14 #2
With the soft rasp of fabric, the zip of a bag, the shuffling of bodies shifting in the aisle, the world crawls back into focus. Almost unreal.
People are standing, stretching and reaching for the overhead compartments.
My gaze flits instantly towards the window where the world vanishes beneath a blanket of thick snow.
White upon white. Nothing but the snare of sun over it.
The mountains loom closer, their jagged silhouettes dulled by frost and distance.
Every slope is powdered in silence, the valleys choked with drifts that look soft but promise ruin.
No colour for miles.
No warmth.
Just an unforgiving hush of early winter.
The trees below are brittle black lines etched into the landscape, scattered like splinters across the white sea. There are faint rectangles in the distance, and I almost make out the roofs atop them.
This is another world entirely, not just a different place. A white desert designed to swallow sound and heat and people.
Behind the glass, the plane we arrived on is already dusted with snow. The terminal is squat, but functional, its windows glowing against the early winter gloom.
Even the air smells different. Cleaner somehow. As if the cold might bite even indoors.
We follow the sparse arrivals corridor into the baggage reclaim area, where I see my luggage circling lazily on the belt.
For a second, it doesn’t compute.
Then it does.
He must have re-routed it somehow. Pulled strings. Broken laws. Something.
My shoulders loosen by an inch, even so. At least I have my own clothes.
The white tiled floor reflects the harsh overhead lights, black-and-white signage glowing as if to underscore that same sense of finality he summoned at the start of the trip.
I trail after him to the exit.
Dread creeps up my throat when he tells me to put on the snowsuit. The fabric is thick and stuffy. I immediately hate it.
Elias shrugs into his snowsuit as if he’d done it a thousand times.
Now that the hope of rescue has faded entirely, a few drops of common sense grace my mind and I start wondering: fluent Norwegian, foreign mother, the conversation with the staff… He knows his way around. Because—
He’s home.
Christ, circumstances couldn’t have been more perfect, could they?
Was he already planning things in prison? Or is this something that came up when he received my letter?
I glance down at my navy suit, mulling one rotten thought after another, when my eyes land on him.
His nose wrinkles at my layers. ‘Should’ve bought orange. At least search and rescue might find you before spring.’ Then he mutters something incoherent that sounds like painting a bullseye for the animals.
The idea doesn’t even feel absurd. I can’t even attempt to reconcile the fact that something actually lives this far north, behind God’s knees, where the land looks unfinished and the sky presses low and heavy.
When we step outside, the air hits like a well-deserved slap, cutting through the layers.
Elias’ shoulders square, jaw locking. The crease between his brows deepens until he looks less like a man fleeing something and more like one marching towards it.
Behind us, the terminal doors sigh shut. Voices fade. Engines become a distant hum until all I can hear is our boots and the wind scraping over the snow.
We board a bus idling outside the airport. I try to memorise the route, but roads fold into roads, settlements thinning until snow and trees swallow everything between them.
Nothing is right. This is the Norway I wanted to photograph. White wilderness. Black pines. Mountains cutting into the sky. I should be seeing compositions everywhere. Instead, everything seems flat and lifeless.
Eventually, Elias reaches for the stop button.
My eyes flit from the endless pale expanse behind the window glass, back to him. Then back again. Panic surges wild in one single heartbeat.
The bus leaves us beside a lonely roadside sign with absolutely nothing around it. The trees are old and thick, crowding close. Two distant houses rise nearby, roofs bowed under snow, windows dark.
Elias doesn’t offer a single word as we walk ahead, the snow rhythmically protesting beneath our weight. My breath fogs in front of me raggedly.
And then… he turns. Guiding me off the road and into the trees.
My heart slams hard enough to blur my vision. The clatter of my cabin bag gives way to the snow. He takes it from me and picks up the other one to make the path easier to navigate.
Three steps later, I’m breathing too quickly. Five, and I can’t seem to fill my lungs at all.
‘Where are we going?’ I try again, my voice brittle.
‘Walk,’ he simply says. ‘Or we freeze here.’ He continues along the path, as though he knows I’ll follow him.
The trees thicken. Snow piles deeper, swallowing all sound.
The narrow track beneath us is the only proof that anyone comes this way at all.
We stop briefly for him to hide behind a tree to relieve himself. Then we keep walking.
‘Are you cold?’ he asks, almost offhandedly.
A snarky comment bubbles up, but the circumstances drown it out.
‘Yes,’ I whisper.
Gloves on, snowsuit zipped up, he crowds me as he hands me the lighter bag.
‘Come here,’ he whispers. No warnings and no growling. Simply an arm around me as he draws me against his side. ‘Keep close. Stay behind my shoulder. I can block some of the wind.’
I don’t know what to do with this. But I let him claim me again.
And it feels like the last intake of breath before the world shuts off.
We walk for a little while longer.
The forest smells of resin, utterly indifferent to human fear.
The travel bag drops into the snow with a muffled whump then.
My gaze falls to it beside our feet.
‘Why—’
I barely have time to meet his eyes.
The arm around my waist shifts, his other hand coming up from the other side, white cloth sealing over my nose and mouth. He crushes my back to his chest as he holds the cloth there.
I claw and fight and scream, but the fabric soaks up the sound.
The chemical sweetness burns the back of my throat. The first breaths only make me cough harder, panic tearing through me as I buck against him.
The dizziness comes over me in a slow, sickening drag. My arms grow clumsy. My fingers stop obeying me.
The world tilts.
I’m sinking.
Down.
Deeper.
Lower.
Until the sky overhead loses colour and shape, and the glaciers of his eyes are the last thing the darkness swallows.