03-16-2025, 12:27 AM
Tristan sat still as Thalia took his hands between hers, her fingers rubbing blood back into his own. He hadn’t realized just how numb they were until her touch sent a sharp sting prickling up his arms, like fire waking dead nerves. His skin was raw from the cold, fingers stiff and useless, and for the first time since they’d arrived, he let himself acknowledge just how close he’d come to real damage. His body could endure a lot—but even he had limits.
His sharp, golden eyes lay upon her as she spoke, a small breath of amusement escaping when she warned him against running into the snow naked. Paradoxical undressing. He knew what she meant, but the idea of either of them losing their minds to the cold was not something he took lightly.
“I’ll keep my clothes on, but only if you do,” he muttered, voice rough from the cold but laced with dry humor.
He let her keep his hands for a moment longer, acceptance of the warmth she was offering. It wasn’t just the fire’s heat—it was her, her presence, her stubborn insistence on seeing past his own self-neglect. It was strange, being seen like that. Even stranger to let it happen.
When he finally withdrew his hands, it was only to push himself up, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. They weren’t in immediate danger of freezing anymore, which meant his mind was already moving ahead, scanning for the next thing they needed to secure.
Thalia’s words sat with him. We’re on a volcano. She was right, of course. The ash in the snow, the heat deep below, the snake-like thing that had risen from the magma—it all pointed to the same conclusion. His mind churned through the implications, the weight of the realization settling heavily in his chest.
A volcano.
He’d grown up with them, lived his whole life in their presence. Iceland was a land of fire and ice, its people shaped by the ever-present threat of the earth’s unrest. It was normal to him—expected, even. But here, in the middle of nowhere, with no maps, no idea where they were, no contact with the outside world?
His jaw tightened.
If this island was still active, they needed to know how active. He could handle cold. He could handle isolation. But if this place was prone to eruptions, that changed everything. They couldn’t afford to be caught unaware.
“I’m going to look around, again” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of the thought. “Get a sense of what’s useful here.”
The fire was still burning strong, and Thalia had stopped shivering as badly. She was stable enough for him to move, to act. He cast her a glance, gauging if she’d argue, but she only watched him.
He wandered.
The station was old, far older than he’d expected. As he wove through the room, he ran his fingers over rusted metal and peeling paint. This place had been abandoned in a hurry, left to the ice and the wind. But the question gnawed at him—why?
His search led him to the perimeter of the room, cluttered with outdated equipment. He stopped to study it, his breath misting in the air as his sharp gaze swept over the contents. And then—
A radio.
Tristan’s fingers brushed over the dust-covered console, its dials and switches familiar despite its age. This was old. Decades old. But he recognized the make, the layout. It wasn’t so different from the ones they’d used in the Westfjords, where modern luxuries were scarce and reliability mattered more than advancement.
He reached for the receiver, turning it over in his hands. The power was dead, of course, but if he could get the generator working—or rig something together—they might have a chance at sending a signal.
Might.
But there was unlikely that anyone was listening.
His gaze flicked to the window, where beyond the frost-streaked glass, the world stretched out in an unbroken, white void. His thoughts churned like the distant waves against the volcanic shore. This island—whatever it was—was remote. Cut off. If there were people here, they were far from this station. If he had the chance to glimpse the night sky, maybe he could discern what part of the world they were located, but the temperature was likely to be too dangerous to venture out after dark.
Still. It was something.
Tristan carried the radio back to Thalia, setting it down with a dull thunk on the floor, closer to the light of the fire, brushing frost from its surface with the side of his hand.
“This is old,” he said, voice calm but considering. “Twenty, thirty years at least. But I recognize it. We used something similar back home.” His fingers hovered over the dials. “If we can get power, it might work. And if it does…” His eyes flicked to hers, the weight of what that meant left unspoken.
A way out.
His gaze shifted toward the window, back to the snow-covered wasteland beyond.
“This place is sitting on a volcano,” he continued, the edge of certainty in his tone. “If it’s still active, that’s something we need to know. Where I grew up, eruptions could cut people off from everything in hours. If that happens here, we don’t have the luxury of waiting to be found.”
His hands curled into fists, not out of anger, but focus. Calculation.
“We’ll get warm. We’ll get stable. Then we find a way to figure out where we are—and if this island is as dead as it looks.”
His golden eyes settled on Thalia once more, steady and unwavering.
His sharp, golden eyes lay upon her as she spoke, a small breath of amusement escaping when she warned him against running into the snow naked. Paradoxical undressing. He knew what she meant, but the idea of either of them losing their minds to the cold was not something he took lightly.
“I’ll keep my clothes on, but only if you do,” he muttered, voice rough from the cold but laced with dry humor.
He let her keep his hands for a moment longer, acceptance of the warmth she was offering. It wasn’t just the fire’s heat—it was her, her presence, her stubborn insistence on seeing past his own self-neglect. It was strange, being seen like that. Even stranger to let it happen.
When he finally withdrew his hands, it was only to push himself up, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders. They weren’t in immediate danger of freezing anymore, which meant his mind was already moving ahead, scanning for the next thing they needed to secure.
Thalia’s words sat with him. We’re on a volcano. She was right, of course. The ash in the snow, the heat deep below, the snake-like thing that had risen from the magma—it all pointed to the same conclusion. His mind churned through the implications, the weight of the realization settling heavily in his chest.
A volcano.
He’d grown up with them, lived his whole life in their presence. Iceland was a land of fire and ice, its people shaped by the ever-present threat of the earth’s unrest. It was normal to him—expected, even. But here, in the middle of nowhere, with no maps, no idea where they were, no contact with the outside world?
His jaw tightened.
If this island was still active, they needed to know how active. He could handle cold. He could handle isolation. But if this place was prone to eruptions, that changed everything. They couldn’t afford to be caught unaware.
“I’m going to look around, again” he said, his voice steady despite the weight of the thought. “Get a sense of what’s useful here.”
The fire was still burning strong, and Thalia had stopped shivering as badly. She was stable enough for him to move, to act. He cast her a glance, gauging if she’d argue, but she only watched him.
He wandered.
The station was old, far older than he’d expected. As he wove through the room, he ran his fingers over rusted metal and peeling paint. This place had been abandoned in a hurry, left to the ice and the wind. But the question gnawed at him—why?
His search led him to the perimeter of the room, cluttered with outdated equipment. He stopped to study it, his breath misting in the air as his sharp gaze swept over the contents. And then—
A radio.
Tristan’s fingers brushed over the dust-covered console, its dials and switches familiar despite its age. This was old. Decades old. But he recognized the make, the layout. It wasn’t so different from the ones they’d used in the Westfjords, where modern luxuries were scarce and reliability mattered more than advancement.
He reached for the receiver, turning it over in his hands. The power was dead, of course, but if he could get the generator working—or rig something together—they might have a chance at sending a signal.
Might.
But there was unlikely that anyone was listening.
His gaze flicked to the window, where beyond the frost-streaked glass, the world stretched out in an unbroken, white void. His thoughts churned like the distant waves against the volcanic shore. This island—whatever it was—was remote. Cut off. If there were people here, they were far from this station. If he had the chance to glimpse the night sky, maybe he could discern what part of the world they were located, but the temperature was likely to be too dangerous to venture out after dark.
Still. It was something.
Tristan carried the radio back to Thalia, setting it down with a dull thunk on the floor, closer to the light of the fire, brushing frost from its surface with the side of his hand.
“This is old,” he said, voice calm but considering. “Twenty, thirty years at least. But I recognize it. We used something similar back home.” His fingers hovered over the dials. “If we can get power, it might work. And if it does…” His eyes flicked to hers, the weight of what that meant left unspoken.
A way out.
His gaze shifted toward the window, back to the snow-covered wasteland beyond.
“This place is sitting on a volcano,” he continued, the edge of certainty in his tone. “If it’s still active, that’s something we need to know. Where I grew up, eruptions could cut people off from everything in hours. If that happens here, we don’t have the luxury of waiting to be found.”
His hands curled into fists, not out of anger, but focus. Calculation.
“We’ll get warm. We’ll get stable. Then we find a way to figure out where we are—and if this island is as dead as it looks.”
His golden eyes settled on Thalia once more, steady and unwavering.