Dark Places

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of psychological trauma, childhood abuse, confinement, and torture. Reader discretion is advised.

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She clung desperately to the hope of control, but her breath tore through her chest like wild animals in flight-directionless, restless. Her lungs burned, chasing air in vain.

Panic surged like an icy wave, creeping around her, suffocating and all-consuming. Small, sharp gasps shattered the silence, each one burning, searing-like fire in her throat.

Instinctively, she twisted in desperation, but the rope binding her wrists held her in a vice-like grip, cutting into her skin until it felt as though it would tear.

Her fingers were numb, lifeless, as though they belonged to someone else. Even the smallest movement sent merciless jolts shooting up her arms.

The cellar pressed in around her, not just a room but a silent predator-heavy, unyielding, a shadow that clung to her skin and refused to let go.

The smell of damp, decaying earth filled her nostrils, and every sound sent fear crawling up her spine. She pulled her legs tightly to her chest, but the rope wound around her ankles dug deeper with every movement.

Her teeth clenched tightly, grinding, as she forced herself to hold back a scream. She pressed her back against the icy stone wall, feeling the cold seep into her very core.

It wasn't the lack of light that truly terrified her-it was the memories. They sank their talons into her mind, tearing her away from the present and hurling her back into the unforgiving currents of her past.

Memories of what he did when she didn't listen. When she got in his way. When she was too much-or not enough. Or simply because he'd had a bad day.

His laughter had been sharp, like the rattle of chains scraping against stone. It echoed through the air, heavy with humiliation and fear. The smirk on his face, the slight tilt of his head, as if savoring her suffering—it left no doubt that he took pleasure in it.

The pain, the terror, the crushing weight of helplessness. She despised how it opened the door for the dark to creep in, coiling around her thoughts and poisoning them like venom. It wasn't just a memory-it had become a prison, one she had carried with her for as long as she could remember.

Her jaw tightened as she forced the memories away, locking them behind a wall of desperation.

She tried to cling to thoughts of Bjørn-the promises they had made, the life they had imagined. But those dreams slipped through her grasp, like sand through her fingers.

Would anyone come for her? Ragnar? She could almost see the irritation in his eyes, the way he'd shake his head if he came home to find her gone. Would he even bother to search? Or had he already moved on, found solace with Gerd?

She was alone. Completely alone.

A door creaked somewhere in the cellar, a low, drawn-out sound that cut through the silence and struck her like a physical blow to the chest.

The footsteps that followed were heavy, deliberate-drawing closer with every second. She tried to swallow her fear, but her throat tightened, and she had to fight the urge to scream. A single tear, hot and silent, traced its way down her cheek, a mute cry for help.

"Sigurd?" She whispered, her voice trembling. She held her breath, straining to listen.

No response. Only the sound of heavy footsteps echoing through the room, unnervingly slow, each step deliberate, as if he were playing with her.

Then, with a voice as smooth as silk, one that made her stomach twist violently, he broke the silence.

"I'm glad you decided to make the trip," he said suddenly, his voice almost warm.

He laughed softly, mockingly, and his laughter filled the darkness like an echo of the underlying threat. "And just in time, too, before the wedding with Knut."

"No!" She burst out, her voice cracking, but her words remained firm, filled with desperation.

He continued undisturbed, as if she hadn't interrupted him at all. "I was smart enough not to tell him you'd run away. I knew you'd change your mind in the end." His voice drew closer now, so close she could feel the heat of his breath against her skin.

"Where is Thora?" The question burst from her, sharper than she had intended. The memory of what he had nearly done to her left her uneasy, her nerves fraying at the edges.

Silence.

"Where are the others?" She ventured cautiously, her voice trembling.

"Not here," he replied with a cruel laugh.

"I'll go to Knut willingly, Sigurd. Just... let Thora go." Her voice was almost unrecognizable-fractured, desperate, and pleading.

He laughed again, a cold echo of pure disdain. "Knut's men will come to fetch you tomorrow morning, whether you go willingly or not. But this time, you'll be bound."

"What are you planning to do with Thora? I forced her! She had no choice," she pressed, her tone accusatory, despite the pulsing fear in her chest.

He drew a slow breath, as though savoring his own triumph.

"You talk too much, Sigrid. Our father has been far too lenient with you," he said, irritation creeping into his voice.

Before she could respond, the kicks came-brutal and relentless. Pain erupted in her stomach, and she collapsed onto the cold cellar floor. The air was knocked from her lungs, and she lay there, gasping, as he walked away without pause.

Over his shoulder, he called back, "There's no point trying to undo the knots this time. I know you."

The night that followed was an endless nightmare. The cold seeped into her very bones, and the silence was broken only by the occasional, eerie scurrying of rats darting across the room.

The ropes binding her wrists and ankles bit deep into her skin as she frantically struggled to loosen them, but they wouldn't budge.

Again and again, she had to stop, letting her head fall against the hard floor, fighting back the tears that threatened to overflow. But she didn't give up. Through the pain, through the cold, she kept pushing herself.

She must have drifted into a fitful sleep, because suddenly, she noticed it-a faint glimmer of light filtering through the fabric over her eyes.

Awareness jolted her awake, and she strained her ears. Sounds from somewhere in the house. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, like small earthquakes growing closer.

A door creaked open with a shrill whine, and a cold draft swept through the room, brushing against her skin like a warning.

She clenched her teeth to stifle a sob, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with hands too weak to dam the torrent.

The hands that grabbed her were like iron-brutal and unyielding. She felt herself lifted, hauled off the floor like a sack of grain, her own movements irrelevant to their purpose.

She writhed, a desperate attempt to resist, but every movement only tightened the grip, as though they intended to crush her, just to remind her how small and powerless she was.

They carried her out, tossing her roughly onto something cold and uncomfortable beneath her back. She felt a faint jolt and soon heard the sound of wheels rolling over gravel, the rhythmic clatter of horse hooves striking the ground.

The air outside was light, so different from the heavy chill of the cellar. Panic surged within her once more, uncontrollable and consuming, like a predator on the hunt. Her chest tightened so fiercely it felt as though she couldn't breathe.

Like a trapped bird, she fought against the rising fear, clinging to a single thought that might give her strength.

Bjørn. She forced herself to think of him-his warm eyes, the safety in his voice. Even Ragnar, with his smug, self-assured smile, seemed a comfort now.

Her heart pounded harder as she assessed the situation. The fabric over her eyes made it impossible to know exactly where she was, but she trusted her senses.

It felt as if she was alone in the cart. Voices and the sound of hooves echoed from up front, likely only one or two people. The stiff iron grip of the rope still held her prisoner, but if she could just find a way out...

She began to rock, back and forth, at first cautiously, then with more force. The cart was narrow, but beneath her, the floor vibrated faintly. The plan was risky, but she had no other choice. If they caught her, there would be punishment. If she didn't try, there would be no future.

Back and forth. The wheels screeched against the jagged stones, the cart grinding its way through the dark passage with an audible scrape.

With each lurch forward, her heart thundered in her chest, as if it wanted to break free and escape before she could. This was all or nothing. Her hands gripped the edge tightly, her knuckles turning white.

A faint crackling sound from the wall to her left made the hairs on her neck stand on end. It was moving. Scraping noises followed, as though the stones themselves were protesting. She bit down hard. If she could just tip the cart a little more.

Suddenly, it jolted and came to an abrupt halt. A moment of silence followed before a heavy thud filled the air, then irregular, heavy footsteps. The sounds were too close.

She froze, every instinct screaming at her to run. And then the chaos erupted, sudden and inevitable-the clash of metal on metal and desperate shouts.

Her heart sank. Someone had stopped the cart. Her thoughts spun wildly as her blindfold pressed tightly against her skin, trapping her in darkness. Was it a fight? Bandits?

She held her breath, straining to listen, to make sense of the movement outside. The fight raged on, screams and roars mingling with the deadly clang of steel on steel.

Her skin prickled as she felt the hard edge of the cart. Tugging at the ropes, she rubbed them furiously against the rough wood. A splinter bit into her palm, but she swallowed the pain and kept sawing.

Carefully, she crept, her feet landing softly, cautiously, on the uneven surface beneath her. She moved slowly, deliberately. No one could see her. Not yet.

Somewhere to her left, something heavy slammed into the ground, and the vibrations rippled through her like a warning.

She froze for a moment, but when a roar from an unfamiliar voice cut through the air, she shoved her fear aside. Perhaps they were too busy with each other.

What if they came after her? Images of the atrocities she'd heard about-bandits who killed and raped without mercy-forced their way into her mind. She had to get away. Now.

The ropes cut deep into her wrists, and she could feel the warm, sticky trickle of blood running down her fingers. The pain was there, but it felt distant, drowned in a whirlwind of adrenaline and terror.

She writhed desperately, feeling the rough fibers loosen bit by bit until they finally gave way. She gasped sharply, throwing her arms forward-heavy and numb as stones-and tore the blindfold from her eyes.

The light hit her like a fist. It was blinding, unforgivingly white, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut tightly as it burned behind her lids. Her hands fumbled blindly toward her feet, clumsy and desperate, and she felt the ropes slide off.

The noise behind her was gone, and panic surged in her like a rising tide. Where were they? How much time did she have?

She clung to the wall, her body still trembling, and pushed herself forward. Slowly, her eyes began to adjust to the light, but the pain in her head was like a blade. She glanced back-empty.

One step, two. She lost her footing. The air fled her lungs as she crashed to the ground. She rolled, tumbling into a ditch filled with cold, wet earth that clung to her skin.

She tried to stand, but her legs buckled beneath her, leaving her sprawled in the mud, battered and barely breathing.

Then she heard it. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate footsteps drawing closer. They struck the ground like pounding war drums, and she stared upward, paralyzed by fear, unable to move.

A scream tore from her lips as strong hands seized her arms, yanking her up like a rag doll.

She flailed, kicking wildly, but her body barely responded. "Let me go!" Her voice cracked, hoarse and frantic with panic.

Now it was her turn.