Council of Six

Ragnar

Ragnar swam down the Hall of Admirals, looking at each picture in detail, his icy eyes searching all of the previous admirals'. He stopped at the picture of Admiral Annika. She had only been sixteen.
If she can do it, then so can I.
Then again, she killed herself.
Ragnar sighed heavily at his own picture, brushing his blond hair off of his forehead. He looked young, his face pulled into a nervous stare, that made him look more frightened than stoic. He quickly left, thinking that he should start packing. The Council was to be held in Cerulea, because most of the people who would come were near there.
And then there's the twenty- year-old admiral nobody takes seriously.
He entered his new bedroom, feeling slightly alone. He missed his punk rock posters, his wrinkled, balled up athletic wear stuffed everywhere where the servants wouldn't see. The pictures he had, of him and Astrid doing this, him and Kolfinn doing that. The walls of his new one were waiting for military medals, and certificates and prizes. The closet was waiting for stuffy jackets and hats. There were no stereos, headphones. There was silence, and a sharp white light, echoing harshly from a bare bulb. He packed a few jackets, a small antique dagger that he pulled cruelly off the wall, and at the bottom, pictures of the person he could never be with.  He zipped his suitcase shut, and handed it off to his servant. He stood for a while just watching the door, when a knock sounded from the other side.