Let what win?I want to scream. But then I remember.The fear.It has me in a chokehold. I need to conquer it. And this man, as much as he’s scaring the shit out of me, is also helping—just holding me steady and stroking me.
Glancing down at his arms, I see familiar bracelets and runes. It’s not Asbjörn. This man has no tattoos. But I know he’s one of them. I even think I might recognize his voice, but I can’t place it. All I know is that he’s not out to harm me. Iknowhim. So I sink into his strong hold, accepting the soft caresses and drawing on his strength for a while.
“Good girl,” he praises.
Only a low hum escapes me. It’s all I can muster. And besides, my brain wouldn’t know what to say anyway, except to give voice to my fear, and doing so would only feed it. So I remain quiet, accepting the small reprieve.
He rewards me with a bottle of water that he holds to my lips, allowing me to take several big gulps before setting it aside.
I feel strangely calm. Cared for. Safe.
But when he takes out a knife and sticks the tip under the hem of my pants, my calm starts slipping, fear starts quivering.
“What are you doing?” I choke.
No answer.
He just sticks the knife deeper andcuts.
I yelp, the shock ripping through my body, when he cuts my pants. But then I realize it’s all he’s doing—cutting the fabric. Not me.
I cling to the realization and the memory of his calming touch, praising words, and the provided hydration. Somehow, I manage to remain steady as he lowers me to lie on the ground, pinning me in place while he cuts off my pants.
I’m still breathing hard when he lifts me off the ground, but the panic doesn’t feel choking when I stare into his horrible, demonic face and he tells me to run.
The chase keeps going, on and on, dragging out. I’m exhausted, badly needing a break, but when I pause for too long, another demonic figure appears from between the trees, spurring me into another burst of pounding feet and straining legs.
Needing a break, I try to return down the trail a couple of times, but every time I do, another terrifying sentinel appears. They don’t speak, barely even move. They just stand there, watching me, and the sight is enough to make me turn and scramble back up the steep trail.
I have no idea why, but it’s becoming clear to me that they’re leading me somewhere specific up on the mountain. Something’s waiting for me. Or someone. And the men who catch me are preparing me for that someone.
The next time I’m caught, I lose my T-shirt, and the man who grabs me after that cuts off my panties.
All I have left are my shoes as I keep going up and up. As exhaustion sets in, it’s getting harder to fight the fear. I feel fraught and frail, and my nakedness doesn’t exactly help. Paranoia creeps in, and I constantly whip my head around, thinking someone’s following me or that I see a shadow moving between the trees. I barely dare to pause, afraid someone will suddenly jump out of the trees even though that same scenario is just as possible while I’m running.
It’s not until I see a tall figure on a cliff above me that I come to a halt.
This man is nothing like the others. He’s both mightier and more terrifying, yet somehow calmer and reassuring. Unlike the others, he’s not wearing any paint, but a big crown with antlers reaching high above his head leaves his face in shadows.
The king of the forest. The king of them all.
The long braid hanging down his chest reveals who it is, but my brain remains uncertain—everything else eschewing the familiarity.
He just stands there, completely still, watching. A warning. Or maybe a promise—of the darkness to come.
A big bear skin is draped over his shoulders, and in his right hand, he’s holding something. Leather. Coiled together. A whip? The one that cracked through the night and ripped scream upon scream from that woman on the cross?
“No, no, no,” I chant under my breath. This is crazier than anything I could have imagined. What the hell is this? I figured it might be a ritual, but as the realization sinks in and I remember how little I know, the fear constricts.
I try to find comfort in Asbjörn’s promise—that he would be here all along. But I haven’t seen him once. Only strangers have caught me. Has he lured me into something sinister? Was it all a hoax?
I try to remember all the times he eased me into a scene and steadied me through the pain, but the memories won’t stick. All I see are those antlers, the whip, and the unnerving painted faces.
I shut my eyes hard and pinch my skin. When I look again, the figure is gone. All there is are the stars, the moon, and the trees.
I’m going insane.
Panic grips my lungs as I frantically flit my eyes from side to side, searching for something, finding nothing.
