Morning Reforged

14. October, 2016

After three days of twilight, I had begun to wonder whether I had in fact wandered into an Elfstone and spent the half-week splashing through a rainy subterranean dusk, a sunless gloaming, an ever-evening. But three days into darkness, color finally wakes in the sky, and Dawn’s wan cheek flushes salmon. Birds coo hopefully along the riverbank just beyond my cabin window, and the morning’s first salmon fisherman has already muddied his boots. With a surprised hiccough, the river swallows the fisherman’s hook whole.

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The waking day is as quiet and shy as the morning after Ragnarök. Iceland has been reforged in silver and gold, leaden rain clouds melted down and replaced with shards of lapis and mother-of-pearl. Through this newly-smithed land we head north, toward the mountains. Sunshine guilds the island, swaddling the sheep in golden fleece, polishing the sapphire puddles, spangling the dewed grass.

Iceland is too easy to love in sunlight. In the howl of the storm, with the wind’s teeth in my neck, my love for the island must be fierce. Love with teeth feels truer than slippery sunlight love. Fanged love never lets go.

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