#xnivalis

Positivity ;; selectively accepting.

xnivalis // xsaturnine

Well, well, well, SIERRA, my sweet darling. We met on your WANDA, && since then you have blog hopped. Of course, I still stalk you from each && every single one of your blogs. I totally love you && miss you, because we don’t talk anymore ;n; You’re a total sweetheart && somehow love every single fandom I do. OHSHC, Hetalia, AHS, Marvel, Disney. Probably more. So your taste is SUPERB.

Old Man Winter didn’t like Jack going near Arendelle anymore. Not that the younger spirit ever understood why; it wasn’t the Old Goat’s domain, and it wasn’t Jack’s. For the longest time, Jack assumed it was simply a place similar to the equator (though it was fairly far away from it) and didn’t have a winter in the traditional sense. No snow or cold storms or any of the things that Jack was in charge of.

But then… a little over twenty years ago… Jack had felt something. There was a winter source in Arendelle. Perhaps it was a god, figured the spirit, a deity that Old Man Winter simply didn’t want ticked off with Jack’s antics. But then… why was it only now making itself known? Why was Jack permitted in Arendelle before its arrival?

Over the years, he had ignored the tug of curiosity- and a strange sensation that gave off the impression that his senses were searching for a connection- that pulled at him like a siren of old (though the actual sirens had had little affect on him when he had run into them almost a century ago). But it was growing steadily stronger and as Jack gained years as a spirit, he found he was less and less under Old Man Winter’s heel; though if the being he sensed there did indeed turn out to be a god, Jack doubted he would be able to refuse a command from them. And so with an affectionate ruffling of his wild white hair, Wind tossed him enthusiastically toward Arendelle.

The winter- source’s power was threaded through the air like strings frayed from the ends of a tapestry. Winter in this realm belonged to that source and Jack found himself feeling like he had no business being within a hundred miles of this land. He could almost see why Old Man Winter had warned him against coming here. But his curiosity and avidly searching senses pushed him past the magnificent castle and toward the mountain. It was like the storm that swirled at the center of his being- the thing that held him together as a spirit- was reacting to the source and was whistling with a volume he was helpless to ignore.

He followed the power like he was a boat on a current. It meandered among the snow-capped mountains and skittered along his flesh. There was something... unsettling about this power. It was prickly. The Guardian couldn't decide if it was something about the power itself, or if it was reacting to his intrusion.

He stopped dead in the air as he rounded a particularly large cliff and spotted a tall shimmering castle made entirely of ice nestled against the mountain’s belly. He took a moment to take in the translucent towers and spires before drifting toward a window and landing on the sill. Inside was far from what he had expected. He had almost figured he would find some great god upon a throne like Odin or Freya. What he saw was human- or at least, she certainly seemed to be.

Loki had taken to wandering the hidden paths a lot lately. It helped, to get away from all the fuss and planning for Thor’s upcoming coronation ceremony, because he could barely look at his brother without feeling a knot of jealousy burning in the pit of his stomach.

Nowhere on Asgard was far enough for his tastes, so to other realms he went. Today he was somewhere in Midgard, atop a high, snow-covered mountain peak. Loki squinted a little against the wind and the flakes of snow that swirled into his eyes, peering about. There were no footprints anywhere in sight, but as he turned he spotted something quite extraordinary.

A slim, delicate-looking stairway all made of ice arched gracefully over a crevasse to end at the doorway of a glittering palace, also made of ice.

Loki stared at it in awe, heedless of the cold that bit through his summer clothing. It was unlike anything he’d seen during his covert trips to Jotunheim. Jotunheim was all broken black basalt and massive blocks and pillars of ice. This- this was a thing of beauty, delicate as crystal, glittering in the moonlight.

And it positively radiated magic.

( It looks lovely! )

"Elsa? What are you doing back in Storybrooke?"