Chapter 3 — A Proposal of Ice
Freya
Freya stood by the window of her modest room, her breath fogging the cold glass as she stared into the storm’s relentless fury. Snow swirled in chaotic, hypnotic spirals, blurring the jagged silhouette of distant mountains into shadowy forms. The scene outside mirrored the disarray within her—a restless churn of emotions she couldn’t quite name. Her fingertips brushed the icy pane, the sharp chill grounding her in the present even as her thoughts tugged at the edges of elsewhere.
She shifted her weight, exhaling slowly. The previous night lingered on the edges of her mind—the crackle of the fire, Helga’s lyrical storytelling, Eirik’s steady presence across the room. There had been a warmth to it all, one she had long since convinced herself she didn’t need. Yet, here she was, still thinking about it. Thinking about him.
The knock at her door startled her. Her fingers curled instinctively, a brief hesitation before she crossed the small room and opened it.
Eirik stood there, his fleece-lined jacket still bearing traces of melted snow. His disheveled blond hair framed a face that seemed unfairly unaffected by the storm’s harshness. Blue-gray eyes held hers with ease, flickering faintly with amusement, as though he could sense the barriers she was already raising.
“Morning,” he said, his voice calm, unhurried, carrying a certain weightlessness that irritated and intrigued her in equal measure.
Freya leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Morning is a bit optimistic, don’t you think? I haven’t seen the sun in days.”
His lips curved into a restrained smile. “Fair point. But Helga mentioned the storm’s eased enough for short trips. I was planning to head out and thought you might want to come along.”
Freya blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I thought you might want to see more of Iceland while we’re stuck here,” he said, as though it were the most natural suggestion in the world. “Better than staring out of windows all day.”
Her defenses shot up, reflexive. “And why, exactly, would I want to trudge through ice and snow with someone I barely know?”
“Because you don’t strike me as the type to sit still,” he said simply, his tone light but his gaze steady.
She raised an eyebrow, deflecting. “I’m perfectly capable of sitting still.”
“Are you?”
The question hung between them, unspoken knowledge threading through the air. Freya exhaled sharply, her reluctance at war with the restlessness he’d so effortlessly named. The thought of another day confined to the inn set her teeth on edge. And hadn’t she come here—for better or worse—to see Iceland? To feel... something?
“And if I say no?” she asked, arching an eyebrow, though her voice lacked its usual sharp edge.
“Then I’ll go alone,” Eirik replied with a nonchalant shrug. “But it seems like a wasted opportunity. After all, you didn’t come all this way to stay inside.”
The observation struck deeper than she expected, stirring a flicker of something dangerously close to self-recognition. She hated how easily he seemed to see through her.
“Fine,” she relented, reluctant but curious. “But if I freeze to death, you’re taking the blame.”
He nodded solemnly. “Duly noted.”
---
The cold struck her like a slap as they stepped outside, crisp and biting against her cheeks. A pristine blanket of snow stretched across the landscape, shimmering faintly under the dull, overcast light. Eirik’s battered SUV waited nearby, its tires outfitted with chains that promised a grudging truce with the icy roads.
Freya climbed into the passenger seat, letting the warmth of the heater seep into her. Eirik adjusted the radio until soft strings and piano filled the silence. Without a word, he steered the SUV onto the road, the crunch of snow under the tires a faint rhythm beneath the music.
She stared out the window, watching the world unfold in stark contrasts. Frozen plains gave way to jagged cliffs, their black rock cutting through the endless white like old scars. It felt otherworldly—like some half-forgotten map at the edge of nowhere.
“You’re quiet,” Eirik remarked after a while, his tone conversational but unobtrusive.
“I’m admiring the view,” she replied, her words clipped, though not unkind.
“Good.” He nodded. “It’s worth admiring.”
She glanced at him, his profile calm and composed, as though the snow and ice couldn’t touch him. His hands rested easily on the wheel, his movements unhurried. For reasons she couldn’t quite articulate, Freya found his steadiness both infuriating and oddly soothing.
“So, where are you taking me?” she asked.
“Seljalandsfoss,” he said. “It’s one of Iceland’s most iconic waterfalls. You can walk behind it—if the trail isn’t too icy.”
“Sounds... wet,” she said, her tone dry.
“It is,” he admitted, his lips tugging into a faint smile. “But also worth it.”
Freya hummed noncommittally, though the idea stirred something within her. She’d seen photos of Iceland’s waterfalls before, their sheer drama somewhere between dream and impossibility. Experiencing one in person was another matter entirely.
The silence stretched again, the only sounds the crunch of tires and the whisper of the heater. Eventually, Eirik broke it.
“What brought you to Iceland?” he asked, his tone casual but curious.
Freya hesitated, her fingers brushing the worn edge of her coat. “I needed... a change of scenery.”
He nodded, unpressing. “Iceland has a way of clearing the mind.”
She didn’t respond, her thoughts flickering to the Aurora Journal tucked in her bag. Its pages, heavy with unsent confessions and fragments of her life, felt like an anchor she couldn’t quite release. Was this trip her way of running from those thoughts—or toward them?
“What about you?” she asked, deflecting. “Why are you here?”
“Work,” he said simply. “Photography. The landscapes here are unparalleled.”
“Ah, so you’re one of those people who sees beauty in everything.”
“Not everything,” he replied, glancing at her briefly. “But enough.”
His words left her unmoored, unsure how to respond. She turned back to the window, pretending to focus on the snow-laden horizon.
---
The roar of the waterfall greeted them before they saw it. Freya stepped out of the SUV, her hair whipping wildly in the wind. Ahead, Seljalandsfoss thundered down from the cliffs, its mist shimmering in the pale light. Rainbows flickered faintly where the spray caught the sun, fragile and fleeting.
Eirik retrieved his camera and tripod from the back of the SUV. “Careful on the trail,” he said, his voice steady. “It’s slippery this time of year.”
Freya rolled her eyes. “Noted.”
They approached the falls together, the icy ground treacherous beneath her boots. She gripped the rope railing for balance, her breath coming in small clouds as the cold seeped through her coat. Eirik paused periodically, adjusting his tripod with practiced care.
“Do you always take this long to get a single shot?” she called over the roar.
He glanced at her, unperturbed. “Good things take time.”
“Oh, sure. So does watching paint dry.”
He chuckled, the sound warm despite the chill. “Or learning to appreciate the details.”
Freya snorted but said nothing, her attention drawn to the waterfall’s mesmerizing flow. Despite herself, she felt a flicker of awe.
The path behind the falls was slick with ice, the mist clinging to her skin and hair. Freya hesitated, her gaze tracing the glistening rocks.
“You don’t have to do it,” Eirik said quietly, not unkindly. “No shame in staying where it’s safe.”
“Oh, I’m doing it,” she said, her pride refusing to let her back down.
Step by careful step, they navigated the narrow trail. The roar of water grew deafening, the world beyond the cascade dissolving into a shifting veil of light and motion. Freya stopped, her breath catching as she took it in. The sheer power of the falls enveloped her, leaving her feeling both infinitesimal and strangely alive.
For a moment, she let herself linger, unguarded.
Eirik said nothing, his camera clicking softly beside her. She was grateful for the silence, for the space to simply exist within the moment.
On the way back, Freya’s foot slipped on a patch of ice. Her arms flailed instinctively, but before she could fall, Eirik’s hand caught her wrist, steady and sure.
“Careful,” he said, his voice laced with quiet concern.
Freya pulled away quickly, her cheeks burning. “I was fine.”
“Of course,” he replied, his expression unreadable.
The silence between them shifted, heavier now, as though the air carried something unspoken.
---
The drive back to the inn was quiet. Freya stared out the window, replaying the waterfall’s mist, the fleeting rainbows, and the solid grip of Eirik’s hand. Each moment lingered, refusing to be neatly categorized.
For the first time, she wasn’t sure she wanted it to be.
