That night, I booked a flight to Reykjavík.
I told my editor it was for follow-up shots, to complete the winter series while conditions were still perfect. He didn't question it—the first set of Iceland photos had generated more interest than any of my previous work. If anything, he was eager for more.
The entire flight, I questioned my sanity. What was I doing, dropping everything to rush back to... what, exactly? A supernatural being with antlers who lived in the wilderness? A connection I couldn't explain that was literally changing my body chemistry? It sounded like the plot of a fantasy novel, not a rational life choice.
Yet the moment the plane touched down in Iceland, a sense of rightness settled over me. The cold air on the tarmac felt like a welcome rather than a discomfort. My breath, clouding more visibly than those around me, seemed to pulse in rhythm with something beyond myself.
I rented a car instead of contacting Árni. This wasn't a professional trip, and I didn't want to answer questions about my sudden return. I drove north, following not a map but thepull I felt growing stronger with each mile. The frost in my blood knew the way, even if my conscious mind didn't.
When I reached the trailhead, I parked and continued on foot, camera around my neck more out of habit than intention. The marked path felt wrong almost immediately. I paused, closed my eyes, and felt the cold inside me reaching outward, connecting with the winter around me. Without conscious decision, I turned off the trail and into the untouched snow.
I should have been concerned about getting lost. Instead, I moved with complete confidence, following a sense that grew clearer with each step. The forest thickened around me, the terrain becoming more rugged, but I never hesitated.
When the snow began to fall, I knew he was near. Not natural snowfall—too purposeful, too patterned. It swirled around me in welcoming spirals, not hindering my progress but encouraging it. The cold deepened, but instead of discomfort, it brought a sense of homecoming.
I rounded a stand of ancient pines, and there he was.
Vidar stood in a small clearing, tall and otherworldly, only partially concealed by his glamour. The antlers were more prominent than when I'd left, the skull mask visible beneath his features like a double exposure. His eyes glowed that impossible blue, fixed on me with an intensity that should have been frightening but instead sent warmth flooding through me despite the cold.
What followed was a reunion so intense, so all-consuming that it left me breathless. In the aftermath, as we lay together on snow that somehow didn't chill my skin, I felt more at home than I had since leaving Iceland.
"I have something to show you," Vidar said, his voice almost shy as he helped me gather my scattered clothing.
Hand in hand, we walked deeper into his domain, the forest opening before us in ways that defied natural explanation.Trees bent their branches to allow easier passage, snow shifted to create a path where none had existed before. The entire wilderness seemed alive, responsive to his presence in ways I was only beginning to understand.
After perhaps twenty minutes of walking, the trees thinned to reveal a small valley, sheltered on three sides by steep slopes. And there, nestled against the mountainside, stood a cabin.
Not like the utilitarian structure where we'd first met, but something that seemed grown rather than built—walls of ancient pine fitted together with such precision that they might have been a single living entity. Windows larger than in his previous dwelling, glass clear as still water. A roof that curved organically, following the natural slope of the mountain behind it.
I stopped, taking in the sight with both the practical eye of someone who has lived in cabins and the aesthetic sense of a photographer who recognizes beauty when she sees it.
"You built this?" I asked, wonder in my voice. "In a month?"
"Winter bends to my will," he replied. "Wood and stone are simpler still."
As we approached, I noticed details that made my breath catch—carvings around the door frame that mirrored the frost patterns on my skin, windows positioned to capture the best light throughout the day, a small covered area that could only be meant for viewing the surrounding landscape.
It wasn't just a cabin. It was a home designed with deliberate thought and... love? The concept seemed impossible for a being who had lived in solitude for centuries. Yet the evidence stood before me, solid and undeniable.
Inside, the space revealed even more. A large hearth built into the stone wall, designed to direct heat into the room without overwhelming the entire space. A bed larger than the one in his previous cabin, covered in furs that looked softer than anyI'd seen before. Shelves built into the walls, some empty, others holding simple necessities.
And then I saw it—a desk positioned beneath the largest window, angled to catch the northern light that photographers prize. Beside it, shelves specifically sized for camera equipment, with small drawers that could only be meant for memory cards and batteries. A chair with a cushioned seat that would allow for comfortable hours of editing.
He had created a space for my work.
"You..." I began, but couldn't find words to continue.
"You are a photographer," he said simply, as if that explained everything. "It's part of who you are."
I ran my fingers along the smooth surface of the desk, feeling the care that had gone into its creation. "How long have you been planning this?"
"Since the moment you left." He spoke without hesitation, without shame. "I didn't know if you would return, but I needed to be ready if you did."
"And if I hadn't come back?"
He considered this, something like pain crossing his features before he controlled it. "Then the forest would have reclaimed it. As it has many things over the centuries."
The implications of that simple statement hit me with unexpected force. How many times had he watched things he valued return to the wilderness? How many centuries of solitude had taught him that nothing lasted, that everything eventually disappeared?
