The wounded and the wicked witch

As they approached Inderøy early in the morning, a figure appeared along the shoreline. A woman, clad in a thick woolen cloak with a basket in her hand, lifted her head to observe them.

Erling helped them overboard, and the woman came to meet them. "This is my wife, Kristin."

She nodded. The woman's cold, scrutinizing gaze sent a chill through her, and an uneasy discomfort crept over her.

"How is Bjørn?" Erling stroked his wife.

"Not better."

They approached the farm on foot, and she noticed that the land possessed a quiet, unadorned beauty-a sense of calm and simplicity that seemed to pervade the place.

"May I see him immediately?" Sigrid asked.

Erling agreed at once, without hesitation, but the woman gave a curt sniff, her eyes narrowing into sharp slits. "But not for long."

Sigrid paused before entering. The sight that met her was like a knife to her chest. Bjørn lay on his back in the narrow, spartan bed, hidden under a layer of coarse wool blankets.

His face, once so full of life and strength, was now a pale shadow of itself.

A thin strip of blood had congealed at the corner of his mouth, and his cracked lips were blue.

His upper body was bare, and she saw bandages of coarse linen covering his wounds. She was shocked: this frail figure was the same man she'd seen six months prior, once so imposing.

Now he lay there, like a lifeless doll.
Sigrid sat beside the bed, taking his hand.

She sat, watching him, while tears streamed down her cheeks.

Every breath seemed like a struggle; they came in short, wheezing gasps, as though his lungs were struggling to do their job. Bjørn's eyes flickered open, and his gaze was cloudy, and his face bore the marks of confusion.

"Sigrid?" His voice was so faint she could barely make it out.

"Yes, it's me, Bjørn."

He looked at her as though he thought she might be in a dream. "I didn't expect to see you again."

"Neither did I," she said, and a brief, fragile smile played on her lips.

"Can you come closer?"

She moved closer so she could support him better. "Who did this to you?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad you came."

"I'm glad too," she said, resting her head on his arm.

They lay there in silence, broken only by his labored breaths, until he drifted back to sleep.

She sat there to watch him before she joined Thora, Erling, and Kristin in the living room. Kristin looked at her with hard eyes. She had tightly pulled back her raven-black hair, streaked with gray.

"I said not for long!"

"Relax, Mama," came a voice from behind.

Sigrid turned, startled, and her eyes met a pair of warm, dark eyes. "Hi," the young man said with a friendly smile, stepping forward. "You must be Sigrid? I'm Ivar, Bjørn's younger brother."

He looked so much like Bjørn it took her a moment to collect herself. He was, indeed, a reflection of his older brother-his features softer, perhaps, but the resemblance was unmistakable.

"Do you know what happened?"

"Six men attacked him," Ivar said.

"And the king?"

"He wasn't at work," Ivar continued, his tone implying it should have been obvious.

"I don't understand..."

"He was on his way to you," Kristin said, storming out of the room.

Sigrid, taken aback by Kristin's sudden departure, looked at Ivar.

"You'll have to excuse my mother. She's taking this hard."

"I... I didn't know, all that time... I heard nothing. And then this..." She was confused.

"It will be fine. Bjørn just needs some rest. You'll be able to talk when he's feeling better."

"Do you suppose he'll make it?"

Ivar paused before answering. "I don't know. He's strong, but... it's hard to tell."

"He suffered greatly."

"He's been through worse." Ivar smiled gently at her, as if trying to reassure her, while Sigrid sat, lost in her thoughts. Her mind kept returning to the image of Bjørn lying there-so fragile.

The first days were hard. Bjørn's face was pale as death.

He had traveled to meet her when tragedy struck. Guilt gnawed at her like an incurable burden. If she hadn't gone to Skogn to play with Ragnar, this might not have happened, she wondered.

Each night she sat by his side, alternating between prayers and quiet hope that his powerful will might carry him through.

She would lay herself beside him to be near him.

But then something shifted; the transformation began slowly. First, almost imperceptible: his cheeks, once grey and lifeless, showed a faint flush.

His breath, once strained and shallow, became steadier and deeper. And his frail body drew nourishment once again.

Sigrid even fed him with a spoon, and together they laughed as they reminisced about their first meeting.

"Is it true that you saw nothing?"

"I swear it," Bjørn laughed, his voice still weak but carrying a warmth that lit the space between them.

Ivar, observing from a distance, experienced astonishment and hope. "It's you, Sigrid! It's your presence," he declared, lifting her high into the air.

Kristin's presence, however, hung in the room like a chilly wind.

At the dinner table, Kristin's words came like well-aimed daggers-short, biting comments delivered with a practiced casualness.

She subtly reminded Sigrid of her unwanted presence.

For Bjørn's sake, she gritted her teeth and bore it, holding her head high.
But deep down, beneath her composed exterior, Sigrid wondered how long she could endure before it.

Yet one day, amid the silence, Bjørn broke through. He lay in bed, weak, but with a spark in his eyes.

"I wish to go out," he said in a hoarse voice.

Sigrid paused and stared at him in astonishment.

"Out?" She said, as though needing to process it again to believe it.

He nodded.

"Then let us go!"

Sigrid wrapped him in the warmest garments she could find and, with Ivar's help, guided him outside. Bjørn leaned on her, his strength waning.

They walked to the shore, where the fjord lay still as a mirror, encircled by towering mountains that rose like guardians in the distance.

The cold winter light bathed the landscape in a serene, timeless glow. Bjørn settled himself onto a large stone near the water's edge, and Sigrid sat beside him, close enough to keep him warm.

Ivar mumbled some excuse, gave a knowing nod and a playful glance to Bjørn, before leaving them there.

Bjørn drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp air. For a moment, neither spoke, the lapping of waves their only companion.

"I had almost given up," Bjørn said at last.

Sigrid turned toward him, resting her head against his shoulder. "I'm glad you didn't."

She straightened and met his eyes. "But why did you never write to me, Bjørn? I thought-" Her voice faltered. "It seemed you'd forgotten me."

"Write to you?" He said, a little hesitant after a moment. "Sigrid, I wrote you a letter every single day."

"But I never got one." She answered, her brow furrowing. "I concluded you weren't interested, so I accepted Erlend Arneson's invitation to meet. Were you really on your way there?"

His jaw tightened, and he exhaled, as though releasing a long-held burden. "Yes. I went because I refused to believe you'd let go of us."

"I never did, Bjørn, but when I got no letters-when I experienced abandonment-I was afraid."

"I'm so sorry. I hated every moment of being apart from you."

"Me too," she said, her spirits falling as she reflected on the letters. Only Ragnar had the resources and incentive. But she kept the suspicion to herself.

With each passing day, Bjørn grew stronger. His eyes regained their light, and his laughter, though still soft, echoed more often.

Sigrid tried to help with the household tasks, assisting Kristin with the daily chores. But despite her efforts, it was never enough. Kristin's cold eyes and sharper tongue cut through her, shredding what little confidence she had.

One day, as they prepared dinner alone in the kitchen, Kristin slammed a bowl onto the table. "You're useless as a housewife!"

The words struck hard.

"You're right," she said, sitting down at the kitchen table. I'm inept at sewing and lack the patience for household crafts."

"Bjørn needs someone who can cook and who can manage a household. He doesn't need someone like you."

She straightened, her hands tightening into fists at her sides, though her voice came out quiet and steady. "I'll give it my all. For Bjørn."

Kristin stepped closer. "You think your presence here has differed? Do not fool yourself. Bjørn's strength comes from within."

At that, Sigrid's composure cracked. She took a step forward, her own anger rising to meet Kristin's glare. "Do you believe I don't feel guilty every single day about what happened to him?"

A tense silence fell between them as Kristin narrowed her eyes, gave a laugh, and turned away.
"You're wasting your time. Bjørn deserves better."

Sigrid's hands shook uncontrollably.
As she sat before the dying hearth fire, she gazed into the embers. For a moment, doubt clawed at her.
Maybe Kristin was right?

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