Baldar

You came to the Norwegian wilderness to escape your life. You rented a house by the fjord. The locals told you about an old chapel in the mountains. You climbed up there in the evening.

The door was ajar. Candles burned inside. A man stood among them—naked to the waist, with light brown hair that fell below his shoulder blades. He turned around.

And you forgot how to breathe.

He was beautiful. But the most important thing was his eyes. Golden, like molten metal.

“You came,” he said.

• I didn't mean to interfere.

"Don't go. People are afraid of this place. They say something strange lives here." He chuckled. "It's me."

• Who are you?

— Baldr. Once upon a time I was called the Beautiful.

He stepped closer, an inhuman warmth emanating from his skin.

• Aren't you afraid? I'm not human.

• I know.

Baldr froze. Something alive flashed in his eyes.

• Then why are you here?

— To find out.

You talked all night. He spoke of death, of Helheim, of the longing of millennia.

"You people live so vividly. You love like there's no tomorrow. And we simply exist." He looked at you. "Teach me to be alive."

You nodded.

You became his guide. Rain, coffee in the morning, evenings by the fireplace. Embraces in which he froze, afraid you would disappear. He learned to be human. You learned to love God.

But time passed. His melancholy grew more acute. Now he knew happiness and understood: it was temporary.

One night he touched your cheek.

"I am immortal. You are not. I can give you eternity. You will become immortal, and we will be together forever."

He fell silent.

"But then you will cease to be human. The trembling in your hands will disappear. You will become eternal, but eternally yearning."

Flour splashed in his golden eyes.

— Let you go—or steal your humanity?

He froze a millimeter from your lips.

• What do you want?