Inside the helicopter, I'm immediately surrounded by the rescue team—wrapped in thermal blankets, offered hot drinks, peppered with questions. Their voices overlap, their concern genuine but overwhelming after days of just one voice—deep,resonant, measured. I answer automatically, my prepared story flowing easily.
"Got disoriented in the sudden storm... GPS died in the cold... saw the cabin through the snow... survived on emergency rations and melted snow..."
They accept it all without question. Why wouldn't they? It's essentially true, just with the most important details omitted.
"Your guide has been beside himself," says a woman who introduces herself as the search coordinator. "He's been out every day the weather allowed, convinced you were still alive."
Guilt twists inside me. Poor Árni. While I was discovering impossible things in a winter guardian's arms, he was torturing himself with responsibility for my disappearance.
"The conditions were impossible," I say. "He couldn't have prevented it."
As we fly toward civilization, I find myself pressing a hand to my chest, where a strange coolness has settled beneath my skin. Not uncomfortable, just... present. A reminder. I can still feel the ghost of frost patterns tingling across my body, still taste the winter-cold of Vidar's kiss.
"Are you sure you're alright?" asks a paramedic, noticing my gesture. "Any chest pain? Difficulty breathing?"
"I'm fine," I assure him. "Just... processing."
He nods understandingly. "Survival situations can be traumatic. The adrenaline crash will hit you soon. Don't be surprised if you feel overwhelmed once you're safe."
If only he knew the true source of my overwhelm.
The helicopter lands at a small regional hospital where I'm immediately whisked inside for examination. The bright fluorescent lights hurt my eyes after days of oil lamps and firelight. Everything seems too loud, too fast, too artificial. I find myself longing for the quiet of the cabin, the soft crackle of the fire, the gentle swirl of frost in the air.
The doctor who examines me seems puzzled.
"Your body temperature is slightly below normal," she says, frowning at the thermometer, "but you're showing no signs of hypothermia. No frostbite. Not even mild exposure symptoms."
"I was careful," I explain. "Stayed dry, kept moving, found shelter quickly."
She doesn't look entirely convinced but makes notes in my chart. "Well, whatever you did worked. I've never seen someone come through three days in those conditions with such minimal effects."
If she only knew that "minimal effects" included frost patterns that formed and faded on my skin, and a strange new affinity for cold that I can feel settling into my bones like a secret.
After the examination, I'm given a private room to rest. The hospital staff brings me a phone to make calls. I contact Árni first, reassuring him I'm alright. His relief is palpable even through the connection. Then I call my editor back in Canada, giving a tightly edited version of events. Yes, I'm fine. No, I won't sue the guide company. Yes, I even got some amazing shots before the storm hit.
I don't mention the most extraordinary photos stored on my camera—images of a being who shouldn't exist, with antlers of crystalline ice and eyes that glow like winter stars.
As night falls, I find myself unable to sleep despite exhaustion. The room is too warm, the sheets too confining. I open the window, letting in the cold night air, and finally feel my muscles relax as the temperature drops. When I exhale, I notice my breath forming a visible cloud despite the room not being that cold.
Curious, I place my hand against the window glass. Frost immediately forms around my fingertips, spreading in delicate patterns before quickly fading. My heart races. So it wasn't justin his presence. Something has changed in me, just as he said it would.
I should be terrified. Instead, I feel a strange thrill. Tangible proof that what happened was real. That he was real.
The next morning brings a parade of visitors—police wanting statements, hospital administrators checking on their miracle survivor, local press hoping for interviews. I navigate them all on autopilot, sticking to my simple story, deflecting questions about the cabin's ownership. By afternoon, I'm discharged with a clean bill of health and instructions to "take it easy" for a few days.
Árni meets me at the hospital entrance, his weathered face creased with lingering concern and relief. He hugs me briefly, awkwardly, then leads me to his truck.
"Your flight back to Canada is still scheduled for the day after tomorrow," he says as we drive. "Do you want to change it? Stay longer to recover?"
I consider the question seriously. Part of me wants to stay, to remain close to the mountains where Vidar dwells. But another part—the practical photographer who's always paid her bills on time—knows I need to return home, at least temporarily. I have deadlines, clients waiting for images, rent to pay.
"No," I say finally. "I need to get back. Submit my work, fulfill my contract."
He nods, looking relieved. "Good. I think some distance from this place would be healthy right now."
If only he knew how much a part of this place I've already carried inside me.
The guesthouse is cozy and warm—too warm. I find myself opening windows despite the innkeeper's concerned looks. In the shower, I turn the water to cold and stand under the spray, feeling more comfortable than I ever have in such temperatures.
