Had anywhere known the rise and fall of glory the way that Reykjavik had? Legends still haunted the minds of the young, passed down from the elders who could still remember a time before time, in a place unlike anywhere you would ever witness. It was a haven for both horses and wolves, an isle paradise lost to everyone, except those with the heart to search for it. Tragedy though, had taken the island as it slumbered peacefully against a hazy horizon. When the volcano erupted, no one was prepared… and what could they do, had they known? Terror was the color of blood that night, desperation sounded in the piercing screams. And just like that, the haven that had seemed so real, faded into myth. No one knew if it had crumbled into the sea, for as the lava flowed from the chasms of the earth it was either flee to the depths of the dark ocean waters... or die in the most hideous of ways. But though no eyes lay upon the wounded face of Reykjavik, time would heal her wounds. Years passed, plants slowly recovered from the scorched scars that maimed the isle, in time even the migratory birds began to return. Small mammals began to appear, and life on the island almost felt normal again. The volcano that had loomed in the north was nowhere to be seen, but surely it lived still, slumbering just beneath the surface. Where was anyone’s guess. The entire shape of Reykjavik had changed, it was an island reborn. And to its southwest shores small yet growing shoals began to appear as the ocean shallowed around them. And beyond that a smaller uninhabitable island with no fresh water of its own stood as an entryway to the old island’s steps. Reykjavik beckoned silently, whispering on the salty breeze riding just above cerulean colored swells.

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