Winter grew harsher. Lars did not return.

Icewater Creek froze over, the ice so thick one could cross it without using the stone bridge that lay across it. One afternoon Alvar walked to Ilaira's lake, to see how she was doing. Solid ice lay deep over the surface of the lake, powdered with freshly fallen snow.

He found the nymph sitting on a rock by the shore, a circlet wrought of ice adorning her head. The cold did not seem to bother her at all, but rather, she basked in its presence, the silence of the woods, the caress of the wind, the shivering leaves. The whole world was varying shades of grey and white, like a faded old painting, only the blue of frozen streams and black of tree-barks stood out against the vast paleness.

She was humming to herself when Alvar came up to stand beside her. He listened to her for a while, but found no particular tune to the wordless song. Then again, most wonderful things had lost their meaning to him lately.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“We're singing, of course,” said Ilaira. 

“We?” He looked around, but there was no one else there. “Why, I see nobody except you and me.”

“See through your ears what your eyes cannot,” she said.

Alvar frowned. Magical folk were always so enigmatic. He was just a simple lad, and prefered things spoken outright. Nevertheless, he fell quiet, sat down beside Ilaira and listened.

A low humming reached his ears, coming from deep within the frozen surface of the lake. The more he listened, the louder it grew, shrill and high at times, and so deep sometimes it seemed to thrum in his bones, the same way the beating of a drum echoes in one's chest. The cracks in the ice were alive with an eerie song, one that was frightening yet comforting at the same time.

“You hear it?” asked Ilaira, “the singing ice?”

He nodded. “Sure do.”

She hopped off the rock and walked barefoot on the ice with him. Alvar kept his fur boots on, because unlike mystical guardians of the forests, he was very much at risk of frostbites, and would prefer to have both his legs functioning for many years to come.

Ilaira did not ask for Lars' whereabouts, unlike everyone at the village, and Alvar was grateful for that. As much as he appreciated their concern for the wizard, he grew weary of never being able to provide a satisfying answer. Instead of asking things he wouldn't know how to respond to, she showed him strange things that one would only get to see if they came to the centre of a frozen lake, in the middle of a frozen wood in the middle of winter. People rarely did such mad things, when they could be perfectly comfortable back home before a merry fire. Only loners and lovers were mad enough to wander alone in these times, and he was both of them. 

The nymph taught him how to sing along to the songs of the ice. Dark shapes swirled underneath his boots as he walked; fishes and underwater plants. There was a whole world hidden down there beneath the ice. The sun went down, and stars shone in the cracked surface of the lake. He may have started shivering at some point, but he was comforted. Even if he lost all that he'd ever loved, he would still have the sunsets and starlight, the wind in his hair and rare songs only a few could hear. 

When he broke out of his trance, Ilaira had vanished and his hood and shoulders were buried beneath a layer of snow.

The year's harvest had been plenty, just as Lars had predicted. People managed to get by despite the biting cold, but the wizard did not return to see his prediction come into fruition. 

In the evenings they gathered in the Cracked Flagon, chatting away merrily over a pint of ale or mead. That was where Alvar lingered as well after he'd closed for the day, and sat all by himself in a corner, content to listen to their stories and clap along to their songs. Aunt Elena made plenty of friends in those evenings, and she always had the best sea-shanties to sing, their lively beats chasing away the cold from their bones and lifting their spirits.

Some would recount strange and exciting things that had happened in the village. The elders would speak of a time long gone, and the younger ones would often nudge Alvar into the fray, though he was, frankly, more of a listener than a storyteller.

“Tell us about the time you saw a siren!” or, “wonder how Master Braidbeard is doing nowadays?” 

He loved how their eyes would light up when he would narrate for the umpteenth time how they came upon a baby dragon when cleaning a chimney. That one was Aunt Elena's favourite, and every time she would act out how she stuck her hand into the chimney and nearly burned herself from the sudden jet of fire that had issued forth.

Or, someone would seek his aid, saying, “I think I might have Snow Sprites in my home too! My room is always cold.”

That had been the case in several homes after the smithy was fixed. This time Alvar made the rounds, telling everyone to keep their windows open on a clear day and let the sunlight in. They were always astonished at how simple the solution was and thanked him.

Yet the tales over the fire would always spiral back to the same question to which he had no answer.

“Haven't seen the wizard in a while. Where's he gone?” people would always ask at the inn, or when they came to the shop.

“To some old mining town,” Alvar would say in response. “Working on something there.”

“Oh? When is he coming back?” 

“Soon,” he would say, more to himself than to the others. “Very soon.” 

Many more weeks rolled by, the dreary grey of winter interspersed by sunny mornings, and bald patches of bare earth began to show when the ground began to thaw. Alvar shifted the plants from the glass-house to the garden outside, where they thrived just as well. The mischief of Snow Sprites ceased.

Spring arrived. Lars did not return.

Eventually, Alvar stopped waiting. He busied himself in taking care of the garden, both his own and the wizard's. He was not going to neglect the plants, just because someone else was careless enough to leave them behind.

Begrudgingly, he swept the floors of Lars' house too, but there really was not much to clean. There was no one to leave clothes piled on the bed, papers strewn across the table, or let wild weeds take over the garden until it was near impossible to make one's way through. The turret window did not light up with strange flashes, and the laboratory was silent. The familiar clickety-clack of a staff hitting the floorboards was heard no more, nor the pleasant voice humming a sad little tune in the kitchen. 

Alvar tidied up the empty house, but left the patchwork blanket on the couch untouched. It sat there, just as it had the morning Lars left. Sometimes he sat there and thought of that night. At times like this, Marcella would come and curl into his lap, asking for pets. Somehow she seemed to sense when he was sad, even if he wiped his eyes in silence and did not make a sound. 

As the days grew warmer, she started venturing out more, and one day he noticed she had a swollen belly.

“I wonder what colour your babies will be,” he said. He began to feed her a little bit more than her usual amount.

Marcella answered it weeks later. She had three kittens, and it seemed she'd run out of colour while making them, for one was a deep black just like herself, one was grey like ash, and the last one white, like a puffy cloud. All three were plump and healthy, little balls of yarn that snuggled into their mother's belly. They meowed so much all the time it was maddening, but Alvar couldn't be happier. He put all of them in a box cushioned with old blankets. 

Soon Lars' house was alive with three little goblins that scratched the carpet and hung from curtains and pushed things off the table and shelves. Alvar finally had something to clean up and complain about, but he did so joyfully. The trio followed him to every corner of the house and pestered him to no end while Marcella watched proudly from the armchair. 

Sometimes though, he really needed a break. One day after lunch, he left them to play in the garden with Snatcher, and climbed down the stone steps to the dock where Lars' boat was moored. 

He took the boat out to sea. He had trouble rowing through the shallows, but out on the open sea, when the winds were calm and the waves peaceful, he had no problem. A deep silence prevailed there, the midday sun shining upon the lazy waters. Gulls circled overhead. He lay there for hours on end, feeling the warmth of the sun loosen the knots of aches he got from working all day. He often took the siren's conch with him, and listened to it as he lay. Nowadays it seemed to play only one song, or rather--only one voice that he longed to hear.

One such day, he fell asleep for too long, and he awoke a few minutes before sunset. The lights were coming to life at the Waterfront. He was about to head back when he noticed the bottle, tucked into a coil of rope. There was a message inside. He didn't remember it being there when he set out, so someone must've left it when he was asleep--in a boat far from the shore.

Alvar had a good guess of who it could have been.

He pulled out the cork stopper, and unfurled the piece of paper. The handwriting was even worse than Lars', and he struggled to make sense of it in some places. 

“I suppose webbed fingers and talons are not really made for penmanship,” he said to himself. 

The letter read:

Dear H̶u̶m̶a̶n̶s̶  Friends,

How have you been? I am doing great. Last month, I visited the island south of here, where the mountain dragons live. It is a wonderful place. I met the youngling you left there at the end of last summer. She is doing well, and has grown near as big as your house. They grow up fast, do they not? Ah, but I forget my actual purpose for writing this. 

My folk have arranged a gathering of our kin, on the next full moon, that is, a fortnight from now. It is a celebration similar to the fair your people hold in the beginning of spring. I am delighted to invite you to come and rejoice with us. Fear not, we do not intend to lure you away and drown you--unless the wizard attempts some sort of foolish jest like the last time. Meet me at the entrance of the sea caves on the aforementioned day. I shall lead you to the gathering from there.

Warmest regards...

Alvar could not figure out the strange markings underneath. He assumed it was the siren's name. Below, it read--

P.S. write back. I had a dreadful time procuring the means to write and surely deserve a response at the very least!

Then an odd sort of splatter of ink, which looked like the siren's attempt at a playful doodle. He couldn't tell what it was--could've been a fish or a crow or a house. Then, another hastily written line, in the back:

P.P.S. I do not mean to be presumptuous but--when is the wedding? I hope I am invited.

Alvar couldn't help but grin, but as soon as he did, a pang of sadness struck at his heart. He clutched the letter for a long time, wondering what he could possibly say in response.

Three days later, the night before the Spring Fair, Alvar sat leaning against the garden gate outside his house. It was late at night, and Aunt Elena was sound asleep up in her room, just like the rest of the village. 

From the gate, he had a good view of the meadows beyond the bridge over the Icewater Creek. Crickets chirped. The waxing moon was bright overhead. 

He still hadn't written a reply to the siren's letter. It now lay beside a pile of crumpled up papers on his table, half-finished attempts that he'd tossed aside. Tired beyond words but unable to sleep, he came out here, hoping to find some of the comfort he'd experienced upon the frozen lake in the woods that one day in winter. He did not find any.

Instead, he found himself at the end of his patience.

Alvar could not take it anymore, this play-pretend, acting like nothing had changed since the day Lars left. In the beginning, he had hope, and some days, he would go running up to Lars' house, thinking he would see smoke coming out of the chimney, and light spilling from the windows. The wizard would be back, because he never really left, and everything else Alvar felt up to now was just a bad dream.

But such a day never came. The house was always quiet, until the kittens came, and the fireplace was always cold and dark, unless he lit it up himself.

Tonight, he wondered if he could go to sleep again, that special sort of sleep he once fell into, when he lost Gran. She had been there in his dreams, so clear and so vivid, as if she'd never died. If he could will himself into a dream-like trance like that again, he might see Lars. He had magic of his own now. Perhaps he could simply summon him here from the dream, if he just tried hard enough. After all, he had successfully summoned a demon once.

He tried to lie very still and think it was just a regular day and Lars was still around.

It was not easy, because there were many distractions as soon as he closed his eyes. Something skittered across his leg, the grass tickled the back of his neck, his arm itched and he felt the need to sneeze.

Something whooshed over him.

He opened one eye, and saw a shadow flicker past the moon for a brief moment.

Good. He thought. It was working. He only had to think some more, and that shadow would soon transform into Lars.

There was another whoosh, followed by a series of thuds and bangs. Several things crashed into the ground. Someone cursed under their breath, their voice awfully familiar.

Things are beginning to take shape at last, he thought. It felt so real, he could hardly believe this was all part of a dream.

“Can you keep it quiet, please?” said Alvar, not opening his eyes. It was his dream, after all, and he could command how things went. He wanted it to be serene and calm.

Footsteps approached him across the grass.

“Interesting experiment,” said Lars. “But what exactly are you trying to do here?”

Alvar's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright.

Alvar looked at Lars--looked at the pile of trunks and bags strewn across the grass a few paces far--then back at Lars again.

He looked travel-worn, but happy. His golden hair had grown well past his shoulders, and his skin was well freckled, like his own. In his hand he held his flying broom, which looked just as weary as its rider. A little smoke was coming out of it.

“Are--are you real?” he sputtered.

Lars looked at himself. “I think so.”

Alvar could hardly believe his eyes. His legs trembled as he got to his feet and took hold of his hands. They were warm against his own. Real. Real.

He felt the rough undersides of calluses in his palms, something that hadn't been there before. Alvar took a good look at them.

“How'd you get these?” he asked, and as he looked up, he noticed for the first time the thin strip of bandage fastened over the bridge of Lars' nose. “What on earth happened?”

Lars' smile only widened. “Oh, this? Just a little accident. It's almost healed.”

The shock of the encounter struck Alvar at last, and he sank to his knees, his legs giving way under him. He realised only now how sleep-deprived he was. 

“You all right?” Lars looked concerned, and he too sat down beside him on the grass. 

“No,” he said. “Where have you been all this time?”

“Thought you already knew that,” said Lars. “I told you all about the mining town.”

“And what exactly have you been doing there? Mining?” 

“Not at first. I spoke to people around the town and down in the tunnels. But none of them could help me find the thing I was looking for. So I rolled up my sleeves, grabbed a pickaxe and decided to find it myself.”

He then reached into his pocket and took out something like a box, wrapped in a piece of red cloth. 

“Took me forever, but I found it at last,” he said, beginning to remove the wraps. “I'm friends with one of the smiths there. He was happy to forge me a ring when I brought him the stone.”

Alvar was so happy to see him again that his mind refused to work on anything else. Nothing Lars said made sense. 

He looked at him blankly. “What stone? What ring?”

Lars smiled fondly and showed him what was inside the box.

A gold ring, inlaid with intricate patterns of silver, studded with an enormous blue gem. And not just any gem, but one with swirls of colour within it like the sea, a wondrous thing imbued with magic that led one to their destiny.

It was an Ocean Star. 

“You said you wanted one, remember?” said Lars.

Alvar found himself at a loss for words.

“I'm sorry that I had to keep this secret,” said Lars again. “I didn't want to ruin the surprise. I wasn't really sure I'd be able to find one.”

Alvar lunged forward and wrapped his arms around him, so fast and so fierce that it caught him by surprise and knocked the box right out of his hands. Alvar didn't need the ring to find his destiny. 

You don't need a spyglass to see what's right in front of you.

“Don't you ever leave me again,” he mumbled into his shirt. He felt long fingers running gently through the curls of his hair.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting for so long,” Lars said. “This was also a test I devised for myself, one that I had to pass. I had to know if I had it in me to hear the Call and refuse to succumb to it. I needed to know if I was strong enough to come back to the place where I belong.”

Alvar looked up. His eyes were shining as he spoke. 

“The magic in our blood, they say, it's a wonderful thing. But the trouble begins when the power grows stronger than our own self. That is why many of us choose to leave the company of others, out of fear of hurting them. That's what the Call is. It comes from within, this urge to break free of all bonds,” said Lars. “Yet in solitude, the storm inside only grows stronger, and you can never be at peace in a place for long.”

Alvar reached out to touch his cheek. “You've stayed in Frostspire for a while without trouble.”

“Yes. Yes, I have,” he said softly, closing his eyes, leaning into the gentle caress he'd sorely missed all the time he was away.

“I have learnt at last what Anika wanted me to discover on my own,” he said. “We need to find our roots, so that they may hold us in place and keep us grounded. People, places, things--that keep us from drowning in ourselves. My mentor found hers in that enchanted forest.”

Lars pulled away, and held Alvar's face in both hands. Happy tears welled in his eyes.

“And here I have found mine.”

A playful smile spread across Alvar's lips.

“Good,” he said, “because I'm not letting you get away without cleaning up the mess you've just made in my garden.” He gestured at the luggage that lay around them. 

“Can't that wait till morning?” said Lars. He peppered his face with kisses, as if making up for the many days he wasn't around. 

He picked up the box once again, and slipped the ring around Alvar's finger. It was a perfect fit. A soft glow emanated from the great gem, encasing them both in an ethereal blue light under the open sky and the moon and the stars, for they were each other's destiny.

When they headed back inside, hand in hand, the last of the stars had faded into the dawn. 

It seemed to Alvar there was a Bridge of Stars beneath his feet today, for this was no different than walking into heaven.

The End.