Elohims wrath

A distant sight—a plume of smoke—stirred hope within Arne and Bjorn. Their little home awaited.

As they neared their home, the landscape shifted, the frost-blanketed expanse giving way to the monolithic presence of a forgotten giant. The smoke that curled upward like ghostly tendrils resolved into something far more tangible—a colossal metal structure, sprawled across the frozen ground as if hurled there by a vengeful god. This was their village, though it was much more than that: a vessel of mysteries, a relic of another age, its purpose long lost to the shroud of forgotten histories. They did not know the word spaceship, yet its immense, otherworldly presence loomed over their lives like an unspeaking guardian.

The ship's metallic skin bore the scars of its violent descent, fractured and warped, its surface punctuated with gaping openings that seemed like a thousand silent eyes, peering out into the bleak expanse. Between the two enormous rocket boosters at its base, an entrance had been fashioned—a door leading into the labyrinthine innards that they had come to know as home. The doorway, framed by the gnarled remnants of twisted metal, stood as both invitation and warning, shelter and fortress.

The outside of the ship was a vision of determined resilience, dressed in a patchwork of cloth and hide, sheets and scraps nailed over the yawning holes and fissures to stave off the merciless wind. These fabrics flapped and rippled defiantly, their colors dulled but persistent, a testament to the ingenuity of those who clung to life within. Wooden beams and salvaged metal braces jutted out at irregular angles, a chaotic latticework that held the monstrous structure together. This tangled web of wood and rusted iron, cobbled together from wreckage and forest bounty, was both armor and lifeblood, preventing the ship from collapsing into a cold, inhospitable grave.

Stepping through the narrow opening, Bjorn's breath clouded the air, mingling with the warmth that met them in an abrupt rush. Inside, the ship was a world apart. The cavernous space that had once resonated with the mechanical hum of engines and the whispers of unknown travelers was now filled with the human pulse of life. Rooms that once served purposes lost to time had been repurposed, transformed into homes where the walls echoed with quiet conversation and the soft cries of children.

The largest chamber, central to their survival, had become the heart of the village—a great room dominated by a massive fireplace. This fire roared and crackled, its glow casting long, flickering shadows that played across the curving metallic walls. It was here that warmth pooled, banishing the cold from the immediate space, carrying with it the scent of burning wood and the faint, acrid tang of smoke. This was the place where stories were shared, where weary hunters thawed stiff limbs and frostbitten fingers, where the communal spirit of the village found its ember.

Above, remnants of complex machinery hung like the ribs of some long-dead beast, half-hidden by tapestries and patched cloth that dangled from the ceiling, muffling the echoes. The walls, once stark and unyielding metal, were now covered with woven mats and furs, a futile attempt to make the space feel more human, more theirs.

Arne stepped inside, his muscles straining as he hoisted the lifeless creature and let it fall onto the cold floor, its fur glistening with frost in the dim glow of the fire. His dark eyes surveyed the room, taking in the familiar sights of movement and warmth, the muted sounds of survival. Bjorn squinted, his frostbitten fingers tracing the contours of a structure.

Here, they found solace. The harsh cold retreated, and death's shadow dared not cross the threshold. Bjorn's breath fogged the air as he stepped inside, feeling the pulse of the ship.

Arne turned to Bjorn "Could you take this to the storage room?" Arne's voice was gruff, but there was a hint of urgency. "I need to go greet my wife."

Bjorn blinked, momentarily taken aback. Arne wasn't the one who gave orders—the leader of their makeshift community was Bjorn. Yet here he was, asking Bjorn for a favor. Confusion flickered across Bjorn's face.

He nodded, not trusting his voice. Picking up the creature, he cradled it in his arms. The fur was sharp against his skin.

Two weeks, he calculated. Two weeks until the snows relent, until the earth awakens from its icy slumber. But would they last that long? The communal stores were dwindling, and winter's grip tightened with each passing day. Bjorn's own mortality loomed—an uninvited guest at the feast of survival.

His breath hitched as he considered the division. How could he split sustenance among them? The children, their eyes wide with hunger, haunted his dreams. The elders, their frail bodies clinging to life, whispered prayers for deliverance.

My death, Bjorn mused, is a solitary affair. But the thought of losing those he loved—their laughter, their stories—struck deeper.

How could he tell the others? The food supplies were dwindling, and the cold season showed no mercy. Bjorn's mind raced, calculating rations, dividing hope.

But then—a loud thump echoed from the storage room. Bjorn's instincts kicked in. He dropped the creature and drew the mechanical spear from his back. The ship had secrets—dark corners where forgotten things stirred.

Arne's request was forgotten. Survival took precedence.

He pushed the door open, heart pounding. The room was dimly lit, 

Bjorn's eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, revealing the source of the noise. A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in tattered fabric that seemed to merge with the ship's interior. It was Anna, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and determination. Her presence was both a relief and a puzzle. Why was she here? Only he and Arne were allowed access to this room. Bjorn's grip on the spear loosened, the cold metal slipping from his fingers as he took in the sight of Anna. His frustration melted away, replaced by a surge of emotions he could barely contain.

"Anna, what are you doing here? You know this place is off-limits," his voice trembling with the effort to maintain control. Deep down, all he wanted was to hold her, to feel her warmth after the cold, harsh days in the forest.

Anna's eyes, wide with fear and sheer grit, met his. Her voice trembled as she spoke, "Bjorn, we were running low on food. I had to come here."

Bjorn nodded, torn between frustration and tenderness. She had risked enough to ensure their survival. He wanted to berate her for breaking the rules, but deep down, he just wanted to hold her, to feel her warmth against the cold reality of their existence.

He stepped closer, the mechanical spear forgotten. Anna's eyes widened further, and he saw the exhaustion etched into her features—the strain of rationing, the weight of leadership. Without thinking, he pulled her into his arms and then he kissed her. Her lips were soft and hot, a revelation. They tasted of desperation and longing. The world outside ceased to exist as he poured all his pent-up emotions into that kiss. Anna responded with equal fervor, her fingers tangling in his hair. For a moment, they were suspended in time—a captain and his wife, clinging to each other in the face of uncertainty.

When they finally pulled back, breathless, Bjorn rested his forehead against hers. "You did the right thing," he murmured. "Always."

Anna's eyes searched his, and he saw gratitude and love reflected there. She had risked her life for their people, for him. In that dimly lit room, surrounded by forgotten artifacts, Bjorn vowed to protect her—to cherish her—no matter the cost.