Mabon moved slowly through the frosted trees. Though the air around him was frigid and frozen, he wore simple robes. The cold was nothing to him. He felt the chill, but it was a welcome thing.
Where he stepped, ice spread. Frost dotted his every step.
He felt a sense of peace here, now, in the glow of the aftermath of a nighttime snowstorm. Mabon was glad to walk here.
As god of winter, he was often alone—often feared by mortals. They could not understand him. Winter was just as necessary as the kinder seasons. It was a time for the land to heal and rest, but still, he was hated by mortals for the necessary chill he brought.
Ahead, Mabon saw a figure crumpled in the snow, a thin dusting of snow already covering their dark cloak. The sight jolted him from his thoughts.
A slight frown crossed his face. Such was the cost of winter.
He stepped forward, placing a hand against their back. Beneath it, they shifted. Mabon froze, waiting. Whoever had fallen here still lived.