The tavern smelled of smoke, sweat, and beer.
It was packed shoulder to shoulder with Irishmen who had seen death that day and decided to spit in its face with as much drink as they could pour down their throats.
Tables creaked under the weight of mugs and tankards. The fire in the stone hearth was roaring, throwing gold light across flushed faces. Somebody had started a reel on the pipes in the corner; half the men clapped along, half just shouted over it.
And right in the middle of it all sat Glasán. The hero of the day.
Every few minutes, someone leaned over, slapped him on the back, and demanded, "Come on now, lad! Tell us how ye done it! Was it Saint Brendan himself put the voice in ye?"
"God smote the Northmen through yer mouth, eh?"
And Glasán, grinning like a cat in the dairy, would only take another swig and say, "Sure, maybe so. Maybe it’s God’s own hand, eh? Punishin’ the pagans for their wicked ways."
That earned loud cheers, thumps on the table, and more drink shoved his way.
Hermes leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded. That last line stuck in his teeth like a fishbone.
Ireland might be Christian now, but it hadn’t been so long ago that they were pagan Celts themselves. In another lifetime, the same men singing psalms tonight would’ve been calling on the Dagda or Lugh for the same victory.
He murmured to Apple, "They talk like they’ve always been Christian. But a few hundred years back, their own gods were different. Makes you think."
Apple swirled his drink lazily, eyes half-lidded. "Mayhaps it’s not belief they’re clingin’ to. Mayhaps it’s power. Same as always with your kind."
Hermes glanced at him. "My kind?"
"The human race." Apple tilted his head, studying the crowd with the vague curiosity of someone inspecting ants. "If one god gives you more swords than another, you kneel to him instead. Simple."
Hermes considered it. He’d never been raised in any religion — his village had no temples, no priests. And in a world where monsters from the Void roamed freely, the idea of fighting over which god was real seemed... petty.
But Apple’s take had a bite of truth to it.
Before Hermes could reply, Aphrodite spoke up, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I... think I’ll wait outside. It’s a bit much in here."
Hermes turned to him. "You’ll be alright?"
Aphrodite smiled faintly. "I’ll be fine. I just... don’t do well with this sort of noise."
Hermes weighed it for a moment. The tavern was loud, rowdy, and half-drunk soldiers weren’t always gentle with strangers — especially ones who looked like Aphrodite.
"Apple," Hermes said, "you’re going with him. Keep watch. And behave. Or I’ll make good on my promise to kill you."
Apple only tilted his head, almost amused. "I’ve no reason to harm him. I already have Mindbloom. And I’m full."
Hermes froze for a fraction of a second. That phrasing unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite name. But Apple was already helping Aphrodite toward the door, looking for all the world like a lazy housecat.
Inside, the celebration raged on. Hermes threaded his way through the crush toward the long table where Glasán was holding court.
Somner intercepted him halfway there, cheeks flushed from drink, moving in time to a jig the fiddler had taken up. "Heimon! Ye’ve to dance! Come on now!"
Hermes smiled but shook his head. "Not right now. I need to speak to your great-great-grandfather."
Somner pouted in mock injury. "Always business with ye. But fine. Go on, ask him about his great sea voice."
Then his expression softened, and in a quieter tone he added, "Still... thank you. For going through all this trouble for me."
Hermes’s reply was simple. He cupped the side of Somner’s head and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead.
"You’ve always been there when I needed you. I want you happy too, Som. You spend so much of your life thinking about other people’s joy, you forget your own."
Somner’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes. "Go on, then."
Hermes reached Glasán’s table to find most of its occupants slumped over in various states of drunken ruin.
Even the ceannaire — the warband leader, somewhere between a captain and a chieftain — was face-down on the bench, snoring into a puddle of ale.
Glasán alone was upright, though his cheeks were pink and his grin lopsided. His empty tankard sat beside a neat row of others. Nine in total. Apparently, he’d outdrunk every man here despite being the smallest in the room.
"Impressive," Hermes said as he slid into the bench beside him. ""Grand work today. "Never seen a fight end that quick. Congratulations, Ridire na Mara."
Glasán tipped an imaginary crown on his head. "Ah, sure, it was nothin’. God put the wind in me voice, that’s all. Smittin’ all those Northmen."
Hermes leaned in slightly. "Funny. I heard folk say some things about your ma."
Glasán’s eyes narrowed, though not in anger — more like a man deciding how interesting this conversation could become. "Oh? And what rumor’s that?"
"They say your ma was a merrow. Sea-woman. That true?"
Glasán’s smile curved a little. "And if she was, what of it?"
Hermes shrugged, keeping his tone casual. "Then maybe that explains today."
The young man laughed. Loud, sudden...
And leaned a bit closer, his elbow resting against Hermes’s arm.
"You’re not from these parts, so?"
Glasán then leaned forward, grin turning sly. "Then why d’ye want to know about my ma, stranger?"
Hermes kept his expression mild. "Curiosity."
The young man reached out and laid a hand on Hermes’ forearm.
His touch was warm, lingering. "Yer after gettin’ awful curious about me, lad. I don’t need to be no merrow’s son for you to find me interestin’."
Hermes missed the implication entirely; his mind was on his real question. "So. Was she?"
Glasán raised his brows, leaning back. "I’ll tell ye straight, you’re a bold one, so you are."
He lifted a hand to signal the barkeep. "Tell you what. We’ve a drink here... uisce na bais... the water of death. Strongest thing you’ll find in this village. If you can put it away and keep your eyes open after, I’ll tell you all about my mam."
Hermes frowned. "I’ve never drunk before."
Glasán grinned with the same feline, bratty energy as Somner. "All the better."
And before Hermes could change his mind, a clay jug and a cup was slammed down on the table between them.
"Sláinte." Glasán said, pouring some on the cup and tossing it down his hatch in one gulp.
He handed the cup to Hermes.
Hermes followed suit. The burn was instant, like swallowing fire and smoke. His eyes watered, and he had to force himself not to cough. Glasán grinned, pouring another.
Hermes had no idea what kind of trouble he’d just signed up for.