BROKEN THING FIXED
“You’re not going to Bjorn’s tonight?” my mother asked me, as she entered our small kitchen. She smiled inquisitively at the messenger boy, who was standing on our back doorstep, light from the last rays of the setting sun making his tattered tunic look like spun gold. He smiled back at her shyly as he waited for me to hand him the things I wanted him to deliver.
It was a fair question. I went to Bjorn’s every night. Under cover of darkness, I’d cross the cobblestone road in front of our house, risking the Guardians’ detection to follow a rocky path down to the roaring seaside where Bjorn’s cottage sat, nestled among the boulders. He kept a candle in the window to guide me up the steps, but I never needed it. He always opened the door before I’d reached his front doorstep, to usher me in out of the cold, as though he’d been standing by the window, watching for me.
“After dinner,” I said to my mother. I gave the boy stew in a travel bowl and then handed him my jewelry box, which I’d already emptied of the few pieces I owned. To the boy, I said, “Be careful with this. It’s not worth much, but it’s precious to me.” Bjorn had made it, engraving it with my name—Sigrid—and had given it to me when I’d turned eighteen. I’d accepted it when I’d turned down his proposal. Bjorn would understand why I now sent it to him.
“Why after dinner?” my mother asked, ever curious. “You’ve never done that before.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. My mother knew everything about Bjorn and me, from my crush on him in my youth, to my turning down his proposal, to the most recent development— my working for him in his woodwork shop during the day, plus keeping house for him in the evening. But there were some things I wasn’t prepared to discuss with her.
“You’re not going to break his heart again, are you?”
I refused to answer. Instead, I started serving our own dinner, dishing up two bowls of stew and placing them on the table. But my mother was unrelenting. “You should never have turned him down in the first place.”
I was setting the cutlery and I slammed the spoon on the table at her place harder than I’d planned, but I was on edge. “You think I don’t know that?” I asked. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it and I don’t. Now, eat.” And then, when my mother glared at me, I softened, repenting. “Please.”
I regretted my flare of temper. My mother was worried, too. But I was nervous. And my mother’s questions only agitated those nerves. I had a history of messing things up with Bjorn. I was about to do something extreme, and I feared that instead of fixing things between him and me, I was only going to make them worse.
As I sat at the table, I considered the reason I was on edge.
I regretted rejecting Bjorn’s proposal. That was true. Even at the time, it’d felt like a mistake. I’d loved him even then, and I had wanted to marry him. But just as he’d proposed, I’d heard he’d informed on my brother who was then forced into hiding. I’d doubted Bjorn, had questioned my trust in him, had decided I couldn’t possibly marry him.
But Bjorn had never informed on my brother. He’d proved that in the most extreme of ways three months ago, when the Guardians had arrested him, dragging him from his cottage in the middle of the night. They’d kept him confined for a week inside a tiny cell, alone but for the rats, interrogating him. He hadn’t betrayed my brother. Not when they’d threatened him with pain. Not even when they’d shattered his kneecap. I realized now, without a doubt, that Bjorn was trustworthy.
But the realization had come too late. Bjorn’s shattered kneecap wasn’t healing properly. He’d be left with a limp. And now it didn’t matter how profusely I proclaimed my love for him, Bjorn thought I only pitied him. It didn’t matter that I helped in his workshop or in his home; he thought I did that only out of sympathy. And he’d made no move toward me, even though I’d hinted I wouldn’t turn him down this time. Half the people in the village thought we were a couple. Even my mother had been surprised to learn we weren’t lovers. But Bjorn kept me at arm’s length, because he didn’t believe I really wanted him.
Tonight, I was going to show him how wrong he was.
After dinner, I cleaned up. Then I went to the washroom to remove the grime of the workshop from my body. I needed the extra time that evening to prepare and I took it. I dressed carefully.
By then, the moon had risen. I went downstairs, grabbed my coat, and closed the door on my way out.
I crossed the cobblestone road and followed the rocky path to the seaside. Luckily, the moon was bright, because the tiny flame in Bjorn’s window, by the time I reached it, had dwindled to such a hopeless flicker it was barely visible from the path. I should have taken that as the first sign something was wrong.
The door didn’t open on my approach. I had to knock.
Knock and wait.
That was the second sign.
When the door did finally open, Bjorn appeared. He looked a mess. His hair was disheveled, his face gaunt. For a moment, he just stood there and stared at me. Then he pulled me inside so quickly, he made my head spin. He hauled me against him. The door closed behind me with a bang. “Oh god, Sigrid,” he said. “Oh god.” I felt him tremble, recognized it as a sign of fear, and wondered if the Guardians had returned while I was gone. Then he said, “I thought you weren’t coming.” And I realized what had happened.
I’d messed up again. I’d sent him his dinner, giving him the wrong idea.
“No, no,” I said. I rubbed my hands up and down his arms. “I told you I was never going to leave you. Don’t you believe me? I was just delayed, that’s all.”
He pushed me away as soon as I said this. There hadn’t been pity in my voice. But pity he’d heard.
I sighed, trying not to feel defeated, and removed my coat. He took it, saying, “Why did you send me the jewelry box, then?”
I’d already stepped away from him. “You don’t know?” I asked. I was contemplating my explanation when I turned. It was my first glance at the room, and I froze. “What the hell happened here?” I didn’t often swear. But the scene before me warranted it. The stew I’d sent to Bjorn sat on the table, untouched. And the jewelry box—my jewelry box—lay in pieces on the floor.
Of course, I didn’t need to ask the question. I could tell what had happened.
Bjorn had built a set of wooden shelves on the wall next to the fireplace, where he kept his ornaments—the flawed ones he couldn’t sell. He called them his misfits. Bjorn had hurled the jewelry box at the shelves, knocking off some misfits and splintering the box itself.
Bjorn came up behind me. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” he said, as though this explained everything.
I glanced at him, unable to hide my astonishment.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d come to Bjorn’s cottage planning to convince him of my desire to stay with him, but it seemed I’d done the opposite.
In my confusion, I decided the only thing to do was start cleaning up. I picked up a few of the misfits and placed them on a low shelf. I didn’t touch the jewelry box. I couldn’t even bear to look at it.
At first, Bjorn helped. But it was soon obvious the strain hurt his knee. I sent him to his armchair, which only made matters worse. He hated being treated like an invalid.
He sat and watched me in silence.
It was while he was watching me that I decided I might as well go ahead with my plan. I had a history of messing things up. But surely I couldn’t mess up more than I already had.
I stood before the ramshackle shelves, gathering my courage.
Then, I left the room, returning a moment later with a short stepladder that Bjorn had constructed himself. It was thigh high and ended with a top cap that could double as a seat. I cleared a space on the floor and positioned it so I could return some misfits to the highest of the shelves. Then, I picked up one of the misfits, climbed up the ladder, and placed it. I was aware of Bjorn watching me, and as I climbed down, I feigned a stumble.
“Careful,” Bjorn said, rising out of his armchair, as though readying himself to come to my aid. Then he groaned, grimaced, and fell back, rubbing his knee.
I did feel a spark of sympathy for him then. I couldn’t imagine how he felt now. Three months ago, his body had been strong, able, in the prime of life. He’d flexed and angled his muscles according to his desires. Then, overnight, by cruel hands, his body had been changed. I could see it frustrated him. But I could also see he took it too much to heart, rejecting his entire body when he just needed to learn to adjust to its new limitations.
I realized I could help him learn, and that gave me confidence. “Silly me,” I said. “I must be tired. I’m getting clumsy.”
Bjorn continued to rub his knee. “The bottom rung’s the problem,” he said. “I used to stumble over it myself. It’s so close to the ground, it’s tempting to skip it altogether. But then you trip. Just make sure you use all the rungs and you’ll be fine.”
I smiled, but I didn’t promise to take his advice. He must have been in too much pain to notice.
And in too much pain to notice the tremor in my voice when, a couple of minutes later, I finally gathered the courage to move on to the next step in my plan. “The problem is my tunic,” I said nonchalantly, feigning a stumble on the bottom rung again.
Bjorn looked at me in surprise. “No,” he said. “I really think it’s the bottom rung.”
I shook my head. “No. It’s my tunic. I wear a more practical one to your workshop. This one’s looser. Longer. The skirt tangles around my knees whenever I climb up or down.”
Bjorn raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“You might not be able to see it, but I can feel it,” I said.
I could tell he disagreed but wasn’t willing to argue. “Well,” he said, speaking in his most reasonable voice, “there’s nothing you can do about it now. I’ve nothing to offer you but my own tunics, which are even bigger. I’d suggest you move carefully. Or leave the misfits. I’ll put them back myself when I’m rested. Unless, of course,” his voice caught, as though the thought had just occurred to him, “unless you want to return to your own house to change?” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Is that what you want?” he asked. “Do you want to go home?” And then, the thought that really bothered him. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”
This wasn’t the turn I’d wanted the scene to take.
“No,” I said quickly, trying to save the moment. “I mean . . . Yes, I’ll come back if I go. But no, I don’t want to go.” I saw relief cross his face. “But I think I’ll just . . .” My voice quavered. My confidence faltered.
I closed my eyes, trying to imagine myself as a seductress. Instead, I saw myself the way I was: young, a virgin, and inexperienced with men in all the ways that, in this moment, counted. It wasn’t what I wanted to be and I tried to think of who I would have been, if I hadn’t lost trust in Bjorn, if I’d accepted his proposal. I would have been his wife. By now, I’d already know what it felt like to have him inside me. I tried to pretend I was that person. A confident woman, not an unsure girl. “I think I’ll just take the tunic off instead,” I said.
The expression on Bjorn’s face changed to astonishment. “Don’t do that,” he said.
But I’d already started undoing the buttons.
I looked at him with wide eyes. “Why not?” I asked. My fingers fumbled.
His bottom lip quivered. It was the only thing that gave him away. “You know why not,” he whispered. “Sigrid . . . It’ll drive me crazy.”
I undid the last button. “That’s what I’m hoping,” I said. I lifted my chin, gazed directly into his eyes, and shrugged the sleeves over my shoulders.
The garment dropped to the ground in a single, liquid movement.
The material pooled at my feet.
And I just stood there, breathing rapidly, my chest rising and falling, the warmth from the fire licking my newly exposed skin.
He said, “My god. Sigrid.”
Beneath the tunic, I was wearing nothing at all.
He’d never seen me like this. For the first few moments, all he could do was stare.
And I waited. An unexpected thrill ran down my spine. I thought I’d be self-conscious. But the way he was looking at me, I only felt excitement.
After a moment, he stood up. I could see desire in his eyes. He moved toward me. Slowly. Limping. In pain. His eyes didn’t leave me.
I remained where I was. Shoulders back. Chin high. Offering myself to his gaze.
He didn’t try to hide the fact that he was looking at me. His glance skimmed across my neck, my shoulders, my arms. It paused at my breasts, lingering for so long I wanted to squirm.
But I refused to budge, to collect my tunic from the floor, or to cover my most private parts with my hands.
He was close, now. So close, I felt his heat. So close, the coarse grain of his tunic brushed my bare nipples. He placed his hands on my shoulders delicately. I didn’t know what he planned to do. Then, he lowered his mouth to mine. And kissed me. A faint kiss. Fluttery. Ticklish. Such a sweet thing. But it sent a ribbon of desire coursing from my heart to my groin. Unbearable. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck and beg him to push me to the floor and take me. But I knew I hadn’t won him over yet. Knew he was still afraid.
“I love you, Sigrid,” he said, quietly, his lips next to my mouth.
I’d closed my eyes when he’d kissed me. I opened them now to look at him. And saw sadness swimming in the depths of his blue irises. I was going to tell him I loved him, too. But he stopped me with a finger against my lips. “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you?” he murmured.
“Yes,” I said. “And I want you to do it, Bjorn.”
“Oh, Sigrid,” he said. “Oh god, Sigrid.” He closed his eyes. I thought he’d take me in his arms. But suddenly, he opened his eyes. He looked angry. “I can’t,” he continued. “I won’t let you hand yourself over to me out of pity.”
I couldn’t believe it. He thought I’d go this far—stand naked before him—out of pity?
I wanted to pull him into my arms myself, force him to see the truth. But I knew, instinctively, that now I’d made the first move toward him, he had to make the next move toward me.
“This is what I want,” I said.
“What you want?” he said. “What you want? You want me to fuck you out of some ill-conceived sense of honor, that’s what you want. I didn’t squeal on your brother, and now you think you owe me. But if I do that, Sigrid—if I take what you’re so beautifully offering—no decent man in the village will want to marry you. You’ll be ruined. And god help me, I don’t want to do that to you.”
I was supposed to be offended by his coarse words. I knew that. I was supposed to run. But I didn’t run so easily. “Well,” I said, “I guess you’ll just have to fuck me and marry me yourself, then, won’t you?”
“Don’t turn this into a joke.”
I touched his chin. His stubble scraped my fingertips. I wanted to feel that scrape against my thighs. “It’s not a joke,” I said.
“You don’t want to marry me.” A flat statement.
“Who says?” I asked.
“You do. You turned me down.”
“That was years ago,” I said. “Before—”
I broke off. I was about to say the wrong thing. Again.
Before I could reclaim my sentence, Bjorn finished it for me. “That was before the Guardians arrested me, broke my knee, and gave me my limp. Before you decided you wanted to warm my bed with pity.” He faltered. “I don’t want your pity.” He sounded broken. “But, god help me, Sigrid, I do want you. Please put your clothes back on. Please? Before I do something we’ll both regret.”
“I don’t pity you,” I argued, not bending to collect my tunic. “I’m trying to make you see that, Bjorn. I don’t.”
Bjorn groaned. I was tempting him. I knew it. He bent his head to nuzzle my neck. “I want to believe you,” he said. He ran his lips along my throat. Then, lifting his head, he reached for my hips. His touch jolted me. I could see his face. He looked torn. He lifted me, sat me on the top cap, spread my knees. Stood, fully clothed, between them. “Oh god, I want to believe you so much.”
He stood there like that for a long moment, stroking my hips, struggling with his thoughts.
I didn’t want there to be any question in his mind. “Touch me,” I said. “Touch me and then you’ll see I’m telling the truth.”
He smiled wanly. “I am touching you.” He slapped my hip. Gently. Teasing. A bit like the old Bjorn. “Can’t you tell?”
“Not there, you fool,” I curled my arms around his neck, looked up into his face. “Between my legs. Feel me.”
He stiffened in my arms.
I’d always considered him the experienced one when it came to sex, for no other reason than he was a man and a couple of years older than me. Now, I realized he was on new ground, too.
I resisted the urge to guide his hand with my own, but I spoke gently. “Go on. Touch me.”
He didn’t need me to ask again. His hand left my hip. Shaking, it fumbled toward my thigh, hesitated for a moment at my pubic mound. And then moved downward.
All of a sudden, he pressed his whole palm against me, flattening it against my opening.
I gasped and arched into him. He felt so warm and wonderful.
He cried out, “Good god, Sigrid, you’re so wet.”
I wanted to giggle at his surprise, but I was too aroused. “See?” I said. I wriggled my hips so that my crotch slipped against his hand. “What do you suppose pity feels like? Do you think it feels like a woman’s sopping wet pussy sliding against your palm?”
It wasn’t a slow dawning. Rather, it was like he’d been asleep and someone had shaken him awake. His eyes suddenly sparked. Hope sprung there. And he smiled at me. I was delighted. It’d been a long time since I’d seen him happy.
“Sigrid,” he said. He moved his hand against me, back and forth, reveling in the sensation, making me giddy. “No,” he said. “This isn’t pity I feel.”
“Then will you go ahead and fuck me already?” I said, pressing against him, urging him on, tortured by the sensation yet wanting more.
His mouth stretched into a big, wide smile.
“What?” I asked.
“You have a dirty mouth, you know that?”
“What are you going to do about it?” I teased.
He pulled me in for a kiss. “I think some reprimands might be in order,” he said, as his lips met mine.
I liked his sudden confidence. “You’ll have to catch me first,” I replied, breathless as I pulled my mouth away.
Too late, I realized what I’d said. But he delighted me further when he pressed his forehead against mine and said, “You think I’m actually going to let you go?”
I smiled into his face. He smiled back.
Quickly, he became serious again. “Sigrid,” he said, “we don’t have to make love if you’re not ready. You’ve proved your point. But if you are ready . . . I’d really like to . . .” Words failed him. He dropped his hands from my crotch to his belt buckle, showing me what he wanted. “But this is the point of no return. After this, even if there is someone else who wants to marry you, I won’t let him.” He pressed his cheek against mine. “I won’t let you go. You’ll be mine. Do you understand? Mine.”
I’d been gripping his arms. Now, I lowered my hands until they rested on his, on his belt buckle. I caressed his knuckles gently, encouraging him. “I understand,” I said. “It’s what I want. I promise you.”
I felt him undo his belt buckle then. He pulled his trousers down while I leaned my forehead against his chest and watched. His penis sprang out. Long and hard and marvelous. “You’re beautiful,” I said, without thinking.
He chuckled. Nervous and embarrassed and unmistakably aroused.
He shifted. When the wet tip of his penis accidentally brushed my hand, I took the opportunity to stroke it with my thumb. Bjorn groaned. Not a small groan, but a big, agonized, carnal one. Suddenly, he was in a hurry. “Last chance, darling,” he said. His hips rocked against my hand. “Tell me now if you’ve changed your mind. In a moment, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
I continued to stroke him, bold after his cry of pleasure. “Does it feel like I’ve changed my mind?” I asked.
He groaned again. “No. It doesn’t. I hope . . . Darling, I hope you never regret this.” He paused. “I never will.”
Then he lifted my hands from his penis to settle them onto his shoulders, straightening me in the process, so I sat high on the step-ladder. He spread my legs so wide they almost ran in line with the rungs. He stepped closer to me, looked right into my eyes. I knew what he was about to do. I had a moment—a single moment—of trepidation. I wanted to remind him that I was a virgin, that he needed to go easily or he’d hurt me.
Then I realized I didn’t need to remind him. “It’ll be all right,” he said, to reassure me, as though by looking into my eyes he’d read my mind.
I believed him. I returned his look. He drew his hips back. Slowly. And then thrust forward. Fast. A single, rapid movement. Hard.
I screamed.
And closed my eyes.
I’d torn immediately. And certainly it hurt. I cried out in agony. But Bjorn captured my cry with his mouth, kissing me gently, so I knew he was there with me. And I felt him. Inside me. Deep. Nestled. The pain quickly gave way to a euphoric pleasure. He kept kissing me, his hands on my hips. I whimpered against his mouth. The grind of his cock inside me felt so good. I soared, held on to him for dear life, bucked against him. Grunted. And groaned. Trying to get something from him. But what? More pleasure? More ecstasy? Release? No, not release. I never wanted this to stop. “Dear god,” I said, pulling my mouth from his.
“I know,” he replied, voice strained.
He bucked into my body just as hard as I bucked into his.
“So, so good,” I said.
He didn’t reply. I didn’t know if he was capable of speech. Then, suddenly, “So. Much. Better. Than. That.”
His thrusting intensified. He grabbed my ass, hard, fingers digging right in. The pressure felt incredible. I gasped over his shoulder, spouting nonsense words. He pounded into me, again and again. I would have fallen off the stool if it weren’t for his grip. He cried out my name, over and over, as though he had no other word in his vocabulary. His teeth nipped the skin at my neck. His stubble scratched my shoulder. His huge, thumping body felt bestial in my arms.
Then he cried out—and me with him. We shouted. Our voices mingled. We clung to each other. So tightly I thought we’d merge.
Finally, his knee gave way. He fell backward. I toppled with him, falling onto his chest. Breathless.
We lay like that for minutes. I, with my head on his chest, listening to the thud of his heart. He, with his hand in my hair.
“Mine,” he said.
“Yours,” I agreed.
It was a long, long while later that he said, “Why did you return the jewelry box?” He was kissing me softly, and I was dizzy with elation so I wasn’t expecting the question. But I could tell it mattered to him.
“I accepted it when I turned down your proposal,” I said. “So I returned it to you as a way of letting you know I wanted to undo the past, that I wanted you to propose again.”
“Uh-huh,” Bjorn said. He chuckled. “In future, do you think you could just tell me what you’re thinking, rather than offering coded messages? I don’t think I got the meaning of this one right.”
I glanced sideways, to where the box still lay on the floor in pieces. “I see what you mean,” I said dryly. “Okay.”
He laughed but there was no bitterness in it. What had happened between us was so joyous, he could begin to move on from his pain. “I’ll make you another one,” he promised.
“I don’t want another one. Can’t you repair this one?”
He looked down his chest at me. “I can,” he said slowly. “But don’t you want one that’s new?”
I shook my head. “Broken things fixed are better than new.”