"I cannot say precisely. Decades, perhaps. Not centuries."
She paces the small cabin, processing this information. "And what about you? What would this bond do to you?"
The question surprises me. Humans typically focus on their own benefits or losses. "It would... strengthen my connection to humanity. Slow the process of becoming pure winter, pure guardian."
"That's happening? You're becoming less human over time?"
I nod once. "It is the natural progression. Eventually, most guardians lose all trace of their human origins. Become one with the element they protect."
"And you don't want that?" Her perception cuts to the heart of matters I've avoided examining for centuries.
"I didn't know I didn't want it," I admit, "until you."
She falls silent, the weight of my confession hanging between us. Another helicopter passes, more distant this time, the search pattern expanding outward.
"I need to go back," she says finally. "People are looking for me. I have obligations, work commitments."
Though expected, the words still cut like ice shards. "Yes."
"And it's not just that." Her brow furrows, concern clouding her features. "These search parties... they're risking their lives in this weather. For me. I can't let people die because I'm..." Shegestures between us, struggling to define what we've become to each other.
The realization strikes me with unexpected force. In my focus on her, on us, I've given little thought to the humans searching the mountains. Humans who brave dangerous conditions, who might perish in storms I've strengthened to keep her hidden.
Shame—an emotion I haven't felt in centuries—washes through me. The storm outside immediately responds, calming further as if in apology.
"You're right," I say quietly. "I've been... selfish."
She looks surprised at my admission. "It's not just you. I could have signaled that helicopter earlier. I chose not to."
"But I've been making their search more dangerous. Intentionally." The confession feels necessary, a step toward the humanity I'm rediscovering through her. "I will calm the storm further. Make their efforts safer."
"Thank you." She reaches for my hand, squeezing it gently. "But I still need to get back to them soon. Before someone gets hurt trying to find me."
I nod, accepting the inevitable. "But I'm not sure I want this—whatever is happening between us—to end." She meets my gaze directly, her ordinary brown eyes somehow more compelling than any magic I've witnessed. "Is there a middle path? Some way to explore this connection without committing fully?"
Hope stirs, unexpected and almost painful after centuries of its absence. "Yes. The bond strengthens gradually. We would have time to... understand it. To decide."
"And I could return to my life? My work?"
"Yes. Though..." I hesitate, then decide honesty serves us best. "There would be discomfort in separation. A pull to return. The further apart, the stronger the sensation."
"Like withdrawal," she suggests.
"Similar, perhaps. Physical symptoms would be mild at first—sensitivity to heat, occasional chills. The emotional impact might be more pronounced."
She nods, absorbing this. "And how would we... continue this? I can't exactly move into your magical winter cabin permanently."
Despite everything, I find myself smiling slightly. "No. But there are possibilities."
I move to the map on the wall—a detailed topographical rendering of my territory and the surrounding areas. My finger traces a path down the mountain, stopping at a marked location.
"Here. An abandoned cabin at the edge of my domain. Close enough that my power reaches it, far enough that humans occasionally pass nearby on established trails."
Her eyes light with understanding. "A meeting place."
"Yes. It would need work to be properly habitable, but it could serve."
"And I could say I found shelter there during the storm. That's where the search party would find me."
