Starke let the fires burn on the hearths a long moment. Then he replied.
"They went back into the sea, Faolan."
Faolan's fingers fell emptily. "Yes," he said, heavily. "They had to go back, didn't they? They couldn't stay, could they? Not even for one night of food on the table, and wine in the mouth, and women in the deep warm furs before the hearth. Not even for one toast." He turned. "A drink, Romna. A drink for everyone."
Romna gave him a full cup. He dropped it, fell down to his knees, clawed at his breasts. "My heart!"
"Rann, you sea-devil!"
Starke held her instantly by the throat. He put pressure on the small raging pulses on either side of her snow-white neck. "Let him go, Rann!" More pressure. "Let him go!" Faolan grunted. Starke held her until her white face was dirty and strange with death.
It seemed like an hour later when he released her. She fell softly and did not move. She wouldn't move again.
Starke turned slowly to look at Faolan.
"You saw, didn't you, Faolan?" he said.
Faolan nodded blindly, weakly. He roused himself from the floor, groping. "I saw. For a moment, I saw everything. And Gods! but it made good seeing! Here, Hugh-Starke-Called-Conan, give this other side of me something to lean on."