Arne knelt beside Bjorn's limp body, hands trembling as he tried to lift his companion's legs. The weight of Bjorn's unconscious form seemed impossible, unmovable. His legs fell back limply to the ground, and Arne's breath quickened. Panic swelled, rising in his chest like bile. He needed to help—he needed to do something—but nothing worked. Bjorn lay still, pale and motionless, his breath shallow.
Arne's throat tightened, sweat beginning to bead on his brow, and the metallic taste of fear was bitter on his tongue. His hands shook as he tried again, lifting Bjorn's legs higher, hoping against hope that it would jolt him back to life. But there was no change, no flicker of response. Arne felt sick. The dim room around them seemed to close in, the weight of what they'd done hanging heavy in the air, suffocating him.
Bjorn, in his blackened dreamscape, was adrift—lost in the shadows of his own mind. Voices echoed, distorted but unmistakable. Lars. Lars was calling him, not with anger, but with a sorrowful authority that gripped Bjorn's very soul.
"Human life no matter who they are is most important, without life there is no redemption, for us in death there is no savior"
The words dripped like poison, crawling inside Bjorn's head, twisting his already fractured thoughts. Lars's voice was soft yet inescapable, as if speaking from every corner of the endless void.
"Within our tribe, we are all that matters."
Bjorn tried to pull himself out, to wrestle away from the voice, but it was everywhere—suffocating, relentless. His heart pounded as Lars's gaunt face hovered before him, those sunken eyes filled not with judgment, but regret. The same regret Bjorn felt gnawing at his own insides.
The weight of his guilt was crushing, the memory of Lars's lifeless body seared into his mind. How had it come to this? How had they fallen so far? He thrashed against the void, his consciousness fluttering in and out, desperate to escape Lars's ghost. But the voice wouldn't stop.
"Humans don't live in the past but only in the present."Larese's lecture from the time when Bjorn was just a kid rang in his head like the roars of bears.
Outside Bjorn's fractured reality, Arne's vision began to blur. His pulse thudded loud in his ears, drowning out everything else. He could feel the nausea rising in his stomach, threatening to spill over. Sweat dripped down his face, cold and clammy, and his hands instinctively reached for his mouth as the urge to vomit gripped him. The weight of Lars's murder pressed on him, the sight of that crumpled, bloodied body forever burned into his memory.
His eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, for something—anything—that would break this moment. His limbs felt weak, trembling under the crushing anxiety that was suffocating him. It was too much—he was losing it.
But then, just as the black edges of his vision threatened to consume him completely, a sudden jolt.
Bjorn stirred.
His eyes snapped open, bloodshot and hollow, yet sharp as they locked onto Arne. A frail hand reached up and grabbed Arne's pale face. The touch was cold, firm, and it startled Arne back into focus. His own panic froze for a heartbeat.
Bjorn's voice, though weak, cut through the chaos. "What's done is done... We can't go back now."
Arne stared, wide-eyed, as Bjorn's fingers dug into his skin with unexpected strength. There was something behind his eyes—an unshakable truth, grim and irreversible. A truth Arne wasn't sure he was ready to face.
Bjorn's grip tightened, and his next words came out with quiet venom: "This is exactly what Mikkel and Lars did with my father... and the other passengers on Altera."
The two men rose slowly, eyes heavy with the wet from tears. Their bodies felt drained, not just from the physical toll, but from the crushing realization of what they'd done. Arne's lips parted, his throat dry as he tried to push out the words—"Sorry, Bjorn." The sounds were barely more than a rasp, fragmented and weak. He couldn't form the words properly.
Bjorn turned to him, his expression unreadable. "This was our misjudgment, Arne," he began, his voice steady but hollow. "You can't blame it all on yourself. I would have done the same if you hadn't jumped Lars, and I was one to push him in the hole. So let's... let's just forget about it."
But even as the words left Bjorn's mouth, he knew they were a lie. He couldn't forget. Not Lars's face. Not the dull thud of his body hitting the ground. But Arne needed to hear it—to believe that they could move past this. Bjorn said it for Arne's sake, not his own.
For a brief moment, there was silence, but the unspoken tension between them gnawed at the edges of the room. Bjorn's mind churned, questioning the next step. How were they going to tell the others? He knew the others wouldn't understand. Their people weren't warriors, who could kill like this, especially not one of their own.
"We'll have to tell them something," Bjorn muttered aloud, though mostly to himself.
Arne's eyes darted nervously. "Both of the old men said this place was dangerous. So... so there's nothing to worry about, right?" he added, his voice brittle, barely holding together.
"That's true," Bjorn replied, though his tone was unconvinced. His thoughts darkened as Mikkel's name echoed in his head. "But still... Mikkel. He'll suspect something."
"I don't know, I don't know," Arne stammered, panic rising in his chest once again. "This is all my fault! My short temper. If I hadn't—"
"Fucking hell, Shut up, Arne!" Bjorn's voice snapped, sharper than he intended. "I said, what's done is done. We can't go back now!"
Arne flinched, his face contorting in frustration and fear. His mind raced, and before he could stop himself, the thoughts spilled out: "And what about the food shortage? What will we tell our families? Lars is dead, and we found nothing."
Bjorn's heart pounded in his ears. Every word was like a knife digging deeper into his frayed nerves. The room seemed to close in on him, tightening. Panic gripped him, and before he could control it, his hand lashed out, slapping Arne across the face in a burst of raw frustration.
"I said shut up! Let me think this through!" Bjorn's voice trembled with barely contained rage.
Arne stood there, stunned, his face stinging from the unexpected blow. His hands clenched into fists as his pulse quickened. Without thinking, his body reacted—years of brotherhood and shared struggles now boiling over into this primal moment. He punched Bjorn, hard and fast, his knuckles connecting with Bjorn's jaw in a crack of fury. It wasn't calculated—it was instinct.
Bjorn staggered back, eyes wide with disbelief. But there was no time to process the shock. Before he could utter a word, Arne tackled him, both men crashing to the ground with a loud, jarring thud that echoed throughout the hollow room. The hard metal floor rattled beneath them as they wrestled like animals, their grunts and breaths harsh in the tense air.
Arne's hands clawed at Bjorn, pinning his legs beneath him, his right knee digging into Bjorn's ribs, his left elbow grinding into Bjorn's chin. Their movements were wild, almost feral—there was no logic, no thought, only raw, unfiltered emotion. Arne's breathing was ragged, his body trembling as he pinned Bjorn down, their faces inches apart. Their eyes locked, and for a fleeting second, it felt like something primal had taken over—like they were no longer men, but beasts fighting for dominance.
Bjorn struggled beneath him, pushing against Arne's weight, but his body was exhausted—his strength sapped by the burden of guilt, of loss, of everything. His hands found Arne's forearms, trying to twist free, but Arne's grip was too strong, too desperate. The metallic floor felt cold beneath his back, and the dull ache in his ribs only fueled his rising anger.
But then, just as Bjorn was about to lash out again, something shifted.
Arne stopped.
His grip loosened, his body trembling as his rage dissolved into something else—something broken. Tears welled in his eyes as he hovered above Bjorn, his chest heaving. And then, before Bjorn could react, Arne collapsed onto him, his head resting against Bjorn's chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
"I can't stand myself anymore," Arne cried, his voice raw and shaking. "I hate it... I hate everything about myself. Why can't I be like you, Bjorn? Why can't I be the cold, strong leader like you? Why am I always the one who loses control? Why... why can't I be good?"
Arne's sobs wracked his body, and Bjorn lay still beneath him, listening. For a moment, neither of them moved, the room silent except for the sound of Arne's broken cries.
And then, slowly, Bjorn's arms wrapped around Arne, pulling him close, as though trying to shield him from the crushing weight of his self-loathing.
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. And for the first time since Lars's death, a flicker of something almost like solace passed between them, though both men knew the road ahead was dark.
They stayed like that for a long moment—two broken men, bound not by blood, but by shared pain, haunted memories, and a loyalty that neither could put into words. In the dim light of that cold room, they found something that neither of them could have imagined—a small, fragile sliver of understanding.