at first, his glimpse had been quick. too quick. until his something — his mind or intuition he could not be sure — forces his steps to halt. his head whips 'round to stare at the wet mound upon the bank. perhaps not unreasonable, given that he himself was drenched from the evening rains ... but something keeps him still. holding him prisoner; invisible chains wrapping 'round his legs, 'round his muzzle.

he forces himself to take a breath.

it is like forcing himself to see his own awakening here.

but unlike him does not appear to be wrenching saltwater. no, she rises, he watches. issi ao sȳrī? (are you well?) asks the siren prince in his native tongue, breaking his silence with a small clear of his throat, though he does not approach — in a manner that is very anti-hero. did you wake here? he asks, changing his question as he speaks in the rough common tongue.