*
MARCO GASPS AS AIR FILLS HIS LUNGS, as though he had been underwater and unaware of it.
And his first coherent thought is that he did not expect being trapped in a fire to feel so cold.
The cool air is sharp and stinging, and he can see only white in all directions.
As his eyes adjust, he can discern the shadow of a tree. The hanging branches of a frosty white willow tree cascading around him.
He takes a step forward, the ground disconcertingly soft beneath his feet.
He stands in the middle of the Ice Garden.
The fountain in the center has halted, the normally bubbling water quiet and still.
And the whiteness makes the effect difficult to see, but the entire garden is transparent.
He looks down at his hands. They are shaking slightly but they appear to be solid. His suit remains dark and opaque.
Marco lifts his hand to a nearby rose and his fingers pass through its petals with only a soft resistance, as though they are made of water rather than ice.
He is still looking at the rose when he hears a gasp behind him.
*
CELIA HOLDS HER HANDS TO HER LIPS, not quite believing her eyes. The sight of Marco standing in the Ice Garden is one she has imagined so many times before while alone in the icy expanse of flowers, it does not seem real despite the darkness of his suit against a bower of pale roses.
Then he turns and looks at her. As soon as she sees his eyes all her doubts vanish.
For a moment, he looks so young that she can see the boy he was, years before she met him, when they were already connected but still so far apart.
There are so many things she wants to say, things she feared she would never have the opportunity to tell him again. Only one seems truly important.
“I love you,” she says.
The words echo throughout the tent, softly rustling the frozen leaves.
*
MARCO ONLY STARES at her as she approaches, thinking her a dream.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she says when she reaches him, her voice a tremulous whisper.
She seems to be as substantial as he is, not transparent like the garden. She appears rich and vibrant against a background of white, a bright flush in her cheeks, her dark eyes brimming with tears.
He brings his hand to her face, petrified that his fingers will pass through her as easily as they had with the rose.
The relief when she is solid and warm and alive to his touch is overwhelming.
He pulls her into his arms, his tears falling onto her hair.
“I love you,” he says when he finds his voice.
*
THEY STAND ENTWINED, each unwilling to release the other.
“I couldn’t let you do it,” Celia says. “I couldn’t let you go.”