[ That voice, he recognized that voice, the nuance of it; he'd heard it for the past 30.. 40 years? He'd heard it every single moment of every single day, the last thing he had remembered was.. burying Eliot. But he was here, in this strange place. There was the sound of water splashing all around him as he struggled to adjust to the dim light of this forest pool, the fireflies that danced around it in wonderment.
And Quentin Coldwater, cutting through the crystal waters with hair plastered to his head and looking perhaps like the most inelegant guy who'd ever had the opportunity of gracing these waters.
He was not the most graceful sort, in fact his entire swimming repertoire was more like a dog-paddle then anything else, eager and excited. Perhaps the voice was but a dream, a dream of wishful longing, answering to something unspoken. Gods, what a siren song this was. If he was swimming toward his death and was a siren singing so, then he'd follow it. ]
El? Eliot?
[ His breath caught with a breathlessness, not wanting to hope too much and yet giving way to it all the same. What a shoddy merman he'd make, but gods that did not matter, did it? ]
Bout to get hotter--
And Quentin Coldwater, cutting through the crystal waters with hair plastered to his head and looking perhaps like the most inelegant guy who'd ever had the opportunity of gracing these waters.
He was not the most graceful sort, in fact his entire swimming repertoire was more like a dog-paddle then anything else, eager and excited. Perhaps the voice was but a dream, a dream of wishful longing, answering to something unspoken. Gods, what a siren song this was. If he was swimming toward his death and was a siren singing so, then he'd follow it. ]
El? Eliot?
[ His breath caught with a breathlessness, not wanting to hope too much and yet giving way to it all the same. What a shoddy merman he'd make, but gods that did not matter, did it? ]