Freya
"Just turn your head slightly to the left," I say, adjusting the focus on my camera. "And let the antlers expand a bit more."
Vidar stands by the window, early evening light filtering through the frost-covered glass behind him. He looks uncomfortable being photographed, but he's indulging me anyway—another small miracle in a day full of them.
"This is unnecessary," he says, even as the delicate crown on his head grows larger, crystalline branches extending upward and outward.
"It's completely necessary," I counter, framing the shot. "When a photographer meets a mythical winter guardian, documentation is basically required."
I've been coaxing him into this impromptu photo session for the past hour, fascinated by how his form shifts between human and other. It started as professional curiosity—what photographer wouldn't want to capture something no oneelse has seen?—but has quickly evolved into something more intimate. Each photograph feels like unlocking another piece of him, preserving moments of vulnerability most humans will never witness.
Click.The shutter captures him in partial transformation, the skull mask transparent but visible beneath his features, those unearthly eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
"Beautiful," I murmur, checking the image on my screen.
"I still don't understand your fascination with my true form," he says, the multiple tones in his voice more pronounced as his glamour thins.
I lower the camera and meet his gaze directly. "Then you've never truly looked at yourself."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps curiosity. "I avoid reflections."
"Well, now you don't have to." I cross to him, showing him the image on my camera's display. "Look."
He stares at the screen, a complex emotion passing over his features. In the photograph, he looks powerful, ancient, but also strangely vulnerable—caught in the moment of revealing himself.
"Is that how you see me?" he asks quietly.
"That's how you are," I reply. "Magnificent."
Frost forms in the air between us, tiny crystals suspended and glittering in the fading light. I've come to recognize this as a sign of his emotional state—control slipping when feelings run strong.
"More," I say, stepping back and raising my camera again. "Show me more."
The request hangs between us, charged with meaning beyond photography. He understands. With deliberate slowness, he lets the glamour thin further, the antlers expanding to nearly brush the ceiling. The skull mask solidifies, those luminous eyesgrowing brighter. His hands transform, fingers elongating, claws extending.
Click.
"The light is perfect," I breathe, circling him slowly. "Can you make the frost patterns more visible?"
He raises one transformed hand, and frost spirals up his arm in elaborate designs, catching the light and breaking it into prismatic fragments across the walls.
Click. Click.
"Your direction is... detailed," he observes, a hint of amusement in his otherworldly voice.
"I know what I want," I reply, surprising myself with the sultry edge in my tone. This stopped being just a photo session several minutes ago, and we both know it.
"And what is that?" He moves toward me, temperature dropping with each step, frost trailing in his wake across the wooden floor.
I lower the camera, pulse quickening. "Right now? You."
The directness of my own desire startles me. Twenty-four hours ago, I was lost in a blizzard, certain of death. Now I'm propositioning a winter entity in his cabin, documenting his transformation between shots. Life takes unexpected turns.
He stops just short of touching me, cold radiating from him in palpable waves. "The camera," he says, voice deepening further.
I set it carefully on the table, never breaking eye contact. "It'll be safe there."
"I don't want to damage it," he explains, raising one clawed hand. "It seems... important to you."
