Eat, Drink and Die Singing
Eoin tipped his tankard, watching the amber liquid swirl before draining the last mouthful. The pub was dim inside, with bright patches of sunlight spilling in through the open door and windows. A cool breeze mingled with the warmth of the volcano's breath, wheezing through the large vent on the back wall. It was, all things considered, a rather pleasant place to drink oneself into oblivion.
He lifted his empty tankard along with his eyebrows, casting a hopeful look toward Jorunn. She answered by setting a fresh one down in front of him with a faint sniff.
"You'll eat something before I bring you another," she said.
Eoin lifted the tankard and took a slow, deliberate sip, making a show of savoring it. "I didn't know I had a mother in you, Jorunn."
"You don't," she said, but without any real malice. "You'd have better manners if you did."
Eoin huffed a laugh, but it was hollow. Jorunn didn't linger. She had better things to do than watch him drink himself into a stupor. When she returned a while later, setting a plate of steamed crab cakes down in front of him, the fresh tankard was already half-empty, and Eoin was staring emptily into the distance.
"Eat." She nudged him with her ample hip.
Eoin blinked at her, bleary-eyed, and obediently ate a crab cake. "My thanks," he murmured, slurring only slightly. "These are... delicious."
Jorunn's broad backside retreated, and Eoin watched with only dim interest before lowering his head onto his folded arms and closing his eyes.
Fucking Eysians.
An Eysian could go his whole life without knowing a day's hunger. And if he did, all he had to do was mention it, and his fellow Eysians would trip over themselves escorting him to the nearest hearth and table—or just as likely, pull chunks of bread, cheese, or dried meat out of their pockets and thrust them into his hands.
The whole forsaken island was covered in grass. Grass, grass, and more fucking grass as far as the eye could see. A man's eyeballs would practically fall out of his head in surprise if they happened to land on a tree. And the sheep—endless, shaggy, stupid sheep, except where there were cows. Big, fat, dumb cows. With horns. Not that they had any use for horns. Eysa didn't have anything bigger than a fox to trouble them.
More than once, Eoin had seen Eysian herders singing to the cows. Singing. Their music was terrible, their songs were worse—long-winded, nasal epics of seafaring and battle, of raiding and adventure. As if they had any ships. As if they had any swords. They didn't even have enough metal at hand to construct a still.
It was possible to get properly drunk on Eysa. But you really had to apply yourself to the task. Downing tankard after tankard of their piss-weak ale.
Eysians had no fucking ships. Just tatty little reed boats they used for fishing or visiting other islands to—what else? —eat, drink their weak ale, and sing their horrible songs together.
They had all the food, all the wool, all the clothes and songs a man could ever want.
So long as that was all a man ever wanted.
Fucking Eysians.
An Eysian could go his whole life happily thinking his shirt was wondrous fine, his house wondrous warm, his wife wondrous cheerful, and his belly wondrous full, right up until the day he died.
Other men might boast about the strength of their arm or the length of their prick—at least giving a man an opening to best him at wresting, or to seduce his wife. But an Eysian? He would boast about how succulent his roasted lamb was, or how fine his shirt was, or how tender his crab cakes were. And then—inevitably—he would insist that you eat the lamb, taste the crab cakes, wear the shirt. And damn it all, the lamb would be succulent, the crab cakes would be delicious, and the second-best shirt he lent you would be warm and fine and soft as silk.
They lived their lives herding, farming, spinning, weaving, tailoring, fishing, cutting reeds, weaving boats, carving vents for their volcano, cooking, sharing, and singing. Until—inevitably—they died, and the rest of them would gather to sing their wretchedly long, nasal funeral songs and then hurl the body into their precious fucking volcano. And then—sadly gather for the inevitable feast.
Fifteen long, dull, pointless years. During which, Eoin was certain he had seduced every seducible woman in Vardvik, and half the seducible men. If he wanted any novelty at all, he'd have to cast his net further afield, outside the city—maybe even outside Eysa itself.
As if. Hoping to get off the island was pointless. He wasn't getting free of Eysa. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in seventy years. He took another slow pull from his tankard, swallowed, and let his forehead drop against the worn wood of the table with a dull thud.
He wished he had never heard of Ingbord Feyrune. Four long years he'd heard about her. Four long years of Torsten pining, of Torsten speaking her name with a quiet, aching reverence. Four years of listening to him go on and on about the strength of her heart, the magic in her breath, the comfort of her love. How he could gladly bear the weight of Eysa's crown if only Ingbord could be his queen. Ingbord, apparently, floated like a swan on the surface Torsten's every waking thought.
And damn it, Eoin had listened. He should have tuned it out. Should have let the boy spill his longing into the dark and not let it settle inside him. But he had listened, hadn't he? And hadn't he gone and half fallen in love with her before he even laid eyes on her?
Eoin was bound to Torsten as surely as if by key and collar. That was a weight Eoin had made uneasy peace with. But Ingbord? Ingbord was new layer of misery entirely. He wished to hell and back again that he'd never met her.
And now? Now that he had? She had struck chords in his heart and rang them like bells. She tasted of a new dawn, stirred the breath of spring in his chest, and left the bright tang of cold silver hanging on his senses. He wanted her with a gnawing, aching hunger he could not shake.
She was Eysa, right down to the marrow of her bones, down to the blood she used to fuel her magic. If she floated on Torsten's waking thoughts like a swan, then in his dreams, she must swim like a -
Eoin set the tankard down with a resigned sigh.
Like a siren.
Eoin had been wrecked on Eysa's rocks once before. And now, with awful certainty he knew he was about to be wrecked again.