He touched Apple's sleeve and murmured, "Come. We must speak, and alone."
Apple tilted his head, then followed.
Hermes frowned. "What was that about?"
No answer came. They were gone into the dark.
Left alone with Glasán, Hermes turned and asked, "How did you slip from the High King's side? Surely he would drag you back to raise another cup in your honour."
Glasán chuckled, the sound easing the weight of the night. "I told him I would breathe the sea air awhile. He waved me off, too drunk on victory to protest. Come with me, Heimon. Let us walk the coast."
So they walked together, the sea's breath on their cheeks, the sand soft beneath their boots. They spoke of winter gone by, of letters written and read. Hermes found himself smiling simply to hear Glasán's voice, steady and near, no ink between them, only the same air shared.
"It is beautiful," Hermes thought aloud. "To be here, to hear you speak with my own ears again. Letters are fine, but this."
