[That voice. Or more succinctly, certain elements of it. It cannot be helped, not really, yet his mind's eye cannot help but fixate upon a particular instance. An instance far removed from this place, in this moment... Yet it fixates nonetheless.

The dead have no power over me. You will be silent- as silent as the grave!

A terrible memory.
...So very, very terrible.

The colour of Hermes' soul is the same as the one from that scene. Yet it is purer. Gentler- prettier, actually. Less marred by time, by tragedy, by madness, and by such unfathomable sorrow- yet it is hardly pure. No colour ever was.

Well. He thinks to himself. Enough of that. He turns.]

...

[He takes a moment. A single moment to take the measure of the man before him with his peripheral, before he slips into what is natural. A practised, easy smile graces his features as he regards the ghost, honestly before him- feigned coyness prevalent in his tone.]

Well! Given that we are a far stretch from where such articles signify the proper courtesy- not to mention social conventions here appear quite different- I imagined that the best thing to do was to show willingness.

[And. Far more importantly, he takes a few steps closer- away from the altar. And.]

It has been a while, my friend.

[Because that's what they are... or were.]