Frozen 3

Chapter 97

Aksel

"What? It upsets you that I tell you that you cared more about a kid who wasn't even yours than us?"

I sigh.

"You know why I did it...

"No, I don't know! You had no valid reason to abandon us as you did!"

"Erik... We've already talked about it, I don't want to do it again. "

"What about our mother? Have you thought about our mother? If you hadn't cowardly left her as you did, promising to come back to see her, she would still be here."

I looked at Isaak. He had not moved and sat in his chair with his eyes on the window, without saying a word.

"Oh but it's true his death must not have upset too much, after all you quickly found a replacement wife..."

"Erik... Be careful what you say."

Cries of joy in my back made me turn. Adrian, my youngest son, was sitting cross-legged in a corner of the room playing with a wooden figure that Isaak had carved for him. He seemed so careless and didn't listen to a word we said.

"Instead of enjoying the moments that the four of us can now share, you are simply blaming me for a past that I did not choose. You don't know the meaning of sacrifice, you only think of yourself. If you knew how heartbreaking it was for me to have to leave Ema alone with a toddler, especially when she told me she was expecting a second baby, you wouldn't even be able to tell me so much cruelty. You have no heart, Erik...

"I have something to take care of."

I stopped and looked at him for a long time.

"I thought I could trust you to manage this family in my absence, but I realize that your blind anger and resentment must have made you forget everything else. You preferred to take refuge in hatred rather than in the love of your people. It's your choice, but don't think it's mine too."

The young man answered nothing and remained straight, his face impassive. Desperate and understanding that he would never change his opinion of his own father, I walked to the front door and out of the cabin. It was cold outside, despite the sun that had been beating since the beginning of that winter morning. I looked at the snowy village. It was on a day like this that I saw the little boy for the last time. On a day of heavy snow where I had lacked attention. I had fallen asleep too quickly, without really worrying about what he was doing. And I had quickly regretted it. When I woke up, I still remembered calling him and not getting an answer. I had got up in a hurry and looked for him in the hut, thinking that he had still been hiding as he used to do. But no, he was nowhere. I had run outside, without even bothering to put on a coat and had screamed his name to tear my vocal cords. Nothing, only the whistling of the wind in the branches of the pines that surrounded me had answered me. I couldn't remember how long it took me to finally accept reality. Several days or even weeks, certainly. I had looked for him everywhere, I had scoured the forest from one side to the other, slicing my throat at every tree trunk I passed in the hope that he would perhaps answer me. But I finally realized: Kristian ran away.

I walked slowly through the village, staring into the void. I couldn't help but dwell on this episode. It seemed far away, but very close at the same time. It marked the end of part of my life, far from the Northuldra. And when I went back among mine, I immediately understood that nothing would be like before I left. Ema had just died, a few days before my return to the camp, leaving me two sons whom I barely knew but who were already orphans of their mother. I had remained unmoved at the announcement of the death of my wife, but internally, it was another failure, a new promise that I had not been able to keep. I had failed twice in my missions: I had not been able to take care of and protect the boy entrusted to me until he could manage on his own, nor had I honoured my word by regularly visiting Ema. And that was what hurt me the most, telling me that everything I had desperately tried to build with my own hands had suddenly collapsed, leaving me alone in the middle of a field of ruins.