The High King and his Redguard companion stopped in front of Torin, and the latter smiled warmly at the sight of him—a genuine expression, full of genuine warmth, the kind of smile that made you feel like you were meeting a long-lost brother.
In Torin's mind, that warm smile was nothing short of an evil grin. An omen of endless trouble to come. It was the harbinger of sleepless nights and endless headaches. He could already feel the migraine forming behind his eyes, the familiar ache that came from dealing with someone who didn't know when to shut up.
His eyes twitched as he greeted Torygg with a slight bow—just enough to be respectful, not enough to seem servile.
"Your Highness." His gaze shifted to the Redguard, and he groaned. "And I see you've brought company."
Torygg alternated his gaze between Torin and Qasim, his brow furrowing slightly.
"You two were acquainted? I wasn't aware." He nodded, a pleased expression crossing his face. "No matter. It's a good thing, since you'll be working together."
Torin barely resisted the urge to facepalm with enough force to peel a layer of skin. He could feel the headache already building, the familiar pressure behind his eyes that came from dealing with people who didn't know when to stop talking.
"Isn't there somewhere else you can put Qasim's... talents to better use?" He pointed at the Redguard. "Preferably as far away from me as possible. Maybe in Castle Dour's deepest, darkest dungeon?"
Qasim blinked, his expression genuinely confused.
"And what would I do there?"
Torin scoffed, crossing his arms.
"I don't know. Preach to the prisoners or something." He gestured vaguely. "You'll either reform them with your tiresome speeches, or—more likely—make them gouge out their own eyes just to distract themselves from the pain of listening to your ramblings. Either way, they won't be a problem anymore."
Qasim looked thoughtful, as if he were actually considering the suggestion.
"That's... not entirely outside the realm of possibility. The power of faith can be—"
"I'm just kidding." Torin's voice was flat. "They'll probably just bash their heads against the walls and die as soon as you open your mouth."
Qasim was still looking confused by the joke, his brow furrowed as if he was genuinely trying to work out whether Torin had been serious about the dungeon idea.
Torygg, however, was already laughing—a warm, genuine sound that carried across the pier.
"And you seem to know each other well," he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "That will make things easier."
He clasped his hands behind his back, his expression shifting to something more serious.
"Qasim here is a warrior of renown himself. He's proven himself capable of adapting to foreign lands with unfamiliar people and customs, a warrior who faced threats that would make lesser men weep."
He gave Torin a meaningful look. "And with how much is at stake—the alliance, the reputation of Skyrim, the future of our relations with the Bretons—I'm sure they'll appreciate his presence alongside yours."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
"Don't you think?"
Torin shot a glare at Torygg. The High King just stared back at him with an expectant smile, his eyes bright, his expression unreadable. He was playing stupid—pretending not to notice Torin's obvious reluctance, pretending that this was just a simple matter of two warriors working together.
Finally, Torin nodded. Very reluctantly. The motion felt like it cost him something, like he was conceding ground he'd never intended to give up.
High king my ass, he mused resentfully. More like high scoundrel. He's even playing stupid. He knows exactly what he's doing, and he's enjoying every second of it.
With a sigh, he spoke.
"Bragi is already on board. The supplies are loaded, the entourage is ready, and the crew is waiting for the order to set sail. We're ready to go whenever you give the word."
King Torygg offered a nod, his expression warm.
"Don't let me keep you, then. Be on your way, and bring glory to our ancestral home." He reached out and gave Torin's shoulder a heavy pat—the kind of pat that carried weight, the kind that said this matters. "We're all counting on you."
With that, he turned around and began to walk away. A couple of guards emerged from the crowd to escort him, their hands resting on their swords, their eyes scanning the crowd with the practiced vigilance of men who had been doing this for years.
Torin watched him disappear into the crowd, then turned back to Qasim.
The Redguard was still smiling, that same patient, knowing smile that had annoyed Torin since the moment they'd first met.
"Shall we?" He gestured toward the ship with one hand, the broken blade on his hip glinting in the pale sunlight.
Torin just groaned and headed toward the ship, Echo padding silently beside him. He could hear Qasim's footsteps behind him, steady and unhurried, and he knew the man was still smiling.
This is going to be a long trip, he thought. A very long trip.
...
Two days later. The Snow Gale was bustling with activity as the sailors checked the ship's rigging while adjusting the sails to meet the shifting winds. The sea stretched out in every direction, a vast expanse of grey-green water that seemed to go on forever.
Gulls wheeled overhead, crying out in their harsh, familiar voices, and the salt spray carried the promise of distant shores.
Bragi stood on the deck of the ship, his gaze fixed on the ship's bow. At the very end of it, Qasim stood, his hands clasped behind his back as he peered into the horizon. The whistling wind fluttered his robes, and his hair streamed behind him like a banner.
He looked like something out of a painting—a warrior-poet contemplating the mysteries of the sea.
The skald was brought out of his daze by the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. He turned to see Torin approaching with a distasteful look on his face.
"Look at him," Torin said, nodding toward the bow. "Standing there like he's waiting for someone to draw him."
Bragi raised a brow and turned back to Qasim, giving him another once-over. The Redguard hadn't moved, his posture still perfectly composed, his gaze still fixed on the horizon.
"Now that you mention it..." Bragi tilted his head. "It does seem like he's posing. Like he knows exactly how he looks and is trying to look even better."
He smiled bitterly.
"Is he the attention-loving type?"
Torin sighed and shook his head.
"No.... no, he isn't." He clicked his tongue. "And that makes it even worse. If he were just some glory-hound, I could dismiss him. Ignore him. But he genuinely doesn't care what people think of him. He just naturally draws both admiration and trouble in equal measure." He crossed his arms. "Sort of like a curse."
Bragi let out a thoughtful hum.
"And here I thought you'd jump at the chance to badmouth him."
Torin's face instantly darkened. He turned to glare at Bragi, his eyes narrowing.
"What do I look like to you? A gossiping fishwife?"
Bragi raised his hands in surrender, a small smile playing at his lips.
"I meant no offense. It's just that you've never hidden your distaste for the man. Even to his face." He paused. "I thought you'd enjoy the opportunity to vent."
Torin's glare softened—just a fraction. He let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders dropping slightly as the tension bled out of him.
"A man is not his flaws," he said quietly. "A man is not the opinion others form of him based on said flaws either."
He turned back toward the ship's railing, his gaze settling on Qasim's still figure at the bow. The Redguard hadn't moved, hadn't turned, hadn't acknowledged their conversation. He just stood there, robes fluttering in the wind, sword at his hip, staring at the horizon like it owed him answers.
"Unfortunately," Torin added, "his flaws don't sit well with me. In my eyes, they are too large to see what hides beyond them." He shook his head. "And that's my flaw. Not his."
Bragi was silent for a long moment. The wind whistled through the rigging, and somewhere below deck, a sailor was singing a shanty in a voice that was more enthusiasm than skill.
"That's..." Bragi started, then paused, searching for the right words. "That's surprisingly self-aware. For a man who once broke a mountain."
Torin let out a short, humorless laugh.
"And that is my curse. Unfortunately, self-awareness doesn't always make you better. It just makes you more aware of how much you're failing."
He turned away from the railing, away from Qasim, away from the horizon that stretched on forever.
"I'm going below deck to check on Echo. If anyone needs me, tell them to need someone else."
He walked away, his boots heavy on the wooden planks, leaving Bragi standing alone at the railing.
Bragi watched him go, then turned back to Qasim. The Redguard still hadn't moved.
Interesting pair, the skald thought. Very interesting.
...
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