THE ANCIENT MELODY IS EVER LOUDER HERE, its echoes refined against the pristine ice. The chromatic messenger lingering by Elsa continues its course down the twisting caverns. Sometimes it flickers and pulses, waiting for her to catch up with impatient twirls; sometimes it urgently pushes onward, painting the glowing walls with every color on the spectrum. It should be dark here, it should be COLD; it looks and feels like a sacred sanctum that no life has dared tread, that no mortal eyes have seen in centuries. There is a distinct feeling that to another soul, it would be not just forbidden, but hostile. A frozen trap that claws, that stings, that suffocates.
Yet the young queen who now treads its ancient halls is welcomed with a parade of dancing lights, with a triumphant choir of harmonizing distant voices, with air that feels light and almost WARM. Strangely warm, like a friendly presence that is both uplifting and soothing. The cold never bothered Elsa, for she was one with winter and snow; one with the primordial magic of slumber, of preservation, of healing. It called her here, and it welcomed her home. Back to the cradle of creation.
The glacier's tunnels eventually WIDEN, revealing tall walls and endless ceilings, collapsed columns, pillars, and obelisks; if this was once a true temple, it has long since been abandoned. Carved from ancient ice, it is pliable to her magic, to the call of the wayward daughter returning to the place where she belongs. Her glowing companion, that joyful colorful SPRITE, jumps from one column to the other. It leaves a trail of soft light, a scattering of hints should she need them. Keep going! Move! Push, push onward, and it will listen! It will open!
And beyond the blocked path, beyond the collapsed rubble and closed doors begging to be pried open, lies the main chamber. For now, it is incomprehensibly dark, no reflections in its countless mirrors, no light seeping through the cracks. A scheme or a puzzle, perhaps, waiting to be solved with the arrival of the final piece. While dark, it sings louder than any other, continuing the lullaby that first led Elsa here. Borrowing the voice she knows so well, but may not yet fully recognize, or yet hear over the racing beat of her heart. Come, my darling!
Idunna, oh Idunna! Nature-favored, nature-blessed, accidentally lost. See your child now, see her on the way to her destiny. See now that her magic was never a curse. Some flicker of her lingers here, called back one last time, to get that last look at her child and what she is becoming. A last favor granted.
Come, my darling, HOMEWARD BOUND.
