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[h2]Gedda Salmundsen[/h2]
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As Åse and the women danced around the roaring blaze and the other men filled their bellies and quenched their thirst, Gedda sat and nursed a cup of wine. He had dressed the pig with clumsy hands, refusing to ask Segrim for any more guidance. Luckily, the meat had emerged unspoiled, even if Gedda had found the experience almost as harrowing as the long, sleepless nights stuck in a boat with exiles, outlaws, and Christians. After enough mead, it seemed that none of the young men could tell the difference between a well-butchered pig and a poorly-finished one. Gedda surmised that, if he had made like his friends and drank himself halfway into a stupor, he wouldn’t be able to tell either. Yet Gedda could not have been less interested in the revels, for an all-too-familiar sense of foreboding was descending over him like a net weighted with stones. Long years spent peering over his shoulder had taught him wariness. Now, though, there was no one with whom he shared whispers in the night—only strangers who laughed, their tongues loosened by drink, and forgot their troubles far more easily than Gedda could forget his. 

He was watching the shadows dance, taking different shapes as they flickered over the ground like wicked, form-changing Loki. Now, there was a coward among cowards; no man would ever be as infamous as he who quite literally became a mare. Gedda was just beginning to drift off into his thoughts when the man next to him elbowed him in the ribs. 

“What do you think?” It was Abiorn, one of his friends among the young men who had once served Erik. He was not more than a few years older than Gedda, but the beard that framed his grin was already shaggy and speckled with the same ale that stank on his breath. 

Gedda flinched away, clutching his cup close to his chest. “Think of what, Abbi?”

“Her.” Setting a hand on Gedda’s shoulder, Abiorn pointed into the crowd. There, serving wine to a boisterous group of Norsemen, was a young woman—almost certainly enslaved, he noted, from the look of her shorn head. “She’s not so ugly, for a thrall.” When Gedda didn’t say anything in return, Abiorn glanced back towards him. His eyes were blown dark, black as a bull’s. “What do you think?”

Gedda quickly looked back to the girl to satisfy his friend’s interest. Yet where Abiorn felt desire, he only felt pity; his stomach tightened at the sight of her.

As Gedda sat in silence, Abiorn’s brow wrinkled with a frown. “Well? What do you think?” 

Though he wanted to tear his gaze away, Gedda scrutinized her in the hope that Abiorn wouldn’t ask any more of him. “She looks thin,” he said softly, his gaze flitting over her birdlike, frail limbs. Below the shorn crop of her hair, her cheeks were thin; dark shadows lingered beneath her frightened eyes. “And young, more like a child than a woman.” He turned to face his friend. “Abbi,” he sighed, “are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Of course!” Abiorn barked. “Do you doubt me?”

“No,” Gedda lied, offering the drunken man a wan smile. “You’ve just been drinking quite a lot.” He lifted his own cup to his lips. 

Abiorn’s voice swelled with thunderous anger. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He lunged, moving to clutch at Gedda’s cloak as the younger man rose to his feet. Yet the ale burning in his veins had made him sluggish; he missed, reaching past Gedda’s arm. Then, with strength belied by his slim stature, Gedda seized Abiorn’s shoulder and pushed his friend away. 

“Don’t choke on your mead,” Gedda said, turning swiftly on his heel and stalking off into the gloom. Abiorn had been too drunk to pursue him.

Weaving between men dizzy from mead and wine, Gedda moved to warm himself by another fire. As the flames burned bright as a cat’s eye in the dark; he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Then the broad shadow of Kjartan loomed over him as Erik’s brother approached with an offer.
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Later that night, Gedda lay awake, grasping for the respite of sleep only for it to evade him like an eel slipping from his grasp. With each heave of his chest, the warmth of his breath turned to mist in the cold air. He missed the fire’s heat, but the light only illuminated what he sought to hide and the crackle and susurrant hiss of the flames were too alike to the murmured words of a friend.

When Kjartan had proposed the voyage west, Gedda had bitten his tongue in a vain attempt to hide his enthusiasm. He had offered his former lord’s brother a measured nod and his loyalty, at least for a time. It was easy to say that he was eager for a chance at adventure and word-fame, the taste of the salt air and perhaps a piece of land to call his own. Yes, he had said, he was young—not too old to find a bride—but the blood that still ran quick and hot in his veins demanded more than a domestic life of fishing and farming, more to chase than laughing children. His story had painted over the shame that spurred him to accept Kjartan’s offer, yet his lies had still cradled a seed of truth: a voyage west was just what Gedda needed.

Hearing of whom he would travel with did not shake Gedda’s resolve, though he had his doubts. Segrim the Black was a fierce warrior whose past meant little to Gedda given his own shame. He had made something admirable of himself; it was telling that their companions asked so little of his past. Tosti, too, was stalwart and well-tested in battle. He knew little of the twin sisters, but chose not to pry just as he chose to give Einar a wide berth lest the berserker’s rage turn upon him, for he had seen Einar glowering and knew not to cross him. Yet his thoughts always wandered to Åse. She was to be his future lord, he reminded himself, yet surely she would be beset from all sides by rivals who doubted a female lord’s strength. There would be a throng of greedy suitors, too, lured by the chance to steal what was hers. Gedda shook his head at the thought; nothing interested him less. Doubt whispered in his ear, reminding him of Kjartan. Would the very man who had trusted Gedda enough to recruit him have less-than-brotherly intentions with Åse? Were the looks they shared more than that of brother and sister? [i]If that is true,[/i] he mused to himself, [I]it seems that on every shore some taboos are more acceptably broken than others.[/i]

Groaning, Gedda clutched at his head. [i]Perhaps I should have had more wine[/i], he thought, staring into the empty dark. [i]Maybe I could make like Abbi and drink myself to sleep.[/i]