He looks away, frost forming on the window nearest him in delicate, agitated patterns. "Something old. Something that doesn't belong in your world anymore."
"You're not human," I say, making it a statement this time.
"No."
The simple admission hangs in the air between us, changing everything and nothing. I already knew. I just needed to hear him say it.
"The storm—you really do control it, don't you?"
He nods once, still not meeting my eyes.
"And the cold... it's part of you."
"Yes."
I should be having a breakdown. I should be questioning my sanity. Instead, a strange calm settles over me, the same detached focus I find when framing the perfect shot. As if by putting this impossibility through my mental viewfinder, I can make it comprehensible.
"May I..." I hesitate, then push forward. "May I see again? The real you?"
Now he does look at me, shock evident in his too-bright eyes. "Why would you want that?"
"Because it's beautiful," I say simply.
He stands abruptly, moving to the window. Outside, the storm still rages, though the sky has lightened to the flat white of morning.
"Beauty is a strange word for a monster."
"I've photographed storms that kill, avalanches that destroy entire villages, volcanic eruptions that remake landscapes," I say, finding my voice growing stronger with each word. "Beauty and danger often come packaged together."
The comparison seems to reach him. His shoulders relax slightly, though frost still forms where his fingers touch the windowsill.
"You truly are not like other humans who have wandered into my domain," he says quietly.
"How many others have there been?" I ask, curious despite myself.
"Many. Over centuries." He turns back to me, his face carefully composed. "None stayed long."
The implication hangs heavy. Did they leave? Or did they never leave at all?
As if reading my thoughts, he adds, "Most found their way back to trails. Some..." He hesitates. "Some didn't survive the cold."
"But you saved me. Why?"
The question clearly unsettles him. Frost spirals up the wall beside him. "I don't know."
The raw honesty in those three words affects me more than any elaborate explanation could have. Whatever Vidar is, whatever he's done, in this moment he's as confused by his actions as I am.
I climb out of bed, wrapping a fur around myself like a blanket cape. My clothes still aren't fully dry, but my thermal underwear has been laid out nearer the fire overnight. They'll have to do for now.
"I need to..." I gesture toward the bathroom, suddenly aware of very human morning needs.
He nods, turning away to give me privacy as I gather my undergarments. The domesticity of the moment is almost absurd given what just happened, yet somehow it grounds me. Supernatural being or not, we're still two people navigating an awkward morning after.
Except we didn't even do anything to make it awkward. Yet.
The thought ambushes me, bringing heat to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the cabin's temperature. I hurry to the bathroom before he can notice my embarrassment.
Inside, I splash cold water on my face and try to collect my thoughts. The rational part of my brain is screaming that none of this is possible, that I'm hallucinating from hypothermia or having an elaborate dream. But the water on my face is real. The soreness in my muscles from yesterday's ordeal is real. And Vidar—whatever he is—feels more real than anything I've experienced before.
