The boy who played with fire

"What do you mean by 'what do I want'? Have you not missed me?" His voice dripped with irony, his eyes mocking her from across the room.

Sigrid stood still, the silence between them oppressive.

"You see now," he continued with a sharp smile, "why I didn't want you to leave?"

She unconsciously took a step back towards the kitchen counter, her eyes searching the room. Her hand found the edge of the counter, before her gaze slowly shifted to the meat knives lying there.

"I understood the moment I left," she said, her voice low but cutting through the tension. "That you were no better than Sigurd. That I was trading one prison for another."

Ragnar laughed, a cold, humorless sound. "Because I didn't want to send you straight into Bjørn's arms? After everything we shared?" He moved closer, his shadow looming over her.

She squared her shoulders, finding strength in her words. "What we had would never have happened if you hadn't hidden the letters."

Ragnar froze. "The letters?"

"The letters from Bjørn," she replied coldly, a fragile mask of control over her face.

For a moment, he looked genuinely surprised. "I haven't hidden any letters."

Sigrid shook her head, tears threatening to spill. "Was everything a lie, Ragnar?"

The room was silent, the weight of her accusation lingering between them.

He moved closer, his steps deliberate, carrying an air of quiet menace. His fingers reached out, brushing lightly through her damp hair, the gesture both intimate and unsettling. "Have you bathed?" He asked, his tone casual, almost conversational, as though they were discussing the weather.

She pulled her head away and nodded stiffly. "Yes, Bjørn can be here any time." Her voice was low, warning. "And we are to be married," she added, almost inaudibly.

"Very well," he said with icy calm. "Then we can tell him everything that went on-together-when he arrives." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "You wouldn't want to start your marriage with lies and secrets, would you, Sigrid?"

He laughed, a cold, hollow sound that echoed in the tense silence, cutting through her composure like a blade.

"'Are you here to ruin everything?'" She asked, her voice breaking."

He laughed dryly, a hollow, unfeeling echo. "Me? I think you've done a fine job of that yourself." His gaze swept across the room. "This is my family too, Sigrid. I have as much right to be here as you. The fact that my mother grew up in this house only makes it harder for me."

Her stomach twisted at his words, nausea rising. "I'm sorry, Ragnar," she whispered. "I should have told you before I said yes."

She couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes.

"Can you forgive me?" Her voice trembled.

He lifted her chin gently, yet there was an undeniable firmness to his touch, leaving her no choice but to meet his gaze.

His eyes were soft, almost tender, but beneath that surface lay a shadow-a darkness that couldn't be ignored. "You're already forgiven," he said, his voice almost a whisper, as if the words carried a weight she couldn't yet understand. Then, after a moment's pause, he leaned in slightly and added, "But tell me one thing-why him?"

She felt a silent sob pressing forward, a wave of emotion she could no longer hold back. Her voice was barely audible when she answered, "He lets me be free."

He drew a deep breath and placed a comforting hand around her, like an adult soothing a child. The movement was slow, almost mechanical, but there was an odd warmth in it, a closeness she couldn't deny.

"I didn't want to go on living like a caged animal for the rest of my life," she continued, her voice breaking. "I couldn't..."

"There, there," he interrupted softly, his voice monotonous, as though trying to stifle something greater within himself.

They stood like that, closely entwined in a silence that felt almost unreal. She didn't know how long they remained, but time seemed stretched-as if the moment was detached from reality.

It was more intimate than they had ever been before, as though he was holding her entire life in his arms, with all its chaos and fragility.

Suddenly, the silence was torn apart by a sharp, insistent voice that thundered through the room.

"Ragnar?" Bjørn's voice filled the air, a mix of uncertainty.

Ragnar turned slowly, but his gaze had already lost the softness it had held mere moments ago.

He turned calmly. "Congratulations," he said, extending a hand toward Bjørn as if nothing had happened.

Sigrid stood rooted to the spot, frozen in place. She hastily wiped away her tears.

Bjørn walked over to her and gently wrapped his arms around her, as if trying to shield her from the unspoken tension that hung heavy in the air.

"So, you've both bathed?" Ragnar's gaze slid from Sigrid to Bjørn, his voice a venomous blend of playfulness and seriousness.

Bjørn glanced warily at Ragnar, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Is there a particular reason you're here?"

Ragnar responded with a playful glint in his eye, as though savoring the uncomfortable silence that followed. "Isn't there always?" He replied with unwavering confidence.

Before Bjørn could respond, the sound of quick, determined footsteps broke the tension. Kristin entered the room, her shoulders drawn up and her gaze sharp, clearly irritated at having been woken by the commotion.

She stopped abruptly in the doorway when her eyes fell on Ragnar. Her expression shifted from annoyance to surprise in an instant.

"Ragnar?" Her voice was low, almost wondering, as though she didn't entirely trust what her eyes were telling her.

Ragnar turned to her slowly, smiling with a flicker of warmth and self-satisfaction in his eyes. "I hope I didn't wake you, Kristin," he said softly.

Kristin blinked a few times, as if collecting herself, before shaking her head slightly. "What are you doing here?" She asked at last, her tone bewildered.

Ragnar turned back to her with deliberate ease, offering a sheepish smile. "Apologies for not announcing my arrival," he said with a small laugh, as though his uninvited presence were a trivial matter.

Kristin's face lit up with a warm smile. "You are always welcome here, Ragnar," she replied warmly, her voice filled with genuine joy. "Let me prepare a room for you," she added, as though it were an honor to host him under her roof.

Ragnar's smile widened, but his gaze slid subtly toward Sigrid.

Bjørn interjected, his voice slightly more tense now. "What were you about to say, Ragnar?" He demanded, his impatience clear.

Ragnar kept his eyes fixed on Sigrid, as if she were the only person in the room. "That can wait until tomorrow," he said calmly, as though he had all the time in the world.

Finally, he turned to Bjørn, but his smile was no longer warm-it had transformed into a triumphant grin, the expression of a man who knew he had won a game whose rules the others hadn't yet understood.

"I think you two need some time to talk," he added, his tone laced with venom, making Sigrid wring her hands nervously.

Ragnar cast one last look at Sigrid before turning toward the door, as if he already knew the direction their conversation would take.

Left behind, Bjørn and Sigrid stood in the kitchen. The room, felt cold and unwelcoming-a stark contrast to how everything had seemed only moments before in the sea.

The silence between them hung heavy, as oppressive as the shadow Ragnar had left in his wake.

"What is he talking about, Sigrid?" Bjørn finally broke the silence, his voice low but sharp as a blade. His gaze bore into her, demanding answers she could barely find.

Sigrid took a deep breath and shook her head faintly. "Can we sit down?" she asked, her voice pleading, almost fragile.

Bjørn didn't respond at first, but after a few moments, he pulled out the chair at the table and sat down, his movements slow and deliberate. His intense gaze stayed fixed on her, as though trying to unravel the secrets she struggled to keep hidden.

Sigrid hesitated, her hands gripping the back of the chair in front of her. Finally, she sat as well, her back rigid and uneasy. She tried to meet his gaze, but it was like staring straight into a storm.

"Ragnar and I," she began, but her voice faltered, and she closed her eyes to compose herself. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to continue. "We... we found each other, you could say. It was long after you left, and I hadn't heard from you."

Bjørn remained silent, but his body tensed, his shoulders rising as though bracing for the blow he knew was coming.

"You promised to send letters, Bjørn,"she went on, her voice quieter now, tinged with shame. "And I have to admit... my foolish, scorned ego let Ragnar's admiration and charm creep back in. I... I am ashamed."

She swallowed hard, her gaze falling to the surface of the table. The silence was almost unbearable, but Bjørn still said nothing. He just stared at her, his sharp, piercing eyes making her shrink under their weight.

"We were about to..." She stopped, the words catching in her throat, too heavy to carry. Her hands clenched tighter, nails digging into her palms. "It was only chance that stopped us from..."

She couldn't say the words, but Bjørn understood. The disappointment in his face was like a mirror reflecting her own shame.

"I made him a promise before I left-that I would return to him."

Her voice broke at the end, as though she could no longer hold up the facade. She swallowed hard and wiped away a tear threatening to roll down her cheek.

The silence that followed was unbearable. Then Bjørn's voice sliced through it, sharp and unavoidable as a lightning strike. "Do you still have feelings for him?"

His gaze bore into her, unrelenting, intense, as if he wouldn't let her escape without the truth. "Be honest, Sigrid."

"I..." She stopped, her hands trembling as she wiped away another tear. "'I'll always feel something for him,' she said.

The words fell heavily between them, creating a chasm impossible to bridge. Bjørn leaned back in his chair slowly, but his eyes never left her, and the silence that followed was almost worse than his questions.

He stood up, his movements deliberate, as if weighing her words against the weight of his own disappointment. "I need time," he said at last, his voice hard. Then he walked out, the door slamming shut behind him.

She was left alone. The tears began to fall freely now, and she made no effort to stop them. Her hands lay useless in her lap, while a crushing emptiness consumed her.

The silence around her was overwhelming, as suffocating as the sense of loss tightening its grip on her heart.

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