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.