Chapter 2 — Land of Fire and Ice
Isla
The cold was unlike anything Isla had ever experienced. It wasn’t just the bite of a winter’s morning; it was a sharp, insistent presence, clawing through her layers as if testing her resolve. Stepping off the small propeller plane, she tightened her grip on her camera bag, the leather strap digging into her palm as the wind yanked at her weathered jacket. The air smelled of salt and something ancient, volcanic—a reminder that this was a land forged by extremes.
Pausing on the icy tarmac, she scanned her surroundings. The sky stretched endlessly, a pale, muted grey, pressing low against the horizon. Jagged peaks rose in the distance, their black, volcanic edges dusted with snow. This wasn’t the verdant, rolling beauty of New Zealand. It was harsher, more primal, as though the land itself demanded respect. Her breath formed small clouds as she exhaled, steadying herself. *You came here for this,* she reminded herself. *For the story only this land can tell.*
Her fingers brushed the Pounamu Lens Pendant at her neck. Its familiar warmth steadied her, its carved surface grounding her with memories of her mother’s voice: *“Listen closely, Isla. Every place has its story. The land will tell you if you’re patient enough to hear it.”* She let her hand fall, lifting her chin against the disorienting pull of the landscape. *I’m ready to listen.*
The terminal was a squat, unassuming building huddled against the elements, its utilitarian design at odds with the stark beauty outside. Isla pushed through the heavy doors, the sudden gust of warmth making her shiver as her body adjusted. Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and diesel, mingling with the low hum of conversation. Flyers in Icelandic and English peppered the corkboard by the entrance, their edges curling from the damp.
Her gaze landed on a figure standing slightly apart from a small group near the board. Rían Eiriksson. His presence was unmistakable. Tall and broad-shouldered, he seemed etched from the same unforgiving landscape she’d just left. Dark curls peeked out from beneath a knit hat, and his heavy parka bore the wear of someone who belonged here. His grey eyes were steady, unflinching, like the glacier they’d stood on days ago. And yet, there was something guarded about him, as though a part of him remained as untouchable as the ice.
For a moment, Isla hesitated. The weight of her camera bag felt heavier than usual, as though her doubts had materialized into something physical. But then she squared her shoulders, reminding herself why she was here. She was no stranger to feeling out of place, and she had no intention of letting it stop her now.
“Rían,” she called, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually meet me.”
He turned, his expression unreadable. “You didn’t strike me as the type to need an escort,” he said, his Icelandic accent lending a melodic cadence to his words.
“I don’t,” she replied, lifting her chin. “But I’ll let you play tour guide, just this once.”
His lips twitched, though the smile never quite formed. “It’s not for your benefit. I wanted to ensure you didn’t get lost.”
“Generous of you,” she said dryly, following him as he gestured toward the exit.
The wind hit her like a slap as they stepped outside, slicing through her jacket and stinging her cheeks. Isla hunched her shoulders, trying to shield her face as they crossed the icy parking lot to a battered Land Rover. The vehicle looked as though it had survived more than its fair share of glacial expeditions, its exterior streaked with salt and dirt.
Inside, the faint smell of damp wool and diesel filled the confined space. Isla rubbed her hands together, willing the groaning heater to produce more than a feeble stream of lukewarm air. Rían said nothing as he started the engine, his focus on the icy road ahead. The silence between them was palpable, broken only by the rhythmic squeak of the windshield wipers.
The landscape unfurled around them, stark and hauntingly beautiful. Fields of volcanic rock stretched into the distance, their dark surfaces dusted with snow. Rivers lay frozen mid-flow, their surfaces glittering under the muted grey sky. It was the kind of beauty that demanded to be seen, not simply looked at. Isla’s fingers itched for her camera, but she resisted. The moment wasn’t ready yet.
“Do you always drive in silence?” she asked, breaking the stillness.
“That depends on the company,” Rían replied, his tone as even as the road stretched before them.
She raised an eyebrow. “And what do you make of this company?”
His hands tightened slightly on the wheel. “Still deciding.”
Isla laughed, the sound abrupt and warm in the cold, muted car. “Fair enough. Though I’d wager I’m not what you expected.”
“You’d win that wager,” he said. After a pause, he added, “But you’re here for the glacier, not for me. That’s what matters.”
The bluntness of his words stung more than she cared to admit. “I can be here for more than one thing at a time,” she countered, her tone sharper than intended.
Rían said nothing, his gaze fixed on the road. The car hit a patch of ice, skidding lightly before he steadied it with practiced ease. Isla caught the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw as he adjusted his grip on the wheel. It was a small crack in his impassive demeanor, but it was enough to stir her curiosity.
As they crested a ridge, Vatnajökull Glacier came into view. Isla sucked in a breath, her irritation forgotten. The glacier stretched endlessly, its surface carved with deep crevasses and shimmering veins of blue ice. It was colossal, magnificent—yet profoundly fragile. The low groan of shifting ice carried on the wind, a sound both haunting and oddly melodic.
“It never looks the same twice,” Rían said quietly. There was a reverence in his voice that caught her off guard.
“It’s humbling,” Isla murmured. She touched the pendant at her neck, her fingers tracing its familiar curves. The glacier’s scale—and its impermanence—made her feel small, but not in a way that frightened her. It felt grounding, a reminder of the fleeting nature of everything.
When they arrived at the outpost, Isla hesitated at the threshold. Inside, the warmth was immediate, the space bustling with activity as researchers clustered around a table strewn with maps and charts. The low hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter. She felt their curious gazes as she stepped inside, clutching her camera bag like a shield.
Rían’s demeanor shifted as he addressed the group. His voice was calm, authoritative, the cadence of his Icelandic accent lending weight to his words. Isla watched him, intrigued despite herself. Here, he seemed different—more at ease, as though the rhythm of the glacier resonated through him.
“The route is straightforward, but the ice is unstable near the southern edge,” he said, gesturing to the map. “Stay within marked zones, and call out any changes. The weather could shift by afternoon.”
She caught herself studying the way his fingers moved over the map, the quiet confidence in his tone. He wasn’t just a scientist—he was a leader. And while she hated to admit it, she respected that.
As the team began to gather their gear, Rían approached her. He handed her a set of crampons and a harness, his expression serious.
“Vatnajökull isn’t a studio,” he said evenly. “It’s unpredictable. If you’re coming with us, you follow the rules.”
“Understood,” Isla replied, meeting his gaze. Then, with a faint smile, she added, “You’re good at this, you know.”
“At what?”
“Leading,” she said. “Commanding attention.”
His eyes softened, and for the first time, she thought she saw the faintest flicker of a smile. “It’s not about commanding. It’s about earning trust.”
“Fair enough.” Isla adjusted the Maori-inspired strap on her camera, her fingers lingering on its intricate patterns. “So, do I have your trust?”
Rían hesitated, his grey eyes searching hers. After a moment, he gave the faintest nod. “That depends. Do I have yours?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Guess we’ll find out.”
As they stepped outside, the wind howled, carrying flecks of ice that stung her cheeks. The glacier loomed ahead, vast and unyielding, its whispers carrying on the wind. Isla tightened her grip on her camera strap, ready to face whatever waited—on the ice and beyond.
