

Fjara
With nothing between me and the wind, my skin rippled in the cold, tiny hairs standing on end defiant and in shock. In this place, there was never sunlight. Every hour of every day had the same bluish-grey crepuscular quality of an early evening in Autumn, the same chill in the air, the same sense of impending descent into nighttime. Thousands of years of instincts were kicking in, telling me to get inside before dark, but I was long past that. A light rain began to fall and