Arendelle's Lost Daughter
Chapter I: Polaroids
The esteemed subjects of the household headline plastered on Arendelle's national TV screens: "The Mysterious Case of the Astas," were a most unfortunate family.
Several years back, their beloved first-born daughter, Elsa, went missing. The search went on and off as witnesses, second-hand, and third-hand accounts of her expected whereabouts were thoroughly considered. It started with local police, then the state. After two months, with all previous leads ending in dust, a jarring Missing Persons Alert struck the otherwise stable and safe nation of Arendelle. It was severe, all over the news. Everyone knew of the incident, but no one knew the truth. Some say she was kidnapped. Some say she was murdered. Some say it was a freak accident. No one knew anything except that the Astas, a family loved by all, were devastated.
He sat, hands folded, in the dim, quiet living room. He could hear the dull whirring of his blood traveling around his body, the clock ticking, and a violent storm approaching.
Agnarr Asta.
The head of the household, he was indeed in the public eye, and not just for the unfortunate loss of his girl. He was a cunning, quick thinker, a city councilman running for mayor, succeeding, then Supreme Governor– he had a massive collection of articles and biographies readily accessible on the internet. Notable. Lovable. He was neat. He kept his clothes, hair, and mustache prim and proper. Shoes shined, teeth white, with a smile as wide as the sky—an every-man. Locals loved him; they figured they could get a beer with him, buddy up until the last call. His public perception was perfect. He remembers the accounts they gave of him on his election night.
"I'm voting for Agnarr because he wants to fight for me and my family!"
"Agnarr is my guy! He understands me! He shook my hand and talked to me like he was talking to a friend."
"It's a no-brainer. Agnarr is one of us. It's just what we need. Them politicians now are so crooked, not Agnarr."
Agnarr was a great man and an even better leader. He led his nation with dignity and passion. He idealized a strong, centralized government with a large military. He created and managed a tight national budget with minimal debts. In turn, the economy was the best it had ever been. Arendelle's GDP was among the highest globally, housing was affordable, crime was down, and unemployment was at a record low.
Yes, indeed, a strong man on paper, but within the walls of the Supreme Governor's Manor, it was a different story.
"We received another," a soft, feminine voice graced Agnarr's ears from behind him.
Iduna Asta.
An alluring, poised woman. Quiet and demure, yet brilliant and caring. She was proper and diplomatic, and she was Agnarr's one and only—his true love, the best thing that's ever happened to him. Iduna was known around Arendelle for her public outreach, campaigns against crime, and emphasis on fair and accessible education.
She held a crisp envelope in her shaking hands.
Agnarr knew instantly what she was talking about. He let out an unstable sigh, ran his hands through his hair, and cursed under his breath.
"Give it here," he said, a little too forcefully.
Iduna took tiny steps to her husband, slowly lifting her petite fingers to meet his. She handed over the letter nervously.
He tore it open like a deranged animal.
Agnarr quickly unfolded the tan paper, and the couple scanned it. The writing was so familiar to their hopeless eyes.
Supreme Governor Agnarr,
We received your last payment. We appreciate your cooperation. In exchange, we have left her unharmed.
Your following allotted amount is 25,000 credits, which you will pay or will be the lucky recipient of her burnt corpse.
As always, here is your updated photo of her face so you may confirm she is unharmed.
Iduna broke rapidly, losing her strength to stand. Agnarr caught and wrapped her in the warmest, most gentle hug he could, rubbing soothing circles in her back.
"We-We can't keep doing this, Agnarr! We can't! They have our baby! Our baby! Our sw-sweet swee-et girl! Please! Please! Please! Do something else! Try something else! Anything!" She sobbed uncontrollably and started spouting nonsensical words in anguish.
Agnarr looked into space behind her, hopeless. He started trying to find something to say, anything that would help his poor wife through their unbelievable pain. But he couldn't. What more was there to say? What more was there to do? These letters have come every month on the 10th for five years, and no matter Agnarr's desperate negotiation requests, his public outreach and incentives, creation, and management of well-funded military campaigns, his utilization of the finest resources for tracking the source of these letters, the ransom continued to come, and not a single lead.
Agnarr wasn't without enemies; every prominent figurehead or political leader had them. But whoever, or whatever syndicate he was dealing with, was utterly unknown to the world; thorough, cunning, and disgustingly professional.
He's already spent millions of credits from his pocket to ensure those letters continued mentioning Elsa was untouched. No one but Iduna knew about the content of those terrible letters, either. That was to remain a secret for all of eternity. He couldn't have the nation know of his complicit wire of credits to Elsa's kidnappers; that would spark unneeded outrage. One of Arendelle's political axioms: Never negotiate with terrorists.
"Iduna… I will stop at noth-" Agnarr started his standard consolation speech, but Iduna did not want to listen.
"Agnarr! I swear to fucking God if you give me this speech one more time," She looked up to him with her empty threat with pleading eyes.
"Iduna, this is a,"
"No. I'm tired of hearing you say the same damn thing over and over, and over, and over, and over, and OVER," Iduna pounded her clenched fists into his chest, her entire body stiff, "Ah!" she stopped her attack, and slid her hands down in defeat. The room went quiet again.
"... I'm going after her myself," she finally stated. "I can't just sit here and–"
"No!" He quickly responded, grabbing her shoulders. "You cannot! You will not. There's nothing you can do that we aren't already doing! If we just continue to ensure her safety, our men will find her. I have the best of the best on the case. I assure you, Iduna, those bastards' day of reckoning is upon them!"
She pushed him firmly away from her, stumbling backward.
"That's cowardly," she spat. "If you think for even one second that your precious credits are keeping her from being harmed, you're delusional. They are savages! Lord knows what they already have done to her! And every month that passes, your futile negotiations only strengthen their ability to control you and, in turn, our nation!"
Agnarr began prepping his response, but she continued in fury.
"And what of Anna? If she finds out that her father has been funding the likely torture of her only sister, what is she going to think of you? What am I to think of you?" she looked at her husband wistfully.
His face hardened. The air grew cold and stale.
"You are to think of me as your husband. Anna is to think of me as her father. You both are to trust me. I have this under control."
Iduna looked away in frustration and paced around the room as she spoke.
"No, you do NOT have this under control! Don't you even try to tell me that– that– that bullshit! I can't believe you can sit idly by with the thought of your eldest daughter in pain, or w-worse… I can't believe you allow this to continue! You're the Supreme Governor of the most powerful nation on this globe, and yet you negotiate with these– these– terrorists!"
"Wha-?! Idun–I AM NOT NEGOTIATING WITH ANYONE!" Agnarr's massive voice shook the lampshade beside them. He quickly lowered his voice and continued, "I'm simply doing the best I can. Can't you see? Why can't you see? I-"
She abruptly turned on her black leather heels to face away from him.
Agnarr noticed the change in his wife's body language. She was sobbing quietly, yet intensely. He advanced to her side, placing his warm hand on her shoulder for comfort.
She recoiled away.
"Don't touch me," she squeaked.
Agnarr quickly removed his hand from his wife and stepped back to give her space. He looked out the window to the sparkling capital below, face stern, hands folded behind his back. He took a deep breath in, then out. His left eye twitched.
When I find out who took my daughter, they will only dream of death, he thought furiously.
Suddenly, thunder roared, shaking the windows.
The room then grew silent and tense; all that could be heard were Iduna's soft sobs and the steady tick of time. Agnarr gritted his teeth as he scanned his nation.
I know he's close. He has to be.
Forty miles into the expanse of land caught in Agnarr's eye, a dark secret hid in the jagged mountains that protected the capital. One could infer, but no one knew the true horrors that took place, aimed directly at Arendelle's Lost Daughter.
—
No human should be subjected to visit this dark, wet, rat-infested cellar, much less live in it. But, that night, two bodies occupied it.
"Wake up. Now." came a bone-chilling voice.
Clad in all-black, a short, fat man with a clown mask looked down at a terrified girl, shaking so violently that the chains that pinched her blood-stained wrists and hands rattled.
Battered isn't the right word. She was mangled. It would appear that she had been tossed into a den of blood-thirsty lions, which wasn't far from the truth. She was skinny and starved. Her once beautiful platinum-blonde hair was ratty and tangled because of how often she was lifted and thrown by it. Her skin of silk was now lined with purple and black bruises, harsh cuts, lashings, and nauseating brands and burns. She was gagged by a dry, dirty cloth, which made it hard to breathe.
It's been seven years since she woke up in this hell.
Elsa Asta.
Now twenty-one, even with her scars, she was undeniably beautiful. Her gentle face with the world's bluest eyes was framed by long, flowing, platinum-blonde hair that, historically, would take on a new creative, graceful styling each day. At just five-one, her fair complexion was still flawless, complementing her delicate features. She was a painting of innocence—a gentle soul with a brilliant mind, like her mother.
"Bitch," the same voice sounded, trying to get his victim's attention. He ripped her gag out quickly. She continued staring at the cracking concrete floor, the one she'd seen for years. He grew impatient.
"Are you ignoring me?!" he asked. No answer. Elsa heard nothing but a faint, muffled noise and an annoying high-pitched whirring in her head.
"You CUNT!" A kick to her head sent her flying backward, her heart rate elevating dramatically. Quickly snapping out of her exhausted trance, she directed her attention to the man.
"S-s-s-sor-sor-sorry s-s-s," her petite voice tried to finish that sentence, but she had developed a terrible stutter over the years. It made it hard for her to finish nearly any sentence because her tormentors never had the patience.
The masked man bent over her menacingly. He put his boot on her whimpering yet beautiful and pristine face. They had a hard and fast rule that anyone who played with Elsa must avoid her face. Her forced smile was pictured for each Asta's monthly ransom notes. She dreaded those pictures. She also hated the camera because she always imagined her family staring at her from the other side of the lens. She missed them more than anything in the entire world.
The masked man smirked, enjoying the rush of power he had over the frightened, defenseless woman.
"My little whore," he said with a ghastly smile, starting to feel lustful. His eyes scanned up and down her. He removed his boot and lowered his body down to her level.
He ran his hands up and down her torso. She tensed as hard as she could. She hated it when they touched her like this.
He stood up, unbuckled his trousers, and approached a folding chair in the corner of her cell. He sat down with a large, satisfied sigh.
"How about you crawl on over here? Give me my nightly attention, hmm?"
Her eyes widened, and her world halted. Near her forehead, she started to sweat profusely. She was frozen stiff.
"... P-p-p-please… n-n-no" she squeaked, starting to cry. She felt dread flood from her head to her toes.
"... Please! I d-d-don't… p-please! Please! Please, please, please, please…" she started to beg, as was routine. She hoped that with every fiber in her being, they would finally hear what she was saying, but they never did.
He didn't say anything. He just sat there with a tortuous smile, now trouserless, and flicked his lighter once, making Elsa recoil.
"Please! Please d-d-don't mm-make me d-do this a-again!" she desperately pleaded, running her hands stiffly through her lengthy hair, something she did when she was anxious.
He stopped fiddling with his lighter. The cellar grew silent.
"Why are you here? Tell me again," he asked blankly, adjusting himself.
Elsa stiffened even more. She winced at the awful question, but she had been conditioned to respond to this correctly, or she was beaten.
"I-I-I'm a c-c-criminal…!" she said, shifting her head downward toward the concrete.
Clown smirked at the forced response.
"Oh, well, that's awful! What was it that you did?" he asked, tilting his head to the side.
Silence. She began squeezing her hair so tight her knuckles turned completely white. Her whipped back began pressing into the moldy wall behind her.
"Say it." he spat, leaning forward.
She choked a giant sob, using her hand to cover her mouth. She began trembling.
"Say it!" he shouted.
With a shaking hand removed from her open mouth, trying her best to hold back a sob.
"... I-I'm a m-murderer," she barely managed to choke out.
"A… A murderer?" the man started, caked in sarcasm. "A murderer? Oh, my gosh! Who- who did you kill? Wait… wait a second! I think I know! Yeah! Wait, I have a picture here. Oh, where did I put it…" he fiddled about, trying to locate his current instrument of torture. It wasn't a whip, a hammer, or a lighter; no, it was a Polaroid.
He picked up a frayed photo from the table adjacent to the chair and quickly advanced on the trembling woman chained in the corner.
"Would it be this girl? The one in this picture? Please, please tell me it isn't! Oh, good heavens, please tell me it isn't! She looks… dead!"
Silence again, besides her reverberated whimpering. She was making an effort to keep her eyes glued to the ground. She loathed that picture more than any tool they used on her.
"Look at it. Now," Clown commanded.
Elsa tried to stay as still as possible. She didn't dare move her eyes upward. She'd rather be split in half.
He tried moving it before her eyes, but she quickly moved them elsewhere.
Suddenly, he grabbed her face with his grimy hands, sending a sharp, shooting pain to her jaw and neck. She yelped. He forced her to face the image directly, so she shut her eyes as tightly as possible.
He began to wrestle with her, trying to pry her left eye open. She mustered her last thread of strength to keep her eyes shut. Still, considering he had decided to starve her two days ago for insubordination, her ability to defend herself wasn't long for the fight. There, for the umpteenth time, she locked her left pupil to the image in the picture for the millionth time.
Her body went limp. Her heart beat violently in her head. She gasped, then came a long, heart-wrenching sob that just came out as a weak, half scream. There it was. A grainy yet discernible image of…
"Annnna!"
Anna Asta.
The image depicted the petite strawberry-blonde in a hospital bed, bloody and swollen. It would appear that the girl had been through a trauma of some sort. Without context, it certainly looked like she was as good as dead.
"Oh! Why? Why-why-why-why-why?!" she grieved. The image never got any easier to look at. As the years went on, and she noticed more and more detail in her sister's battered face, the chasm in her chest grew larger.
The masked man chucked at her anguish.
"Yes! Yes! You killed Anna! You killed her! You killed her! We all saw it! That's why The Great Agnarr sent you here to be punished, isn't that right?" He tried to make eye contact with her, but she was too busy sobbing in agony.
"Well?! Isn't that true?!" he inquired coldly.
A hard slap comes crashing on her right cheek. Elsa tumbles to the side but takes it like it's nothing. She's been hit so many times her nerves have nearly numbed to the sensation. Elsa was hit for everything. They'd hit her for speaking, pleading, crying, coughing, moving, even breathing too loud. And Elsa would then have to thank them and apologize for the frustration she caused.
"Admit it. Say you killed her." He pressed and pinned her body to the stones behind her. Elsa didn't even try to fight; she was still dealing with terrible grief.
Her sobs just continued.
"Ah, shut up! Stop that fucking crying, already!" He said, growing impatient.
The sobs grew louder.
"Are you ignoring me?!" He started to feel his blood boil.
The sobs continued, even so.
"You know what? Fuck this. I got a way to shut that weak crying right up!" he stated, moving quickly to begin his plan.
He grabbed the girl by her neck, indeed causing her cries to stop suddenly. He lifted her light body off of the ground; the only sound to be heard was her intermittent chokes and gasps. Her bloody hands tried everything in their power to grip and claw the man's hands away, but he was too strong. The grip tightened.
Elsa's entire body shot cold. Her reality became starkly intense as she looked directly into the eye holes of her tormentor's mask. Behind it, she could see the wide madman's eyes.
She wanted to apologize for frustrating him, which would calm him down if she were fortunate. But she couldn't speak. Her stuttered words turned into short gasps, and she felt utterly hopeless.
He continued to tighten his grip on her neck, beginning to smirk as he looked into her terrified eyes, begging him for mercy.
"You killed Anna Asta," he began calmly, still choking the life out of the petite woman, "Your father banished you here. Your mother despises you. No one in this world loves you. You will die here alone. But until then, you are to do anything I say when I say it. Got it?"
Elsa's wide eyes and paler-than-normal face quickly agreed.
He finally let go of her, dropping her body back to the hard ground. She squirmed and writhed on the floor, eventually leaning up against the stone wall as she violently tried to catch the sweet breath she had almost just lost forever.
She flinched and whimpered when the masked man moved any part of him.
That's how you break a bitch, he thought to himself.
The man made his way back to the chair and slumped down in it.
"Good. I trust you've learned your lesson. Now. It's time for that attention. Get over here. Crawl."
Deathly afraid of the man, Elsa reluctantly began to get to the position he wanted her to be in. The breath she just got back shook, and her entire body trembled with it. She began to crawl on all fours towards the eager man, her bruised knees numb from many hours in that position.
His heart began leaping in his chest. He started to feel a soothing, warm sensation in his lower region, anticipating the intense pleasure he was about to experience. He began to salivate and licked his lips.
Abruptly, a violent banging began to be heard.
It caused Elsa to turn her head to the source quickly. It was right beyond the left wall of her cellar. The man wasn't interested enough to take his eyes off the beautiful woman crawling towards him. Elsa has been hearing this noise often lately. And it was always during the times when the clowns were hurting and abusing her.
He immediately knew what was happening, and while it made him furious, he hoped it would just solve itself. He won't last long, he thought, not after that last beating I gave him.
"It's nothing. Now get over here. Faster! Faster! Come on!"
The banging continued, this time louder. The man's leg began to shake up and down impatiently.
A third time, the pronounced banging could not be ignored. It was distracting and frustrating to the man, and he couldn't have that, not during his fun times.
"God-fucking-dammit! Freeze." he pointed to Elsa, "You are not to move a muscle till I get back."
Elsa's body stiffened. She obliged.
"Y-y-yes, sir!" she said, remaining in the uncomfortable position as ordered.
The masked man signed, quickly stood, put his trousers back on, and began fiddling with keys as he exited Elsa's hellhole. The metal door shut hard behind him, leaving her in the pitch-black darkness, still trying to stay as still as possible. Her arms began to shake, and she had trouble holding her torso up.
What keeps happening? She thought innocently. Lately, every time the men come to hurt me, I hear that banging, and they go away!
She wasn't complaining, however. The banging usually resulted in ten to fifteen minutes of sweet mercy for her, time she would cherish till the day she died.
The rooms were soundproof. To her knowledge, only Clown and occasionally Brutus knew where she was.
But there was one more man, indeed. And he wasn't a clown. He was the first and only special operative enlisted by Agnarr actually to find their Elsa Asta. And, even upon his calculated ingress to their base, he ended up shot in his left knee, stripped of all his tools and communication devices, and thrown into the same hell in a cell adjacent to hers.
A failure, as he constantly reminded himself.
Isak Brynjar.
—