The sun.

It glittered upon the vast expanses of untouched snow, a frigid, glittering sea of sharp crystals—breathtaking beauty unrivaled even by the prismatic labyrinth below the surface. It was a spot of pastel warmth in a pale blue sky, sparse warmth undisturbed by breezes. If he stood still, savored it in delight, he was warm, through and through, and not simply because a faint fever still lingered. He was warm, because the sun in this pristine, beautiful world warmed his back. Because it was full of life and light, finally having conquered the shadows.

He had no desire to move from his spot. Dark blue shadows lay deep in the snow, showing where he had plowed through the soft white, but in front of him lay only the unbroken sea, all a-glitter in the sunlight. His breath smoked into the pleasantly cold air, the bite against his throat each time he drew breath familiar. It almost felt like being home—wherever home was, after all these years. Frostvidr? The Basin? The Edge?

No; home was not a place.

Home was a state of being. Home was contentment and peace; home was the warm sunlight beating down on his back, the beauty of the world, the love nestled around his heart. Home was wordless, indescribable. Home was here and now, stretched out before him, and within him.

Irma was a pale shadow soaring in the frigid blue sky, a wisp of cloud among other wisps. She, too, was content—for now. Because the little menace she'd dragged into their midst was asleep. Having been young herself, she had no memory of what it had been like for Mauja to be bonded to her, a young, base creature, who thought of nothing but her own needs, and had no concept of how to filter her thoughts or harness her emotions.

And Mauja, he was an owl-father all over again, holding up dead animals for the little thing to peck at, enduring hours of chaotic thought-storms, and trying to keep Irma sane at the same time without losing his own sanity. So far, it had just been a few days, but he hoped Irma would get over it soon. It had, after all, been her idea, though he didn't remind her of it too often. She was a finicky creature.

The little menace itself was, as Irma had been in her own fledgling days, perched on Mauja's well-worn withers. Having served for Irma's perch for two years they were scarred, a latticework of black lines and dots. The formless lump of downy off-white feathers clung, in sleep, to his tangle of thick white hair, and the bony, jutting piece of his back. He felt more like a grandfather, remembering Irma's owlet days. A small smile made his lips twitch. Home went hand in hand with heart-warming, heart-wrenching nostalgia, pleasant and warm.

His eyes closed. He breathed in the cold, pure air, felt his lungs swell with life.

And the wind began to call his name, softly at first, merely a play of his thoughts and ears and spinning mind—then louder and louder, a clearly defined word, an eager, urgent voice. His eyes opened, and his soul soared above.

She was small, seen from Irma's vantage, a moving, black-and-white ant, sailing like a ship on a sea of salt. He knew her, Irma knew her. He raised his head into the wind, her name spilling from his mouth in a clear, carrying voice: the voice of a King. "Kahlua!"

He would've run to her, if he could. He would've run to her if not for the lingering warmth, the way his pulse was just a tad too defined in his skull, and the way that his breath would rattle through his throat and his muscles feel lax, empty, spent. Instead, he walked, dignified, at ease in the loose, soft snows. Perhaps she had heard him. Perhaps she would come to meet him.

If not, he would chase her across the snows with a wolf's patience, a slow lumbering beast knowing that sooner or later, he would catch up with her.