They live on, even while we do not touch them. They live on, even without our knowing. She is still as youthful as she ever was, and he the same. It has only been ten years. The cities thrive, and the Resistance continues to plague the southern city. They are blessed with children, round little half-elven babies who have their mother’s eyes and their father’s laugh. They have had their share of sadness — plague and famine still touch the lands around them, and the people and the knights need her blessings, and his talents.
The gods above still accept their love, even as they warn that fires burn out and leave naught but ashes in their wake — and that any ice maiden who melts will put out the very fire that warmed her.
They live on, forever caught in dancing dreams, part of a place that still breathes, still beats, still burns as real as every other world ever built.