CHAPTER 98: RETURN TO AILECH

The air in Ailech was crisp with the first breath of spring, but the warmth of the crowd made it feel like midsummer.

Flags and pennants rippled from the wooden palisades, bright against the blue sky. The streets were lined three-deep with cheering folk, their voices tumbling together into a single roar.

Hermes followed the tide of people, the smell of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and damp rushes mingling in the air.

He scanned the crowd out of habit, catching glimpses of traders, children perched on their fathers’ shoulders, and a few cloaked figures standing back from the main throng

At the head of the procession rode Glasán, taller now in presence if not much in height.

Over the four or five months since Hermes last saw him, he had put on some muscle, his shoulders broader under his blue-dyed léine. But the boyish tilt to his smile remained, a softer contrast to the warrior’s set of his jaw.

Glasán waved with easy confidence to those who called his name. "Slán go fóill, Máire! Aye, I’ll visit your field when I can!"

The women’s eyes followed him, some shy behind their hands, others bold in their admiration.

Men cheered him too, the pride in their voices the kind given to a champion who turns the tide of fortune.

Hermes’ steps slowed as the horses drew near.

Over the winter, he had found himself more often in the stables than he might have admitted.

One horse in particular had claimed a corner of his thoughts: a black beast with a streak of trouble in his eyes, named Meirleach, "thief" in the tongue of Ériu.

"Still stealing the oats, I see." Hermes muttered as the horse flicked an ear his way.

It was hard not to think of Xolotl when Meirleach tossed his head in mock defiance.

He missed that stubborn dog. Hell, he even missed the three Grrberus pups with their bizarre theories about mating and the way they had once gleefully thrown his phone into a lake.

But he knew they would be safe in another time. He had left them in the care of his kindly old neighbour, and Dante Quasar had promised they would return to their own time once the task here was done.

Still, the thought of time’s fragile weave lingered.

One letter from Glasán came to mind:

[If you ever go missing, Heimon, I will drag you back even if it means fighting the sea itself.]

Hermes had laughed when he read it, but now, hearing the crowd call Glasán’s name, the words landed differently.

"Hermes!"

Somner burst through the crowd and pulled him into a tight hug.

"Missed you, brat," Hermes said.

"Same. Where’s Apple and Aphrodite?"

"They’ll be here soon," Hermes replied. "They’ve been off pestering the locals about this cave. You know how they get."

Somner grinned. "Aye, I’ve been telling Glasán all about our trips. Did you read his last letter?"

"I did. Something about how the sea smells sharper near Dún na nGall, and that he thinks the Northmen look like goats."

Somner laughed. "He’s not wrong."

The procession wound its way up to the fortress. Glasán was already dismounted and deep in conversation with his family.

His father, Tadhg mac Ailill, stood tall beside a noblewoman with the composed bearing of someone born to power... His stepmother, niece to a tribal leader.

Even though Ireland was mostly Catholic at this time due to Roman influence, multiple marriages were still practiced. And so two more wives lingered nearby, each with children in tow.

Hermes counted the faces of many half-siblings, most of them beaming at Glasán with sudden warmth.

Hermes remembered one of Glasán’s first letters.

[When I was a boy, they’d not look at me unless they spit a word that cut. My father would treat me as if I was a stain on his shirt. His wife would treat me as if I was a changeling....]

No wonder Glasán did not seem to look forward to seeing them again.

But he did smile genuinely for one person. A girl of twelve, eyes bright with mischief, threw her arms around Glasán and then smacked his arm for good measure.

"Muirenn." Somner said under his breath.

"You never write enough," she accused, though the way she clung to him betrayed how much she had missed him.

"I’ve been a bit busy keeping the Northmen out of our fields," Glasán replied.

It was then his gaze lifted...

And found Hermes.

The crowd’s noise seemed to dull for a moment. They closed the distance without words, the months of separation heavy between them despite how little time they had truly spent together.

Hermes felt the longing in Glasán’s arms when they embraced.

In one letter, Glasán had written.

[When I think of the night by the sea, I remember not the cold, but the warmth of you standing beside me...]

Now, hearing his breath close by, Hermes understood.

"Good to see you, Heimon," Glasán murmured.

"You too," Hermes said.

Muirenn’s voice cut in with a wicked grin. "Are you going to let go of him, or will I have to fetch the priest?"

They broke apart, both a little flushed, but there was no mistaking the look in Glasán’s eyes.

Before more could be said, the High King’s voice rang out.

"Ridire na Mara!"

Glasán smiled at them apologetically. "I better be off. Come join us inside for the feast, everyone."

Inside, the scent of roasted boar and spiced ale hung thick. The banners of the High King’s household draped from the rafters, and the long tables groaned under the weight of bread, cheese, and honey-glazed fowl.

The banquet began in a roar of voices and clatter of cups. Musicians struck up a tune, and the people laughed freely, celebrating the turning of the tide.

One-third of the Norse invaders were driven back in a single winter. That was a huge feat that could never be accomplished by anyone else, especially with how the invasion had been going on for almost a century now.

Hermes caught a flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, but the music and the press of dancers pulled his attention away.

When the High King rose to introduce Glasán, the cheering nearly shook the beams.

Glasán stepped forward. "I would like to dedicate this toast to the people of Eiru. It is not just I that you should praise, but all those who lay their lives to defend our land..."

Hermes’s hand tensed around his cup. The cloaked men were at the front now, slipping through the gaps in the guard.

Then, he caught their thoughts using Mindbloom!

"Knapinn á hafinu skal deyja!"

Hermes knew enough Old Norse to understand that they wanted someone dead. And with them being Norse, it only meant one thing...

"Glasán!" Hermes shouted.

The hoods fell back, and the glint of steel flashed in the torchlight.

Before Glasán could even turn, Hermes was moving...

Shoving himself into the path of the first blade!

The cold bite of steel drove into his stomach. Gasps rippled through the hall as the world tilted.

"Heimon!"

As his vision clouded, Hermes could see Glasán coming to his side with tears in his eyes.

"Stay with me, Heimon!" Glasán’s voice cracked, his hands already pressing against the wound.

First there was deep sadness, as if he was already grieving. Then...

There was only rage.

He turned to the hooded figures and uttered one word.

"Die."