Skylight Over Svalbard
– Part I
Story Written & Told by
Astrid Bjørnsen, Ingrid Solberg,
& Freya Isvik
Visuals & Imagery Created by
Ida Fjellheim, Ella Skogen, Marte Østgaard,
Signe Løvik, & Scott Bryant
Intimate Scenes Coordinated by
Astrid Bjørnsen & Ingrid Solberg,
With care and reverence, this story is shared by
Scott Bryant at the request of Astrid Bjørnsen,
Ingrid Solberg, & Freya Isvik.
Author’s Opening Note
From Astrid, Ingrid & Freya
Astrid:
Some stories live quietly for a long time before they choose to be shared. Ours began that way — in the stillness between wind and ice, where you learn to listen more than you speak. The Arctic doesn’t offer grand declarations; it asks for presence. What happened between us belongs to that kind of silence.
Ingrid:
I came north with questions — scientific ones, practical ones, ones I didn’t know how to name. What I found was a landscape that answered in its own rhythm: slowly, honestly, without hurry. This story is not about discovery in the academic sense. It’s about the moments that changed us when we weren’t looking.
Freya:
I told them both that stories don’t stay warm unless you pass them on. So here we are. Take it slow. Let the cold settle before the warmth finds you — that’s how it works up here. And remember: nothing in Svalbard is rushed, not even the truth.
Together, we offer Skylight Over Svalbard with care — a small light carried through a long night, shared now with those willing to listen.
Astrid Bjørnsen
That’s me, Astrid Bjørnsen. The cold didn’t bite—it seeped into you, threading through your layers until it became part of you. I tugged the sled across the snow, the weight of the morning’s catch grounding me. Out here, even burdens had a way of steadying you. The town’s faint glow shimmered in the distance, fragile against the endless dark. Above it, the Seed Vault sat silent, like a promise—or a warning.
Longyearbyen’s lights glimmered faintly in the distance, tiny and fragile against the vast, endless dark. Above the town, the Global Seed Vault rested like a silent promise—or a warning. People liked to talk about it as hope, but to me, it was more like a contingency plan. You don’t build an insurance policy unless you expect things to fall apart. The town was quiet this time of day—a blessing. The polar night wrapped around everything, muting even the hum of voices or the occasional sound of machinery. My boots crunched softly on the snow as I approached the shop, the sled creaking behind me.
Freya Isvik’s shop was an institution, though she’d laugh if you called it that. The door creaked, and the shelves overflowed with salted cod and jars of pickled herring, Freya’s unmistakable scrawl marking each label. A weathered sign above the door read simply: Fisk og Proviant.
I could already picture her behind the counter, teasing someone about forgetting their gloves again or overpaying for canned goods they didn’t need.
The bell jingled as I pushed the door open, letting the heat wash over me. The air was thick with the smell of fish and salt, mingling with the faint aroma of coffee brewing in the back.
And then I saw her.
She stood at the counter, wrapped in so many layers she looked like a puffin, her scarf slipping as she gestured animatedly with a folded map.
“I just need someone who knows the area,” she said, her tone clipped but not rude. “The fjords, glaciers, all that. It’s for research.”
“Research,” Freya repeated, her tone dry as a January wind. “Well, we don’t get many of you up here this time of year.”
“It’s important work,” the woman insisted, her voice rising just slightly. “If I could just—”
Freya spotted me and grinned. “Maybe Astrid can help you.”
I froze, my hand tightening on the sled’s handle. Helping tourists wasn’t my job—not even close—but Freya had a way of throwing me into things whether I wanted to or not.
The woman turned, her cheeks flushed from the cold or frustration—or both. Her eyes landed on me, a flicker of hope lighting up her face. As I set the sled’s handle down, the puffin-wrapped woman fidgeted with her map, oblivious to the cold air I’d let in.
Her eyes lit up with something that might have been hope—or desperation. I couldn’t decide which one made me more uncomfortable.
Ingrid Solberg
I, Ingrid Solberg, tightened my scarf, my fingers stiff from the cold. The map crinkled in my pocket—a reminder of the deadlines and the emails waiting back in Oslo.
Results are critical, Ms. Solberg.
The funding committee’s words buzzed in my mind, sharp and unrelenting. Every step here mattered. Every delay was a risk I couldn’t afford. But standing in Freya’s shop, with Astrid glaring like I’d already lost, I wondered if I’d miscalculated this entirely. Her sharp, unflinching gaze made my palms sweat. I shifted my weight, adjusting the map and juggling my gloves.
But I couldn’t afford to lose this. Not here, not now.
“This isn’t tourist stuff,” I said, watching the woman behind the counter raise an unimpressed eyebrow. “It’s research—marine ecosystems under extreme conditions. I’ve spent years studying how changes here affect global systems,” I said, though the words felt thinner than they used to, as if they no longer carried all the weight I’d once placed on them. “This might be my last chance to collect the data I need before the funding runs out.” My voice wavered slightly at the end, but I steadied it, refusing to let doubt creep in. “I need someone familiar with the fjords.”
I’d spent years studying how changes here affect global systems, inspired by a professor who first showed me the beauty of these icy landscapes. She once told me, ‘The Arctic isn’t just a place—it’s a story we can’t afford to lose.’
Freya Isvik, as she’d introduced herself, leaned casually against the counter.
“Fjords aren’t exactly welcoming this time of year,” she said, her tone dry. “And you’re about four ullundertøy short of ready.” She grinned, clearly enjoying herself, before adding, “Wool base layers, in case you’re wondering. You’ll thank me later.”
“I’m not a tourist,” I repeated, though I could tell it wasn’t convincing anyone.
The door creaked open behind me, bringing with it a gust of icy wind. I turned and immediately lost whatever argument I’d been about to make.
The woman who entered looked like she’d been carved out of the Arctic itself, all sharp edges and quiet strength. Her coat was dusted with frost, her boots heavy with snow, and her eyes—pale and piercing—swept the room with practiced ease.
“Maybe Astrid can help you,” Freya said, her grin widening.
The woman—Astrid Bjørnsen, apparently—stopped in her tracks, her expression shifting from neutral to wary in an instant.
“Hi,” I said, smiling despite the sudden dryness in my throat. “You’re Astrid?”
Her gaze locked onto mine, assessing.
“Depends who’s asking.”
The silence stretched for a moment too long, and I cleared my throat.
Astrid didn’t like outsiders—most came with a sense of entitlement, expecting the Arctic to bow to their plans. She still remembered the time a tourist had ignored her warning about thin ice, their recklessness costing more than just their expedition. Her wariness wasn’t rudeness; it was survival, sharpened over years of solitude.
“Ingrid Solberg,” I added quickly, hoping to sound professional. “I’m with the University of Oslo.” I held out my hand, but she didn’t take it.
Astrid: I didn’t take Ingrid’s handshake. Not out of rudeness—just habit. Too many people came here thinking they could tame this place with a handshake and a grin. Most didn’t last the winter.
“She needs a guide, Astrid,” Freya said, grinning.
Astrid shot her a glare, her jaw tightening, but it softened just slightly—an almost imperceptible shift, like she was too tired to hold the walls up completely.
“And Freya’s too nosy to mind her own business.”
Freya chuckled softly but didn’t elaborate further.
“She knows these fjords better than anyone,” she said instead, stepping aside. “You’ll be in good hands.”
Astrid’s lips twitched—just enough to suggest a smile that never quite came. It lingered like a crack in the frost, subtle but unforgettable.
Freya caught me by the counter as I folded my map for the tenth time. “She’s stubborn, you know,” she said, setting a jar of pickled herring on the shelf. “Astrid?”
I nodded, and she laughed. “Always has been. But she wasn’t always so…” She paused, her smile faltering. “So careful. The Arctic will do that to you.”
I tilted my head, curious.
Freya glanced out the frosted window, her voice softer now.
“We lost someone once—another researcher. Years ago. Thought she could outrun a storm. Astrid was with her. She remembered the way the wind swallowed their voices, how fast the whiteout came, how helpless it felt to watch someone vanish into it. Since then, she’d carried the storm with her — not as fear, but as warning. Some lessons carved themselves into you whether you asked for them or not.”
The silence that followed said more than her words.
“What happened?” I asked gently.
Freya didn’t answer right away. “Ask her yourself. Just don’t expect her to hand you the whole story on a silver platter. But… she’s still out there. That tells you something, doesn’t it?”
Later, as Astrid adjusted the sled’s straps, I thought about what Freya had said.
She wasn’t always like this, you know. She used to laugh more.
I glanced at Astrid’s sharp profile, her focus entirely on the task at hand. Maybe Freya was right. Maybe there was something thawing under all that frost—it just took the right kind of warmth.
Freya would probably roll her eyes later and claim credit for the whole thing:
“I told her Astrid needed thawing. She’s just lucky I didn’t charge her matchmaking fees!”
It made me stifle a laugh—but also glance at Astrid, wondering if there was truth in Freya’s playful words.
“No, I know,” I said quickly. “But you know the fjords, right? Better than anyone else?”
“Depends,” she said again, her voice flat. “On what?”
“On whether or not you listen.”
First Outing
Astrid
The dock was empty, except for the faint groan of the ice shifting below—a sound that never stopped reminding you to respect this place or leave it altogether. The wind carried a biting chill that slipped past even the thickest layers, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. I leaned against the sled, adjusting the harness straps for the third time, though I knew they didn’t need it.
Ingrid was late.
I checked my watch, even though I didn’t need to. People didn’t last long out here if they weren’t punctual. In the Arctic, being late wasn’t just inconvenient—it was dangerous.
Just as I was about to give up, hurried footsteps crunched over the snow, sharp and uneven.
“Sorry!” she called, her voice breaking through the stillness like a gust of warm air. “I didn’t realize how far the dock was—or how slippery.”
I turned to see her half-jogging, half-sliding toward me, a bag clutched in one hand and her scarf trailing behind her like a forgotten thought. Her boots were pristine, the kind you bought after Googling “best Arctic gear” and picking the top result.
“Your boots,” I said flatly, nodding toward them. “You’ll need spikes. The ice isn’t forgiving.”
She came to an abrupt stop, her breath clouding in the air. Her cheeks were flushed pink, whether from the cold or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, though the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.
I raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make her shift uncomfortably.
“We’ll see,” I said, turning back to the sled without waiting for a response.
The wind picked up, sharper now, carrying the kind of chill that burrowed deep into your bones. I focused on the sled, running through the equipment checklist in my head even though I’d already done it twice.
“Do you always do this alone?” Ingrid asked, her voice curious but hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if the question was allowed.
“Yes.” My answer was clipped, my focus still on the sled.
“Oh.”
Her voice was soft, but not disappointed. I glanced up briefly to see her staring out at the jagged peaks, her gaze intent, as though she were searching for answers hidden in the snow-draped horizon.
“Most people don’t,” I added, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, and a small, teasing smile played on her lips.
“But you’re not ‘most people,’ are you?”
I looked at her sharply, caught off guard by the unexpected lightness in her tone. Her face was open, thoughtful. Maybe she’d last longer than I thought.
Ingrid
The cold hit harder than I’d expected, even with all my carefully chosen layers. My breath fogged up my scarf as I jogged toward the dock, clutching my bag like it might shield me from the bite of the Arctic air.
When I reached the dock, I saw her immediately—standing tall and still beside a sled piled with gear. Astrid looked like she belonged here in a way I never could, her presence filling the space around her as if it were carved out just for her.
“Sorry!” I called, waving with my free hand.
Her expression didn’t change as she turned to look at me, her pale eyes sharp and assessing.
“Your boots,” she said, her voice low and steady. “You’ll need spikes. The ice isn’t forgiving.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said quickly, though my heart was pounding and my legs felt unsteady beneath me.
Her eyebrow arched, just slightly, as though she was weighing the truth of my words.
“We’ll see,” she said, turning back to the sled without another word.
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t exactly welcoming either. She moved with practiced efficiency, checking and re-checking the sled’s straps, her focus unwavering. I shifted awkwardly, unsure of where to stand or what to say.
“Do you always do this alone?” I asked, the question spilling out before I could think better of it.
“Yes,” she replied, her tone neutral, her eyes never leaving the sled.
“Oh.”
The dock stretched out before us, the ice groaning faintly below like it was alive, testing our presence. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if I’d made a mistake—if I should turn around, head back to the shop, and leave her to the solitude she clearly preferred.
But then she glanced at me, just briefly, her expression softening for a heartbeat before turning back to the sled. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to root me in place, enough to remind me why I was here.
A Crack in the Ice
Astrid
The silence shattered with a sharp crack, the sound ricocheting through the frozen air. My hand shot out, gripping the edge of the sled as my breath hitched.
“Stå stille,” Stay still, I said, my voice low but firm as I raised a hand to stop her.
Ingrid froze immediately, her wide eyes locking onto mine, her breath visible in shaky clouds against the cold air.
“What was that?” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the eerie stillness.
“Isen,” Ice, I replied, my tone steady despite the tension coiling in my chest.
Moments like these reminded me why I’d chosen this life. This place didn’t reward bravado; it demanded respect. Its stillness wasn’t empty; it was a warning, a reminder that you were only ever a visitor here. The ice beneath us, the endless expanse of snow, even the biting wind—they all demanded acknowledgment, reverence.
I’d built my life around understanding that truth.
But now, as I glanced at Ingrid, her pale face illuminated by the faint glow of the horizon, I felt something unexpected—a quiet pull, a desire to share this world with someone who might come to love it as much as I did.
“Is it safe?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly as her gaze flicked downward.
“For now,” I said, keeping my tone calm as I tilted my head toward the sled. “Step carefully. Keep your weight balanced.”
To her credit, she didn’t panic. She didn’t ask questions. She simply nodded and moved exactly as I’d instructed—deliberate, measured, careful. Most people would have faltered, but she didn’t.
The ice groaned beneath her boots, each step an uneasy reminder of how fragile this moment was. My breath held steady, but my chest felt tight, waiting for her to reach me.
When she finally did, I nodded once.
“Bra gjort,” Well done, I said, my tone neutral but sincere.
Ingrid
The sound of the ice cracking had sent a jolt through me, freezing me in place.
“Stå stille,” Stay still, Astrid said, her voice low and firm, cutting through the rising panic in my chest.
I obeyed immediately, my breath catching as I followed her gaze.
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. It wasn’t just fear I felt—it was awe. The Arctic wasn’t just something to study; it was alive, and I wanted to be part of it.
I thought about Astrid’s words earlier: The Arctic wasn’t something you mastered — you learned to move with it.
My chest tightened as I thought of Oslo—the deadlines, the noise, the constant need to prove myself in a world that always demanded more. Could I let go of that need for control and learn to adapt, as Astrid had, to a world that asked only for stillness and respect?
When I reached the sled, Astrid’s calm expression hadn’t shifted, but the faintest flicker of approval softened her eyes.
“Bra gjort,” Well done, she said again, her tone neutral but genuine.
I exhaled slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing just enough to feel my legs beneath me again.
“Thanks,” I muttered, trying to sound nonchalant even as my heart still raced. “Guess I owe you one already.”
Her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly—not quite a smile, but close enough to surprise me.
“Just listen next time,” she said, turning her attention back to the sled. “It’ll save us both the trouble.”
Her words were sharp, but there was something quieter beneath them—an acknowledgment, maybe even trust.
And for the first time, I thought that perhaps I could belong here—not just to this place, but to the rhythm of her world.
The Polar Bear
Astrid
The polar bear crested the ridge, black eyes sharp and searching, its fur patchy in places where the winter hadn’t been kind. I’d seen them before, but this one was different—gaunt, desperate, every step a calculation.
“Ingrid,” I said quietly, gripping the rifle. “Move behind me. Now.”
She didn’t move at first, her wide eyes locked on the bear. Outsiders always froze like that, caught between awe and fear. But awe wouldn’t save her.
“Now,” I said again, sharper this time. Finally, she obeyed, stepping back carefully. Good. The ice might tolerate her mistakes, but the bear wouldn’t.
The bear sniffed the air again, its massive frame silhouetted against the jagged ridge. I adjusted my grip on the rifle, finger resting just near the trigger but not on it. Shooting wasn’t my first choice. It never was.
“It’s thin,” I murmured, almost to myself. “It’s too far south. No seals here.”
“What does that mean?” Ingrid’s voice was barely a whisper, her breath visible in shaky clouds.
“It means it’s hungry,” I replied, my voice flat. My heart was steady, but my chest felt tight. Hunger made them bold, unpredictable. It made them desperate.
The bear tilted its head, staring at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, it turned, lumbering back the way it had come. I lowered the rifle but didn’t relax. “Let’s move,” I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. “It won’t be the last.”
Ingrid
Astrid lowered the rifle with slow, deliberate movements, her gaze fixed on the ridge where the bear had disappeared. She moved like she’d done this a hundred times before. Maybe she had.
But something flickered in her expression—a fleeting tightness around her mouth, a shadow in her eyes. It passed quickly, replaced by her usual calm. Yet the moment lingered, making her strength feel all the more real, and all the more intimidating.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice steady, her gaze sharp and assessing.
I nodded, though my legs still felt like jelly beneath me. “I think so,” I managed, my breath fogging in the icy air. Watching Astrid’s calmness, I realized survival here wasn’t just about instinct. It was about respect for the land’s rhythms, something I still had to learn.
She studied me for another second before nodding, slinging the rifle over her shoulder with practiced ease. It wasn’t a comforting nod—it was clinical, like she was weighing whether I was worth the effort.
“We should move,” she said simply. “It might come back.”
“Might come back?” I repeated, my voice rising in spite of myself. “That’s comforting.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. She was already turning back to the sled, her focus shifting seamlessly to the next task. No hesitation, no wasted motion.
I hesitated, glancing back at the ridge. My heart was still racing, the bear’s deliberate, almost indifferent movements replaying in my mind. It hadn’t been in a hurry. Neither had Astrid. I wasn’t sure which unnerved me more.
“Hey,” Astrid called over her shoulder, her tone sharp enough to snap me out of it. “Keep up.”
Her words grounded me, and I hurried after her, the crunch of my boots on the snow louder than I wanted.
When I caught up, she didn’t look at me. Her focus was fixed on the trail ahead, her steps steady and unrelenting, like she’d already forgotten the bear entirely.
“Does that happen often?” I asked, my voice still unsteady, more from the memory of the bear than from the cold.
“Sometimes,” she said, her tone as indifferent as the Arctic itself.
I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. Instead, she adjusted the sled’s harness, her hands working with precision, her attention unwavering. There was no room for lingering fear in her world.
“You weren’t scared?” I asked after a moment, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
She turned her head slightly, just enough for me to catch her profile. Her pale eyes flicked to mine for a moment, unreadable.
“Fear doesn’t help,” she said, her voice low but certain.
It wasn’t bravado. It was fact. She had lived with fear long enough to see it for what it was: a distraction, a liability. Her calm steadied me in a way I didn’t expect, even as the memory of the bear lingered in my chest like a slow, unrelenting drumbeat.
I swallowed the sarcastic response on the tip of my tongue. It wasn’t the time. Instead, I fell into step beside her, my thoughts swirling—about the Arctic, about the bear, about her.
The bear’s massive form was still vivid in my memory, but so was Astrid’s unwavering calm, her absolute focus in the face of something that could have killed us.
“Thanks,” I said quietly, the word feeling small compared to what she’d just done for me.
She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. But then, just barely, the corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to catch me off guard.
“Stay close next time,” she said, her voice softer but still firm. “It’ll save me the trouble.”
The Northern Lights
Ingrid
The sky shimmered with greens and purples, the Northern Lights stretching and twisting as though they belonged to another world entirely.
The air bit at the edges of my scarf, sharp and unforgiving, the cold seeping through even the thickest layers. But I barely noticed. Each breath fogged the air in front of me, fading quickly into the stillness. The crunch of snow underfoot was the only sound as we stood side by side, the lights above painting the expanse in hues so vivid they felt alive.
I glanced at Astrid, her face lit in fleeting bursts of green and violet, her gaze locked on the sky. The cold seemed to have no effect on her. She stood still, her sharp features softened by the ethereal glow.
“Do you ever get used to this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, afraid to break the spell of the moment.
“No,” she admitted, the honesty carrying a weight I didn’t expect.
I turned to her, surprised. The answer was simple, but something about the way she said it felt more profound—like this place had managed to keep its hold on her, no matter how much time she’d spent here.
Astrid
Ingrid’s question lingered in the stillness, a quiet echo against the vast sky. “No,” I said before I could think to guard the truth.
The word felt heavier than it should have, like it carried more than an answer. Even after years of watching the lights dance, the awe never faded, not entirely. But I didn’t tell her that. Some things weren’t meant to be explained; they were meant to be felt.
I glanced at her briefly, catching the way her eyes reflected the sky—wide with wonder, unguarded in a way I couldn’t quite match. She didn’t belong here, not yet, but there was something about the way she stood, unmoving and silent, that made me think she wanted to.
“Good,” she whispered, breaking my train of thought. “I’d hate to think I’m the only one who’s completely in awe.”
Ingrid
I turned back to the sky, Astrid’s answer lingering in my thoughts. It wasn’t just the lights that held her attention—it was something more. The stillness of this place, its honesty, maybe even its indifference. It mirrored her somehow, and for the first time, I wondered if she saw herself in it.
She didn’t respond, but I thought I saw the faintest shift in her posture—a relaxation, maybe. I couldn’t be sure.
The lights above twisted and swirled, alive with an energy that felt impossible. I’d seen photos before, but they hadn’t prepared me for this—colors in motion, pulsing like the Earth’s breath.
I felt small standing there, but not in a bad way. Maybe it was enough to be here, to belong here.
Astrid
The lights moved across the sky, a rhythm I’d long stopped trying to understand. Their beauty was undeniable, but it wasn’t just the sky that drew me in tonight—it was her. The way she stood beside me, her awe so transparent it made me feel something I couldn’t name.
Ingrid didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to fill the quiet. Instead, she just watched. That was rare—most people came here to search, to demand answers from a place that didn’t owe them anything. But Ingrid… she seemed willing to listen.
I glanced at her again, and for a moment, I let the thought settle: Maybe sharing this didn’t have to mean losing it.
End of Part 1
Scott Bryant 
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