Torsten's Fetch

Eoin sprawled across a bench in the dim tavern, one boot hooked against the table leg, the other stretched carelessly out. He looked every inch the idle drunk: shirt open at the throat, unruly curls falling across his brow, a man with nowhere urgent to be and nothing urgent to do.

The truth was sharper. He had been there since before noon, nursing a steady stream of drinks. He was not quite drunk, just loose-limbed, comfortably warm, and trying very hard not to think.

He hadn’t bothered with propriety that morning. Hadn’t bothered with anything, really. Not when the day would end the same way it always did: leashed, collared, dancing to someone else's tune.

He'd spent the earlier part of the day watching spring bullocks being mustered and castrated. A grim bit of business that, but one that had, in a left-handed sort of way, given him a flicker of satisfaction. If he had to be collared and made to dance to another man's tune, at least he had been spared the knife. The thought had amused him at the time. Now, as he tipped his tankard and drained the last of his ale, it only left him feeling vaguely resigned.

A shadow fell across the table. Even before Torsten spoke, Eoin knew it was him. There was no mistaking the presence of the prince-regent. A whiff of fine soap, a whisper of fine wool, a hint of authority in the stance, and a little too much weight in the silence to be anyone else.

"Eoin."

Eoin sighed, letting his head loll back against the wall. "Your Highness," he drawled, not bothering to sit up. "To what do I owe the honour? Come to buy me another round? Or just here to remind me how gainfully employed I am in your service?"

Torsten didn't rise to the bait. He sat on the bench across from Eoin, elbows braced on the table, and studied him. "I require your service today. I want you to fetch something for me. "

Eoin drew a quick breath in through his nose, then huffed a short laugh. "Whatever could it be this time?" he asked, voice touched with mockery and fatigue. "A lost sock? Lost treasure? Secret wisdom?" He traced the edge of his tankard with a fingertip before raising his eyes to Torsten’s, "The hand of the fairest maiden in all the land?"

"Hmm." Torsten said, flicking a crumb off the table. "Not quite. My fondest desire, actually is that you find Ingbord Feyrune for me, whatever she may about today, tell her I want her, and deliver her to me at the keep. Do you think you could manage that?"

Eoin reached for his tankard, found it empty, and let it thunk back onto the table. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then let out a slow, exaggerated breath. "You want me," he said "to go roaming about town, to fetch a woman to you?" He sighed, rolling his eyes heaven-ward.

"Torsten, we know I'm your dog. Your errand boy. Your whore. Am I to assume that we have now added 'pimp' to my list of duties?"

Torsten said nothing. He quirked his mouth and let the silence stretch. He held Eoin's gaze, steady, his expression unreadable. He didn't move; he didn't blink.

Eoin felt his jaw tighten. He wasn't afraid of Torsten. But there were moments, rare ones, when the prince-regent's will pressed against him like a weight, reminding him who he was, what he was, and why he always, inevitably, did as he was told.

Torsten set a handful of coins on the table, enough to cover Eoin's drinking that morning. "It is my wish that you that deliver my magician to me. Kindly tell her that I require a Seeking. And Eoin? Tidy yourself first. Not only is the lady in question important to me, she is deserving of your respect in her own right".

Eoin sighed, tipping his head back against the wall. "Ah, yes," he muttered, lazy and insolent, but the edge of defiance had dulled. "I leap to obey."

Eoin met Torsten's eyes, something unreadable passing between them. Then, with a slow, deliberate stretch, he got to his feet, rolling his shoulders as though settling a weight. "Well, then," he muttered, raking a hand through his untidy hair. "I'd better go fetch the lady."

Eoin took his time walking back to his quarters at the keep. The cobblestones were still damp from last night's rain, and the cold spring air carried the faint, briny scent of the sea. Hints of sulfur drifted on the chilly breeze, a constant reminder of the island's inner heat and restless heart.

A few people gave him a wave or a smile of greeting, but where Eoin walked, most people averted their gaze.

Eoin's room in the keep was small but his. A place to sleep and store his things. Grumbling to himself, he shrugged off his shirt, filled the basin with water, and splashed his face, wiping away the lingering haze of ale and sleep. The water was shockingly cold, making him hiss and suck in a sharp breath. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back, then pulled on a clean dry shirt made from soft Eysian wool, leaving the laces at the neck undone, exposing his throat and a glimpse of chest. He paused, thinking perhaps to wear a jacket, but instead decided just to go and find the lady without extra care.

Finding someone in Vardvik was easy enough. The city sloped downhill from the keep to the harbor, a simple weave of streets Eoin could have walked blindfolded.

He let his feet carry him down toward the sea, trusting the same instincts that had never failed him.

Before long, he found himself standing before a small brick house, knowing — without being told — that she was inside, and that finding her would complete the first part of the prince’s errand.

Eoin stepped over the low garden fence without using the gate, draping himself against the doorframe in a pose of careful ease. One long arm stretched overhead, fingers grazing the wood, while the other rested lightly at his hip.

Then the door opened, and something inside him lurched. He had seen her before, of course. Many times. From across the court, at Torsten's side, building and restoring things in and around Vardvik with quiet authority. She was no stranger to his sight. But this was the first time he stood before her. The first time her gaze landed on him directly, settling like the weight of a hand against his chest. It was only two people meeting at a doorway, and yet his pulse skittered against his ribs.

He should have spoken first. A quip, a smirk, some easy, forgettable charm to set the tone. He had the words ready, but they died in his throat. Unwilling he found he was tracing her shape in a slow, five-fold study. Eyes, lips, breasts, belly, feet.

She met his gaze first, cool and frank. But it wasn't her eyes that held him. It wasn't her body, not exactly. It was the weight of her, the quiet force of her existence, the way she filled the space between them with something impossible to name. Her gaze dragged down him, slow and deliberate, measuring and unhurried. From the tousled mess of his curls to the undone laces of his shirt, to the hint of dirt on his boots—she took him in as though cataloging him.

He had done the same to her. Was still doing the same to her.

To Eoin's senses, she smelled like silver-cold and bright. She breathed like spring, like the movement of a thaw after a long winter. And under it all, he swore he could taste the dawn, fleeting and fresh, gone before he could grasp it.

He took a step back, a breath. And then, simply-

"Ingbord Feyrune."

"Eoin Brocker," she said at last, her voice smooth. "Relatively sober, and at my door. Your reputation precedes you."

She paused, just enough to make him feel it. "You clean up well."

The words were neutral — light, even — but there was something in her tone, some quiet amusement that unsettled him. Eoin forced himself to move, just a fraction. He let out a long, exaggerated breath, as if bored, as if she hadn't just stolen the air from his lungs. Then he tilted his head, let his mouth curve into a lazy smirk.

"Torsten's orders," he drawled.

Her eyes flicked over his boots. "Not completely."

"Can't be helped." He leaned back against the doorframe. "Urgent orders. He wants you."

She arched a brow. "Funny," she said slowly. "I might have said the same about you."

He managed to keep his expression from shifting. He could feel the words, sharp at the back of his throat, but if he answered too quickly, too sharply, it would mean something.

Instead, he huffed a quiet breath, something deliberately rueful, and shook his head. "Not like that," he said, letting the words settle, casual, easy. "You're summoned. I'm to bring you to the keep. He wants you in your capacity as Magician. Something-something about Seeking."

She watched him, unreadable.

"And he sent you, to tell me that?"

Eoin exhaled, slipping back into the lazy defiance that served him so well. "I am indeed his errand boy," he said, offering a lopsided, mocking bow. "When Torsten commands, I must deliver." He kept the smile on his face. That much, at least, was still his to give.

She tilted her head, considering. Then, with a nod, stepped back from the door.

"Step inside then, Eoin. Its chilly out and you're hardly dressed for it. I'll be a moment to collect my things."

Eoin hesitated.

It was just a house. Just a doorway, a small step from the street to the stone floor inside. And yet — something in him stirred. A flicker of something old and restless brushed along his neck. A prickle, sharp enough to freeze him for a breath.

Then she turned away, and the moment broke.

He stepped inside.

Ingbord moved through the space without hesitation, crossing to a table where a knife and foodstuffs lay, evidence of a lunch interrupted. She tidied with quick, precise motions, then pulled a satchel from a hook, tucking a few small packets inside.

"Hand me my cape, would you?" She huffed softly as she cast one last glance around the room, ensuring everything was in order. "Pity I'll miss lunch. Do you suppose Torsten will feed me at the keep?"

Eoin lifted her short cape and slung it gallantly around her shoulders, setting it just so.

"I imagine," he said with great solemnity, "that Torsten is willing to give you anything you desire that is within his power to grant." His lips quirked. "Including supper. He does keep a decent table."

He hoisted her satchel for her, gestured toward the door, and let her pass first.

Ingbord crossed the room, pulling up short on the threshold and turned back to pluck a small vial from one of the shelves, and uncorked it. The liquid inside was dark and thick. She tipped it back, swallowed, and grimaced.

Eoin watched, unimpressed. "What was that?"

"A precaution."

"Against?"

She smiled, but didn't answer. Instead, she grabbed her belt from the back of a chair, fastened it around her waist, and adjusted the small knife that hung from it.

"Come along, then," she said, recrossing to the door. "Let's not keep our prince waiting."

Eoin offered his arm as they stepped from Ingbord's house, the gesture almost courtly, though his slouched posture spoiled any real pretense of nobility.

She hesitated. Just long enough for him to feel it, then rested her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow. His warmth bled through the fine wool of his shirt, and she noted — without much thought — that he ran warmer than most men.

Eoin said nothing, only fell into easy step beside her, letting her lead the way.

The streets of Vardvik wound steeply uphill toward the keep, the kind of climb that made a person mindful of their breath — better suited to walking than talking.

Ingbord had made this climb countless times in all seasons, but something about this walk felt different. At first, she enjoyed the crisp spring air, the scent of salt and sulfur on the wind, the way the light softened the stone buildings.

A woman shifted aside without looking at her. A passerby glanced away. No greetings. No acknowledgment. Not avoidance — absence.

She pressed her lips together but said nothing. Perhaps it was Eoin's reputation. He was Torsten's creature, after all, and everyone knew it. If they averted their eyes, it was probably for their own comfort. Maybe it was easier not to see him.

Or maybe not. There was something about Eoin’s presence. Something that made the air feel thinner, and the world around them less real.

She glanced at him, but he only walked quietly beside her, unhurried, as if nothing at all were wrong.

The climb to the keep was steady, the pathway curving up the rocky incline. Eysa's keep was a functional thing-built for necessity, not grandeur. There were no towering wooden gates, no spired turrets. Just thick stone walls, a stronghold that had stood against the wind and sea for generations.

As they neared the gate, Ingbord let her hand slip from Eoin's arm, straightening slightly. If he noticed, he said nothing.

A boy stood at the door, too young to be a proper guard, but old enough, barely, to bear a sword at his hip. He had the wary, watchful air of someone eager to prove himself. His gaze lit briefly when it landed on Ingbord before shifting to Eoin.

"State your business," the boy blurted, a little too loudly, as though rehearsing courage he wasn't sure he needed.

"Ingbord Feyrune," she said levelly. "Here to see the prince-regent."

Eoin gave a lazy salute. "And Eoin Brocker — but I imagine you don't need telling that."

The boy’s eyes darted between them again. He dipped his head slightly to Ingbord. The boy's gaze flicked to Eoin, unreadable. Then, after a heartbeat too long, he stepped aside. "Magician. Brocker. You're expected."

Eoin grinned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "That we are."

The boy pushed the doors open and they stepped inside to the dim corridor beyond. The air inside was warmer, scented with traces of damp and sulfur where the sea wind, and the volcano's breath moved through unseen cracks.

Eoin led the way without hesitation, his pace unhurried but purposeful. He knew this place as intimately as he knew the man waiting for them-every turn, every stair, every draft that whispered through the halls. Ingbord followed, her own steps certain. Neither was she a stranger to these halls, having spent many hours in Torsten's company here.

They passed the lesser chambers, the larger hall where Torsten held court in his uncle's name, and the rooms where Eysa's business was conducted daily, an ongoing dance of too little wealth and too much need. Here, the keep's heartbeat quieted, the hum. of voices thinning until there was just the muffled sound of their footsteps against stone.

Torsten's rooms were near the top of the keep, past the old guard station and behind a heavy iron-bound door. There were no guards stationed outside, no servants lingering in the corridor. Eoin stopped before it, pressing his palm flat against the wood, fingers briefly splayed as though feeling for something. He glanced back toward Ingbord; his expression unreadable in the dimness.

"I'll be loitering just outside," he said, voice low and casual. "If you find the man inside lacking... well” — a flash of white teeth in the dimness — “you’ve only to call out for me.”

He rapped smartly, then pushed the door open, stepping aside for Ingbord to enter ahead of him.