Page 31 of Her Viking Master

In one corner, a chess table stood ready, its carved pieces glinting in the warm light of oil lamps. Near the opposite wall, I spotted a shelf filled with board games and puzzles. It was a strange juxtaposition—this cozy, almost normal-seeming space existing within the heart of our captors’ underground lair.

MorAstrid made her way to a desk in the corner, and settled herself there, her sharp eyes never leaving us as we hesitantly explored the room.

“You may read, play games, or engage in quiet conversation,” she informed us. “But remember, girls—I will tolerate no talk of discontent.”

I caught Camille’s eye and nodded subtly toward the chess table. We made our way over, trying to appear casual as we settled into the chairs on either side of the board. I picked up a white pawn, turning it over in my fingers as I considered how to begin our conversation without arousingMorAstrid’s suspicion.

“So,” I said, pitching my voice just loud enough to be heard across the table, “do you want to be white or black?”

Camille shrugged, her dark eyes darting briefly toMorAstrid before meeting mine again. “White, I suppose,” she murmured.

I set up the pieces, my hands trembling slightly as I arranged the delicate carved figures on the board. The pieces were beautifully made, each one a miniature work of art. The kings bore a striking resemblance to Sven and Erik, while the queens had an otherworldly, Valkyrie-like quality to them.

As Camille made her opening move, she leaned in slightly. “I think I could find my way back to where we came in,” she whispered, her lips barely moving.

My heart raced at her words. I moved a pawn forward, trying to keep my face neutral. “Are you sure?” I breathed, not daring to look up from the board.

Camille nodded almost imperceptibly as she considered her next move. “I’ve been paying attention to the layout,” she murmured. “I’m pretty sure I could retrace our steps.”

I felt a surge of hope, quickly tempered by caution. “But then what?” I whispered, moving my knight. “Do you know how to get out from there?”

Camille’s face fell slightly as she captured one of my pawns. “No,” she admitted softly. “They brought me in a van, just like you. I was wearing a hood the whole time.”

I bit my lip, considering our options. The chess game provided a perfect cover for our whispered conversation, the soft click of pieces on the board masking our hushed voices.

“Even if we could get out,” I murmured, “where would we go? We don’t even know where we are.”

Camille’s brow furrowed as she contemplated her next move, both on the board and in our potential escape plan. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But anywhere has to be better than here, right?”

I found myself hesitating, memories of Sven’s gentle touches and proud smiles flashing through my mind. “I… I don’t know,” I whispered, shocked at my own uncertainty.

Camille looked up sharply, her dark eyes searching my face. “Mary,” she hissed, “don’t tell me you’re starting to believe their nonsense about saving civilization.”

I felt my cheeks flush with shame. “No, of course not,” I said quickly, though a small part of me wondered if that was entirely true.

Camille’s face suddenly changed, her brow furrowing as she stared down at the chessboard. I could see the internal struggle playing out in her eyes, her defiance of the moment before weakened by my revelation that I had doubts, too.

“Mary,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “I… I suppose… I’m not sure, either. That I want to run away, anyway. I’m sure I don’t want to just… give in, though.”

I felt my cheeks flush hot with a mixture of relief and shame. “Me neither,” I admitted, my voice equally soft.

Camille looked up at me, her dark eyes filled with confusion and a hint of fear. “What’s happening to us?” she murmured. “Yesterday, all I wanted was to escape. But now…”

She trailed off, glancing around the cozy room. I followed her gaze, taking in the warm glow of the oil lamps, the inviting softness of the rugs beneath our feet. Naked and captive though we were, I couldn’t deny the strange sense of comfort I felt here.

“I know,” I whispered back. “It’s like… like I’m starting to forget what life was like before. Like this is becoming normal somehow.”

Camille nodded, her fingers absently tracing the intricate carving on her queen piece. “And the way they treat us,” she continued, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s not what I expected. They’re cruel sometimes, yes, but also…”

“Tender,” I finished for her, remembering the gentle way Sven had fed me at breakfast, the pride in his eyes when I pleased him.

We sat in silence for a moment, the weight of our confessions hanging heavy between us. Then Camille’s eyes hardened slightly, a flash of her old defiance returning.

“It must be Stockholm Syndrome,” she said firmly, though I could hear the doubt in her voice. “That has to be it. We’re starting to identify with our captors, to see them as protectors instead of abusers.”

I nodded eagerly, grasping at this explanation like a lifeline. “Yes, that makes sense,” I agreed. “We can’t trust our feelings right now. They’re… they’re not real.”

But even as I said the words, I felt a pang in my chest. The warmth that spread through me when Sven praised me, the sense of belonging I felt kneeling at his feet—could that all be just a psychological response to trauma?

---