The Last Supper, Part 1

"Why did you have to interrupt her?" Shouted Ivar behind them, his voice laden with frustration.

They turned abruptly, both wearing confused expressions. Ivar stood there, his face flushed with anger.

"You could have let her finish the game! When has anyone, for once, had a chance to defeat Ragnar at tafl?"

Bjørn opened his mouth, but no words came out. Confused and speechless, he could only stare at Ivar, whose irritation seemed to deepen with each passing moment.

"It's your fault Sigrid lost! Had you not interfered, she would have beaten Ragnar!" Ivar jabbed an accusatory finger at Bjørn.

Bjørn glanced at Sigrid in bewilderment. "Are you truly better than Ragnar at tafl?" He asked, his tone almost incredulous.

Sigrid drew a deep breath, as if carefully choosing her words. "I do not know if I am better, but I think I could have beaten him if you hadn't interrupted. I managed to surprise him," she replied cautiously.

"But why did you not say so?" Bjørn raised his voice, as though expecting her to have spoken out earlier.

"We tried!" Retorted Ivar, furrowing his brow before storming off.

Bjørn turned back to Sigrid, a faint smile curling on his lips. "How?"

Sigrid let out a soft snort. "My brother is a very skilled player, but he often wins with those ridiculous tactics of his. I saw an opening and took the chance."

"Perhaps you should try again," Bjørn said, visibly impressed. "I would love to see Ragnar lose."

Sigrid hesitated before answering. "I think it's best to leave Ragnar be. And my relationship with... your mother is already fragile. I believe Ragnar might try to make it worse."

"My mother loves you!" Bjørn exclaimed, genuine surprise evident on his face.

Sigrid chuckled softly. "Your mother thinks I'm a witch."

"Has she said that?" Bjørn asked, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Yes, quite plainly," Sigrid replied, laughing lightly.

Bjørn grew serious. "I will speak with her," he said firmly.

Sigrid shook her head, her voice calm but firm. "No, Bjørn. That will only make things worse," she said gently, her hand still resting on his arm. Her gaze softened as she looked at him. "I don't want to come between you and your mother."

Bjørn didn't look entirely convinced, but he hesitated. "My mother said the same about Ragnar's mother," he sighed.

Sigrid paused, her curiosity clear in her gaze. "Do you know why?"

Bjørn met her gaze, his expression softening as he lowered his head. "Yes," he said quietly, his voice laced with reluctant understanding. "I think she envied her. She had a way with people-just like you. It's something you can't quite explain." He offered a faint smile.

Sigrid, caught off guard by his words, was so surprised she couldn't find her voice.

He paused, carefully weighing his next words, then let out a long sigh. "But she was also drawn to the old myths, the forbidden-things most wouldn't dare to speak of, let alone believe."

Sigrid tilted her head slightly, her curiosity piqued. "The forbidden?" She asked cautiously, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bjørn nodded, a faint, bitter smile playing on his lips. "She would talk about things like the afterlife and the possibility of rebirth. Ideas that don't sit well with the Church-or with people like my mother."

Sigrid's brows knit together as she processed his words. "I've never even heard talk like that in my house," she said firmly. "She wouldn't have needed to fear that with me."

No but You're different, like my aunt" Bjørn said plainly. "You don't fit into the mold she's used to. You're confident, intelligent, and... unafraid to speak your mind. That threatens her."

Sigrid nodded, her expression thoughtful. The silence stretched between them, a quiet that felt heavy with unspoken questions. After a moment, she squeezed his hand gently. They lingered there on the beach, side by side, until Thora appeared, calling them in for the evening meal.

As they entered the hall, Ragnar was already seated at the table. His piercing gaze bore into Sigrid, sending a chill through her body like ice flowing through her veins. She wanted to turn away, to hide, but instead, she clenched her jaw and lifted her chin.

Ragnar raised his glass, his self-assured smile making her stomach churn. His eyes sparkled with an unreadable intent, and it felt like a fist had struck her in the gut.

"I'm not feeling well," she said, her tone calm but firm, before turning and striding quickly toward the hallway.

"I'll come with you," Bjørn said, his voice warm and light, a playful smile dancing on his lips.

"You will sit," Ragnar's deep voice commanded, filling the room. She froze instantly. There was something in his tone-an unspoken threat that brooked no defiance.

"She isn't feeling well," Bjørn replied, his voice equally authoritative. His gaze locked on Ragnar's, steady and unyielding.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow, a challenging grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "I have something important to say. So you will both sit." His gaze swept the room, and a heavy silence descended. All eyes were on them, curiosity etched on every face.

Sigrid felt the air grow heavier, the tension between the two men almost suffocating. She forced a brave smile. "It's fine," she said softly, before reluctantly taking her seat.

No sooner had she sat down than Ragnar extended an empty glass, speaking in an almost patronizing tone: "Sigrid, fetch me a glass of wine, would you?"

Bjørn leaned forward, irritation evident in his expression. "I'll get it," he said sharply.

"No, of course," Sigrid interrupted quickly, reaching for the glass before the situation could escalate. She wanted to avoid drawing further attention.

As she took the glass, Ragnar leaned in closer, his voice a low whisper meant only for her: "That's a good girl."

His words hit her like a punch to the stomach, and fury bubbled up inside her. Her fists clenched tightly, and she had to force herself to take steady breaths.

With the glass in hand, she walked to the bench and poured the wine, the murmur of conversation behind her attempting to restore a semblance of normalcy. She stared out the window for a moment, taking a small sip from the glass to steady herself. Then, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw, she turned, her gaze resolute.

When she returned to the table, she stopped in front of Ragnar. Locking eyes with him, she didn't hesitate. She upended the entire glass of wine into his lap.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She exclaimed, her voice dripping with mock apology. "How clumsy of me!" She laughed lightly, but her eyes were sharp, unyielding. "Perhaps you should change your clothes," she added, as if nothing had happened.

Ragnar remained still for a moment, clearly caught off guard by her boldness. But he kept his composure. His face tightened, and though his smile lingered, his eyes darkened-a flicker of something dangerous.

Rising slowly to his feet, his imposing height loomed over her. He leaned in just slightly, his voice a low growl.

"It's fine, Sigrid," he said with a soft, triumphant laugh. "But do be a bit more careful next time."

She met his gaze without flinching, even as her heart pounded violently in her chest. Ragnar stood there, unmoving, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. She realized it then-this was exactly what he wanted. He wanted her to lose her composure, to squander the control she had fought so hard to maintain.

When she finally returned to her seat, she felt the weight of their stares pressing down on her. The atmosphere was thick, almost suffocating, as though everyone in the room was holding their breath, bracing for the inevitable explosion.

Sigrid sat carefully beside Bjørn, her movements measured. She noticed Kristin's piercing gaze from across the table, as if she were some wild creature no one dared approach.

"We should eat," Bjørn said finally, his voice calm, almost conciliatory. He placed a reassuring hand over Sigrid's, a small gesture that made her shoulders relax-if only slightly.

Conversation around the table resumed tentatively, voices hushed, but Sigrid could barely hear a word. Her heart still thundered in her chest, so loud it drowned out the murmurs. She stared at the glass in front of her, willing it to anchor her, to help her steady herself. Her breaths were shallow, but she forced herself to slow them.

"Are you alright?" Thora whispered from across the table, her voice soft with concern.

Sigrid nodded stiffly, though inside, a storm brewed. She could feel the wave building, a force waiting to crash.

Everyone began to eat, though Sigrid could hardly bring herself to touch her food. Her appetite was nonexistent, her thoughts swirling too chaotically for her to focus.

Bjørn, sensing her unease, suddenly scooted his chair closer to hers, the screech of wood on stone breaking the tense silence that hung over the room. "We have news as well," he announced, his tone warm but resolute.

It was as if he could see her struggle, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders-a shield against the invisible threats closing in. His movements were steady, deliberate, and for the first time in what felt like hours, she felt a flicker of safety.

Then, with a swift motion, Bjørn laid his sword on the table in front of her. The clang of metal against wood startled her, and she noticed the sudden shift in the room. All eyes sharpened, their attention fixed on them.

"I swear my loyalty to this woman," he declared boldly, his voice ringing clear and strong. "I have spoken to the priest arriving tomorrow. We have decided. We are to be wed-and the feast will come later."

The room instantly erupted into murmurs and whispers, the tension thick as a storm cloud. Kristin's sharp voice sliced through the noise like a blade.

"What?" She exclaimed, her shock palpable. "Tomorrow? Already?"

"Yes," Bjørn replied with unshakable calm. "We cannot wait any longer."

Before anyone could respond, the air was cut by a cold, familiar voice.

"You cannot marry her," Ragnar said as he strode back into the room. His eyes were icy, and his smile held no trace of warmth, only the cruel edge of authority.

"What do you mean by that?" Bjørn shot back, rising to his feet, his posture like that of a man ready for battle. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, his stance making his intention clear.

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