Chapter Text
Honeymaren’s sky watching again.
It’s a hobby of hers, of most of the Northuldra honestly. She loves to stare and revel in the bright blue expanse, stretching impossibly wide above her. There’s a nuance to the colour as well; it’s not just a solid brush of plain blue. The horizon goes pale and the colour gets more saturated the higher she looks; the light varies as well, cold and blue in the morning, golden sunbeams in the afternoon, a million different colours at dusk and dawn. When the mist hung grey and heavy over the forest, the clouds above would change colour from blueish grey to orangish grey to pinkish grey but seeing the sun lie across the horizon and watching its light in all its unfiltered glory feels like something special.
The sky is beautiful at night too. When Honeymaren saw the moon against a clear sky for the first time, shining cold and beautiful, she suddenly understood why it had been the centre of so many songs and stories. When she was little, listening to her grandmother talk about the moon and the constellations weaved into the night sky, she had always imagined the stars to be the size of lanterns, connected by pulsating lines. If you squinted just right, she thought, they would even move slightly.
The first night after the Forest had been freed, she had been almost disappointed. The stars seemed impossibly small and lonely and distant. Not just from her, but also from each other. She channelled her disappointment into something useful, so she’s been learning how to guide and navigate using the stars. Yelena, when she has time, has been teaching anyone who’s interested. There’s a spread in Honeymaren’s sketchbook with notes on each constellation, their position in the sky, as well as a drawing of the story behind them. It’s wonderful how people can draw lines between stars and find patterns and stories, whether they’re there or not. It warms her to think about the generations of children looking up at the sky and finding those stories. For now though, the sky is bright and blue above her, lightly speckled with feathery wisp-like clouds.
Elsa enters the clearing Honeymaren is lying in and sits next to her, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze. “Cloud watching?” she asks.
Honeymaren breaks out of her momentary reverie. “Hm?”
“Are you cloud watching?” Elsa repeats patiently.
Cloud watching, Honeymaren thinks. What an old-fashioned phrase. She remembers the village elders would sometimes reminisce about it and Honeymaren would look up at the mist above her and wonder what there was to look at. “Just admiring the sky,” she replies.
Elsa stays quiet and the two of them watch the sky for a while in comfortable silence. The clouds drift lazily above them.
“It’s a shame,” Honeymaren says. “When the mists finally cleared, I was so excited to see the aurora. I guess they don’t exist anymore.”
Elsa smiles bemusedly. “Honeymaren, the aurora still exists.”
Honeymaren sits up. “What?”
“The northern lights? They still exist.”
“I’ve watched the night sky for months!” Honeymaren protests. “I’ve asked everybody, none of them have seen it since the skies have cleared!”
Elsa has that amused quirk of her eyebrow that she gets when she thinks Honeymaren is acting just a bit ridiculous. “We’re not far north enough to see any aurora. When my father took us to see them, we had to travel for at least a few days.”
“A few days from Arendelle,” Honeymaren purses her lips, gears in her head already turning. “That’s around a half day’s trip from here, right?”
Elsa catches on quickly. “Maybe only a few hours if you take your fastest reindeer. Will you have a free afternoon soon?”
It’s already mid-afternoon and she’s still got some work to do after her break. If she gets a head start on tomorrow, though… Honeymaren stands and stretches. “Is tomorrow alright with you?”
Elsa, still sitting, presses a kiss against Honeymaren’s hand. “Tomorrow sounds perfect.”
Honeymaren gives her an adoring smile, before heading off. She’s got work to do.
Honeymaren’s effort, organisation, and trading a few errands with Ryder mean that she’s able to stick to her word. By the next afternoon, she and Elsa are sorting out the final logistics before their trip.
“I’m thinking we’ll take Matilda. The sled should be near where the herd are, I just need to grab some things from my hut,” Honeymaren says to Elsa, who nods in response and heads off to find the reindeer. They’re not staying overnight so Honeymaren is packing light; she just needs to collect some food for the journey and some furs to stay warm.
Once she's collected the supplies, she spots Elsa adjusting the buckle of Matilda’s harness. Elsa’s been learning some aspects of reindeer husbandry from the Northuldra so she can help out more often with day-to-day work. The sled is already attached, and Matilda keeps making Elsa laugh by repeatedly bumping her velvety nose against Elsa’s face, covering her in reindeer kisses. Honeymaren can’t help but smile at the sweet image. She loads the sled then hops on and grabs Matilda’s reins in a fluid motion. With a click of her tongue, they set off.
“What Northuldran stories are there about the aurora?” Elsa asks. They’ve been travelling for a while, talking easily to fill the time.
“In our tribe, we believe the aurora are the souls of the dead. You shouldn’t talk when they’re above you, out of respect. You’re also meant to stay inside but,” Honeymaren shifts uncomfortably, “I suppose maybe covering ourselves with furs will work. There isn’t really enough time to set up a tent,” she trails off, absentmindedly worrying at her lip. She longs to see the aurora in person but something in her, with a voice not dissimilar to her late grandmother, warns to be wary of the lights, lest they curse her or snatch her away.
Elsa notices her discomfort. “I can create a shelter for the two of us, if that will help,” she says, squeezing Honeymaren’s hand.
Honeymaren visibly relaxes. “That would be great.” She looks around at the snowy slopes illuminated by weak moonlight and spots a trail of small paw prints running alongside the sled that Matilda seems to be unconsciously following. Honeymaren isn’t particularly skilled in tracking but she can tell they’re fresh.
“There’s another story I’ve heard about the aurora,” Honeymaren remembers. “It’s said that foxes run through the sky and when their tails brush against the mountains, they create sparks that light up the sky. It’s not one from my tribe, though.” She remembers Yelena telling the children about it, illuminated by firelight, having just returned from a meeting with some of the leaders of the other Northuldran tribes. The foxes were a story from the easternmost tribes. She remembers passing by and hearing the children try and fail to convince Yelena to give her best impression of a fox’s screech.
“I guess tonight we can see which story is right,” Elsa replies, with a playful smirk.
Honeymaren grins back at her. “I bet you ten copper pieces it’s my tribe.” She’s joking, of course. The mere thought of betting money on the aurora already has her grandmother’s voice inside her screaming in fury.
Honeymaren’s looking up at the night sky and trying to locate as many constellations as she can see, when she feels Matilda begin to slow. Beside her, Elsa sits up straight and looks around.
“This feels like a good spot,” she says. Honeymaren pulls Matilda to a stop and looks around. There’s nothing particularly noticeable about their position, the landscape remains dark and snowy and mountainous. She assumes it must be the magic in the air. Honeymaren is slightly envious of Elsa’s ease with sensing magic around her and communicating with the spirits. It would have been so useful when the spirits in the Enchanted Forest were hurting and angry and their relationship with the Northuldra had been briefly severed. Her envy is always quickly eclipsed by her adoration and admiration for Elsa, though. Regardless of what Honeymaren wants, the spirits presented Elsa with a gift and in turn, she gave the Northuldra with the gift of freedom.
Honeymaren steps off the sled to feed Matilda a well-earned treat from her bag and releases the buckle on her harness to let her lie down and rest. She’s done well tonight. The reindeer flops down onto the snow with a contented huff.
Elsa is still sitting on the sled when she draws a deep breath and lifts her arms. The snow around them shudders as Elsa constructs an icy cabin around them, walls and roof made from smooth opaque ice. It’s relatively simple inside, apart from the intricately carved pillars in each corner. In place of a door there’s simply a gauzy curtain, like a suspended sheet of frost.
Honeymaren makes eye contact with Elsa before pointedly looks at one of the pillars with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.
“I was raised in a literal castle, some embellishments are going to be natural,” Elsa says, with a small, sheepish smile.
The two women get settled, lying on their fronts, propped up by their elbows with heads poking out of the cabin’s curtained entrance just enough so they have a clear view of the sky above them. Honeymaren pulls a blanket around the two of them as they wait for the aurora.
In the distance, Honeymaren spots a small creature, a snow fox, watching them. The darkness means that details are hard to discern but its amber eyes stare unblinkingly at them and there seem to be swirling colours reflected — no, emanating from its pristine coat into the space around it. She doesn’t have time to study it further as Elsa nudges her and points upwards at the lights colouring the darkness.
The aurora.
It turns out they do exist.
Honeymaren watches the lights in awe and fear as they streak across the sky; the greens and pinks and blues weave their way between the stars. Honeymaren can feel the weight of their souls pressing down on them and is deeply thankful for the shelter. She would feel far too exposed otherwise, like they could snatch her up and take her with them. She feels so incredibly small, watching the aurora dance across the breadth of the sky above them, but simultaneously feels a sense of connectedness to something bigger. She wonders when she passes, whether her soul will join the lights. She wonders whether someone will look up at the sky and watch her soul illuminating the darkness and feel the exact same wonder she feels.
She glances at Elsa and sees the same colours reflected in the tear tracks running down her face. Honeymaren doesn’t want to talk, not while the lights are still dancing above them, but she wraps an arm around Elsa and holds her tightly.
They’re on their way back, silent apart from the clicking of Matilda’s feet and the sound of the snow underneath the sled. Honeymaren is trying to navigate home using the constellations and alternates between looking at the stars and the path ahead. Elsa, still looking up at the clear night sky, is quiet and thoughtful.
“Did you see the fox spirit?” Elsa asks.
It clicks. A spirit, of course, Honeymaren thinks, it seems so obvious now. “I did. I didn’t realise it was a spirit, though,” she admits. She probably would have pieced it together eventually, but even now her mind is still too filled with reverence at the lights to be thinking too hard about anything else.
“Her name is Revontuli,” Elsa explains. “I think she protects and guides the lights.”
“Have you met her before?” Honeymaren feels a bit rude for not properly acknowledging the spirit. Next time, maybe. Elsa shakes her head.
“You said the aurora were the souls of the dead, right?” Elsa says. Honeymaren nods. “I heard their voices explaining who she was to me. I think –” She breaks off with a sudden sob and takes a shuddering breath. Almost instinctively, Honeymaren draws her in, presses a kiss gently against the nape of her neck. “I think I heard my mother’s voice,” Elsa finishes.
Honeymaren smiles sadly and strokes Elsa’s hair in slow soothing motions. “The Northuldra have another name for the aurora,” Honeymaren softly explains. “We call it the light you can hear.” She tucks a lock of Elsa’s hair behind her ear and tilts Elsa’s face to meet hers. “I’m glad someone finally heard what they were saying.”
When they finally arrive back at the encampment, the main campfire is still flickering but most people have already headed to bed. Honeymaren’s mother is still up, stitching in the firelight. She turns and spots them.
“Evening Mama,” Honeymaren says, sleepily. Elsa yawns behind her.
Her mother takes one look at the two of them, Honeymaren still wearing her thick winter coat, Elsa’s hair still mussed from the wind, and clucks disapprovingly, setting her stitching down to one side. “I’ll put the sled away. You two get yourselves to bed.” She walks over and kisses her daughter’s forehead and smiles warmly at Elsa, before shooing the two women to bed. The two of them make their way to Honeymaren’s hut, wearily prepare for bed and then collapse in a tangled splay of limbs under Honeymaren’s blankets and furs.
As Honeymaren drifts off to sleep, Elsa’s cold hand in hers, she swears she can still see the multicoloured lights, dancing and singing beneath her eyelids.