She remembers him—even though they had met so briefly.

The boy carved of ice, although so very different from her own. An ice that she could not comprehend and could not even begin to give a voice too. Perhaps that is why she ran. Perhaps that is why she cut their conversation so short. Or perhaps it was the way that he had so quickly cut to the core of the matter, knowing that she was trailed by death every step of the way. How she had known she couldn’t handle it.

So she had left Beqanna, as quickly as she could.

Left if for the Northern mountains. Those that lay beyond. Where she could climb and climb and climb until she could barely gasp for air. Until there was nothing but a memory of what it had felt like to stare at that angelic boy and have him whisper about her father’s death to her like it was just a fact of life.

As if everyone had known.

And she only returns when she is grown. When the ice spears down her spine and her pale blue mane falls in waves down her neck instead of standing rigid down it. There is an iciness to her that she runs from still, but she has not yet lost her anchor—she holds tight to that molten core of emotion that runs through her and keeps her thawed. Keeps her still dreaming and hoping, despite the loss she has suffered.

She walks into the forest quietly, as if scared to disturb the shadows that grow long in the winter afternoon, and it is only when she spots him that she makes any sound at all. A quiet laugh that is laced with disbelief. Because of course he would be the first soul she sees when returning.

Of course he would look the same after all this time.

Curious about the twist of fate, she doesn’t move forward. Doesn’t move at all. She just angles her pale head to the side, purple eyes contemplative, and she pushes forward a wave of emotion toward him.

Something tinged with shyness but warm all the way through.

Something polite but curious.

Something like hello.

She has wandered for so long that she has forgotten what it is like to interact with someone else. Wandered for so long that she is surprised to find that she is both thrilled and terrified of the prospect of it, unsure of whether she would be unable to stop talking or unable to start. It races through her and she just watches as he sees her and looks toward her, feels pinned to the spot as their gaze snags on one another.

He remembers her.

Something warm blossoms in her chest and she cannot stop the warmth that continues to project to him, the uncertain joy of being recognized, of being worthy of being remembered. The heat finds her cheeks and she drops her head a little, a smile growing in the corner of her mouth. When he asks her to stay, she glances up, finding his eyes again and she shifts her weight a little, the ice cracking down her spine.

“I won’t,” she promises, although she doesn’t know if it’s a promise that she can keep. The uncertainty of it though races down the line she has now connected to him, as if shouting her every feeling toward him. It’s been so long since she’s interacted with someone that she’s not sure how to turn it off once she’s opened it up, the flood dam rushing forward in response to the moment, latching onto him fiercely.

The embarrassment and vulnerability quickly follow the uncertainty and she bites down hard, a muscle working in her jaw as she realizes all of the emotions that she is feeding him—the constant stream of it.

Determined to not give in and acknowledge the open line of communication between them, she smiles.

“How have you been?”

In the years past, she thinks, and this time, it is only curiosity that radiates from her.

She wonders if it was a foolish question to ask and there’s an embarrassment that streaks through her, hot and flushed so that she dips her gaze, avoiding looking at him directly for a second. It was a silly thing to ask of someone—something so innocent but so personal for two souls who did not know another, not really. A brief encounter as children did not acquaintances make, let alone friends. They weren’t friends.

Disappointment bites into her next.

She flushes it out with renewed determination though, glancing up at him and unwittingly blasting the full force of her emotions toward him in the newness of this encounter. “I don’t know either,” she says with a crooked smile, answering the question he had not volleyed back at her. She has no way of knowing why he had not bothered to ask her again—did he view it as too personal? did he not care?—but she chooses to not dwell on it. Instead, she focuses all of her energy on studying him, drinking in every detail she can.

“Everywhere,” she is as vague as him, she realizes, although not intentionally. She just doesn’t know how to answer that question. “Away?” her voice rises on the end, as if asking if the answer was satisfactory. It is then that warm humor radiates from her and she laughs, shaking her pretty head as if chasing away her nerves that lace through her every thought. “I’m sorry, it’s been so long since I’ve done this.”

She bites her lip and looks up at him, shy once more.

“I’m afraid that I am not very good company.”

The distance set between them feels unfathomably large and made even larger still by the way that her own emotions ricochet off every rock and branch. The way that they seem to echo and grow in size with every heartbeat, rippling through the air and then coming back to her, taking root in her chest and expanding. She wants to name each one but she finds that she cannot. There are no names for what she feels, nothing but confusion and warmth, something bitter followed by something sweet.

It is open and yearning, her young heart sinking its teeth into every moment.

She flushes again when he calls her good company and shakes her lovely head, knowing that it was nothing but a kindness that he was extending her—a kindness that she did not deserve, not when she was being so confusing with him. But how could she explain this? How could she tell him that her heart iced over when her father died and she was doing everything possible to hold onto the warmth? How could she tell him how she wandered and did not find home? Did not find truth? Did not find peace?

How could she put it into words?

How dare she even try?

So she doesn’t. She just smiles at him and thinks of how handsome he has grown to be, the angelic lines of his face shooting warmth through her. A heat she has never grappled with before. “I don’t think so,” she laughs again, embarrassed as she shakes her head. “But I’m trying and I think that counts for something.” She shuffles her feet, not noticing the way that the ice grows along her spine, the jagged lines of it catching the faint light. “Would you like to take a walk with me? I think that might help.”

The emotions that churn in her are new and difficult to pull apart. They are fierce and she cuts her teeth on them, feels them with every new breath. But is the warmth that she feels the most, suffusing through her as she concentrates on the way it makes her feel relaxed and highly alert at once. As if she could stay for hours, basking in his presence, and desperate to run away in the next. It makes her flesh tingle and she smiles, enjoying the strange and pleasant, uncomfortable sensation as they continue to talk across the distance.

She just dips her head as he says he thinks it counts, a rush of appreciation spearing toward him. She didn’t have anything to ask—if her trying was enough, if she was enough—and hearing it validated means more than she could possibly explain. So there are no words in response. Words failing as she feels the ice crawl over her skin, a thick layer of it spreading from her spine down her shoulders.

There’s no chill in response and she steps toward him, that heady rush of anticipation and thrill of being close to him crashing through her and then rippling out, unknowingly, to him. She continues to signal her every emotion as they fall into step next to one another, her young heart pounding with the closeness to any other soul after so long by herself, but mostly by being near him. Without speaking, she angles them toward the river, hearing the distant crash of the water and wanting to feel that ferocity.

For a moment, her only response to his apology is a grief so large and yawning that it sweeps everything out of the way. She feels it open up before her and she swallows hard, that darkness beckoning. It takes effort to slam the door shut on it and step back, to lock up her sorrow and loneliness. When she focuses on him again, it is there, but muted, followed by confusion. “Please don’t apologize,” she whispers, her voice quieter than it has been. “It had just happened. I didn’t know how to talk about it yet.”

She sighs softly, looking up ahead.

“I still don’t feel like I have the words, but I’m trying there too.”

She wonders if this, too, is enough.