When a person is born in a cold, isolated place, he would normally (when given the chance) emigrate from there to find better opportunities, people, and lifestyles.
But, Erikúr Steilsson isn't a normal person. He thought it was a blessing to be born in Iceland. His hometown, Reykjavik , was beautiful and he did like it. But it was too much.
Once Erikúr was old enough, he moved out of the city to live his dream. His dreamed of going out into the desolate inland and leading a life of nomadism and practicing transhumance alone. Just him, the tundra, a few goats, and one Icelandic horse.
For him, one of the pull factors of living such a life was that he wouldn't have to deal with people. People were annoying and selfish. Erikúr thought the worst type of people were the obnoxious immigrants from Norway. He thought they were whiny and butchered the Icelandic culture. He understood why they decided to migrate to Iceland, for it was a gorgeous place to live and the economy was okay, but, in his opinion, there were too many of them coming over.
He thought Iceland should beef up their quotas on migration, but these thoughts weren't that extreme. At least, not as extreme as his father's, who thought that some sort of genocide of Norwegian-Icelanders should take place.
Erikúr didn't like his father.
Perhaps, the country of Iceland could threaten deportation on some of the immigrants. For, indeed, immigrants were the worst kind of people. At least Iceland doesn't get many refugees, they seemed even more expectant. Ew.
Today, the population statistics of Iceland were the last thing on Erikúr's mind. He needed to seek asylum somewhere and quick. It was getting darker and snow was beginning to pile up. He was lucky that he decided to wear his heavier coat today, and even luckier that all his animals were keeping up with him and his horse.
Erikúr quickened his pace as he saw faint lights in the distance. If he remembered correctly, they were approaching the small town of Kirkjubæjarklaustur. He hadn't been back here for a while.
The snow was coming down faster and faster. Eventually he, his livestock, and horse plodded into the town, making it there before it was too dark. He had no idea where he would put his animals. An elderly man who was smoking a pipe and sitting on his front porch watched him curiously.
"Need help?" The man had an old, worn-out voice and a heavy Norwegian accent.
Why are you here? Erikúr looked at him emotionlessly, thinking about why this freaking Norwegian was here and why he was offering help.
"You speak Icelandic?" The man squinted. "Norwegian?"
"Já, já, sorry, I need somewhere safe to put my goats and horse," Erikúr blurted out a little more loudly than necessary.
The man nodded and began to walk down the steps of his porch to the snowy ground and led Erikúr to the back of his small home, where there was an old and molding wooden barn-esque structure. Once his animals were safely inside, Erikúr reached into one of his pockets to pay the man.
"No need."
Erikúr stopped and glanced up at the other. "Excuse me?"
"You don't have to pay me."
"Oh.. well... er... thank you, then." For the first time in a while, Erikúr cracked a smile. The elderly man grinned as well and nodded.
Then, Erikúr began to make his way towards the town motel, pondering about what had just happened.
Out the window of his motel, he saw nothing but the rich blackness that was the Icelandic night. Indeed, this was the dream life.