[This post is from Thom’s point of view.]
“I can go,” Kellin offered again. Thom winced.
“No,” he said. “Don’t go and no, you’re right, Mar, it’s not nothing.” He sighed, fingers going still against Lin’s hair. His son squirmed a little in Marin’s arms and he watched as the infant looked around, trying to look up to see who or what had touched his head. A lump grew in Thom’s throat, threatening to choke him further.
God.
“Thom?”
He exhaled and shook his head slightly. “I just—their memories sometimes.”
Marin’s brows knit. “Who—oh. Oh.”
He swallowed hard again, nodding slightly. “Atlantis,” he said.
Kellin chewed her lip. “You have memories of it.”
“Not of someone who’s been there,” Thom said, reaching up with a wince to rub at his temple. “But someone who knew a bit too much about it, yeah.” He sighed quietly. “There was a moment I saw just a few minutes ago, a memory that wasn’t—well. Wasn’t mine.”
“Finn?” Marin asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.
He nodded, feeling chilled to the bone despite his fever. “He was worried—scared for her. Afraid she’d been there when it went. He saw it. Felt it.”
Marin eased closer to him and he closed his eyes again, sighing.
“So the stories are true,” Kellin whispered. “It did sink.”
“Something happened,” Thom said. “Some kind of explosion. Something.”
Kellin nodded almost convulsively, then exhaled quietly, swallowing hard again. “That—I’ve heard that before. It makes sense. Gods. This is hard.”
“But somehow it’s still out there,” Marin whispered. “And some survived. Ériu was from Atlantis.”
A shiver shot through Thom and his lips thinned. “That’s true,” he said quietly. “She was. Maybe Jay can—”
“Maybe she’ll talk to you herself,” Marin said, sliding an arm around Thom. “It might happen.”
“Maybe,” Kellin said, then shook her head again. “Atlantis.”
Thom’s stomach felt hollow. “Yes,” he whispered. “Atlantis.”
And all the trouble she brings. What the hell does it mean? What are we going to do?
He didn’t know.
