The Wounded and the Wicked Witch

As they approached Inderøy in the early morning hours, the fjord lay still beneath a winter sky that was slowly lightening in the east. Balder whimpered in discontent at her feet.

As they neared land, 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," he said. "Kristin."

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

"How is Bjørn?" Erling asked immediately.

"Not better," she replied.

They walked up to the farm together. Quietly, the only sounds were the crunch of snow beneath their feet and the cry of a crow sitting high in a spruce tree.

This was a much simpler place than Erik Gustavson's, but there was a beauty here without excess. She felt a unique calm and simplicity in the place.

"Can I see him right away?" Sigrid asked softly, almost hesitantly.

Erling agreed at once, without hesitation.

The woman gave a curt sniff, her eyes narrowing into sharp slits. "But not for long," she muttered, her tone laced with foreboding.

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

His face, once so full of life and strength, was now a pale shadow of itself-his cheeks sunken, his skin cold, marked with dark shadows.

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

His upper body was partially uncovered, and she could see bandages of coarse linen covering his wounds. It was almost impossible to believe that this figure was the same man she had seen half a year ago- a man who had stood so tall and invincible.

Now he lay there, like a lifeless doll.
Sigrid carefully sat down on the stool beside the bed and took his hand in hers. The hand was cold and lifeless, and she instinctively began to rub it between her own to give him some warmth.

It hurt to think about everything he had been through. She sat quietly, watching him, while tears quietly streamed down her cheeks.
Every breath seemed like a struggle.

His breathing came in short, wheezing gasps, as though his lungs were struggling to do their job. Suddenly, his eyes flickered open. His gaze was cloudy, and his face bore the marks of confusion.

"Sigrid?" He whispered, his voice so weak she could barely hear it.

"It's me, Bjørn," she replied softly.

He looked at her, and for a moment, his gaze flitted as though he thought she might be a dream. "I never thought I would see you again," he mumbled.

"Neither did I," she replied, and a brief, fragile smile played on her lips as tears continued to flow.

"Can you come closer?" He weakly asked.
She moved closer, so she could support him better. "Who did this to you?" She whispered, her voice trembling.

"I don't know," he answered quietly. "But I'm glad you came."

"I'm glad too," she said, gently resting her head on his arm. She could feel his heartbeat-weak, but still there.
They lay there in fragile silence, broken only by his labored breaths, until he slowly drifted back to sleep.

When she was finished, Sigrid went to join Thora, Erling, and Kristin in the living room. Kristin looked at her with hard eyes. Her raven-black hair, streaked with gray, was tightly pulled back.

"I said not for long," Kristin exclaimed angrily.

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

Sigrid turned, startled, and her eyes met a pair of warm, dark eyes that seemed to radiate an easy confidence.

"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 that 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?" Sigrid asked cautiously.

"He was attacked by six men," Ivar replied.

"And the king?" She pressed on.

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

"I don't understand..." Sigrid mumbled.

"He was on his way to Sogn," Kristin shouted in protest, storming out of the room.

Sigrid, taken aback by Kiristins sudden departure, looked questioningly at Ivar.

"You'll have to excuse my mother. She's taking this hard," Ivar said with tears in his eyes.

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

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

"Do you think he'll make it?" Sigrid asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ivar paused before answering. "I hope so. He's strong, but... it's hard to tell."

Sigrid nodded, her eyes heavy with worry. "He's been through so much."

"He's been through worse," Ivar said quietly, his gaze distant.

Sigrid sat silently, lost in her thoughts. Her mind kept returning to the image of Bjørn lying there-so fragile, so vulnerable.

Thora and Sigrid were given a room of their own in the main house on the farm.

The first days were heavy with uncertainty. Bjørn's face was pale as death, and his breath barely audible. Sigrid sat hunched over him, her hands clenched tight, tears threatening to spill.

He had been on his way to meet her when the terrible thing had occurred. Guilt gnawed at her like an incurable burden.

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

At times, she would gently lay herself beside him, to be near him. She rested her head upon his chest, listening for the heartbeat that beat slower than before, but still, it was there.

Then, slowly but surely, the transformation began. First, almost imperceptible: his cheeks, once grey and lifeless, began to show a faint flush.

His breath, once strained and shallow, gradually became steadier, deeper. And his frail body began to draw 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?" Teased Sigrid, her tone light but her eyes searching his.

"I swear it," Bjørn laughed, his voice still weak but carrying a warmth that lit the space between them. His eyes danced with a playful gleam, the faintest echo of his old self.

Ivar, who had been watching from a distance, was overcome with astonishment-and a glimmer of hope. "It's you, Sigrid! It's your presence," he declared, lifting her high into the air, his laughter ringing with a mixture of relief and joy.

Kristin's presence, however, hung in the room like a cold wind—sharp and unforgiving, cutting through the fragile peace Sigrid clung to.

At the dinner table, Kristin’s words came like well-aimed daggers—short, biting comments delivered with a practiced casualness, yet barbed enough to leave their mark. It was as though she wanted to remind Sigrid that she was an intruder, an unwelcome guest in a place she didn’t belong.

It cut Sigrid deeply, a wound that throbbed in her chest. Yet she refused to let it show. For Bjørn's sake, she gritted her teeth and bore it, holding her head high as if the words and glances were nothing but a faint breeze.

But deep down, beneath her composed exterior, Sigrid wondered how long she could endure before the frost finally broke her.

Yet one day, amid the silence, Bjørn broke through. He lay in bed, weak, but there was a spark in his eyes that had not been there in many days.

"I wish to go out," he said in a hoarse voice, the words little more than a whisper.

Sigrid paused and stared at him, first in astonishment, then filled with joy.

"Out?" She repeated, as though needing to hear it once more to believe it. He nodded faintly.

"Then let us go!" She replied with determination, and a smile spread across her face.

The sun shone brightly in the sky that day, as though it itself were celebrating Bjørn's first steps back to life. The night before, a thin layer of fresh snow had settled upon the ground, and the world outside the house glistened in the sunlight.

Sigrid wrapped Bjørn in the warmest garments she could find, and with Ivar's assistance, carefully guided him outside. Bjørn leaned heavily on her, his strength waning, yet there was life in his steps-slow and faltering though they were.

They walked in silence 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 gingerly 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, icy air as though hoping it might cleanse the weeks of confinement, illness, and weakness. For a moment, neither spoke. They simply sat together, the rhythmic lapping of waves their only companion.

"I think I had given up," Bjørn said at last, his voice low and distant.

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

She straightened, her gaze earnest as she met his eyes. "But why did you never write to me, Bjørn? I thought-" her voice faltered. "I thought you'd forgotten me."

"Write to you?" He repeated, his tone edged with disbelief. "Sigrid, I sent you a letter every single day. Did you receive none of them?"

"Not a single one," she answered, her brow furrowing. "I thought... I thought you weren't interested, so I accepted Erlend Arneson's invitation to meet. Were you on your way there when-"

His jaw tightened, and he exhaled sharply, as though releasing a long-held burden. "Yes. I went because I couldn't believe you'd let go of us so easily."

"I never did, Bjørn," she replied, her voice trembling. "But when I heard nothing-when I felt abandoned-I was afraid. Afraid Sigurd might... might take things into his own hands. I thought I had no choice."

"I believe you," he said, his expression grave, though his voice carried a note of relief. "But those letters-they must've been intercepted."

"Yes," she murmured, her thoughts darkening. She could only think of Ragnar, who had the means and the motive. Yet she held the suspicion close, leaving it unspoken between them.

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

Seeing him heal brought Sigrid a measure of joy, yet as his strength returned, her own doubts and inner turmoil began to stir.

Sigrid tried to immerse herself in the household tasks, assisting Kristin with the daily chores. But no matter what she did, it was never enough. Kristin's cold eyes and sharper tongue bore into her, cutting her confidence to shreds.

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

The words struck like a blade, and Sigrid felt tears brimming, but she forced them back. She knew there was truth in Kristin's scorn.

"You're right," she said quietly, sitting down at the kitchen table. "I'm hopeless at sewing, and I lack the patience for most household crafts. I've never been... suited to this kind of life."

Kristin regarded her without a shred of compassion, her tone hard as stone. "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 just want to do everything I can to help here. For Bjørn. For all of you.” 

Kristin stepped closer, her face a mask of disdain. “You think your presence here has made a difference?” She spat. “Do not fool yourself. Bjørn’s strength comes from within, not from some girl who knows nothing of sacrifice or hardship.” 

At that, Sigrid’s composure cracked. She took a step forward, her own anger rising to meet Kristin’s icy disdain. “You think I know nothing of hardship?” She hissed. “You think I do not carry guilt every day for what has happened to him? You don’t know me, Kristin. You don’t know what I’ve endured—what I’m willing to endure for him.” 

Kristin’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the two women stood in silence, the tension between them like a taut bowstring. Finally, Kristin gave a bitter laugh and turned away. 

“You’re wasting your time,” she said over her shoulder, her voice sharp and dismissive. “Bjørn deserves better.” 

Sigrid stood frozen as Kristin left the room, the slam of the door echoing in her ears. Her chest heaved with the weight of unspoken words, her hands trembling with frustration and hurt. 

She turned to the hearth, where the fire had burned low, and stared into the embers. For a moment, doubt clawed at her resolve. Maybe Kristin was right?

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