Sometimes, what Thrain truly wished for was to know how to climb the snowy mountains, reach your ice castle, and try to warm your heart.
Your love, in truth, had always been fueled by that inner passion that had torn a rift in your heart, through which Thrain had found the path to reach you.

The path had been dark, at times dangerous, sometimes so icy that he’d lost feeling in his hands, but in the end, Thrain had found you seated on your throne of ice. When he arrived, he warmed you, and you fell in love with him, as he did with you. You never had a real reason to love him, but that was what made you know your love was real.

Since you were married, that feeling, rather than finding peace in the days to come, discovered what fueled it.
To him, you were as beautiful as the snow: softly settling on the ground, enchanting everyone with your extraordinary beauty. Elegant and silent, you had settled on his heart, finding your place.

He admired you from below, on his knees, hands resting on your hips, his face turned up toward you. In love, he worshiped your crystal-colored eyes. The fire in the fireplace illuminated your bedroom. “What must I do to make you understand how much I love you, my dearest?” he asked, after finding you colder than usual that day—your hands colder than your icy heart, your words as sharp as a blade driven into his chest.

“You know that if I could, I would wish to be one of your tears, so I could be born in your eyes, slide down your cheek, and die on your lips, my love. What must I say to make you step down from your throne of ice?”