. I hated them—me—us both for not having the strength and doing what I thought was the noble thing of putting me out of my misery.”

Maren’s eyebrows shot into a dangerous slant. “Elsa, you were a child. The faults of our parents are not ours.” The beat of silence that followed immediately after made Maren fret Elsa would throw her out again. But such words needed to be countered. Honeymaren couldn’t imagine the strain a young Elsa had to endure. Of losing her parents so young, of being born different and wanting only to do the best for her sister and her country. Of reaching, and reaching, and reaching and still feeling like she failed even as Arendelle thrived, and her sister gave her love.

Oh.

Honeymaren took a deep, gasping breath. No, she could imagine it. At once she fully understood the resonance she felt in Elsa’s presence. The yearning she felt to fight their own respective battles side by side, as allies rather than enemies. Maren understood the gravity of the feeling that overtook her, that caused her to turn around and run back to Elsa.

“Their faults are still our own, whether we ask for them or not,” said Elsa, turning her head to meet Maren’s eyes. Elsa’s words were measured, but belied an emotional storm, resonating with Maren’s own tumultuous feelings. “It is what we choose to do with them that defines us. That carves our own destiny.”

Elsa looked over to the scarf for a moment before reconnecting her gaze with Maren. “My sister once said those words. Anna said we could choose love and acceptance. That hate and anger had no place between us. She believed in it so purely that it melted a frozen heart—my heart. And she continued to believe every day, to choose me—choose us—even through the long, dark winters, and the snow and storms. She loved enough for the both of us. But as the years went on, and the lines of age did not touch me as they did her, I feared without her, I would not have the strength to choose love over destruction. So, when her children moved on to rear their own families and her hair started to match the snow I conjured, and the world began to move away from the magic of the Spirits, though I was no longer Queen, I still worried for the people of Arendelle—of what destruction I was capable of causing. Ahtohallan called to me, and I left, moved far away, and built this castle. And on the day Anna died, I sealed the doors.”

Honeymaren had moved closer, against her own accord. Words, as usual, escaped her. But Maren still had her hands. And with them, she took Elsa’s hands in hers. The Spirit’s form shifted, shivered, turning to wisps of snow before solidifying into flesh and bone.

“I tried to keep my promise to Anna. I tried to choose love. But I am a being of destruction. Of cold and dark. I am a keeper of memories lost to snow and ice, trapped in my own memories of what was, and never will be again.”

Maren squeezed Elsa’s hand, gently. Enough to ground her in the present. “But you have kept your promise. I’ve seen you hold onto memories, no matter how painful, with a reverence. In this act of recollection, I know my mother will never die, and her mother before lives on too. And that my brother and my tribe and your sister and all of Arendelle will not fade from this earth. That with every snowfall, with every glacier melt, it brings the water that nurtures the plants we weave into blankets for the babes of the next cycle.”

Elsa relented, turning her face away. “Anna was the sun. The warmth. Love is not built out of long nights and cold.”

“Every love is different,” said Honeymaren, releasing one hand and bringing it up to Elsa’s face, cradling her chin as if it were a delicate summer breeze. There was that word again: love. Love and Desire. What a mess these little words had gotten them into.

Maren thought of her own devotion. To the leg she broke defending her fellow hunters from a pack of wolves. To the many needle pricks in her fingertips from darning Yelana’s clothes. To the scrapes of branches across her face as she raced Ryder and their reindeer through the woods. To her constant reaching, reaching, reaching for approval.

“There is no need to prove your love is correct,” murmured Maren. She swore she could see her own reflection in the glassy blue of Elsa’s eyes. “Perhaps,” continued Maren softly, half speaking to herself and half to Elsa. “Perhaps be reminded that yours is enough. That you are enough.”

Honeymaren wasn’t sure what happened next. If she dropped her hand from Elsa’s face, or if Elsa tugged her near. If one turned, or the other knelt. It was if the tides rocked, and the earth shifted. Elsa’s lips met hers, a crashing of waves against a cliff. Of lava cooling in the sea.

Elsa made to pull away, but like a hunter, Maren pounced, tangling her hand in Elsa’s hair, griping onto the moment—solid and real—and drew her back, claimed the icy winds she had fought so hard against on her journey here, and embraced them into her own lungs.

Honeymaren’s body was alight, her nerves and emotions rubbed raw from all this time in Elsa’s company. But now they sang, loud and desperate, reaching for all manner of connections that were previously denied for so long.

Elsa gasped as her back hit the door, her usual breaths of frost and fog consumed, burned clean and clear with a fire, with a heat so long forgotten. She barely registered the dig of terribly familiar wood grain in her flesh, of the needling of past shards of ice that so assaulted the door many decades ago. Too consumed was she as Maren pushed her further into the door in a warm, unyielding force. Like a steady Summer breeze, Maren ran through Elsa’s hair, around her waist, caressed her neck and lingered on her lips, pulling her breath away.

Just as Elsa was not one to be outdone in their constant verbal sparring matches, so too was she not to be outdone now. Elsa grabbed fast onto Maren’s jacket, balled her fists into the fabric with just enough force to remind Maren of whose domain they still resided in. Of the great and terrible powers under the surface of her skin. Of how much destruction she could conjure at a mere flick of the wrist or curl of a finger.

Elsa tugged, removing the jacket from Maren’s shoulders, and threw it upon the floor. The two parted, if but for moment, and they regarded those before them, hot foggy breaths panting and swirling in the chill of the room. Elsa’s sharp, blue gaze bore into to the scabbing line of cut flesh down Maren’s forearm. A reminder of Maren’s mortality, of the hurt Elsa had so caused her and all that lived in her lands. Elsa raised her fingers, shaking and cold to the wound and stroked it gingerly, as soft as the first flakes of powdery snowfall. Maren saw the moment of pause. The doubt. The guilt. The fear.

Wordlessly, Honeymaren took her same arm and raised it, lacing Elsa’s timid hand in hers. With the other, she cupped Elsa’s face, her palm resting in Elsa’s chin. Maren drew a steady breath, closed her eyes, and rose upwards to connect their foreheads together. She let the racing of her heart slow for a fraction, to beat in time with Elsa’s and merely to let their breaths mingle and their thoughts to unwind. After the pause, Maren felt Elsa nod, and Maren opened her eyes, warm hazel brown meeting strikingly cool blue.

And with that, Maren dipped her head and allowed Elsa’s lips to once more capture her own.

Maren’s mind swam. Never before did Elsa dare to initiate even the simplest of contact. A brush of hands, a bump of knees. No, ever was Elsa vigilant of the spaces between them, but now Elsa roved, exploring every crook and crevasse, carving her way like a gust of icy wind though the mountains, and leaving Maren just as shivering.

Chapter Text

8. The first time in forever

Like the burning away of morning mist in the awakening sun, so did the storm clouds that covered the land lift. No longer did the threat of a last and Final Winter hang in the air. Instead, the wind carried the thrumming start of Spring and the promise of new life. Of life ready to grow and flourish and prepare itself for the gentle sleep of snow once more. To continue the cycles as all living things must. And even within the halls of Ahtohallan, Spring emerged.

The castle was breathtaking with every door open in its full grandeur. Maren insisted on a full tour of the grounds, marveling at the intricate ice carvings anew, as if seeing them in an entirely different light. No longer was she dissecting the minutia, trying to lift every rock for a shred of a clue. She understood now. She understood her mission, of desire and pain. And tried in vain to bat away a swath of foolishness. It took her so long to see what was in front of her this whole time. Honeymaren had wondered so long and so hard on the desires of spirits, yet if Maren stopped to ask herself, she would have easily seen what kindred souls desired.

And in the fog of that elation, Maren made it her new silent mission to at least kiss Elsa in every room of the castle. But her time with Elsa had given her much practice in the art of persuasion and perhaps, just maybe, Maren figured she could negotiate more than a kiss.

Maren ran back into the main foyer, her hat almost slipping from her head in haste, calling out to the Spirit she knew, this time, would undoubtedly hear her. “Elsa!” her voice was laced with mirth, and in answer, an icy breeze flew through the castle, one that smelled like Spring and brought Elsa before her, as solid as flesh and bone, a smile on her lips.

“I cannot help but wonder,” started Elsa, drawing absent shapes into Maren’s bare shoulder. “What Anna would say about this.”

“This?”

“Us. You. Me. As we are now.”

“Well, I hope you don’t mean now now,” smirked Honeymaren, tangling her hand in Elsa’s to stop the Spirit’s casual touch. Maren leaned forward, trailing lazy kisses up Elsa’s neck, pride swelling in Maren’s heart at a victory well deserved as she felt Elsa’s pulse flutter and her breathing hitch.

Elsa batted Maren’s head away gently, almost unwilling to do so. In response, Honeymaren huffed, frowning against the junction of Elsa’s neck before acquiescing, ceding the space, and pulling away. Maren blinked, slow, unwilling to allow the majesty before her to disappear for even a heartbeat. The silence continued to stretch for a spell, though Maren was unworried. Instead, she stilled her hands, and waited for Elsa to speak.

“No, Anna she…” Elsa trailed off, a now familiar foggy, far off look overtaking her features. Maren extended a hand to Elsa’s cheek, only a momentary caress, feather light like the first autumn leaf breaking the mirrored surface of a pond.

Elsa smiled, small and wistful, laced with memory. Though, observed Maren, it was the first time since she set foot in Ahtohallan, that she had ever seen such memory for Elsa bear joy, rather than pain. “Anna often liked to mettle in my affairs of the heart. She worried I was too much a recluse.”

“There is merit to that,” chimed Honeymaren. “I traveled many leagues across barren lands to find you.”

Elsa’s eyebrows descended a fraction, staying the roll of her eyes. Maren cheered in triumph, knowing full well it was Elsa’s way of showing pleasant annoyance. After so many hours observing the Spirit for the barest of gaps in her armour, it gave Maren immense joy to so easily slip through. Not out of malice as when she first came to this castle, but out of the simple joy of a playful jab.

“Nevertheless,” stressed Elsa, diverting them both back to her original line of thought. “It saddens me to know you and her will never meet.”

Honeymaren nodded. “It would’ve been an honor.”

“Yes,” said Elsa, an almost whisper. One word that voiced all the others that could not be rendered into speech.

A silence hung in the air with a tone that Maren refused to allow. “Would you introduce me?”

“Introduce you?”

“Yes. Would you introduce me to her? To Anna?”

Elsa blinked, her face scrunching in confusion. An expression she was not used to wearing, but yet again Maren had unseated her. “My magic reaches far but no spirit, not even I, holds the power to commune with the dead.”

“I beg to differ,” pressed Honeymaren. “In a way, you do posses that power. You keep all that have passed through these lands alive in spirit, in memory. Through your gift they will never be lost to time. So, I ask again: Would you introduce me?”

Elsa chuckled, watery and light, an exhale of sadness, the tension uncoiling from her jaw. “You astound me, Maren.”

“Is that a yes? You’ll…?” Honeymaren trailed off, waving her hand in an exaggerated facsimile of Elsa’s usual precise poise when summoning ice.

Elsa laughed, full and pure. “Yes, I do believe eventual introductions will be in order. But perhaps, they can wait.” Elsa returned her finger to Maren’s shoulder, though not to draw absent lines, but instead she forged a path with more purpose, a silent question heavy in her eyes.

Maren’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at Elsa’s boldness. It was her turn to be caught off guard. She nodded vigorously, perhaps embarrassingly so, but she did not have time to ponder it, for Elsa’s lips were on hers and she could think of little else.

“Agreed. Introductions can certainly wait,” whispered Maren, her voice swept away by the Winter winds.

Honeymaren sighed, grinning. She drew Elsa’s hand to her mouth for a scant peppering of kisses. “I never would have thought,” started Maren in a half laugh, rolling on to her back and drawing the frosty facsimile of bed covers over herself. “That the Fifth Spirit’s desire would be so human.”

Elsa propped herself onto an elbow and gazed at Maren with a raised eyebrow. “I hardly think it appropriate to assign that—”

“Oh! Not that. Well, not not that,” cut in Maren with a blush. “No, I mean that it is a desire every human has. To be loved.”

“Love?” hummed Elsa, a playful glint in her eye. She leaned closer, the mess of her half-undone braid falling forward in her face. “Is that what this is?”

Honeymaren smiled, surging up to meet Elsa’s lips once more. Maren swore she’d never tire of the action, even unto the unraveling of the Earth. “Well, it’s not not that…”

“You are insufferable,” scoffed Elsa, pushing Maren back down, framing her hands to either side of Maren’s head, and capturing them in a curtain of hair and frost as Elsa hovered over her.

“Yet you suffer me.”

“Gladly.”

The first day, the snow had stopped. The second day, as if by magic, the blanket of white had receded leaving the soil, rocks, and grass exposed. The landscape was battered, scarred with its long battle with Winter, but life still remained, ready to spring forth and be born anew. Sunná had happily trotted around outside, pawing through the dead grass for bundles of new growth that had been hidden dormant under the ice. Honeymaren had beamed, sharing in Sunná’s delight of the rapidly appearing first signs of Spring.

Elsa, never far away, had watched with her own cautious happiness at Maren’s wide grin. As if sensing Elsa’s guilt, Honeymaren strode back inside and swept Elsa in a sound kiss, dashing away any concern. Ever a woman of action, Maren was sure to show Elsa—in more than a few ways—her gratitude.

The third day, Maren found herself in the castle’s garden. The now familiar surroundings helping to ease her troubled mind. Honeymaren gazed out at the pigs as they snuffled through the dirt and to Sunná, taking a nap in the shade of a tree. Maren wondered if the other reindeer back in Northuldra were feeling the warmth of the sun. If her people were celebrating the first snow melt while awaiting her triumphant return. But something sat hollow in the pit of Maren’s stomach. This should be her greatest achievement. Never could anyone—herself included—question Maren’s devotion to her people, that she deserved her place amongst them, surrounded by their love. Yet, this path to happiness Maren thought would so gloriously end with the success of her mission to return Spring, still seemed to stretch ever onward. Although…

Maren perked her head up as she registered a figure walking her way. Elsa gave an odd, stilted wave unbefitting of her usual station that charmed Maren’s heart. With all the poise and power Elsa held, the Spirit was, admittedly, still getting used to another person near her, especially one she had bared both body and soul to.

Honeymaren smiled at Elsa’s approach. Perhaps the path to happiness in its entirety still alluded Maren, but with Elsa near, the path felt all the more clear.

“I had guessed I would find you here,” said Elsa, sitting herself next to Maren on the bench.

Maren immediately moved herself closer, closing the awkward gap Elsa and left between them. “Guessed or did your little snow spies rat me out?”

Elsa scoffed disapprovingly, but allowed her hand to be held, which more than gave Maren the truthful answer. “Why do you stay when your own version of this courtyard is soon to exist back home?”

Maren sighed, the question had weighed heavy on her mind the very day Spring had been returned and Maren did not set off immediately back home. She rested her head on Elsa’s shoulder, unoffended by the surprised rigidity in Elsa’s body. “I do wish to return home. I want nothing more than to see my brother has survived and is mending with the sun’s return. It has been so long since I have seen Yelana or any of my people smile. I’d give anything—I had already been prepared to give everything to see that again.”

“Yet?” urged Elsa, slowly relaxing into her contact with Maren.

“Yet it feels as though my heart is split in two. My love for my family, and my—” Maren cleared her throat. “And yet you remain here.”

Elsa’s thumb drew absent circles on the back of Maren’s hands, the casual display of touch making Honeymaren’s heart soar. “You need not worry about me. I have existed for decades without anyone, and I imagine I will continue the monotony of my station decades more even after you are gone.”

“Do not speak of such things,” admonished Honeymaren. She sat upright, scooping Elsa’s hands into her own, and turning to face the woman. “You don’t need to live alone. You can make memories as much as keep them. The company of my family is yours to share. We could even travel the world!” Maren beamed, sun kissed golden honey gleaming in her hair. “I’d like to meet the other spirits too. We could perhaps even find your long lost relatives.”

Elsa cast her eyes down, an all too familiar tendril of guilt sprouting in her gut. Like a crystalline icicle reaching to pierce the heart of the sun. “I do not think I am ready for the world.”

Maren built in exuberance. An unbothered giddiness that so painfully reminded Elsa of Anna radiated from Honeymaren. “Then just to Northuldra. Come, live with me there. You can celebrate those whose memories you keep and share the burden of their stories with my people there.”

“I do not think your people would be quick to welcome one who caused so much destruction on their home,” countered Elsa.

“It may be difficult,” acquiesced Maren, “But I trust them to chose a path of love and acceptance. Of forgiveness. Anna was right to believe in the good of people,” whispered Maren. “Of this lesson I have also now learned from her.” Elsa flinched at her sister’s name, but the old wound seemed to hurt less everyday, slowly replaced with a bittersweet reverence, rather than raw pain. “Ryder would be the first to welcome you with open arms. This I’m sure!”

“Hurts do not heal so quickly,” pressed Elsa further. She still could not imagine anyone thinking fondly of the Spirit of Winter. Anna had loved her, yes, but she was her sister. And her Arendellian friends had loved her yes, but they had known her before she had fully taken up her station, and that was when she was tempered with Anna’s light. Her people loved her, yes, but only as one could love a queen. But Maren… Elsa felt a terrible and exhilarating crack in her frozen heart every time she gazed upon Maren. She could almost hear the drip of snow melt as it echoed in the cavern of her chest. “I will make you a promise,” proffered Elsa. “Come to me after the end of Winter’s next cycle and I will reconsider your request.”

Maren beamed, squeezing her hands around Elsa’s in a comfortably warm hold. “O Great Spirit, are you asking me on a date?” Maren’s eyebrow raised conspiratorially, and only years of politics stayed Elsa’s eyes from rolling. “A date on our anniversary! How dashingly romantic of you. And here I thought when we first met, you had no heart.”

Maren’s wolfish grin did Elsa in. How could even a Lord of Winter, a Queen of Ice, resist the pleasant squeeze in her chest and flutter of warmth in her stomach. “Yes. A date of sorts, I suppose.”

Honeymaren leaned closer, a whisper of breath on Elsa’s lips, daring her to close the distance, a sword at the ready. “And if I want to visit you before then?”

Elsa stayed her distance, her own blade crossed. She wasn’t one to lose a battle, even one so friendly as this. “I am unaccustomed to visitors, but you would certainly not be unwelcome. For you, Maren, my doors will always be open.” And with that, she allowed her guard to drop, in a ringing of swords and a spark of metal, Elsa closed the small distance between them and captured Maren’s lips in her own, sealing her victory.

Maren parted, stars in her eyes and a smile on her face. “Just you see, we’ll be sailing around the world before the year is up!”

Elsa laughed, her heart lighter, filled with a love she thought was but a memory to her. “First Northuldra, then we can see about the rest of the world.”