anticipation

Gusts of wind rolled over Ghosthold, tangling the ragged red banners and buffeting any horse standing by the sea. Alcippe, a sentinel on the water's edge, held vigil as supplies were gathered and packed beneath the Trespasser's deck. Innately drawn to brewing storms, the wind eddied about her. The salt it had plucked from the waves scraped at the broken scabs on her still-healing face. It stung, it bit, but she welcomed the feeling. Foreplay from a lover she had yet to take to bed—the pain of it was exciting in itself.



She could have bandaged them away, hidden beneath gauze to temper the way others glanced at them. Astrid had gently patched them over, binding them away while Alcippe bided her time, waiting for a response. Waiting for an unavoidable rescue. She'd stripped it to the skin the day of the duel, bearing the still raw wounds as a rebuke. Astrid had warned, worriedly, that they were likely to scar without proper care, but Alcippe had left them to the air to heal. She didn't owe it to anyone to make their view of her easier.



Here, on the shore, she waited. Suddenly, the concept of time passing at its normal pace was untenable, now that tomorrow promised something different, something new. She was patient, she had always been, but the seconds grating by made her soul raw. The ship lay just offshore and Alcippe found a mirror for her yearning in the furled sails and the strained anchor rope. Vidar was promising new ports with every day that went by and intellectually she knew this time was necessary—but they both just wanted to be gone. To be free.