Sacrament of Bodies

"HELLO ISRAFEL." Her voice was a running river.

Distant. Echoed. Pure. Spelling.

'Have I heard this before?' Rafel thought. '—I must have. I could never forget voice like hers.

It was a gentle music to listen to her talk. When she called his name, it sounded like water pouring in a mug. Rafel didn't discern what part of the kingdom her accent came from. Perhaps, it was from all the parts. The Elder faerie in front of him: this glorious woman; she sounded Rocasian and Tyrene, Rhobiil and Corynthian.

And the furthest languages of the [Nine Realms] he could think of.

The massive perv in him almost begged her call his name again.

"How are you feeling, son of the Abyss? It takes a while for the eyes to adjust, for those not from here. You may feel a bit of fatigue and nausea. But," she purred, "it'll pass."

Rafel was still hooked on her first words to him.

"You know my name?"