A tapestry of winter and repose, sanctuary and warm, tender havens ghosted and ignited before them – and she was utterly entranced. Her eyes were captivated and mesmerized by the flickering lights and the gentle swirl, the peace, the harmony, that had come with the turtle, the tree, and the prosperous wake of giving. She wished she had something else to proffer but the fizzle, the spark, of an enchanted charm, but it hung there between boughs and other alluring things, softened by the wake of so many other possibilities and potentials. Imogen curled between her forelegs and chirped, and together they marveled and stared, heads turned upwards, necks stretched towards the sky (and what would it be like, she wondered, to fly above and glance at the massive crowd, suddenly at peace, without ill will, without a trace of the hatred that had once drowned them all? Would it be awe-inspiring? Would it be wonderful? Or would it be too much to bear, too much to desire?).
 
A presence by her side distracted her, caused her attention to waver from the great grove to the familiar set of spots and ice, eyes roaming until they widened at Mauja’s figure reflected against the backdrop of glimmering illuminations. She thought he might be an illusion at first, one more fantasy curled from the lights and sounds, tilting her head a fraction to stare at him, amazed and surprised, bewildered and stunned he’d chosen to settle beside her within the massive crowd of faces and features. The dove didn’t let it sway her, however, when he became all the more tangible and corporeal, when her gaze caught sight of the glittering snowflakes resting on his hide, when his owls plaited his tassels into whimsical art and poetry (and here Imogen chirruped at them, impressed with their skills and craft). Her smile resonated again, and if it could’ve made a sound it would’ve been cherubic bells and cordial ditties, a few amiable strains finessed to reside in the foundation of her forgiving figure. The last time they’d met, with him buried in the snow, with misgivings and misunderstanding emblazoning them once more (an endless, ridiculous pattern, and it was perplexing how often they couldn’t comprehend one another), but she always tried, she always reached out, she always settled her heart and her mind to the earthen wares of Mauja’s ice and fire, compassion, kindness, and delicacy painted along her brow. While the rest of the crowd seemed to filter away, another year of bestowals and presents complete, she spoke, she greeted, and she beamed. “Mauja,” the Mender breathed with an airy, ethereal grin, full of harmony and melody, meant to soothe, meant to assuage, meant to proffer the same regal sentiments she’d offered him over and over again. “How are you?” The query was often identical to previous questions, because she wanted to know how he fared, what trial he’d been up against, what happiness he’d finally held, clenched between his Frostheart years and his Frost Light seasons – hoped and prayed for him no matter the occasion.