Winds change and so do people, don’t they?
A crest overlooks an endless expanse of snow and ice, so he stands atop that hill, watching the gales blow flurries. Blush rouge compared to the alabaster that surrounds him, the icy blue that highlights each glorious shard of Winter. He finds the way the wind moves against the earth to be vexing, coiling into spirals and rolling like waves- you can see it now, here, because it picks up loose specks of snow as it rolls. A tide made of the element he commands, an ocean of sleet. It was true Winter here and he found it to his liking, yet there was news of celebration to the West, holidays- naturally he was curious.
Several times he stops for directions, the reshaping of the lands and his hermitage making the world unknown- foreign, for now.
When his amber eyes settle on the bridge of twilight he stops dead in his tracks. Hooves heavy, weighted, all because of what unfolds before his eyes. Stilled by the magnificence of the creation, awed by the careful craftsmanship of the structure. Minutes pass, eyes soaking in the sight, heart racing as his curiosity is peaked.
Crossing only increases the way his heart hammers in his breast, snow, ice in the middle of an island- it made no sense, and yet, it made all the sense in the world.
Father, he thinks, eyes wide, hopeful- had Father truly decided to come out of seclusion?
There is no scent, no tell tale smell of the man he knew so well, beloved- how could he not be?
Weir is not present, sinking like a stone in his belly, but there IS something familiar about it all. It’s why he begins manipulating the ice, forging the greatest and grandest of Christmas Fir’s in a clearing. Bows and boxes, gleaming ornaments and tousled tinsels wrapped carefully about the pine, a great star glinting in the light at its peak.
He would bring them out, whoever they were, he would have answers- or he would simply delight in the craftsmanship that was ice sculpting.