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He doesn't remember doing it. Stupid thing, carving himself up after a lifetime on the battlefield. Equally stupid, when he examines the marks on his wrists, to think that a grown man his size could die from so little. He must've been out of his head. As usual these days.
Atli's never reproached him for it. He kisses the scars just as gently as he kisses the stretch marks. But having him do it is shame enough. Of course he's angry. He just can't say it out loud, or Torgrim might try it again.
It's easy enough for him to think How could you do this to me? He's not the one in pain. Torgrim inhabits the ruins of a life. Day by day the room seems to shrink. Atli, when he's away doing whatever he does now, pays someone to come in and slap down plates of food in front of his poor suffering brother. He thinks they help Torgrim get out and stretch in the fresh air, and Torgrim hasn't disabused him of the notion. It would only make him suffer. They leave the instant he's done eating. If he eats slowly to spite them, they leave before he's done. If he eats slowly because it hurts, they think he's spiting them anyway.
Sometimes it's thinking of Atli that keeps him from trying again. Other times—and it varies by the hour—it's just that it hurts too much to get up and search for the knife again.