Chapter 3 Freya
Freya
Warmth. That's the first thing I register. Warmth when there should be cold. Life when there should be... well, not life.
I open my eyes to unfamiliar wooden beams crossing a low ceiling. Not heaven, unless the afterlife comes with rustic cabin decor. The air smells of pine, woodsmoke, and something else—crisp and mineral, like fresh snow and stone.
For a moment, I'm perfectly still, cataloging sensations with the detached precision of my camera's autofocus. Soft furs against bare skin. Bare skin. My clothes are gone. Heart rate immediately accelerates.
I'm not alone.
Across the cabin, a figure stands with his back to me, silhouetted against a small window. He's tall—impossibly tall—with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. And rising from his head is... is that a crown? No, something organic, branch-like—
Memory slams back like a shutter clicking. The storm. The cold. The glowing blue antlers in the whiteness.
I sit up too quickly. The room spins, and the furs fall away from my shoulders. I clutch them back, a pointless gesture toward modesty that seems absurd given the circumstances. But some habits die hard, even when you're potentially being held captive by a... a what, exactly?
"You're awake." His voice is deep, with an accent I can't place—both ancient and nowhere at once. He turns, and I get my first clear look at his face.
Oh.
Fear tangles with something else entirely, something inappropriate given my current predicament. Because my possible captor is breathtaking in the most literal sense—I realize I've stopped breathing.
High cheekbones, sharp jawline, skin pale as moonlight with a faint blue undertone.
His eyes are ice-blue, luminous even in the cabin's dim light.
And yes, those are definitely antlers rising from his head—smaller than what I thought I saw in the storm, more like a delicate silver-white circlet or crown, but unmistakably antlers.
Either I'm hallucinating from hypothermia, or I've been rescued by the world's most attractive cosplayer.
"Where am I?" My voice comes out raspy. "And who are you?"
He approaches with silent steps, stopping a careful distance from the bed. I notice he stays well away from the crackling fireplace, as if avoiding its heat.
"My cabin. My territory." He pauses, as if the next word is unfamiliar. "Vidar."
"Vidar," I repeat. "Is that your name?"
A slight nod. He studies me with unsettling intensity, like I'm a rare specimen under glass.
"And you are?" he asks.
"Freya. Freya Lindholm." I pull the furs tighter around me, suddenly aware of my near-nakedness under this strange man's gaze. "My clothes?"
"Wet. Frozen. They would have killed you." His speech is oddly formal, economical. "Drying by the fire."
I glance over and see my thermal layers spread on a chair near the hearth. This should reassure me, but instead, I find myself calculating escape routes. The door isn't far. If I wrapped myself in a fur and ran—
"The storm continues," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "Three days, at least, before it passes. You would freeze again in minutes."
Three days. I swallow hard, fighting rising panic. árni will have reported me missing by now. Search parties will be looking. But if this storm is as bad as the one that nearly killed me...
I need to stay calm. Assess. Survive.
"You saved me," I say, making it half statement, half question.
Something flickers across his face—a complex emotion I can't read.
"Yes."
"Thank you." It seems inadequate, but necessary. "I would have died out there."
"Yes," he says again. Then after a pause: "You're welcome."
The exchange feels stilted, as though he's unaccustomed to conversation. Or gratitude.
I take the opportunity to scan the cabin more thoroughly.
One room, sparse but not primitive. A fireplace, a table with two chairs, a small kitchenette with a propane stove, some shelves with books and supplies.
No electricity that I can see—oil lamps provide the light.
No phone, no radio. Nothing that would summon help.
"Are you..." I hesitate, not sure how to ask what I really want to know. Are you human? What were you doing in that storm? Why do you have antlers? Instead, I settle for: "Do you live here alone?"
"Yes." He moves to the kitchenette and pours water from a kettle into a mug. "Drink. You need hydration."
He offers the mug, and I notice he's careful not to let our fingers touch during the exchange. The water is cold despite coming from what looks like a hot kettle, but it soothes my parched throat.
"Thank you," I say again.
As I drink, I study him over the rim of the mug.
He's wearing dark, fitted clothes that look both modern and somehow timeless.
Simple design, quality material. His movements are graceful but occasionally strange—a fluidity that seems just slightly wrong for a human frame, like watching a dancer who knows steps from another century.
And those antlers. In the cabin's soft light, they look more like a silver-white crown than true deer antlers, rising perhaps four or five inches from his head in an elegant curve. If they're fake, they're the most convincing prosthetics I've ever seen.
"Did you undress me?" I ask, the question escaping before I can consider its wisdom.
His eyes meet mine directly, unflinching. "Yes. Your body temperature was dangerously low. Wet clothing accelerates heat loss."
No apology, no embarrassment. Just matter-of-fact survival logic. I should be outraged, but it's hard to work up proper indignation toward someone who saved your life. Besides, his clinical tone makes it clear it wasn't a sexual act.
Even if my current physical response to him is anything but clinical.
"How did you find me?" I ask, changing the subject before my thoughts wander into inappropriate territory.
"I didn't. You found me." Something in his tone suggests this isn't a good thing. "My storm. My territory."
My storm? What an odd way to phrase it.
"Lucky for me," I say, trying for a light tone.
His expression remains impassive. "Perhaps."
The single word holds an unmistakable warning. This man—Vidar—might have saved me, but he's not necessarily friendly. I need to tread carefully.
"Are there others nearby?" I ask. "Other cabins? A village?"
"No." He turns back toward the window. "Only wilderness for many miles."
Great. Stranded in the middle of nowhere with a gorgeous, antlered stranger who may or may not be entirely stable. Or human.
I test my limbs carefully under the furs. No frostbite, surprisingly. My fingers and toes all respond with normal sensation. My clothes are the only practical option for getting out of this bed without putting on a show, but they're still drying.
"I need to..." I gesture vaguely toward a door I assume leads to a bathroom.
Vidar nods once and points to a door on the far wall. "Primitive. No running water. There's a basin."
I wrap one of the smaller furs around myself like a blanket, clutching it closed at my chest as I stand. My legs wobble slightly but hold. As I pass Vidar, I notice the temperature around him is distinctly colder than the rest of the cabin. Like walking through an invisible pocket of winter.
The bathroom is indeed primitive—just an enclosed outhouse attached to the cabin, with a basin of water and a pitcher for washing. But it's clean and private, which is all I need right now.
When I return, I find my undergarments laid out on the bed—dry and warm. Vidar stands by the window again, his back to me, offering privacy. I dress quickly in my bra and underwear, then wrap the fur around me again. The rest of my clothes are still damp.
"You can turn around," I say when I'm decent. As decent as one can be in underwear and a fur, anyway.
He turns, and for just a split second, I think I see a flicker of... something... pass over his features. Interest? It's gone so quickly I can't be sure it was ever there. But my skin warms in response.
"You should eat," he says, moving to the kitchenette again. He takes down a jar of what looks like dried meat and some root vegetables.
"Can I help?" I offer, partly out of politeness, partly to have something to do besides stare at him.
"No. Rest."
His command should irritate me, but exhaustion suddenly crashes over me in a wave.
I sink back onto the edge of the bed, watching as he prepares a simple meal with efficient movements.
There's something predatory in the way he handles the knife, cutting vegetables with precise, almost ritualistic care.
I find myself cataloging shots I'd take if I had my camera. The play of firelight on his strange antlers. The contrast of his pale hands against the dark wooden table. The way he moves through the space like a creature both at home and perpetually alert.
"My camera," I say suddenly, remembering. "Did you find it? It was around my neck when I—"
"Safe." He gestures to a shelf where my Canon sits, apparently undamaged. Relief washes through me—not just for the expensive equipment, but for the photos it contains. Including, if memory serves, one impossible shot of a creature with glowing antlers in a snowstorm.
I'm about to ask if I can check it when Vidar suddenly stiffens. His eyes flick toward the fire, which has grown larger as the wood caught properly. Sweat beads faintly on his brow—the first sign of discomfort he's shown.
"I need air," he says abruptly, moving toward the door with that uncanny grace. He steps outside, closing it firmly behind him. Through the window, I can see the storm still raging—if anything, it seems to intensify as he walks into it, swallowing his form until he disappears completely.
Alone, I test my legs again and find them stronger. I move quickly to retrieve my camera, turning it on with nervous fingers. The battery is low but functional. I scroll to the last image and freeze.
There it is. Not a hallucination.
The photo shows a towering figure in the snow, antlers glowing blue-white against the storm.
They're much larger than the delicate crown Vidar wears now, spanning feet rather than inches.
And the face beneath them—not quite human, something more like a deer skull, with eyes burning from empty sockets.
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cabin's temperature. I quickly turn the camera off and return it to the shelf as I hear the door open again.
Vidar enters with fresh snow dusting his shoulders and hair. His antlers seem smaller now, more controlled, though that must be a trick of the light. The temperature in the cabin drops noticeably upon his return, as if he brings winter in with him.
"Better?" I ask, watching as the flush recedes from his face.
His eyes narrow slightly, surprised by my observation. "Yes."
I gesture to the crackling fire. "You don't like heat."
"No." He studies me with new intensity. "You're... observant."
We stand in tense silence, the fire crackling between us—him by the door, me beside the bed. I should be afraid. I am afraid. But mixed with that fear is a contradictory, impossible attraction that makes no sense given my situation.
He breaks the tension by returning to the kitchenette. "Food is ready."
As he passes by me toward the table, our arms almost brush. I step back instinctively, but not before I feel the distinct cold that surrounds him like an aura. And in that moment, I swear I see frost patterns bloom briefly on his skin where we nearly touched.
Not human, my brain insists. Definitely not human.
But as I watch him set two bowls on the table with methodical care, I can't help but wonder—what exactly have I found in this storm? Or more accurately, what has found me?
"Sit," he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his. "Eat while it's warm."
I have nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. So I sit across from the beautiful, dangerous stranger with antlers and try to ignore both my fear and the inappropriate heat that floods my body when he looks at me.
Three days until the storm passes, he said. Three days alone with Vidar.
I'm not sure whether to hope he's lying about the storm's duration or telling the truth.