AT THE HELM [Bloody Flank plot]

Gidal grunted recognition after Ansgar spoke. Ansgar's value had never been in question; his oldest son, his strongest, Ansgar remembered pieces of the old world. He'd seen the place the Bloody Flanks were fighting for. He remembered the suffering that had created Ghosthold. His loyalties were bone-deep, and Gidal regretted that Vidar had not taken after his elder brother more in that way.

It was his fault, Gidal realized. "I made a mistake, sending Vidar south," he admitted, his steady voice not betraying how strange it felt to acknowledge his fault. "He's too young. He doesn't have enough of Onea in him." His red eyes jumped to Ansgar with startling suddenness. "He doesn't have your perspective." And lately, he didn't have Gidal's trust, either.

"I need you to make the next journey for supplies. Take whoever you need." Ansgar's crew were inseparable from him, Gidal knew, but maybe there were one or two real raiders in the circus troupe Vidar had aboard the Trespasser. The rest of the details could wait.

"I've decided to keep Vidar here, continue his training." Get him married to that girl he'd killed Ingmar for. Settle him down. A return to their way of life would cool Vidar's blood, remind him what they were there to protect. Make him more like Ansgar.

Gidal hoped.

The plan would only work if Astrid wasn't there to serve as his constant distraction. Vidar could drown entire days in his sister's company, a waste of precious hours with nothing accomplished. Thankfully, Astrid had her purpose too. Her beauty and inherent gentleness made her an attractive bride, and her prospects had only been improved by her skills as an herbalist and the quality of her breeding. The chance at bearing Necromancer sons --like her grandfather and brother-- was an exciting addition to any dowry.

Ualda had found her an advantageous match. Astrid's husband-to-be was a shipmaker, a master carpenter whose rural clan had promised a powerful alliance. Their business had been crippled by taxes passed down from the warlord; they were vocal in their support of the Bloody Flanks' future reign, but Gidal wasn't ready to count on them until the deal was done. The arrangement would be finalised the next day. The shipmaker had been in town for days, maintaining the aging Guardian. He would marry Astrid in the morning. They would be on their way to his homestead by afternoon.

Now they just had to tell the bride.

"I asked Astrid to meet us here," Gidal said, after a pause so long it seemed almost as if he'd forgotten Ansgar was there. She would hear the news now, get her crying out of the way, pack her things and prepare. Gidal imagined she would be angry at the short notice. She probably would want more time to primp and preen for the ceremony, but time was exactly what they didn't have. The Trespasser could return any day, and she had to be gone by then.

Gidal watched Ansgar's face. He seemed unhappy. Gidal sighed, understanding his frustration. "We will fix this. There's time. I... trusted Vidar before he was ready. I should have trusted you."

A summonings from Gidal was not an event Astrid cherished. She surmised that the nervous knot in her stomach was one of the few things Gidal’s many children would consider relatable, if nothing else. Their father was the personification of effortless intimidation, and Astrid treasured every moment she was free of his presence. He was her father, and to that end Astrid loved him, but she had not liked the man for a single day.

The summons had come at an inopportune moment - she’d been on the dock, her station when she could slip away from the scrutinizing stare of her mother. Eyes up, trained on the horizon, she watched for a sign that was blackened and saw-toothed. Prying herself from the pier was as painful as peeling away a scab; she bled for every moment spent away. But the closer she drew to their meeting place, Astrid became less concerned with the dock, and more concerned with what the patriarch had to say.

If he was angry with her for shirking her duties, that would be fine. It was a scolding she had weathered before, and a scolding she would weather again. His cold disappointment was scathing, but Astrid had learned precisely how long to lay low before the line could be toed again. Yes - that would be fine. But what if that wasn’t it? There was only one way to look at Gosslyn’s presence within Ghosthold, and that was ‘a liability’. Astrid had managed to keep her safe from inevitable consequence thusfar, but it was precisely that - inevitable. The gray mare was Forged down to her bones, and that loyalty would kill her in the end. Still, Astrid had hoped there would be more time.

There was always so much time, too much, between the voyages and the aimless years that scraped over her skin, and yet when she needed it time was never in ample supply.

She shook the thought from her head. If Gidal wished to see Gosslyn dead, he wouldn’t dignify the decision with a discussion. It was high time to get a grip - before, at least, her father saw the anxiety written on her face. At the beckoning of her telekinesis, the door creaked open, and Astrid’s eyes fell upon the formidable silhouette of her father… and Ansgar.

Her throat tightened at the myriad of implications, and her greeting left her like a ghost. “Father. Ansgar.”


post 1 | 406 words

Gidal’s greeting was always a test for her composure, requiring a tighter leash than the one he held. The implication of ownership stung as hot as the branding iron; Astrid wanted to lurch away from it, as though avoiding his touch would avoid his authority. It was silly and instinctual. Holding her breath, Astrid remained still.

“Fritjolf?” She repeated, floundering for a face to put to the name. The men fed at her father’s table were rarely worth interest. Where her brother sought the unusual and fantastic, Gidal chose to surround himself with like-minded allies who spoke of the same tired ideals. “Oh- yes.”

Astrid remembered Fritjolf, now. Not so much his face, or even the words he spoke, but she remembered his gaze. It had followed her throughout the evening, and although his interest had felt neither lecherous nor threatening, Astrid could distinctly recall how his eyes made her spine itch. Uncomfortable was a good word for it. “I can’t say. We shared only a few words.”

Abruptly the itch was back, tingling at the back of her throat. Astrid swallowed. The sensation lingered. Why was Gidal asking?

Red eyes swept to Ansgar, studying his expression. A part of her assumed that the intentions behind this meeting would be easier to discern with him than through the veil of her father’s mastered apathy, but like Gidal, Ansgar’s gaze revealed nothing useful.

Her attention pivoted back to Gidal with a noticeable twitch.

There was an obvious assumption in the air, one that made Astrid’s stomach turn. She could avoid it no more adeptly than she could avoid her father’s greeting.

“Why?”


post 2  | 276 words