Chapter Text
I begin to sing of rich-haired Demeter, awful goddess- of her and her trim-ankled daughter whom Aidoneus rapt away, given to him by all-seeing Zeus the loud-thunderer.
-Homeric hymn to Demeter
A youth, small and plucky, makes his way through the streets of Delphi. He slips through crowds at the theatre as though gifted with flight, ignores the fragrant smells of the marketplace, and keeps running, unnoticed by most. He intends to walk the Sacred Way, to see the Pythia.
His chiton flaps behind him as he runs, but he can’t be bothered to care. He sees a young woman with too many children and not enough support, and makes a note to himself. For now, he does not stop. The fleet-footed boy runs faster to the temple.
There’s nothing that a young god loves more, after all, than the promise of a good story.
The Pythia sits in darkness, although she can feel the fumes of the warm, poorly ventilated room wafting about, shrouding her face. She can’t hate her job, not when she’s been offered this second chance by the Keeper of Souls himself.
But the next time she has to tell a young lord off for picking a fight with a lord of the neighbouring city, or do her best to convince that same young lord that democracy is a good thing and should be extended to the women, she might just throw in the olive branch. And would it really be a bad idea to crack open the door once in awhile, just to air out the room?
Her thoughts are roughly jilted to a stop when she feels it.
She’s about to have some interesting company, and she grins, itching for his arrival.
The plucky youngster is stopped before he can enter the gates to the temple.
“Have you any business, here?” One of the adults who stepped in his way asks.
“I must see the Pythia, sir.”
The man, older, and draped in purple, chuckles, before flicking his thumb over his shoulder, drawing attention to the line behind him. “You’ll have to wait your turn, I’m afraid, young man. And where is your father? Surely you can’t be the man of your house, if you can’t even wear a long chiton.”
The boy smiles brightly at the rude old man, running a hand through his hair and sticking his hand out. “I am the man of my house! And it’s a pretty important house, if I do say so myself!”
The older man entertains the boy, sticking his own hand out to clasp in greeting. The little boy notices how his bangles and rings reflect light. “And what house would that be, child?” He asks.
The boy allows himself to grow taller and more radiant, revealing some of his godly aura to shock the crowd into submission. He barely holds back a smug grin when the man whose hand he’d been clasping shoots backwards, scrabbling away from him, fingers finding purchase in the dirt and grass underneath him.
“The house of Hermes, sir. I’ll let myself in.”
And he does, making sure to toss the rings and bangles behind him, using some of his godly powers to ensure they land at the feet of the young woman he saw earlier.
Trickster gods may be fickle, but they’re bound to their promises.
The Pythia rises from her stool and makes to bow when she hears light footsteps, before remembering that she’s alone, in a dark room, and her visitor could never see her.
“There’s really no need to bow, Maureen.” A voice calls to her. It’s high pitched, but occasionally dips low. It’s him. Her prophecy was right.
“Hello, Lord Hermes.” She greets, awkwardly.
“Angus.” He corrects, quickly. “It’s easier if you just call me Angus.”
“That… works.” She says, slowly. “So... Angus.”
“Yes?”
“How do- Can- May I help you with anything?”
She hears Angus’ wide grin when he speaks again. “You already know what I’m here for.”
“I thought it was worth asking."
"So you'll tell me the story?"
"I will. I do have one question, though. Before we begin.”
“What’s up?”
“You-” She cuts herself off. Past sins or not, it’s still risky business to insult a god.
“Maureen?”
“You were there, weren’t you? You know exactly how this plays out. Why are you here, asking me for my account of what happened? I’m not about to deny a God his request, but couldn’t you have just gone to the theatre for this?”
She hears soft chuckling from the other side.
“Let's call it curiosity. I just want to compare notes.”
“You plan to tell the Keeper of Souls and his love, the Bringer of Spring, exactly how I, the Pythia, have butchered their story.” She says, flatly.
By the stammering on the other side, she's right. No prophecy needed.
"You're lucky I'm already part of his realm, Lord Hermes. Surely I would be struck dead again if I did not tell a flattering tale."
"It's Angus." The voice on the other side repeats. "And I really don't think that they'd care that much, you know? Gods, godly duties, everything else? Smiting an already dead oracle seems like a waste of their time. I assure you, I know even more embarrassing tales than you."
“Oh?” She asks, running a finger along the side of her stool. "You challenge someone blessed for prophecy by Apollo?"
"If that's what it'll take to hear your side of the story." He replies cheekily.
The oracle sighs. Baited into telling the tale by this plucky young god.
“Oh glorious, bright Apollo, grant me the vision to this story.” She begins, the start of a hymn. “Oh muses, weave me a tale that will entertain a God.”
"I saw seven birds."