Beneath the Surface

Sigrid cast her gaze downward, her hands trembling as she struggled to find the words. “I… I do not know if I am worthy of you, Bjørn,” she finally murmured, her voice low and wavering. 

Bjørn raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “What do you mean?” He asked calmly. 

She dared a fleeting glance at him. “I am not skilled in all that a woman is meant to do. The kitchen, the household, the needlework… I am not like Kari. She is everything you need.” 

Bjorn chuckled, a deep, warm sound. “Sigrid, the only thing I need is you.” He drew her beneath his cloak, placed a tender kiss upon her brow, and whispered, “We shall face this together.” 

Tears welled in Sigrid’s eyes, but this time, they were born of joy.

“Then… it is a ‘yes’?” He asked gently. 

She nodded, her voice clear and unwavering. “Yes.” 

●●●

Later that evening, the air in the house was tense. Bjørn had announced their betrothal, but the reactions were far from united.

Kristin, Bjørn’s mother, had persuaded him to delay the wedding until he regained his strength and independence. Kari, however, was visibly irritated. 

Sigrid felt the weight of the tension from both sides. She kept her struggles with Kristin to herself, but Kari grew increasingly difficult to ignore.

The woman’s gaze hardened whenever it landed upon Sigrid, as though she viewed her as an intruder in something that was rightfully hers. 

The tension came to a boiling point one evening during supper. Bjørn’s tenderness toward Sigrid could not be concealed—small touches, lingering glances.

It was enough to make Kari rise abruptly. She slammed her hand on the table, her voice trembling with fury. “I cannot bear another moment with that witch!” 

Everyone seemed caught off guard, and the room fell into a heavy silence.

Kari scoffed derisively. “And the mangy dog and the ugly red-haired servant, too!” 

Sigrid felt her blood boil. Rising to her feet.“Enough, Kari! Call me what you will, but to insult Balder and Thora? That, I shall not endure!”   

Bjørn rose to his feet as well, his eyes glowing with firm resolve. “Kari, I think it best you leave.” 

Kari glared at them, her face a storm of fury, before storming out.

The room was left in a suffocating silence. But as the sound of her footsteps faded, a strange calm settled over the house. Finally, they could breathe again.

The snow outside began to melt slowly, and with it came the promise of new beginnings. Bjørn had made great strides in his recovery. Though he was still thin and sometimes unsteady on his feet, it was clear he would soon return to his former self. 

One evening, when the house had fallen quiet and the others were asleep, Bjørn suddenly exclaimed, “Now, we marry!” 

They had been walking along the shore, watching the sunset paint the horizon in hues of pink and crimson. His sudden outburst caught Sigrid by surprise. 

“Let us do it as soon as possible,” he said with a broad smile, his eyes shining with a joy she had never seen before. “Look at me—I’m nearly myself again!” 

Sigrid stopped in her tracks, turning to look at him, overwhelmed by his exuberance. Words escaped her at first. 

“All right,” she finally replied, her voice soft but steady. She sat down on the smooth stones of the shore, her gaze fixed on the vibrant sky. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen sunsets so beautiful as here,” she said, letting her thoughts drift with the waves. 

“Well,” Bjørn said suddenly, his eyes twinkling as he looked out over the horizon, “the sunset I saw on Erik Gustavson’s lands last summer—now that was truly something to behold.”

He smiled mischievously, and Sigrid couldn’t help but laugh. 

Turning to him, she studied his expression, her voice playful. “So you, honest and virtuous Bjørn Erlingson, claim that you stood admiring an unsuspecting, unclothed woman—and lied about it after?” 

Bjorn furrowed his brow, pausing for a moment before a sly grin spread across his face.

“I confess,” he said, his tone tinged with mock seriousness. “I couldn’t help myself. I was at the water’s edge, letting my horse drink, when suddenly, there she was—the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.” 

He leaned back, resting his hands behind his head, gazing dreamily at the stars that began to dot the darkening sky.

“I thought it a dream. And then—you disrobed. Can you imagine?” He chuckled lightly, glancing at Sigrid, who nudged him playfully in the ribs. “I am, after all, a man!” 

“Bjørn!” She exclaimed, laughing. 

“Forgive me,” he said with a grin that was more flirt than apology. “It was the best day of my life.” 

Sigrid shook her head but couldn’t suppress her smile. “Fine,” she said, her tone carrying a teasing note, “on one condition.” 

“And what is that?” He looked at her with his intense, dark gaze. 

“That you do the same,” she said, reclining onto her back, mirroring his posture as they both gazed up at the vast, star-speckled sky. 

Bjørn looked at her, first confused, then uncertain. “Here?” He said, glancing around the deserted beach. 

“Yes,”  her eyes steady, a hint of challenge in her tone. “We are completely alone.” 

He stood, scanning the shore as if weighing the possibility. Then, with a mischievous grin, he took a step back. “If it wins your forgiveness, I shall do it,” he said, his voice brimming with playful joy. “But you must help me.” 

Sigrid laughed softly, understanding his meaning at once. Rising to her feet, she began undressing him slowly, her fingers careful and deliberate.

Each piece of clothing that fell to the ground felt like shedding another barrier, a step deeper into an intimate and vulnerable space they had never shared before. 

They laughed together, like children on a forbidden adventure—innocent, yet tinged with the heady intensity of their growing feelings.

There was a flicker of bashfulness, but it was their shared sense of wonder that carried them forward. 

When Bjørn was fully undressed, he stood tall, and Sigrid couldn’t help but admire him.

Without hesitation, he turned and ran toward the sea, plunging into the icy waves with a shout of exhilaration. “Come!” He called, his voice echoing over the shore, daring her. 

Sigrid needed no further urging. She hurriedly cast off her own garments, her movements quick, almost frantic, as though to escape the chill of the night air. Then she followed him, fearless, into the dark, restless water. 

The sea’s coldness was sharp, like needles against her skin, yet it awakened something within her. Each nerve seemed alive, every sensation heightened as though her very soul was coming alive.

She swam toward Bjørn, who moved with ease, his laughter filling the night. 

He turned to face her, his grin the same one that always made her heart race. She laughed—a bright, clear sound that cut through the stillness of the night.

Diving beneath the surface, she swam around him, playful and free.

Then, suddenly, he caught her. His hand was firm and steady as he pulled her to him. She could hear his breathing—deep, steady, and close.

Their eyes met, and in that moment, the world seemed to stand still. The cold was forgotten; only the heat of his presence remained. 

“Sigrid,” he said softly, his voice low and rough, as though it came from a place far beneath the surface. “I love you.” 

The words struck her heart like a hammer. For the first time in her life, she understood how powerful a feeling could be.

She wanted to respond, but the words tangled in her throat. Instead, she moved closer, until she could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin. 

And then they kissed. At first hesitant, tentative, as if every motion was a discovery, a lesson in trust. But then he pulled her closer, his arms strong and unyielding around her.

She felt the raw power of him, his breath on her cheek, the undeniable reality of his presence. 

She let herself surrender to the moment, as though nothing else in the world existed. 

He lowered his head, letting his kisses trail downward toward her chest, each touch of his lips warm and deliberate.

Her body responded before her mind could catch up, as though awakened by a quiet whisper she could not name.

Each kiss, gentle and unhurried, sent her heart pounding louder, faster. She felt his breath on her skin, quickening, growing heavier with each moment. 

A sound escaped her lips—soft, almost imperceptible. It was not one of conscious thought, but of her body speaking a language older than words, opening itself to something deep and unrestrained.

She had never felt this before—a union of soul and body, of passion and yearning that dissolved every wall she had so carefully built. 

But it was more than the physical closeness. When their eyes met, the world around them seemed to fade away.

They were no longer in the crashing surf, but in a space that belonged solely to them. It was as if they were tethered by a fragile, unbreakable thread, a connection that defied logic and time. 

The waves surged violently around them, a tempest of wild, unrelenting force, slamming against their bodies with ferocity.

She looked at him, her breath caught in her chest, and saw a faint smile curve his lips.

“The water suits you,” Bjørn murmured.

Sigrid smiled faintly. “Does it now?”

“It does,” he replied. “Just like the first time I saw you. I thought to myself, ‘She belongs to it.’” He hesitated, his voice growing softer. “But I hoped, even then, that one day, you might belong to me instead.”

“Let’s go inside,” he said softly, his voice filled with care. “You’re cold, and I want to warm you.”

His words were like a rope pulling her back to reality, and she nodded.

“Go on ahead,” he murmured, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll follow shortly.”

She smiled at him, her expression both playful and sincere. “Don’t keep me waiting,” she teased, before turning and swimming quickly to shore. 

She dressed hurriedly, her clothes clinging to her damp skin, and ran back toward the farm.

A bubbling sense of joy coursed through her, a light euphoria that made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t for so long. 

But the moment she stepped inside the house, darkness engulfed her, heavy and oppressive, like a suffocating cloak wrapped too tightly around her.

There was something in the air—an unseen presence, cold and unyielding, pressing down on her with an almost physical weight. Her pulse quickened, each beat echoing in her ears like a drum. 

She didn’t need to see him to know he was there. 

“Sigrid,” his voice rang out suddenly, sharp and accusing, slicing through the silence like a blade. 

She froze, her heart slamming against her ribcage. Should she laugh? Cry? Run? 

“What do you want?” She whispered at last, though her voice trembled, betraying her attempt at composure.

●●●