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 prayed to him for safety, for the winter snow that allowed their crops to grow, but still, they feared him.

They could not understand him. Winter was just as needed 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.

Mabon found himself drawn forward. He glided elegantly onward, something pulling him further into the woods—perhaps a scrap of a prayer directed to him.

Ahead, Mabon saw a figure crumpled in the snow, a thin dusting of snow already covering their dark cloak. The sight tugged 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’s weight, a form shifted. Mabon froze, waiting. Whoever had fallen here still lived.

Perhaps it had been their prayer that had drawn him here.