CHAPTER 99: SIREN AND THE BEAST

"Stand down."

The raiders froze, caught mid-swing, as though the breath had been stolen from their lungs. The torchlight gleamed in Glasán’s eyes, his voice carrying the weight of the tide and the pull of the deep.

"You there," he said to a bearded man with a dented helm, "take the roasting spit from the hearth. Push it through your belly."

The man obeyed without hesitation, staggering to the firepit. He seized the long iron spit, still heavy with a half-roasted haunch of venison, and drove it upward beneath his ribs. The meat and his entrails slid together onto the rush-strewn floor. He pitched forward into the embers, sending sparks into the air.

Another raider bared his teeth. Glasán’s voice lashed him. "Tear the brooch from your brat and drive it into your eye."

The man fumbled for the great bronze penannular brooch fastening his heavy cloak, yanked it free, and plunged the pin deep into his own skull. He crumpled, his eye dangling on a shred of sinew.

"Break the feast board. Use the splinters to cut your throats."

Three men rammed their shoulders into the oak trestle table. It split with a splintering crack, spilling platters of boiled pork, oatcakes, and bowls of ale onto the floor. They each took jagged shards of timber and sawed them across their own necks. Blood spattered the bread trenchers and seeped into the butter.

"Ye with the tiompán," Glasán pointed at another, "smash it. Force the frame between his teeth."

The raider obeyed, shattering the small harp-like instrument over his knee, then jamming the broken, string-bound frame into his comrade’s mouth until his jaw split. The dying man’s scream came out as a tuneless, plucked chord.

A youth with tangled hair shook where he stood. Glasán’s tone turned colder than the winter sea. "Lift the cauldron. Wear it for a helm."

The boy staggered to the great bronze coire over the fire, gripped the handles, and overturned it onto his head.

Boiling mutton stew hissed against his skin, the stench of cooking flesh choking the hall. He rolled and writhed, steam rising from him in white plumes.

"Take the sconces from the walls. Burn your own hearts."

Four men pulled the burning staves from the iron brackets, pressing the fire to their chests. Wool tunics caught at once, flames dancing up to their hair.

The sound of their skin blistering rose above the clamor, mingled with the reek of scorched fat.

One last raider, blood flecking his beard, locked eyes with Glasán in stubborn hate. The Siren Knight’s voice did not waver. "Kiss the stone pillar until your skull breaks."

The man lurched forward, smashing his face against the carved sandstone pillar that bore the roof’s weight.

Once. Twice. The third blow shattered bone, his head leaving a wet smear as he slid to the ground.

Still not satisfied, Glasán turned toward two who yet stood breathing. "Plunge your seaxes into each other’s guts. Twist until you feel the point scrape the spine."

The men obeyed, burying their blades into one another. They twisted, ripping through gut and gristle, until both sagged to the floor, their lifeblood pooling beneath them.

The hall was chaos now. Harpers had dropped their instruments. Poets clutched their tablets, staring in mute horror. The High King’s bodyguards shoved through the benches, dragging their ruler toward the doors.

Áed Findliath fought them, laughing like a drunken god, his voice booming over the screams. "Let him sing! Let the Ridire na Mara sing them into the grave!"

"AHHHHHHH!!!"

A serving girl shrieked as a dying Norseman, still choking on a mouthful of bread from before the attack, crawled toward her before expiring.

Blood had splattered across the gold-inlaid drinking horns, staining them like war trophies. Dogs crept along the walls, whining with their tails between their legs, licking at the spilled stew mingled with gore.

One by one, the Norse fell silent. Their bodies lay sprawled among overturned benches and shattered cups, the rushes sodden with blood. The scent of venison fat mixed with the iron tang of death, filling every corner of the hall.

The Siren Knight stood in the middle of it all, breathing hard, his gaze still fixed like a spear point.

It was into this chaos that Apple and Aphrodite entered.

Aphrodite stopped dead in the doorway. He did not scream, but his breath stuttered in his chest. His hands came up to shield his eyes from the sight of the man in the corner slamming his head into the wall again and again until his skull split like a dropped melon.

Apple watched with rapt attention. His pupils narrowed. His chest rose with a slow, steady rhythm, as if matching the beats of each violent act. To him, there was beauty here. A raw, wild power that demanded respect.

And he began to see Glasán not as just a source of power but.... a potential partner. The way animals were attracted to strength when searching for a mate.

Somner had no interest in the slaughter. He was already at Hermes’ side, hands pressing desperately against the gaping wound in his stomach.

"Help! For the love of the saints, someone help!"

Aphrodite flinched at the sound and grabbed Apple’s shoulder. "Enough. Heal him."

Apple blinked once, crouching beside Hermes. Blood soaked the floor beneath them, pooling like dark wine. Hermes’ eyes fluttered open just enough to meet Apple’s... and he saw himself staring back. The same face, the same jawline—but stripped of compassion.

Then Apple changed. His skin bled away into white, gold lines like cuts of light splitting across a skull-like face. His ribs opened into a hollow circle, within which the golden hands of a clock ticked backwards.

Hermes knew him. Knew this shape from another time—the day he saved a child from Anti-Threat protesters.

Glasán’s last command rang out. "Bash your head on the King’s table until the wood breaks." The raider obeyed, teeth shattering, before slumping to the ground.

Then Glasán turned... and saw the creature crouched over Hermes.

"Back away, spirit!" Glasán snatched his claidheamh from the table, blade glinting in torchlight.

"It’s alright!" Somner called. "That’s Ailbe. He’s healing Heimon!"

Glasán’s eyes narrowed. "Ailbe... is he of the Aos Sí?"

Aphrodite, breathless, nodded. "Aye. Of the other side."

To those of this age, the Aos Sí were the people of the mounds. The fae folk, older than the mortal race, dwelling in the hollow hills and unseen places. Spirits of beauty and terror both.

Glasán sheathed his blade and dropped to Hermes’ side, taking his hand. "If you have the gift of the mounds, Ailbe, I beg you. Use it now."

For the first time, something shifted in Apple’s faceless form. Not cold calculation. Not curiosity. Sorrow.

Here was the man who had commanded death without blinking... begging him to save the life of the softer self he could never be.

And Apple felt it. Not the imitation of sadness he had studied in others... but the real thing.

The clock-hands turned faster. The wound closed as if rewinding through time. The blade slid out without a drop of blood. Colour returned to Hermes’ cheeks. His breathing steadied.

Hermes opened his eyes.

Glasán caught him in a fierce embrace. "By the gods, you’re safe."

Then his lips were on Hermes’, fierce and grateful, the din of the hall forgotten.

Somner fell on them next, wrapping his arms around both. Aphrodite followed, silent but trembling with relief.

Apple shifted back to his human form. He had Hermes’ face exactly... except for one blue eye and one shimmering, iridescent one.

But one of them was loved by all, while the other was not.