My hands trembled as I tried to single out the most likely key. In the blink of an eye, I'd rushed from the kitchen upstairs to the door, and now I was on a mission to finally sort this out. Whatever was behind this door, this mystery that called to me was about to end.
The first key was a miss, not even fitting in, and the second one refused to turn. Their metallic sound, which seemed so loud in all that silence, made me wince with worry. I was breaking Ulrik's trust, and it felt wrong. But he couldn't demand trust so early in the relationship, could he? It was something that one earned over time, and his mysterious ways had done nothing to put my doubts at ease.
When the sixth key that I tried turned, I froze. This was it. This normal-looking brass key was my way to the truth. Dismissing the gut-wrenching guilt, I completed the turn, then a second one, until the bolt opened fully.
"Just a peek," I whispered to myself. It couldn't hurt, could it? And with Yuko busy and Ulrik gone, it was my best shot at it.
After one deep breath to gather my courage, I twisted the handle and opened the door. I almost expected it to be empty, like a trial, something meant to drive me mad and test my loyalty. But the dark room illuminated on its own, probably thanks to a sensor, and it was far from empty.
In fact, it was full to the brim with paintings, sculptures, cabinets, and what looked like folders. But nothing was displayed in a proper manner; it was more of a storage room, with paintings stacked together and sculptures gathered in a corner. My eyebrows twisted with confusion, and that was when I realized how naive I'd been. There was no way I could leave it at just a peek. I had to understand why those were off-limits.
So, as I should have foreseen, I entered the room. The first thing I approached was a marble bust, and I immediately noticed the likeliness. In the perfectly executed features carved in stone, I recognized Ulrik, or at least someone who very much resembled him. I fought the urge to graze at the smooth and polished texture, impressed by the craftsmanship and finer details. Still perplexed, I headed toward a painting that was covered by a cloth. It was a portrait in a style that reminded me of Johannes Vermeer, with old clothes from the 17th century and a background that matched. And the face painted in oils there also reminded me of Ulrik in an uncanny way.
More and more confused, I unveiled more paintings, which all represented Ulrik, either alone or surrounded by others. His beloved features were hard to miss, even if there was sometimes a beard eating away half of his face, or a wig covering his blond hair.
"What the hell," I mumbled to myself.
My first instinct was to think he hired artists to have his likeness drawn through time like this. Because as a lover of art, maybe he enjoyed the idea of being transformed into the medium himself, posing as one might have done back then and getting a replica of what an old painting might have been.
It was his wealth, after all, and I couldn't judge him for what he did with it. It was still weird, though.
But my inspection of the paintings told me they were originals. During my studies, I'd learned how to recognize an original from a counterfeit or an imitation. And while it would take some chemical tests to confirm my suspicions, those looked like the real deal, given the crackings, the discoloration of the varnish layers, and the techniques.
From what I found, they went as far as the 13th century. The drawings from then weren't as precise, and I might have never recognized Ulrik had I not known the pattern. But there he was, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and powerful build, dressed in a knight's armor.
Wholly confused, I moved on to one of the cabinets, only to retrieve an old album from it. In there, I found old pictures in period outfits. And while the paintings left room for doubts, given that they were the artists' interpretations, the pictures didn't. There he was again, clean-shaved as I knew him, or with a beard, a mustache... Exactly like in the paintings.
Was this an ego thing? Did he seek out paintings and such of people who resembled him? Or maybe those were family members, a long line of men just as dashing as Ulrik who'd fathered sons who looked like them. But what were the odds of that? And why would he keep this room locked, like it was some dirty secret?
My mind couldn't wrap itself around what was going on here, so when I found old Norwegian newspaper clippings in another album, I sought any kind of answer. Some had pictures along, and on them, an Ulrik-like person again, posing with randomly important people—including young Queen Elizabeth.
In one of the older papers, before they began featuring pictures, a name on one of the headlines caught my attention. Harald Sørensen. It was familiar because Agnes, Ulrik's great-grandmother, had mentioned it, as well as the man from the artifact gallery. But the article predated them both by nearly a century. Was it a name that ran in the family? The article mentioned how his generous donation would allow the museum to build a whole new wing.
Maybe that was it. Those were his family line memorabilia. They had been passing Haakon's sword for centuries, after all, so why not other things? But again, why would he hide it all so fiercely? He'd told me he would show me the content of this room once I was ready. Ready for what? To know that his ancestors bore a striking resemblance to him?
There was something more to this room and those things, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It was such a weird thing to hide. Hell, it was weird that they all looked so much alike despite the many centuries separating them.
"You shouldn't be in here."
Ulrik's voice startled me so much that I almost dropped the album I was holding. Once I processed what it meant, though, my heart dropped and hammered against my ribs. He'd caught me sneaking in there, red-handed.
Slowly, I spun around to face him. His expression was grave, his jaw ticking as it clenched it over and over again. Clearly, he didn't like that I'd gone over his head with this, and I couldn't blame him.
"You aren't—you aren't on your way to Trondheim?"
"The door is linked to the security system. I was passing the gates when I received a notification."
Oh, crap. I should have foreseen it. My eyes darted to the corners of the ceilings, where I spotted two security cameras.
"This room was locked for a reason, Mila."
"I had to know."
"And I told you you would, in due time."
"It's unfair to expect blind trust from me and then have an entire room of things locked away like this."
I tremblingly returned the album to its shelf and gestured at the contents of his secret room. "I was imagining the worst. But this...I'm not sure what it is, but at least it's not a serial killer's room," I explained, ignoring the way my throat clenched.
His eyebrows came together for a fleeting second as if my words confused him, and his face turned harsh again. "You haven't figured it out yet?" he asked. His voice was soft but also unyielding.
"Figured what out?"
"What all of this means."
I had absolutely no idea which direction this was going to take, so I said nothing. With a deep sigh, Ulrik stepped further into the room and picked up one of the paintings I hadn't looked at. This one was wrapped in a sheet, which he pulled away as he settled it against the others for me to see.
This one was academicism, first half of the 19th century, and depicted a man in the nude, laid back in a somewhat sensuous position in a neoclassical setting, with a cloth to cover the model's modesty. I knew this body, just like I knew those blue eyes staring right back at me. But mostly, I knew those tattoos... I'd followed them with the tip of my tongue, painted them with my fingers, and admired them.
"Wh—What is this?" I asked, more and more confused.
The resemblance in all those pieces was becoming increasingly creepy, and I couldn't figure out the greater picture. Maybe I didn't want to because the implications went beyond my understanding. Beyond the laws of this world.
"I knew you weren't ready yet," he let out through his clenched jaw.
"Ready for what? Ulrik, you're creeping me out."
"Ready to accept who I am. What I am."
My eyes flew from him to the sculptures and paintings surrounding us, then back to him. Over and over again.
No. No, he was messing with me. But the graveness of his expression, how serious he looked in that moment, pushed me to almost believe him. Those were coincidences at best, family members at most.
But what about those tattoos? Why did they match so well? I'd never seen a classical painting like this with a depiction of tattoos, so they might have been added more recently by a very talented artist. It might have been part of this whole ego thing, and Ulrik had gotten the painting altered. Hell, maybe all the paintings were altered to some extent to resemble him more.
"I don't like this joke," I decided to say. "I'm sorry that I came in here, I shouldn't have, and I'm leaving now."
I stepped toward the door, ready to pass by him and put all this behind us. But just as I was about to go through it, his solid arm came across the way, forbidding me to go. Some kind of awareness flickered in my mind, and my heart began pumping faster. This was a much bigger deal than I thought, and I wasn't prepared to handle the consequences of my actions.
"I wish I could let you go this easily, Mila, but we have to discuss this. You're a clever woman, so I think part of you already knows what all this means. And it will scratch and scratch the back of your mind until it becomes a rotten, spoiled reality. So, please, let us face this now."
I forced myself to look at him, trying to discern what was happening within him. He looked composed despite the crease between his narrowed brows.
"You're scaring me, now. What you're trying to imply is insane, Ulrik, and your behavior is bordering on schizophrenia. If this is a joke, I don't find it funny at all."
"It's not a joke. Which is why I need you to accept it."
I tried to move his arm away, but he held strong, using more of his broad body to block the only exit.
"Alright then. Say it," I dared him. I wouldn't be the one voicing this ludicrous thing he was trying to convince me of. I wasn't a naive fool.
"I'm not who I pretend to be," he admitted, his tone heavy with conflict and guilt.
"Then who are you?"
"You know who I am."
My mind instantly figured out who he meant, and I looked conflictingly at the paintings behind me. His obsession with the sword now felt like a much more sinister reality, like the workings of a deranged mind.
Part of me clung to the hope that all of this was just an elaborate joke, something designed to make me question reality altogether. But the dreadful feeling twisting my guts, the grim feeling tugging at my heart, told me it wasn't. It was too much to be a prank at my expense.
"You're not him, Ulrik. He is an ancestor of yours who died eleven centuries ago."
Something hardened in his gaze when I met it, triggering a cold shiver up my spine. Fear was the next thing that took over me. I was stuck, not only in this room but in this house. He was much bigger than me, and our exchanges had taught me that my self-defense abilities would be useless against him.
"Ulrik, you're...you're scaring me," I tremblingly admitted.
His eyes softened, something tender crossing his face, and he removed his arm. Instead, I took my hand in his. "Come. Let me show you something."
Slight relief made my shoulders sink as he pulled me out of the oppressive room. I considered ripping my hand away, but the contact appeased me, which was absolutely mad given the circumstances. He led me upstairs, and I began hoping this joke was about to reach its punchline and we'd move on from this madness. Yuko was nowhere in sight as we reached the kitchen.
I stood there, entirely lost and confused, while he removed his jacket and rolled up one sleeve of his crisp light blue button-down. The tattoos that revealed themselves truly were the same as the painting below.
"Please, don't freak out," Ulrik demanded before taking out a large butcher knife from a drawer. My heart rate peaked again, even though he immediately turned it on himself.
With my eyes widened and my lips parted with a shocked gasp, I watched as he dragged the blade across his forearm, tearing the skin. I was as though paralyzed for several seconds, too shocked to do anything other than stare in horror.
Blood immediately poured out of the gaping wound he'd inflicted on himself so carelessly, more than I'd ever seen before. But he wasn't doing anything about it, staring at the wound.
When the crimson flow began to drip down his fingers, some sense of urgency finally struck me. "Ulrik, what the hell?!" I shouted, reaching for the dishcloth by the sink.
Within a second, I was by his side and pressing the bunched-up fabric on the bleeding cut. "Are you completely insane?" I asked, fighting against the nausea spreading in my throat. Blood was not my thing, especially in such an amount.
"I had to, or you wouldn't have believed me."
"So you hurt yourself? Ulrik, what is wrong with you?"
Trying to think past the panic, I called out for Yuko, shouting her name through the vastness. But if she was still downstairs handling the laundry, it was useless.
When Ulrik tried to remove the cloth, I shook my head. "No, you need pressure, or you'll bleed out."
"I won't."
"You will."
"Mila," he said gravely, his adamant gaze commending my eyes. "I won't bleed out."
There was something in his confident expression that made me doubt. He'd just cut himself open, a good five-inch opening deep enough to slice through an artery, but he was almost serene about it, like his life wasn't on the line.
So, possibly because I was slowly accepting what he'd been trying to say, I let go of the rag, which was soaked with blood. When he pulled it away, I refused to look down. I wasn't ready to face it. How could I ever be?
"Look at it, kjære," he softly demanded. I shook my head. "I need you to look at it, Mila."
He was almost desperate for me to comply, so I did. Slowly, my gaze lowered to his injured arm. Blood was smeared over it, but even then, I couldn't deny what he wanted me to see. There was no wound there. Not anymore. All that was left of the deep cut he'd inflicted on himself was a line of clear skin through his tattoo, without even a scar to attest to what had just happened.
"It's impossible," I maintained, still staring at it. I was feeling dizzy, my head spinning.
"It is." His non-blooded hand came up between us, and he forced my head up with an index under my chin.
I could tell how sorry he was, as if the lies he'd told me from the day we met were too much as if he knew just how wrong all of this was. Nothing made sense anymore, and even though I knew what he was about to say, even though he'd just proved his point with the knife, I still wasn't ready to accept it. With the blood, the fright, the turmoil, and everything else, this was too much. My body and mind couldn't withstand it.
The softness of his voice when he confessed wasn't enough to ease the blow. "I'm Haakon," he carefully said, "the immortal son of Odin."
Before I even realized what was happening, the blue of his irises disappeared from my sight, swallowed by empty darkness.