The Lights

Franklin was twenty-nine, and he knew the odds were against his reaching thirty. Cancer sucks. Especially untreatable Stage IV brain cancer.

Last week, Franklin had quit his job as a human resource specialist in Toronto, and he planned to travel as much as he could, before his illness made that impossible. Trips abroad usually included his husband Ethan, spooning in hotel beds and dancing together all night on the beach until the sun rose. But not this time. No matter how hard he pushed it down, the ice-cold feeling in his gut returned. He always thought he would die in a Porsche driving too fast, or in a burning building saving a baby, or diving deep in the Great Coral Reef. But dying in a bed numbed to nothingness by painkillers may be the most I can ask for now.

Franklin set up camp for the night on a grassy, flat field framed by a row of jagged gray rocks and ice-capped glaciers on the horizon. Though he was fit and accustomed to long hikes, his muscles ached after the solitary march wearing a heavy backpack. He was alone in the wilderness of southern Iceland. He loved adventure, but November was cold here, and it was just weeks away from December 31, 2017—his five-year anniversary of meeting Ethan. Since his diagnosis, he'd become increasingly numb to the world and all its commotion. A friend at work knew a wilderness guide named Ragnar who would set him up in unfamiliar Iceland. He opted for a full-on solitary hiking excursion through the barren southern lowlands, tempting as it was to share a tent with a rugged blond descendant of Vikings.

The memories of his five years with Ethan flashed in disconnected pieces in Franklin's mind. They'd met at a New Year's Eve party in Toronto, friends of a friend. Those beautiful brown eyes. That mouth and full lips. It was instant attraction. Franklin hugged himself as he remembered Ethan's hands on him. Ethan was bigger, and he liked that. He missed Ethan's smell, the feeling of Ethan's breath on his neck when he woke up in the morning.

He needed to sleep, as tomorrow's trek was the longest and toughest stretch on his itinerary. But not before calling Ethan.

There was a mild delay on his mobile, but the signal was strong enough. They chatted about everyday things, until Ethan reminded him of the stark reality he wanted to avoid.

"You shouldn't be there on your own," Ethan said. "We go everywhere together. Besides, you're sick."

"I have to be here and do this. You know I love adventure."

"I don't get that part of you," Ethan's voice trailed off. "But I love you."

"I love you too."

"But one very important thing: how's your supply of coffee holding up? You get cranky without it."

***  

Night 1. Franklin walked in a daze outside his tent, his legs shivering as he rubbed his arms and breathed warmth into his icy hands. The shifting patterns of the soft light through the tent fabric woke him from a fitful sleep, dreaming about his home in Toronto, so remote in time and space.

An eerie stillness gripped the landscape. He shivered, standing only in a t-shirt and boxers in the November cold, the snowless ground crunching under his untied boots. The camp was pitch black. The smoke of the recently-extinguished wood fire wafted through his nostrils like phantom cigarettes, and his mouth was parched.

There they are. He stretched his neck upwards, looking up at the lights flowing in brilliant green ribbons, cascading across the star-studded sky. Bingo. There was the aurora!

The lights shot out across the sky just like fireworks. His guide said he would be lucky to see them, as he needed the perfect alchemy of clear skies and solar flares. People came from across the world to camp out in the desolate Icelandic wilderness and wait patiently, watching for any sign of the aurora in the dark infinity above. And here he was, seeing them on his first night at camp, the first time in his life.