Chapter Text
The first snow of autumn touched Eleven’s face, and she shielded her eyes to look up at the clouded sky. It was bright, with the sun trying to peek through, and the chill in the air made her cheeks pink. She had a complicated relationship with snow, but ultimately it always signaled great change in her life.
Summer was the best season, full of hope and carefree days, at least in her memory. It was the bright star among the other seasons, creating a transition of warmth and light that transcended the dark and cold, but it didn’t yield the hard realities of living.
El had no strong belief Kali’s plan would work, but Kali was convincing. Even at her moment of death, she ask El she could carry on if it was what she wanted. At that moment, El didn’t know what she wanted because she had prepared herself, as much as a sixteen-year-old girl with superpowers and little life experience could in seconds it took to pull off the plan.
But it worked, and she ran. She ran all night, away from Hawkins, away from the nearby woods, until her legs could carry her no longer. After running, she hid in the shadows and slowly worked her way out of Indiana and toward the east. It was difficult and frightening. She was afraid of anyone, even a cowhand, seeing her, and then her whole charade would be over, she would end up in Dr. Kay’s lab with more innocent women, and if Mike and the others lived that long wouldn’t last much longer.
The key was to be silent and standoffish, yet bracingly polite when the right situation arose. She hitchhiked a lot, and walked a lot, and occasionally took a bus if she had the money. Most people ignored her, some pitied her, and some helped her, and it was those people that saved her life. She didn't know how to get out of the United States, and when people told her, she knew it wouldn’t be possible. Her birth certificate was at her dad’s… Hopper’s house. She had no I.D., no social security number, no license, and no passport. It seemed impossible, but every time she thought about giving up, she remembered who she had fought for.
At first she went north, but Canada didn’t want her. The only other direction she could go was south, and worked her way down to Florida. But nobody wanted El. Jane Hopper. Jane Ives. She had to create a new name and become someone else.
She made up random names everywhere she went, all names she knew from tv shows or from the people she met after leaving Hawkins. It seemed like the safest idea, and it became sort of a game to her, mixing and matching from her memory. But when she begged people to let her cross the border into Mexico, she had to choose a name and stick with it for a while. Her first name was May Allen. Over time, she met people who pointed her in the right direction, but she needed money. She had worked odd jobs for little pay to meagerly get by, but creating fake I.D.s was a whole other problem.
After a few weeks of living there, she found work under the table at a cannery. It was awful work in every way, but she saved every penny she could, and in a few months was on her way to South America. From there, she journeyed on, stopped, worked, and journeyed on again. Her passport was solid for a while, but eventually she needed another one, and from there she took a plane to Europe. Earning money was always the hardest part, and often she went hungry or slept outdoors until it grew cold.
Once she was far enough away from the United States, she started finding new places by finding waterfalls, just like Mike said, but it took her a long time to find three in the same place that were more than trickles off of rocks. Argentina was one of her favorite places, but she couldn't live close enough to them to suit her fancy. Mike wouldn’t settle for anything less.
It was a lonely, hard life, and when she’d settle for a while and get comfortable, she’d get scared again. Scared of the U.S. government, or any government, of course, who might learn her secret, but scared of getting too close to people, too. Every time she stayed six months, or a year, and smiled at the people around her, she knew it was time to leave. She would never, ever repeat what happened in Hawkins. She would never, ever find herself another family.
Her need to move on was pathological, and by the time she made her way to northern Europe she was nineteen, and known by a new name that was official this time.
***
After writing for a few years, at the age of twenty, Mike moved away from Hawkins at last. It was nice to save money as he worked on the side, and his mother and Holly were thrilled to have him stay around, but he was getting too big for the town, and the memories of El everywhere he looked were ready to do him in.
During the first year after El’s death, Mike toyed with suicide. His mother, always shrewd, kept a close eye on him, but when the anniversary of the final battle arrived, he drowned himself in alcohol and was taken to the emergency room where he was saved and given a choice: go to rehab or end up there again. Steve, who had bought him all the alcohol, promised him he'd never do it again.
He considered suicide many times after that, even after Hopper’s pep talk about acceptance. He could accept anything else, but not losing El. He could accept going blind, or losing his limbs, or even losing his family, but not her. He brought her back to life in his own way in his stories, which would eventually become novels, but it wasn't the same; she wasn’t there. It was more than possible she was not even alive.
Over time, he realized it was easier on him when he kept busy and thought about her less, though it felt like betrayal of her life. Of their life together. But it was losing the dream of their life together and dying, or putting it behind him and plowing ahead. Besides, he knew El had sacrificed herself for him, for everyone except herself.
But if she is alive, then her, too.
The last thing El would want was for him to hurt himself and die, even though it wasn’t fair. It brought out new feelings in him, ones difficult to understand and control. It wasn’t fair that El had to end her life, or to lose it if she had managed to run away, but it also wasn’t fair that she had made the choice for the both of them. Or was it?
When he hoped, he knew he couldn't kill himself because if there was even the slightest chance El really was alive, he couldn’t pass up any future possibility that he’d meet her again. The prospect scared him. He had heard nothing from her. He didn't sense her, he didn’t dream of her except abut when she was dying, and over time he’d learn to wake himself up in the middle of it before he had to see it again. For a couple of years he hardly slept at all.
Hopper avoided the same fate by marrying and fucking Joyce Byers and moving to the coast. His line was always open for Mike to communicate with, but he rarely did.
His friends and older sister had moved across the eastern seaboard, and while he both missed them and liked his distance from them, he felt it was time to move a little closer and be more readily available when they wanted to get together which as each year moved on, became less and less frequent.
He tried college, and stayed for nearly two years before dropping out and writing full time. The first time he dated another girl, he was twenty-one, but none of his relationships lasted more than four or five months. Every time he tried it it was like living a lie, like he was in a play he couldn't stop acting in, and it smothered him. The girls were nice, but he couldn't fall in love with them.
His friends passed him by. Lucas and Max married after college. Dustin met a new girl at college and moved in with her in a house on a hill. Will was farthest away, on the West Coast, and happy with his man.
Nancy excelled at her journalism and met someone new, as did all the others. They all wrote letters and called, which diminished in number each year. It was no one’s fault. But once every summer, rain or shine, the gang would make a weekend of it in Montauk.
Now it was Mike who was successful, or getting there, after publishing two books, and hard at work on another. It turned out he was a good fantasy writer, and his agent was pleased. With his money, Mike moved around again until it was more financially smart to buy a small apartment after meeting Leslie Harding.
They met at a coffee shop, like in the movies, where she worked and where he went every Sunday morning just to get out of his house and see that he was still alive. Leslie was cute, with dark hair and gray eyes. She didn't look like El at all, which made it easier. She was really funny, yet sensitive. She knew there was a terrible wound in him he wouldn’t talk about and didn’t hold it against him.
For the first time since he was sixteen years old, he felt something for another woman. He didn't know if it was love or loneliness, but probably both. In every way, Leslie turned out to be perfect, except she didn't know his past, and never could. How did Dustin and Nancy and the others do it, meeting new people who had never even heard of Hawkins on the news? But knowing the others had done it gave him a little hope.
He wouldn't have even considered Leslie as more than just a friend, or a beneficial one, if he had any indication El was alive. In seven years, there still had been nothing. Surely if El were alive, and if she wanted to see him, she would have made herself known by now. It pierced his heart relentlessly imagining that she was out there, alive, and not interested in telling him.
One year with Leslie became two, and then three, and almost four. And then Leslie wanted more of him, which he couldn't offer, and he could never tell her why. Breaking her heart broke his, but a part of him, once she had exited his life for good, felt relief, like he’d dodged a cold.
She had asked to get married, and he bought a ring, but months went by and he did not ask her. She cried, and he joined her. She left, and that was that. He sold his apartment and started traveling, like he should have done all along. He had money now, and could usually work from home, especially with the accessibility of the internet. He was twenty-seven. It was 1999. The whole world had opened up for everybody in the last few years, and he was ready to find out the truth.
***
Waterfalls were the obvious choice. Mike prayed El remembered his promise to her, as stupid as it was, and lived somewhere beautiful, in peace. He went to Canada, then Alaska, then Central America, with nothing to go on but waterfalls and adventure. Even if he never found her, at least he was out living his life again. He wrote wherever he wanted to, and earned enough money to live comfortably anywhere.
He took fantastic pictures and sent them home. His mother and Lucas wrote to him most often, and he always wrote back. Lucas and Max had three children now. Dustin and his partner had two. Nancy was married but not ready for children, and Steve, of course, married young and had four, with a fifth on the way. Every year they all met up in Montauk was another year where Mike felt more ostracized, by no fault of anyone but perhaps himself.
But his life was finite, and he didn't want to waste another year, another month, another day. He’d gone out and seen the world as he should have, and now, if he really came across El, well, there was his answer.
But she’s dead. I know it. Even though I think I know what I saw, she just can’t be… and never contacting me again? Not even a whisper of her voice?
He met girls along the way who might stay with a short time, but when he was twenty-nine, he stopped. His need to find El had set him on a plateau; there would never be an end to the waterfalls he might find, or the villages he might stumble into. El could be in any of them, or nowhere at all, and he’d never know.
When his drinking set in again, he stopped traveling. He was in France, in the countryside, enjoying some time alone, and got a visa to stay for a while, but he didn't write. Every day he drank and would fall on his knees, begging El to talk to him.
El, please. El, if you’re out there, tell me. Please. I’m begging you with everything I have, talk to me. Tell me you're okay. You don’t have to tell me where you are, just tell me you’re alive and that you’re happy. Please, El, please!
He would say it aloud, sobbing, and in his head, and he would write it on paper, but his pleas were met with silence that now stretched fifteen years.
There was no way, not now. If she were out there, she’d have let him know somehow. He was thirty-one. It was 2003. He was wasting his life like his friends and family warned him. He could settle down for real and get married, and have babies. Maybe Leslie was single now and would take him back. The idea of ending up with anyone but El still made him confused and anxious, like he was doing something wrong, but now he knew how isolation felt, and loneliness, and they hurt. And it wasn’t what El wanted for him.
El could still be happy out there, even without him. Couldn’t she? As much as he missed her, was even angry at her, he’d rather have her happy without him. Maybe it was for the best, like she’d thought. She was so young, with the whole world on her shoulders, and all he’d ever wanted was to help her carry it.
He was staying two weeks near Pont d’Espagne, drinking all day to make peace with this new crossroad in his life. He wouldn’t kill himself; he promised every morning. But he couldn't make the decision alone, and it was one of his late-night stupors, when he struggled to stay asleep, that he heard her calling his name.
Her voice was high and sweet, just as he remembered it and not changed with age. She said his name as if she were right next to him, over and over, until he woke up. For days he believed it was his alcohol-laden mind taking pity on him, but then he remembered something else from his desperate dreams: Iceland. He couldn't remember if El’s voice said it in his dreams, or if something else jogged his memory, like a newspaper article he’d glanced over, but it came through loud and clear.
October had arrived with a chill in the air and leaves already changing in the high elevations. It was easier to travel in the warmer months, and he’d been toying with the idea of visiting his parents for a month or two, just through the holidays, if he could stand it. His father and his mother separated, but still lived together, and it was difficult for her. He had no magic touch with relationships, obviously, but his mother let on that she wanted him there for a while as she adjusted.
He sobered up for a miserable day, partly because a neighbor at his hotel complained about him, and partly because he was running out of cash he’d need to make the journey to Paris or wherever and fly home. That night, his dream was much clearer. El’s voice was like a song he followed through the woods, still sweet and clear.
“Mike,” she said, as if her voice were in the wind. “Mike. Mike. I’m here. Mike, I’m here. Find me. Iceland. I am…”
He awoke with a start, his body jerking and his heart pounding. He sat up and turned the light on, looking around and feeling his body to make sure he was there, and awake, and alive. His heart slowed down, and he felt foolish. El wasn’t here. It was him alone with his laptop, his empty bottles and glasses, his broken pencils and trashed paper. His beard had grown out from the shadow he kept, and he needed a shower two days ago, but he was Mike.
“El,” he said, remembering his dream, and he stumbled from his bed. “El? El, are you here? Talk to me. El, please.” He ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up like animal fur, then tripped over an empty wine whiskey bottle. “El! El!”
His voice was met with oppressive silence besides the heater under the window rattling, trying to keep the room warm. The digital clock read three-forty-two a.m., and if he kept yelling the hotel staff would be knocking on his door.
He wasn't able to stand up straight after tripping and sat on the floor where it was easier to move. “El,” he said, quieter. “El, come on, don’t do this to me. El. Eleven. Fucking Christ.” He picked up a bottle of vodka, also on the floor, but which still had a few good drinks left in it, opened it, and finished it.
“I hear you,” he said when there was nothing left to drink in reach, his speech slurred, tears squeezing out of his eyes. “I can hear you. Eleven!”
The same neighbor who had complained about him the day before pounded on the wall between their rooms.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” he yelled at the wall, then threw the empty bottle at it. The neighbor pounded harder, and Mike threw two more bottles at it before lying on his back and falling asleep, tears still in his eyes.
Over the next two days, he finished every ounce of alcohol he had and dreamed of El twice more, the same dream, and it haunted him. He sent an email to his mother, telling her he’d be late visiting as he wanted to stop by Iceland first, before winter came, then packed up and traveled north.
The farthest north he’d even been was Amsterdam, where for the first and last time he spent money on prostitutes. It was before he met Leslie, and he was dying to get out of the U.S. A friend had invited him to tag along, and with all the weed smoking and drinking besides, it was one of Mike’s favorite weeks ever.
Iceland. The name itself denoted cold conditions, and with fall in full swing, he stayed over in Paris to buy warm clothes with his savings. Paris wasn’t his favorite city, and he imagined it was romantic to some people, but not to someone single and angry like him. Halfway through his shopping spree, reality settled on him, the reality that he was a drunk who had a few dreams about El out of anguish, and she was no more in Iceland than he was. If she were really contacting him, she would bring him into her mind, wouldn't she? As long as she still had her powers.
He stayed an extra day in Paris, arguing with himself about whether or not to go to Iceland with all his new clothes. The more he thought, the more he was sure his “vision” was a creation of his addled mind, and the only thing waiting for him on that forsaken island was another opportunity to hit rock bottom and kill himself.
***
On the twelfth, Mike arrived in Reykjavík. It was as cold as he figured, and of course he had no idea where to go. He asked random people if they knew the girl he mentioned, but most people ignored him, and the ones who didn’t said no in that way where it was clear they didn’t want to be bothered.
Waterfalls. There were a lot of waterfalls here, and it was a good place to start; it was where he always started. He went to a travel agency and asked for a map of all the waterfalls with towns nearby. The agent was suspicious, but did as he requested.
“What are you looking for?” the woman asked him. “Anything special?”
“A friend.”
He didn't have much time, only three months on his visa, and he had to get back to Hawkins to help his mother before those days were up. Reykjavík was an interesting city, bustling and modern. He stayed one night in a hotel where it rained all night and into the next day, and then was off, and every day he searched he asked the people around him if they knew her. She had a name, but it wasn’t Eleven anymore. He wrote it down so he’d never forget it: June James.
Days turned into weeks, with less and less sunlight as winter drew nearer. El was nowhere, and no one knew her, and he knew as he’d always known in his heart that she was never going to be where he looked. But for the majority of his search, he didn’t drink much, if at all; there was too much walking involved, mostly uphill, and he didn’t want to miss any hint of her existence by being a lush stuck in a hotel room.
But no one knew who he searched for, and just before Halloween he made the decision to search only until Thanksgiving before calling it quits, at least for this year. His mother was understanding of his wanderlust, even though she knew why he did it, but worried about him searching forever and never finding peace.
Passing through Reykholt, heading up to the waterfalls nearby, he stopped for a bite to eat and asked if anyone knew a woman named June. As with everyone else, no one knew who he was talking about, but as he left the wayside, an old man stopped him.
“Jamesdottir?”
Mike dropped his map in a puddle as he turned around. “Janes… what?”
“Jamesdottir? Það er einhver uppi á fjallinu sem heitir.”
“What? Hvað?”
“Jamesdottir.” The man pointed toward the steep hills. “Upp þarna. Upp þarna.”
“Hvað?”
“Guð minn góður, uppi á fjallinu. Borgðu bílstjóra, það er of erfitt að ganga.” The man gave up on him, waving at him with good riddance, but Mike retrieved his map, put it in his coat pocket, and headed toward the hills. He was stupid to even consider El might be up there, and especially so because the only Icelandic he knew he had to look up in a phrasebook he bought at the airport. Then again, it sounded a lot like “Jane’s” or even "James", and he hadn’t yet met anyone in Iceland with either name. It wasn’t June, but it was close.
But if she were here, what would he even do? For the first time in months he felt a tendril of hope reach for him, and considered the possibility. Every part of El fascinated him. From her eyes, to her hair, to her little nose, her round cheeks, her curled hair, to the way she sighed and smiled and slept. Her skin was soft, and her scent softer. He had dreamed of holding her in bed since he was thirteen years old. If they had been older…
Eleven was a once in a lifetime girl. Once in a million years.
If she were alive, by some miracle, she had probably moved on with her life. A selfish part of him didn’t want her to, but it was a small part. He’d rather imagine her happy and thriving, even if she were with someone else. He wondered about it, about what kind of man could make her happy. He didn’t like feeling replaceable, but his feelings didn’t matter now. All he wanted in the deepest part of his heart was for her to be safe and happy.
Maybe she was married and had a big brood of children who loved her and hugged her and called her “mommy”. Maybe she went on grand adventures all around the world. Did she ever use her powers while no one was looking? Was she afraid of them now? He remembered her being afraid of so many things, but she would always do them anyway. She was braver than he’d ever be.
On the plane to Reykjavík, his heart again was in turmoil. El was probably not alive, as he knew, but there was something which scared him even more at times. If she was out there, was she okay? Was she still alive after all these years, and was she free? Had people treated her well? If there were men in her life, were they gentle and loving? Her history with men was nightmarish from everything she’d told him and everything he’d seen, until he and Hopper came along. He couldn't bear the thought of her being hurt again.
But El wasn’t a monster, and she wasn’t a fantasy; she was human. Everything about her was so human, even her powers which caused her so much grief. Will once asked him if he could forgive her for the pain she had caused the rest of them. Mike didn’t understand the question immediately, but the look on Will’s face showed his confliction.
“How could I?” Mike finally said.
“It’s just that she kind of started it all, with the demogorgon, and then me being caught, and everything after that. Max. Your parents.”
“It wasn’t her fault.”
“I know.”
“So why are you even asking me?”
“I was only-”
“No. No, Will. I don’t forgive her because I have nothing to forgive her for.”
Will bristled. “You weren’t the one used by Vecna, though.”
“And you weren’t the one who sacrificed everything to save others.”
The conversation ended, and Mike packed his suitcase that night and flew to Canada. There were plenty of waterfalls there, and remote spaces. Anywhere was better than wherever he was. El, of course, was not in Canada, at least nowhere he could find, but that trip was the start of his interest in roaming the world.
After an hour of hiking, a truck came up the dirt road that was almost non-existent, and two men said to him in broken English that they could take him further up, and Mike thanked them. There was no settlement on his map beyond where he’d left from, and he didn’t want to be stuck hiking all night. They dropped him off after nearly another hour to go onto another road, and he could see a village further up, another short hike. The grasses here were dusted with snow and he pulled on his wool gloves. It was hot hiking, but his fingers and toes protested the cold.
The village came into view. It was small, with a central area and small houses and buildings dotting the outskirts. It was charming, but windy, and the cold bit through his clothing. He dropped his backpack to take out his shell coat and snapped it on. To the right were a few modest waterfalls, and he stopped to watch the water cascade into mist.
The wind gusts up here were like ice, and he climbed on. Now that he was coming up to the village, the real work would begin, which was finding El. June. Janesdottir. He didn’t notice there was someone out in the open already, with a small flock of sheep nearby. It was a good place to start, and he made his way over.
As he drew near, a shiver ran through him, not from the cold. The person was well-bundled, and just as he was about to call out to ask for help, they turned around, and Mike's legs almost gave out, and his heart staggered. It looked just like her. His El.
She was squinting as snowflakes drifted down, staring at him. She didn’t recognize him, but let him come closer. It was like a standoff, only she was curious, and he held his breath. Then something changed in her face, and as he took another step toward her, she stepped back.
“El,” he said, breathless. He had always planned to add “It is you, isn’t it?” when he came across who he hoped was her, but now seeing her, he didn’t have to. El was El.
She put her hands in her coat pockets as the wind whipped her hair. It was so long now, reaching past her hips in a loose ponytail. Her long bangs blew in front of her eyes and she swept them back.
They were frozen, Mike starting to wonder if she would recognize him. Her face betrayed no emotion besides the slightest frown.
“El,” he said again. “Eleven? It’s- it’s me.”
She opened her mouth to breathe; he could see her chest rise and fall. The sheep closest to her bleated. Mike was beginning to wonder what he should do next when the blood drained from El’s face and her knees buckled. He caught her before her head hit the ground, and her head lolled over his arm. Her eyes rolled up in her head and he patted her face to bring her around.
“El. El, are you okay?” he asked, on his knees. He heard her breathing harder and wished she would say something.
When her faculties returned, she dazedly looked into his eyes and touched his face. “It’s you.”
He kissed her palm. “It’s me.”
“How… are you here?” Her voice was a croak.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
As he said his last word, she threw her arms around him and, startled, he wrapped her in his. She was small and warm, bundled in a coat, sweater, and wool scarf, but he could still hold her tight. She started crying, and he joined her. She couldn’t let go of him, and he her, and they held each other in the frosted grass.
“Mike,” she said, her voice high with stress.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her hair.
“You are here,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry I took so long. You were so hard to find…” He almost said the rest of his thought, but thought better of it.
She was hard to understand through her tears. “How are you here?”
“I looked for you.” He was just as breathless as she was. “I’ve been looking for you forever. I looked everywhere. Everywhere. I stopped sometimes and started again, and it was…” awful. “And then, I don’t know, it was like I saw you again. You called out to me.”
Her expression closed. “I don’t remember.”
“Oh.” He was hurt, but it passed with the adrenaline of seeing her again. She was alive. And doing pretty well, from what he could see, even if she was in the middle of nowhere. “I’m…” sorry?
El looked over his shoulder and said, “Let’s go to my house. It is cold.”
She couldn't let go of him, but he helped her to her feet and walked beside her, stealing glances, partly because she was beautiful, partly because she might disappear, and partly because he didn’t want her legs to buckle again. He noticed in her a slight limp, and put his arm around her so she could lean on him if she wanted to, and after a quizzical look at him, she did so.
Mike glanced back. “Are the sheep okay?”
“I watch Stjörnuljós. Her leg is hurt. They will follow me.”
“What about your leg?”
El didn’t answer. The sheep did follow at their own pace, and when Mike and El reached a small rise in the land, the sheep wandered to a fenced area with an open gate.
“How did you find me?” she asked after the sheep had gone.
“Don’t you know?”
She was shaking her head. “No.”
What? “I heard your voice in my dreams. You said my name. You- you asked me to find you. You told me you were here. Not here, this place, but Iceland.”
“Dreams?”
His hope for a warm, emotional reunion was vanishing. “You didn’t reach out? With your, you know…”
She was still shaking her head. “No.”
“Oh. Oh.” He rubbed his head. “Well, I didn’t mean… I mean if you wanted to stay hidden, I- I can go.”
“No.” She seemed brightened by the prospect for a brief second. “No, don’t go.”
Mike focused straight ahead. “I’m sorry, I thought you were trying to talk to me. I thought you wanted me to come here.”
El licked her lips and eyed the clouds above, which were darkening fast. “I cannot believe you are here.”
“I can’t believe you’re alive.” He wanted to ask her every question that had tormented his heart for all these years, but it wasn’t the time or the place.
The village was already closer, but the small house they were walking toward, obviously El’s, was separated from the rest of it. By the time they reached the front door, snow was sticking on the grass.
El’s house was adorably rustic, just the kind of house he could imagine her in in his fantasies, like the one with the three waterfalls. The main room was the largest, opening on a comfortable living room with a large stone fireplace in the middle. To the left of it, right past the door, was the galley kitchen, with a dining table set before it by the staircase. There was a bathroom beyond the staircase, which was on the left side of the main room, and a tall, narrow window letting in light that was fast disappearing.
Against Mike’s conscious action, he couldn't let go of El once they were inside, and after El pulled away from him she held his hands in both of hers for a few seconds. Her hands were swollen and cracked from the cold. She turned the space heaters on, then built a large fire, and gave Mike some blankets to wrap himself in while the first floor heated up. “I am sorry it is cold.”
The blankets smelled like her. “I don’t mind.”
“The water will warm later and you can bath. Take a bath. If you want.”
“I’m too cold to do it now anyway. I’m fine, thank you.”
They shared a tender moment which El cut short. She made tea for them both without a word, and when she could avoid him no longer, handed him his mug, and took her own and sat on the big overstuffed recliner.
El gave him an encouraging smile, but was reserved. “I am so surprised,” she said. “I was not expecting anyone.”
“I wasn’t expecting to find you, either. It’s a really beautiful place.”
“Yes.”
“I think I get why you’re in a place so remote, but can I ask? Why here?”
She blew on her tea to cool it. “Animals cannot talk.”
“That’s true, but why settle here of all places? To take care of sheep?”
She looked furtive. “It happened. I don’t know.”
“You like it here, I hope?”
She nodded, then sighed. “Not always.”
Mike pulled his blanket tighter around him. “I can only imagine what this place looks like in winter. Can cars even get up here?”
“There is one road. For trucks.”
“Do you ever go down to the towns?”
“Not often.”
Mike sipped his tea. Earl Grey. “This is a nice house. How long have you lived here?”
El made a show of thinking about it. “Six years.”
His smile was rueful. “Better than me. My longest time anywhere after high school was less than five years. Where did you live before? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Everywhere. Many places. I don’t remember all.”
Mike couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was beautiful, even more so than she’d been when they were together, and more at peace, though he knew she wasn’t telling him everything. But it was her story to tell, and he would say and do anything to stay right here with her. Was he going to wake up in a second and find himself hungover on a hotel floor?
El, his heart soared, but it hurt like hell. I’m here. I finally found you! Aren’t you happy?
It was too difficult to figure out where to start, and the more he watched at her, the more unhappy she looked. It wasn’t like when they were kids, where a hug and a kiss were enough to heal, and he felt foolish sitting in front of her, in her own house, without any plan. Without words.
El must have felt the same way because she hardly spoke, but her eyes glistened, and he knew she was glad he was there.
“Sorry,” he said after a length of quiet. “I hardly know what to say.”
She wiped her eyes, but was otherwise calm. “I feel the same.”
Mike went to her, reaching for her hand, which she gave, and he squeezed it. “I want you to know I don’t have to go anywhere right now. Or- or if you’d rather I stay somewhere else, I can do that. Whatever you want.” He couldn't help smiling at her, his eyes bright. “But I don’t want to walk away from you. Please don’t ask me to.”
El squeezed his hand. She had been checking her watch since they sat down with their tea, and now set her mug aside to put her heavy coat and boots on. “I am sorry,” she murmured. “I will be back.”
Mike was on his feet. “I can go.”
“No, please stay. I will be back soon.”
While she was gone, Mike looked around the first floor of her home and found evidence of a simple, comfortable life. There were lots of blankets and pillows, and some homey decor. Nothing stood out except the slight abundance of purple items, like towels and curtains. There were some noticeably yellow curtains in the kitchen, too, and painted yellow wooden dining chairs that cheered up the place.
There were no photographs, but a couple of amateur paintings on the fridge with blue heart magnets. Even the food in the house was simple and somewhat sparse, and his heart sank, letting it all register that she was alive, and she was here in the middle of nowhere, as beautiful as it was… and all alone.
When El returned, Mike almost dropped his mug when he saw a young girl in tow. She was little and shy, and quiet like El. After helping to take her boots and blue coat off, El smiled anxiously at Mike.
“This is my daughter, Runa.” She bent down to Runa’s level. “And this is my old friend, Mike. Segðu hæ.”
“Hæ.”