The waves lapped at their bare feet. The tide whispered against the shore, pulling in and out with a rhythm that was neither morning nor night. The sky above the dream was painted in shades of indigo and violet, stars dissolving into saltwater mist.
Hermes stood at the edge of this world, his eyes meeting Glasán's, the only other figure who seemed solid against the haze.
"When are you leaving?" Glasán's voice carried over the sound of the sea, not in the cadence of his Irish tongue, but in Hermes' own modern English.
Irish has a beauty of its own, but the words slid too smoothly.
Hermes hesitated. "... Soon. We're just trying to solve the mystery of how your sister turned into a merrow."
Glasán's hands hung loose at his sides, but his jaw was tight. "There's so many things I do not understand. But what I do know is that… you're leaving. Right when I just decided to throw away my chances of becoming king."
