His question is, at heart, an impossible one.
How is she is to know what would be enough? She thought it was enough, to live, the daughter of a god and a near-goddess, on a place that was practically built for her. She thought it was enough, to have the snow and cold at her beck and call, to live strange and beautiful among it, alone and ethereal, wind whipping at her cheeks and mane but never stinging, always feeling like a caress.
She had no way of knowing the way wanderlust would bloom inside her, turning from pinprick into an ache, until she finally had no choice but to obey, to give in and make her way down the mountain, stones tumbling down the side, the air growing warmer and richer until it was almost too much to breathe.
“I don’t know,” she says, because this is the easier, simple way to saying it, without loading him down with the words that made no sense, not to one who has never known such strange and exquisite solitude.
“What would be enough for you?” she asks, as if his answer could guide her, as if they were anything the same.
tell me that girl is not a song of burning