The days in the hold dragged on endlessly, each indistinguishable from the last. Time had dissolved into a fog of hunger and pain, punctuated only by the creaking of the ship's timbers and the steady decline of the fisherman. His coughs had grown louder, harsher—deep, rattling fits that left him clutching his ribs. His gaunt hands trembled constantly now, unable to hold anything steady. Even his eyes, once bright and perceptive, seemed to dim, the light within them flickering like a dying flame.
The boy sat nearby, his knees drawn loosely to his chest, his head resting back against the damp wall. His breaths were slow, deliberate, his face hidden behind a curtain of dark hair. He didn't need to look to know the fisherman was slipping away. He could hear it in the shallow rasp of his breaths, in the subtle pauses where the man seemed to teeter on the edge of exhaustion.
Words no longer passed between them. The boy had stopped asking how the fisherman was; the question had become meaningless. They both knew the answer. Survival wasn't about conversation or comfort—it was about enduring, about staying quiet and invisible until the right moment presented itself.
The hold itself was a prison within a prison. The stale air hung heavy with the combined stench of sweat, rot, and old blood. The ship groaned as it tilted with the waves, the wood around them creaking like an ancient beast struggling under its own weight. The faint light that filtered through the cracks in the hull created jagged patterns on the walls, fractured and incomplete. Shadows stretched and shifted with the movement of the ship, but they offered no reprieve from the oppressive darkness.
The boy had grown used to the gloom, his sharp eyes adjusting to the dim light. He could make out every detail of the hold—the way the planks warped under the weight of the captives, the rusted iron of the chains that bound them, the small, dark stains on the floorboards that could only be blood. He saw everything, cataloged everything. There was no distraction too small, no movement too insignificant to escape his notice.
The heavy thud of boots descending the stairs shattered the stillness. The boy's head tilted slightly, his body stiffening instinctively at the sound. Each step was slow, deliberate, the rhythm meant to remind them of the power behind it. His hair obscured his face, but his ears were sharp, attuned to every creak of the wood and shift in the air.
Sigvard appeared, his frame filling the narrow staircase. He carried a whip in his hand, its coiled leather trailing behind him like the tail of a serpent. His sneer cut through the dim light, sweeping over the captives with disdain. He moved with the exaggerated swagger of someone who knew they held absolute power, his every step an insult.
"Quiet today," he said, his tone mockingly cheerful. "Not even a whisper? I was hoping for some entertainment."
His boots struck the planks with deliberate force as he moved through the hold, each step echoing like a drumbeat. His shadow stretched across the filthy floorboards, dark and foreboding, as he stopped in front of the fisherman. The old man sat slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow and labored.
"Still alive, old man?" He asked, tilting his head in mock curiosity. He prodded the fisherman's leg with the tip of his boot, the motion slow and cruel.
The fisherman didn't respond. His head hung low, his chest rising and falling with visible effort.
Sigvard's expression darkened. "I asked you a question," he said, his voice hardening. Without waiting for an answer, he lashed out with the whip. The crack of leather against skin echoed through the hold, followed by a sharp grunt of pain. The fisherman's thin frame jerked under the force of the blow, but he didn't cry out.
From his corner, the boy's eyes narrowed. He didn't flinch at the sound of the whip, nor did he move as the fisherman trembled under the assault. Instead, he watched—silent, calculating. Every motion of Sigvard's body, every flick of the whip, every sneer—it all burned itself into his memory.
Then he turned, his gaze falling on the boy. "What about you, quiet one?" he said, his lips curling into a sneer. "Got anything to say?"
The boy met his eyes, his own unblinking. His gaze was steady, sharp, and cold, like shards of ice cutting through the gloom. There was no fear in those eyes—just a quiet intensity that unsettled the guard.
For a moment, he hesitated, his sneer faltering. There was something unnerving about the boy's stare, something far too calm, far too focused. It wasn't the hollow gaze of a broken captive or the fiery glare of someone consumed by anger. It was the gaze of someone who had already calculated how this would end.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and charged. The guard forced a laugh, shaking off his unease. "Nothing? Fine. Stay that way. Makes it easier to break you."
He lashed out with his boot, striking the fisherman one last time before turning away. His laughter echoed through the hold as he ascended the stairs, but it was hollow, tinged with a faint tremor. Even as he disappeared, the image of the boy's eyes lingered in his mind, sharp and unrelenting.
That night, the hold was suffocatingly quiet. The creak of the ship and the soft murmur of waves against the hull were the only sounds, but even they felt muted, as if swallowed by the oppressive dark. The boy sat with his knees drawn to his chest, his back against the damp planks of the wall. His head rested forward, his hair falling over his face, but his mind was alive, racing with sharp, unyielding thoughts.
Sigvard's visits were becoming more frequent. His violence had grown erratic, less calculated and more fueled by his own frustrations. The boy could see it in the way his sneer tightened, in the way his whip struck harder than it needed to. The man's cruelty was his weapon, but it was also his weakness.
From across the hold, a voice hissed through the shadows. "We can't just take it anymore."
The boy's head tilted slightly, his dark eyes shifting toward the sound. The voice belonged to one of the younger captives, a man whose weeks of suffering had kindled a dangerous spark. He leaned forward, his chains clinking softly as he spoke.
"We have to fight back," the young man continued, his voice low but urgent. "There's more of us than there are of them. If we time it right, we could overpower the guard when he comes down here. Take his knife. Use it to escape."
A faint murmur rippled through the hold, hesitant but laced with desperation.
"And then what?" another voice countered, bitter and resigned. There was a hesitation, a weight in the words that hadn't been there before. "Even if we kill the guard, we're still trapped on this ship. They'll hunt us down before we can reach the deck."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the hold, low and uncertain. The memory of Jorund's death lingered heavily in the air, an unspoken shadow over every conversation. The way his defiance had been crushed so brutally, so decisively—it had shaken them all.
One of the captives, his voice trembling, added, "You saw what they did to him. Jorund thought he could stand against them, and look what it got him." His words hung in the air, thick with fear. "What chance do we have if even he couldn't…"
Another captive shifted uneasily, the clink of chains breaking the silence. "Maybe it's better this way," he muttered. "Better to endure than… than to end up like that."
The young man's jaw tightened. "We have to try," he said. "What's the alternative? Stay here and die like animals?"
The boy's gaze drifted back to the fisherman, who lay slumped against the wall, his breath rasping faintly. The old man didn't react to the murmurs, didn't join the rising tension. His silence was steady, heavy, unshakable.
The boy remained motionless, his expression unchanged. He understood the desperation in the young man's voice, but he also understood the reality of their situation. The captives were malnourished, weak, and unarmed. Sigvard, on the other hand, was well-fed, armed, and experienced in violence. The odds weren't just against them—they were impossible.
He leaned back against the wall, his sharp blue eyes flicking to the shadows. The young man's words hung in his mind, not as a call to action, but as a reminder. This ship was a cage, but it was also a battlefield.