Chapter 88: Glasán
"How d’ye even know that’s him?" Hermes asked, still squinting at the pale-haired lad across the barracks.
Somner gave him a look like the answer was painted on the wall. "Blond hair and green eyes, Master. Ye could count the men like that in all Ireland on one hand, so ye could."
Hermes folded his arms. "That’s it? The hair and eyes?"
"That, and me equivalent back in your time was made to be his cousin. Not exactly subtle, is it?" Somner’s grin widened. "But there’s a bigger give-away. His mam. Rumour has it she was a merrow."
Hermes blinked. "A what now?"
"Merrow. Sea-person. Lives under the waves, sings poor lads to their deaths, that sort o’ thing."
Somner leaned closer, dropping his voice like he was passing along a ghost story. "They say his da was fair entranced by her voice. And though he was wed, he kept slippin’ away to see her until there were two children between them. Fionnghlas... and his sister, Muirenn."
Hermes’ mind flicked instantly to the Siren Knight history he knew from the tour at the Somner Estate. "Muirenn..."
"Aye. The very one who met her end later on." Somner caught himself, eyeing Apple nearby. "Though me kin never did tell how she died."
Across the room, Glasán sat with his back straight, polishing the straps of his vambraces with neat, careful strokes. Even in the dim barracks light, his build was finer than the other lads’, his fingers long and delicate, his movements near dainty for a soldier’s life.
"Dainty like a lass," Somner murmured, watching him. "That’s what they call him. And an illegitimate son to boot. The lads never let him forget it. Mock him for his absent mam, ask if she’s still swimmin’ somewhere in the deeps."
Hermes frowned. "Charming."
A voice cut through the room... deep and mocking. Dubhán, the smith’s son, stood over Glasán, his broad shadow swallowing the boy’s light.
"What’s the matter with ye, little green?" Dubhán jeered. "Yer mam not comin’ to watch ye fight? Maybe she’s still out in the sea, so she is."
"She was human," Glasán said sharply, not looking up from his work. "And she’s passed. Mockin’ the dead is evil."
Dubhán snorted. "Evil, is it? Think yerself holy now?"
His boot nudged Glasán’s knee, hard. "What’s evil is pretendin’ ye belong here. Go on—call yer merrow mammy to guard ye."
The bench scraped. Dubhán’s fist knotted in Glasán’s tunic, yanking him upright. The smaller lad’s boots barely brushed the rush-strewn floor.
Hermes stepped forward before he’d even thought about it. "Let him go."
Dubhán froze, eyes flicking to Hermes. Sirentone laced the words—not deliberate, just natural, the way it had since Apple drained Somner’s blood and hauled him into this time.
Slowly, Dubhán’s grip loosened. Glasán dropped back onto the bench, still glaring.
"No one’s impressed by you picking on someone half your size," Hermes said evenly.
Dubhán’s mouth curled, but he stomped off to the weapon racks.
Glasán straightened his tunic, looking up at Hermes. "Ta, lad. Who’d ye say ye were?"
"Heimon," Hermes said smoothly, sliding into the cover Dante had set up. "Stable boy. Friend of your cousin, Somhairle."
Glasán’s face lit up at the name. "Ah, it’s me kin!"
He tipped his head toward Somner, who grinned like he’d planned the whole meeting.
Hermes continued with the introductions: "This is me twin, Ailbe..."
Apple inclined his head coolly.
"...And our friend Aifric."
Aphrodite gave a polite bow.
Glasán’s eyes caught on Apple’s mismatched gaze, unease flickering there. Apple stared back in silence.
"Grand to meet ye, Ailbe and... Aifric?" Glasán said, glancing at Aphrodite. "That’s... a lass’ name, so?"
Aphrodite didn’t look up from his leather booklet. "And?"
"Well, I just thought—" Glasán shrugged. "Maybe yer kin were protectin’ ye from the fair folk. It’s done often enough. Give a child a name the other way ’round or call them something ugly so the fae’ll pass them by."
"Maybe they were." Aphrodite said mildly, still writing.
Hermes was about to edge the talk toward Glasán’s mam, just a wee prod...
When a sharp blast of a horn split the air.
Every man in the barracks froze.
A second call followed, long and urgent.
"Vikings." Somner said, already striding for the door.
The room burst into motion. Spears snatched from racks, helmets shoved over curls and braids, mail shirts clinking. Boots thudded on packed earth, prayers muttered under the noise.
Hermes followed, the cold wind slapping him full in the face as they spilled outside.
Beyond the palisade, the grey sea churned white under the prows of incoming longships. Low, sleek shadows, sails taut with the wind.
On the shore, the High King’s men braced in ranks, shields locked in a wall, spears jutting like a hedgehog’s spines. Orders snapped sharp over the wind.
They marched as one to the tide line, the wet sand clinging to their boots.
The Vikings splashed ashore in a ragged, roaring wave, steel glinting under the pale sun.
Hermes shoved Aphrodite toward shelter. "Stay back. If any get through, we’ll handle it."
Aphrodite gave him a dry look. "I’ll try not to get murdered."
Apple stepped up beside Hermes, scanning the enemy like a wolf eyeing prey.
Glasán was in the front, his pale hair stark against his dun tunic. His shield wavered as arrows whipped past, thunking into sand or flesh. Twice he stumbled as blows rattled down his arm.
Dubhán fought nearby, grinning with each swing.
Then the lines crashed.
The noise was instant—wood against wood, iron scraping, the sick thud of steel in flesh.
Glasán ducked a swing, his shield catching the worst of it, but an arrow hissed close enough to shear a strand of hair. He flinched, barely blocking the next strike.
Somner, on the other hand, was yawning. He moved like he was in a practice yard, stepping past attacks, flicking his blade just so to drop foes to the sand.
Hermes kept half his attention on Aphrodite’s spot, cutting down any Viking who slipped through. Apple was beside him, commanding enemies to turn their blades on themselves or tearing into their throats.
The Irish line wavered. The Vikings pressed harder.
A spear jabbed through, nicking Glasán’s arm. He hissed, stumbled back.
Another raider lunged at him.
Glasán’s sword came up too late—
And then the man just...
Stopped.
Not from fear, nor from a wound.
It was because of Glasán, breath dragging in deep.
"STOP!"
The word cracked like a whip over the shore.
Everything halted. The Vikings, the Irish, even the wind seemed to hush.
Blades froze mid-swing, feet mid-step. Only the tide moved, and the gulls wheeled overhead.
Hermes felt it in his bones. The pull, the resonance, the world itself holding still for that perfect note.
Beside him, Apple’s lips curved in something not quite a smile.
Glasán stood at the center of it all, chest heaving, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.