Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eternity was an existence that started with inevitability.

The open maw to the afterlife was constantly welcoming. An ongoing influx of silence and patience. All queued and waiting for an individual eternity that had been accepted. Death was unavoidable, inescapable. To be mortal was to die. And to die meant to be washed up at Charon’s shores.

Each pass of the oar slid silken smooth through the river Styx with a near silent precision. The gentle pull of water and the quiet dip as Charon nestled his oar back under the surface. Eager eyes stared hungrily from the dock, long since forgotten what hunger actually was. They waited on their ferryman, hoping he would take pity and spirit them away to their everlasting afterlife.

Charon was in no rush to acquiesce.

He kept his head down and watched the near still waters ripple in his wake. A skeletal face stared back up at him, glowing and seeping mist. The riverman, the guardian of the barrier that separated the living from the dead, stared back up at him, mimicking the plume that seeped between his teeth. A haunting figure to be sure, but a welcoming one at the same time. A relief to all those who lined up at his gate.

The darkness and night enveloped him, made him what he was. A fixture in that unending place, irreplaceable in his role. There long before mankind was a thought and there long after they were completed.

Charon was eternal. Charon was inevitable.

He pulled his oar out of the water and rested the end against the base of his skiff. His boat glided gently to a stop, a preternatural descent until it bumped gently against the wood of the dock. It stilled in the mirror surface of the water, not needing ropes to keep it in place. No mere fisherman or chartered captain, Charon was the original sailor.

He didn’t step off his boat but instead glided, not under the power of flight. In that dank underworld, there was no need for such things. A plume of darkness trailed behind him as he did so, an unintended effect that only enhanced his already well imposing presence.

A slew of deep set eyes devoid of the light of life stared up at Charon. The shades shuffled back, making room for their ferryman. The crowd acted as one, operating on unspoken instructions that were known deep in the core of their mortal souls.

Charon scanned over the sea of open faces. Slowly, he extended his hand, palm open and expecting.

One by one, the crowd of shades moved. Coins that had been placed in their hands, over their eyes, in bags at their sides, coins that the living provided the dead to pay their fare. They slipped into Charon’s outstretched palm, allowing access to his services. Cold dead brushed past him like a shiver and stepped aboard the skiff that spanned infinity.

One such shade shuffled up to Charon’s feet. In death, the mortals all looked the same. Kings, warriors, concubines, interchangeable in Charon’s eyes. All of them paupers and tramps below his steely gaze. This one such tramp looked up, hands folding one over the other.

“I. . .” the shade stammered and Charon already knew the words. “I have no coin, my lord.”

There was little sympathy from Charon for the ill prepared. They knew of him, knew that he was waiting on them at the river’s edge. There was little excuse.

Charon’s deep eyes that reflected the vast expanse of the night sky shifted just past the queue. Shades swayed on his dock, dragging their formless bodies back and forth, mouths open and hands out like neglected baby birds, asking for pity from the shades who were far more prepared than they. They begged and pleaded for coin, just one coin, to take them across the river. Praying on the altruism of others, but never of Charon.

Charon looked back down at the shade who dared.

“My family,” the shade pleaded, sounding close to tears with eyes that could no longer cry. “They are on the other side of the river. Please let me join them.”

As gentle as a near imperceptible breeze, Charon rested the broad side of his oar at the shade’s side and nudged the pitiful creature aside. The shade stared up at the statuesque beast that stood between them and its life ever after with abject terror. In an action rooted in only memory, they buried their face in their hands to cry, not knowing there was little need for such things.

Charon returned to those who could pay.

Skiff full to the brim of passengers and dock empty save for the beggars, Charon turned to take his place. His existence.

Greet the dead. Take the coin. Ferry the dead. Repeat. Ad infinitum.

“Ferryman.”

The voice boomed, shaking the very earth with bombastic power, stern and disapproving, as was its baseline nature. The gathered collection of souls in Charon’s skiff jolted in place, ducking from an oncoming attack that was not there. They chattered as a chorus in corporeal fear. Charon simply turned in place.

Hades was a gargantuan figure, befitting a god born to Olympus. Spit out from Uranus and relegated to rule over the earth and underground and dead. The king of a realm devoid of life and breath. Unwitting or worthy, neither bothered Charon.

Charon was primordial, born of the elements. He was there before Hades as he was there before the human race and like them would be there long after. He was created to exist on that river, unmoving and unwavering. Hades may have ruled over them, technically ruled over him, but they both knew the equality of their situation. In no way could Hades rid himself of the ferryman. He was as essential to the underworld as gems, as souls, as Hades himself. More so.

Hades may have ruled, but he held no sway over Charon.

Charon disproved of his presence on his docks. He held his oar with both hands, a mock lean of relaxation, both of them knowing he could fell the god in a single swipe. If he so chose. He waited for Hades to explain this anomaly.

“My brothers,” Hades sneered. “Have honored us. With a gift.”

Charon didn’t like the use of the word us. To be lumped in with Hades in this unwanted offering from the blind gods of Olympus. Hades was the one who was left with the dregs his brothers deemed suitable for the god of the underworld, not Charon. Charon was unseen, forgotten by their lot, and he preferred it that way.

He could hear the rush and flutter of wings.

“To better aid us. . . you. In your tasks as caretaker of the dead,” Hades continued.

Charon snorted and purple smoke hissed from the space where a nose ought to have been. Sarcasm dripped from Hades’ every word and Charon knew he’d like this gift just as much as his lord did. About just as much as he appreciated being described as ’caretaker’.

Hades stepped aside and without his great hulking mass in the way, Charon was presented with his gift.

A god. A simple god. Small and slight in stature, hovering mere feet off the ground. Flying, not gliding, but flying. He was adorned in wings, on his head, on his feet, anywhere other than the usual places for such things. They beat furiously against the air, keeping him aloft. As was with all gods, there was a visible physical strength to him, an idealistic physique to the mortal kind. Most so in strong legs, revealed and bare by the short length of his chiton. He carried a staff, horizontal behind his back where his hands were folded. Two twin snakes entwined around one another. A satchel was strapped across his chest, filled to the brim with coiled up notes and baubles. He wore a traveler’s cloak. Odd, for one who luxuriated on Olympus. He wore a smile. Impish, as if he held a great many secrets he was bursting to share.

His dark eyes widened at the sight of Charon, not in the perpetuated fear Charon had grown accustomed to, but an excitement.

Freshly hatched, Hypnos would say.

Charon looked back to Hades.

“Hrrnnn,” he complained.

“Don’t say that, my good man, I am only here to help,” the newborn said before Hades could get a syllable out. “And it does seem like you would require my assistance, what with all the souls piling up outside your door there. We’re basically at capacity here and I am afraid you are moving far too slow for the world that passes you by.”

The little god fluttered forward, his legs dragging behind in the air and hands still folded behind his back. Behind him, Hades’ jaw clicked shut, looking just as amused by this interruption as Charon felt.

Especially the way this intruder judged his work.

“The mortals are making more mortals. If you get my drift,” the god said with a little wink. “More mortals means more populace. More populace means more dead. More dead means there are far too many souls for one god, such as yourself, to handle.”

The god came to a stop just in front of Charon, just close enough to be in his space, just close enough for Charon’s breath to brush past his skin. The god barely blinked.

“I’m here to help.” The god smiled, smug and supremely satisfied with himself. “I’m here to greet the mortals as they are on death’s door, gently take them by the hand, and guide them here to you.”

The god tiptoed his fingers across the air, driving home his point and his function.

“You’ll hardly notice I’m here at all.”

Charon doubted that. Already, he greatly doubted that. He looked back to Hades.

“Nnnaaagghh,” he breathed.

“No,” Hades entoned. “You do not have a choice.”

“What a hurtful thing to say,” the god said, one hand on his chest in mocking pain. He bat his eyes for good measure. Everything about him was a pure reflection of mortality. “When I’m only here to be nothing but helpful. I only want to make your job easier, simpler, let you really rest on your laurels, give you a little break, you might say. Why we’ll be the best of coworkers, associates even!”

He leaned in close with each word, bending his body to talk directly into Charon’s face. An intimidation technique perhaps? Or maybe he was simply just like that. Charon wasn’t quite sure what was worse.

The little god held out one hand.

“Hermes,” he said.

Charon slid his gaze to that hand. The fingertips were calloused, the palm rough from use, not unlike Charon’s own. A detail different from the pampered gods who sat on their thrones and nothing more. Hermes held it stiff, offering it for Charon to shake. Charon looked back to his face, the coy smile and over dramatic batting eyes, then back to Hades.

“Aaaannngghh,” Charon croaked with a cock of his head.

Hermes’ smile finally dropped. Hades scoffed out a laugh.

“I’ll be sure to let my brothers know,” he said.

Finally unamused, Hermes leaned away from Charon and hovered like a hummingbird in the air. In a moment of pettiness, Charon considered the flat unamused glare a victory. It was soon broken by another jovial grin, cocked at the corner with far too much ego.

“At any rate, it doesn’t matter,” Hermes continued at his mile a minute inflection. “You have no choice, as was previously stated, and I will show up here bright and early tomorrow morning with a fresh batch of dead to ride along your little pleasure cruise there. And I’ll do it again the next day. And the day after that.”

Hermes leaned in close again, poking his head through the perpetual cloud of smoke that entombed Charon’s face. Out of some reflex Charon never had before, he leaned back.

“Associate,” Hermes said.

And with that punctuation, he flew away. Fluttering wings at his ankles and legs pumping in great strides as he ran across the air, leaving behind nothing but a blur of an after image and a trailing cloak. Out he went through that continuous open maw that was the entrance to the afterlife. A feat that was granted to very little and Charon realized the power the little god wielded. He had come into their domain with no effect and left against just as easy. Charon could see the ire of that etched across Hades’ face.

The great god turned, as if to share some sort of commiserating comradery in their miserable fate. Charon didn’t give him that and turned back to his task. Whatever his existence had turned into, it didn’t change who he was, what he was.

He was eternal.

He was the ferryman to the dead.

____

“It was only then when everything fell apart and all of those poor dear sweet mortals simply couldn’t keep their liquor. You should have been there, it was high entertainment.”

Charon supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Hermes didn’t keep good on his word ‘hardly notice him at all,’ but he didn’t think it would be to this extent. He tried at first, if Chraon could call that trying, which he didn’t. Hermes had guided the souls through the doors to the underworld and onto Charon’s dock and that was all. Then he lingered, he stayed, he chatted with the shades. Then he started chatting with Charon.

“But just you wait, those mortals won’t know what hit them when Dionysus rolls out his next new gift.” Hermes leaned in close and splayed his fingers wide, like explosions. “Hallucinogenics.”

“Hrrrnnn,” Charon grunted.

“Yeah you’re right that doesn’t seem too much like your scene anyways, which is why I’m regaling these little adventures to you. Get a second hand experience!” Hermes elbowed Charon in the shoulder.

“Hhhrrrmmmmm.”

Charon had learned far too much about Hermes in the past couple of visits, exchanges, jobs, whatever Hermes was calling their interactions. He had learned what Hermes had dominion over and it seemed to be a little bit of everything. Travellers, messengers, shepherds, merchants, thieves. Even a little bit of fertility into his large repertoire. Basically everything that was essential to the living humans above. Everything about the god was so very mortal. The exact opposite of Charon who had one meaning for existence and one alone, far removed from humanity. He was ineffable.

Which is why, he supposed, Hermes was tasked with ushering the dead into the underworld. A human touch to transition life into death.

Charon had seen the way the little messenger god interacted with the mortals. He was gentle, kind, attentive. He spoke with them, stood in line with them, reassured them. He had thousands upon thousands of mortals to watch over, to guide, but he treated each and every one of them like individuals, flitting from one shade to the next to ask them how they were doing.

Their lives were over. There was no more doing to be had.

“Maybe you should give it a try one day, you know, coming up to one of these feasts,” Hermes kept going. “I know mortals isn’t really your thing but you should at least try, am I right? Try something at least once, you never know if you might like it or not.”

Hermes paused and cocked his head in thought.

“Can you even leave this place? Can you come up to the surface?”

Charon tightened his grip on his oar. That didn’t justify an answer. He was affixed to the river Styx, that was where he was meant to be. There was no need to ever go to the surface world with their short lives and indulgences.

“Ah well.” Hermes folded his hands behind his head and leaned back, his feet kicking up in the air, resting on nothing as he would a lounge. “You can at least come to Olympus one day, those feasts are. . .”

He whistled to make his point.

Obol clinked in Charon’s outstretched palm as shades passed on to his skiff. The line of the dead was far greater than it ever had been before. Hermes had been correct, at least in that regard. The mortals were multiplying and their masses were dying. It had not been enough between Charon and Thanatos and the natural mortal inclination to make their way to the afterlife. After the first or second of Hermes’ trips onto Charon’s dock, Charon realized just how lacking they had become.

The world must have been rife with ghosts.

“Its nowhere near as hilarious as the mortal parties are,” Hermes kept going. “Watching these beautiful little creatures stumble about and laugh and dance. Its magical the feats they can achieve, even without immortality or power and I know you can’t imagine it. Can you imagine these shades falling into a party right here on this dock? You know what I’m talking about, don’t you my good shade.”

Hermes took the moment to clap a shade on the back. The dire dead heaved forward and turned to look up at the god. They actually smiled, a sight Charon would have never seen prior to Hermes’ interference.

Charon accepted the shade’s coin. Whatever they did on the other side was their decision and Charon didn’t need to know.

“Although sometimes father will get a little rambunctious,” Hermes said, inspecting his nails. “Throw a bit of lightning. Go chasing after mortals.”

He leaned into Charon’s space again.

“Make another demigod.”

“Nnnngghaaa,” Charon said, unamused.

“I know.” Hermes shook his head incredulously. “But hey, if he wasn’t the way he is then I wouldn’t be here and then where would you be, associate?”

“Hhhngggg.”

Hermes cackled.

“Rude,” he said between laughs. “But its sharp wit like that that makes me like you.”

Charon glanced side long at his new companion. He was loathe to admit, at first, but the little god had proven himself to be useful. Talkative, annoying at times, but useful. And the more words that poured from his lips, the more Charon found himself growing used to Hermes.

Hermes was still hovered in the air. He was perpetually so. Something needed to be moving, fidgeting, running at all times. As if he were to go still, all of him would simply end.

Charon had grown used to the sound of wings beating against the air.

As it usually did, the inevitable happened. A shade clinked his obol into Charon’s palm and the next shade stepped up. Hands folded one over the other, looking up at him with wide, sunken eyes. They said nothing, no pleas or begs. Mouth opened and closed again, lip quivered. Smoke seeped from Charon in a low rumbling hiss, patient frustration evident.

“Please,” the shade whispered.

Charon pointed to the dock where they belonged, as stern as a disappointed parent. Finger long and commanding, robes draped in night. The intimidation rattled over the shade and they turned, head down, and slumped to where they belonged. Charon held his hand out again and the next shade paid their fare.

Hermes was suspiciously quiet. He sat up in his invisible throne, bobbing up and down, legs folded, holding onto his ankles. His head turned as he watched the shade go, wheels grinding at impossible speeds as he thought and thought and thought.

He pulled away from Charon’s side.

Charon watched his associate hover over the crowd and lean in to the rejected shade. He placed a gentle hand on their back, a smile filled with pity on his face. His hand moved in a soothing circle, settling the shade.

Then, to Charon’s astonishment, he pulled an obol from his bag.

Charon completely disregarded the line before him, folding his hand into a fist. The queue paused all looking up at their ferryman in surprise. His rings ground against the wood of his oar as his hand tightened.

The shade shook, in shock or glee or both, before accepting the coin with both hands. They gasped and looked up at Hermes, overwhelmed with emotions. All that they were built up of, all that was left of them. They rested a hand on Hermes’ cheek in silent thanks.

The god was beaming. Glowing. A little spit of sunshine in that darkened hollow. He indicated the back of the line and the shade scurried off to pay their fare. Once satisfied that everyone was in their place, Hermes fluttered back to Charon and retook his place, hovered at his side.

Charon stared at his associate. Stared until Hermes could feel it. Hermes turned his head, smile sliding away.

“What?” he asked.

What. What! As if he wasn’t just giving a shade coin!

“Hhhrrrnnnngg,” Charon rumbled dangerously.

Hermes turned to face Charon like meat on a spit. He may have attempted to look offended, what with that hand on his chest, but it was interrupted with a restrained smile.

“My good sir, I was merely giving coin to a beggar, being a good samaritan,” Hermes said.

“Hhhggguuggh.”

“Against the rules?!” Hermes laughed. “What rules? I didn’t receive a hand out, you gave no such tutoring on my first day. The beggars beg and I only provided. I do look over their lot after all. That only seems fair.”

“Haaaaaa.” Charon’s voice rose to a volume he only used for the truly unruly.

“Contraband!?” Hermes laughed, leaning back on his nothing, and clapped his hands once and loud. “Ferryman you can be extremely funny when you want to be.”

“Gggrraaaa,” Charon growled.

It seemed there was nothing Charon could say that would quell Hermes’ giggles. In the beginning maybe, when the new and unadjusted Hermes could be shocked by some of the things Charon had to say to him, but there were fewer and fewer new things for the messenger god.

Hermes was growing used to Charon right back.

“Okay, wager me this,” Hermes said dangerous words. “Talk to these shades, attempt to get to know them, invest in them. I know theres very little in common between you and humans but hey theres very little in common between you and me and we get along swimmingly.”

Charon grumbled at that.

“We do!” Hermes insisted. “Okay okay listen, you might find something you actual enjoy hearing about. They do the most wonderful things with leeches.”

Hermes splayed his fingers wide again.

“And oh! The flowers up there. They’re so different from what you see on Olympus or what Demeter might say about them. They have symbology, names, meanings. For death or for life or for love or even for hate and madness. A far cry from the weeds that crawl up on your shores.”

Hermes indicated the black buds that sprouted between the planks, climbed up the pilings. They would sprout open wide and hungry. Streaks of purple slid down each petal, tipped with gold, a reflection of Charon’s own visage.

“Not that they aren’t pretty,” Hermes said, hands behind his back.

He scanned Charon, his eyes twitching and moving over his face, taking in the dangling array of obol and the large brim of his hat.

“They worship you, you know,” he said.

Charon stood up a little straighter at that and the shade walking past had to stand tiptoe to reach his palm.

“Well, you wouldn’t know,” Hermes said. “You can’t really hear a lot down here and I don’t think you’re really listening.”

Hermes lightly rapped Charon’s hat with the back of his knuckles and the tap tap tap was so surprising to Charon that he couldn’t react in time. His fingers twitched around the pile of coin in his hand and he stared hard at Hermes.

“They respect you,” Hermes continued. “Mmm I wouldn’t call it fear, although there are some that do, but for the most part, you’re seen as someone to be respected. They all know you’re at the beginning of the end and they all talk about how they need to be ready for you. Its why it breaks my heart to see those who couldn’t be.”

The shade Hermes had given a coin to placed it in Charon’s hand. They smiled up at Charon, not smug or nervous, but thankful, and stepped aboard his skiff.

“Whats it matter where the coin comes from?” Hermes asked with a little shrug of his shoulder. “As long as you get paid. The mortals will always respect and even love you. You’re an inevitability, associate.”

The way he said it, the way Hermes looked at Charon, full of that same respect, all of it drove the point home. Maybe the messenger god understood him better than Charon thought.

Hermes laughed again.

“I didn’t realize it was possible for you to blush,” he said.

“Hrrrngg,” Charon said.

Hermes blinked, amused and alert. The feathers in his wings ruffled.

“I did say wager didn’t I?” he said. He tapped a finger to his chin, looking up to the cavernous walls. “Hmm. Lets keep it low stakes shall we? If you talk to a shade and you decide you like it, I get to say I told you so. And if you don’t like it, then I’ll never give a shade an obol ever again.”

Charon considered the wager. He tilted his head to the side in a mimicry of Hermes’ own mannerisms.

“Haaahh,” Charon said.

“10 obol,” Hermes countered.

Charon cocked his head in the other direction. That would be acceptable.

He held out his hand. Hermes took it. And for the first time, they shook. Charon felt as if he were meeting the little god all over again.

Hermes leaned to the side to look around Charon’s mass.

“Looks like you’re full up,” he said.

Charon looked over his shoulder and found his skiff was indeed at capacity, perfectly sized to hold every shade. They sat polite and neat in rows on the benches, waiting for their ferryman. Charon looked back to the docks and, despite the greater influx of souls coming in, there were far less beggars asking for coin. Charon wondered just how much Hermes was handing out.

He glanced side long to his associate again and took back his hand. Hermes put space between them, backing up higher into the air. His cloak fluttered in a long wave and beat like a sail against the wind his wings made.

“I will see you later then, associate,” he said. “You take care of yourself now. Can’t wait to hear all the lovely things you learn.”

In their short time together, Charon had already learned that there was no getting the last word in. Hermes barely finished the last syllable before he was off, out the gates in a flash, to complete his slew of godly duties. Charon stalled, watching the orange blur fade from his vision.

He found himself again and turned back to his skiff. Imposing and intimidating, he glided into his spot on the skiff, looking down his passengers. Empty eyes looked up at him and Charon no longer saw the intimidation or the fear. Only with respect. Only with knowledge of the inevitable.

Charon slid his oar effortlessly into the water and pushed off from the dock, wondering exactly how to start a conversation.

Chapter Text

It was no secret that Charon and Nyx’s relationship was fraught with tension.

The distance between the boatman and his mother had only grown farther and farther over the years. A mirror relationship of one with her own parent. Like mother like son.

In defiance, she had never instilled her own will upon her children. They were as they were and she made no moves to change them or mold them to her will. Simply let her children grow into the roles they were provided, into the lives they had chosen. Hypnos with his sleep, Thanatos with the dead. And when Charon had found the loving embrace of Styx, he would know no other.

He should have extricated himself from her entirely. He should no longer have to be within her presence or fall to her every whim.

And yet, when she requested he come along with the rest of the family to Olympus, of all places, he conceded.

Charon stood in the center of the marble halls, clutching his oar, standing like a darkened pillar among the fluttering colorful deities. Pomp and presentation filled every corner and left no room for anything else. Airs to put on, worn like badges. Each of their domains stood out in single notes, as if wine or love or war were personality traits.

Charon missed the quiet of his shore, the soft song of his boat cutting through Lethe and Styx’s untroubled waters.

He should have said no.

He should have disregarded her as he normally did.

Across the room, his sister, Eris, stood angrily with her arms crossed. Some poor goddess attempted to come up to her, to be accommodating, a good host. Hestia. She had greeted Charon at the gates and he had floated past her without so much as an acknowledgement. Eris turned to the poor goddess, fixed her with a glare, and immediately shut down anything else Hestia had to say. The poor woman slinked away from the creature of chaos lest she lose a limb and ruin the party.

Eris would soon follow their sister Nemesis into estrangement. Charon wondered how long he too would follow suit. One by one, Nyx’s children moved away from her, like stars from their nebulous cradle.

Charon scanned the room to find the object of celebration. Another new goddess, another one of Zeus’ children. She had emerged from his head, the true definition of a splitting headache, an idea fully formed into physical existence. Sword and shield in hand, ringing like a bell of knowledge and victory.

Charon had little care for her.

Hades was nowhere to be seen. Whether it was a rejection of his brothers’ invitations or they simply did not give him the option, Charon did not know. He only felt a jealous twist.

He lowered his head and counted the seconds, thinking of the souls that wandered onto his dock, waiting on him, piling up. He missed his river, he missed his vault, he missed his gold. He wanted to go home.

He should have said no.

He held his oar closer, his fingers drumming against smoothed gold laden wood. If one looked close enough, they would find the grains were not true from a tree, but rivulets of gold, traced in the same ever shifting shapes of the rivers Charon loved so much. He traced them with his fingers, yearning to be back there. A soft sigh hissed smoke and obscured his vision.

When it dissipated, a clear eyed, curious face with a wide smile poked under the brim of his hat.

“Now don’t you just look out of place,” Hermes said.

Charon slowly lifted his head and in turn Hermes stood upright. He leaned back on his heels then rocked forward on his toes, hands behind his back and an increasingly familiar smile on his face.

“What are you doing here, my good associate?” he took off, speaking a mile a minute. “This is far from where I’d expect you to be. I would never imagine you to be the sociable type to come to one of these things and I assumed it was impossible to rip you away from that oh so cozy boat of yours.”

Charon waited and stayed quiet, that in itself enough of an answer. Their conversations had become basically that, Hermes taking silences as a response and carrying on anyways.

Hermes leaned forward.

“Are you having fun?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“Rrrrnnngg,” Charon said.

Hermes threw his head back and laughed, leaning back on his heels again. He leaned too far back and the wings at his ankles fluttered to keep him upright. When he was done, he was on his way to his usual hover in the air.

“In any case,” he said. “It is good to see you, even if you are being a great big stick in the mud. I’m glad you came.”

Charon shifted in place, his heavy gold stole suddenly feeling off kilter. He wriggled his hands for a better grip on his oar.

Hermes scoffed, rolled his eyes, and grabbed a handful of the loose flowing material of Charon’s cloak. He fluttered away from the center of the room dragging Charon away from his spot. The speed was slower than Hermes ever would move, but still far too fast for Charon.

“Come on come on,” Hermes said. “Lets get you out of the middle of the room, you’re blocking the flow of traffic and generally being an eyesore. Who put you there in the first place? I assume someone dragged you up here and left you in the middle of this party to rot, or did you come here on your own old man?”

Hermes dragged Charon to a quiet dark corner, standing in the shade of an ostentatious pillar. They lined up against the wall, standing and hovering side by side.

“Oop,” Hermes said, reaching out to a passing array of bottles and goblets. He grabbed two and Charon could smell the distinctly overwhelmingly sweet stink of ambrosia. Hermes handed the spare goblet to Charon.

Charon held up a hand and shook his head.

“Oh come on.” Hermes rolled his eyes hard enough to rock his head back. “The intention of these stupid feasts are to make up some sort of an excuse to have fun and you are here so you might as well have. Fun.”

Hermes wiggled the goblet in Charon’s face, golden liquid sloshing up the sides. Charon heaved another smoke laden sigh, the purple gas pluming around his head, and conceded to his peer’s pressure. He took the goblet, but only held it to satisfy Hermes’ insistence.

Hermes managed maybe 10 seconds of silence.

"Meet any good shades recently?"

Charon looked sidelong to his associate. Hermes took an obnoxiously loud sip from his cup and bounced his eyebrows once. Charon looked to his ambrosia.

"Haaaaa," he said.

Hermes' gulp was just as over exaggerated. He leaned in close.

"And. . .?"

Another noxious sigh and Charon reached into his robes. He pulled out 10 obol exactly and regretfully handed it over to the young god.

"Ha! I knew it," Hermes crowed, taking his winnings. He made a show of counting the coin before once again getting in to Charon's face. "I told you so."

Charon's hand fit neatly over the whole of Hermes' face and he pushed the little god back, returning the space between them. Hermes' laughter was muted and tickled Charon's palm.

"It was my end of the bargain, I get to say it, you cannot deny me that," Hermes delighted.

Charon grumbled, although amicably.

"And what did you learn? What did you talk about? What new aspects of the mortals do you now know?"

Hermes only stopped talking to take a sip of his drink. Taking the opportunity, Charon raised a finger to inform his associate all he learned, but fell short. He paused trying to figure out where to begin. The complicated nature of perception, how it was such a mortal concept but also pertained to Charon in his own little world. Words and starting points battled to the forefront of his mind. He leaned his oar against his shoulder and raised both hands as the philosopher had. And again had nothing.

"Hhrrnnn," Charon said, resting a finger against his chin.

"Take your time," Hermes laughed.

Charon tried to recall how the philosopher, as the shade had called themself, phrased it. The words and description had been so succient and easy to understand, an effortless task explaining such a complicated subject.

"Mmmrrrnnn," Charon began. "Hhaaanggh . . . rrhng. . . Kknnn."

Hermes' brows slowly rose, listening intently to the description.

"Ggrrrah," Charon tried.

"A cave," Hermes said. The slow cadence was strange on him. "With. . . shadows?"

"Hhhrrrnnn." Charon pulled the brim of his hat down over his face.

"That's okay it's okay," Hermes said, patting Charon on the shoulder. "You can just introduce me to the chap next time and I'll get the full story from them."

Charon was sure he wouldn't be able to find the shade again. He couldn't recall where he had dropped them off. Tartarus, perhaps? And even then, they were one out of millions. Charon hadn't expected to keep track.

"And look at you, making friends, being the social butterfly," Hermes remarked. "Now how about here, you want to chat with one of our very esteemed and highly respected family members, because anything and everything they have to say is very important."

From his tone, it seemed Hermes had the same opinion on Olympians as Charon did. The over dramatic, nose held high in the air, posture drove home the point. Charon breathed out quick, smoke curling from his nostrils, the closest thing to laughter he'd had in. . . ever.

Hermes opened one eye, smile smug.

"Have you spoken with Aphrodite?" he asked. "I think you should. I think she would like you. I think she would really like you."

Charon looked out over the grand hall. With it's ionic columns and inlay floor, sunshine eminating from the stone like so much twinkling gold. Friezes of great feats, acts these gods had performed that they touted as achievements. Greenery sprouted from strategically placed corners and plush furnishings were made available to all for needless lounging.

The goddess of love was sprawled out on one such kline. Her body draped over the cushions, displaying perfectly designed curves, dignity just barely intact with strategically placed curls of flowing hair. She twirled one such lock around her finger as she talked to a poor intimidated fawn, someone's plus one that had been abandoned to her whims.

"She'll definitely make a pass at you, I mean how could she let you get by, the notoriously wealthy boatman of the underworld. And besides." Hermes leaned in again, coy smile far too amused. "You're adorable when flustered."

Charon made the deliberate decision not to acknowledge that.

Hermes leaned back and clapped his hands once, knocking more ambrosia from his cup.

"Yes like that, exactly," he laughed. "Amazing."

"Kkgggh," Charon grumbled.

"Okay okay." Hermes recovered quick, as he usually did, and scanned the crowd. "Could go have a nice little chat with Hestia over there. She's. . . well she's. . . she's nice. But! Get a few drops of ambrosia in her and she'll go off. All these wonderful stories about father when they were children. You know before they."

Hermes ran a quick thumb across his throat, accompanied with a clicked croak.

"The titans. Or."

Hermes scanned the crowd and a sudden frown distorted his face.

"No, no, don't talk to father," he muttered. "He'll only frustrate you. Ah!"

Hermes smacked Charon's arm.

"Go talk to uncle Poseidon, ask him about horses and he'll talk your ear off about how he invented them. He invented horses! Can you believe that? He goes in detail and will wax poetic about how perfect they are and are far superior to the human mortals. And I got to say."

Hermes tilted his hand back and forth in a so-so motion.

"Gghh," Charon disagreed.

"Everyone's entitled to their opinion and you, my ghoulish friend, are biased," Hermes said. "Be careful if you do bring up the horse thing, because he will go on about it. Set aside a couple of hours for that particular conversation."

Hermes' eyes went wide, looking into the middle distace as the memory haunted him. He shook his head to dismiss the painful recollection.

"Or dear sweet brother Ares," Hermes plowed ahead. "Ask him about the time I saved him. Just go ahead and ask. It drives him up a wall, he can't stand that baby brother Hermes got him out of a jam. Just bring up the urn and watch his face turn red."

Hermes was tickled at the very prospect of it and animatedly leaned back in the air, tilting into the wall. Charon admitted to himself it would be a little amusing to watch the god of war lose his composure.

"And if you must, I suppose you can join the procession and talk to my new sister," Hermes groaned, oscillating from joy to resignation. "But I'm going to warn you now, she is a bore. She talks of wisdom and knowledge but sis you were born yesterday, what do you know about the world? All you've seen were the inner workings of an ignorant mind. Oops!"

Hermes placed a delicate hand over a tiny smile and looked conspiratorially over at Charon, eyes crinkled in pure joy.

"I suppose I shouldn't talk about daddy dearest like he's a backwards inbred idiot oh no there I go again."

A chuckle burbled up in Charon's chest and made itself known with another release of haze. The hand over Hermes' mouth pulled away slightly, revealing a far more genuine smile, frozen in a moment of uncharacteristic silence. He waited, actually waited, for Charon's slight laughter to subside.

"And how about you?" Hermes asked with a cock of his head.

"Hhrnnn?" Charon asked.

"Your family. What kind of secrets do they have?" Hermes nodded his chin towards the crowd.

Speaking to the new goddess was Nyx, floating demurely, a kindly cold smile on her face. She was flanked by her sons, both kept close to her side, like ducklings. Hypnos was fast asleep, inches away from leaning against his mother. In some mockery of a sentinel, Thanatos stood stiff at her side.

"I spoke a little with Hypnos, he seems an alright enough sort of fellow."

That didn't surprise Charon. He could see his brother and his associate getting along.

"But what about tall dark and brooding over there? He looks like he's never smiled a day in his life. Was he always so. . ."

Hermes pulled his face into a scowl, his brow pinched into a furrowed line and his mouth downturned into a comical frown. It lifted, transforming back to his usual grin at the sound of another one of Charon's wheezing giggles.

Charon did have one story.

He leaned over, cupped a hand around Hermes' ear, and whispered it to him. When he pulled back, Hermes' eyes were wide and his mouth quivered, trying and failing to restrain an equally wide smile.

"No!" he said, aghast. "He did not."

Charon merely took his first sip of ambrosia. Despite the chaotic bouquet of smells, it transformed on his tongue to something smooth and bitter, a touch of sour, a flavor he preferred.

"And he. . .?" Hermes asked.

Charon nodded.

Hermes puffed out a great breath of air causing his lips to flap. He stared with that incredulous smile at Charon's brother.

"Well," he said. "It's good to know you mysterious stoic types can, I don't know, loosen up? Make mistakes now and again?"

"Ggggrrraaa," Charon insisted.

"I'm sure you do," Hermes countered. "You lost a least one bet."

"Hhhnn."

Charon waited on Hermes to pick up the conversation again, to run away with it on a rambling monologue that Charon found he did not mind. But the messenger god said nothing. Instead, a blessed moment of silence lingered between them. Hermes smiled, not the excited, breathless, cocky thing he normally wore, but instead it was delicate, softened. As if he weren't completely aware he was smiling at all. An instinctual reaction and nothing more.

He raised his goblet.

"Well to you," Hermes said. "For making a friend."

Charon had half a mind to tell Hermes he didn't really know the shade, but Charon didn't think that was who Hermes was talking about.

He clinked their cups.

_____

"Yes absolutely!" the phlebotomist said with a swipe of his arm. "It is when there are a plethora of humours that I would perform that particular procedure. I have been called in by many patrons of a certain wealth who simply want it for vanity reasons, but no. I am a man of conviction. I wait for the symptoms."

Charon listened with rapt attention and did not want to stop the shade to correct them that they were no longer a man. The subject matter was far too fascinating.

"Sweating, fever, distention, inflammation, reduced food intake, and in most cases vomiting." The shade counted on fingers that weren't there. "Often times my patient will be asymptomatic, but a simple tap to their veins, were the excess of blood may be, will reveal if they are indeed in a dire state."

Charon was enraptured. The human body was incredibly fragile with a whole host of ailments that could destroy it. Who knew of the many horrific ways in which a mortal would meet their end and arrive on his shore. Thanatos had once mentioned he would no longer guide the souls who had died a horrific death, but from the way the phlebotomist described disease, Charon wondered where his brother drew that line.

But it was the way the mortals fought to extend their painfully short lives that had captured Charon's attention. Previously, Charon had been under the belief that the mortals knew of their end, worshipped the gods who constructed their afterlife so that they may have a safe trip to the longer part of their existence.

They were far more clever than he had given them credit for.

"I would come to the home as I was summoned, not a hospital. I am a house call, I refuse to work for those backwards institutions," the phlebotomist said. "I would come with my leeches, perform my diagnosis, which may counter a previous one. I am not some trained peacock, I am a doctor, my services are dangerous and need to be treated with care."

The integrity of the shade's business seemed important to them so Charon nodded in agreement just to keep them talking.

"I will find the veins, tap them as you recall."

Another enthusiastic nod from Charon.

"And place my leeches to drain my patient of the plethora."

Charon's boat was empty, save for the phlebotomist. He had finished his trip across the river Styx and delivered the shades to their ultimate destination. On the way, he had started up a conversation with the shade in front of him and learned of their most interesting profession. They spoke like a lecturer, teaching the immortal ferryman of the world outside his domain and Charon was an empty cup, ready to be filled. He was so fascinated, he invited the shade to stay in his skiff, to teach him more, and have one more round trip to continue this education.

There was the added fact that if the phlebotomist returned to his shore, Charon could introduce them to Hermes. He was sure the messenger god would be entertained by the leech wrangler.

"Now the way in which we keep the leeches is a little unconventional," the shade said. "Rather than have a boy run to the swamp or forest or wherever they find the creatures, we would farm them! Right out of my own home! I would breed the leeches to have my own personal supply."

Charon was ready to delve in deeper to that particular subject matter, but his skiff slid around the last lazy curve of Styx and into the realm of her temple. His dock was in view and Charon felt a flutter of excitement. There would be a small army of shades, all lined up and waiting on their ferryman, and at the forefront would be Hermes, flying just feet off the ground, a mischievous smile on his face that would only widen at the sight of Charon.

Only Charon's dock was empty.

Charon tightened his grip on his oar and leaned forward at the bizarre sight.

The messenger god was punctual. He was the definition of punctual. He was punctual incarnate. Be it some sort of instinct but he was always always at Charon's dock when he arrived with an empty skiff.

"You see what we do is–"

Charon held up one finger to quiet the shade and they instantly went silent. Fear that the ferryman might withdraw his good will if the shade disobeyed. Charon was far too preoccupied to pay them any heed.

He drove his oar into crimson waters and pushed the skiff forward at a mightier pace than normal. It clattered against the dock and both barely had a moment to settle before Charon was off his boat.

He examined up and down the dock, only finding the scant few beggars and no evidence of his associate or his latest caravan.

Charon delved deeper into the temple, searching for Hermes. His oar tapped along the wood and eventually the natural stone of the temple floor as he impatiently looked for Hermes.

At the far end, by the large open doors, came the procession. Smaller than Hermes' usual haul and moving at the pace of a dirge. All of that was explained by the god at the helm. Not the lively fluttering of an excitable Hermes, but the stoic, far too serious for his own good Thanatos. He stared unblinking straight ahead, scythe fisted in his hand as Charon did his oar, and did not react to the sight of his brother.

Charon sighed in disappointment and a large plume of purple huffed from his teeth. His shoulders slumped, obol rattling with the movement.

There went sharing his fascinating new shade with Hermes.

Charon slunk back to his skiff, waiting on his brother's far too slow arrival.

"Is everything alright?" the shade asked.

Charon looked down at the pitiful creature in surprise. Blame the empathetic nature of their profession, but Charon had never expected concern to be thrown his way. It honestly had never been needed before. Even something so simple as a minor disappointment that his expectations had been dashed for probably perfectly reasonable causes.

"Hhhaaann," Charon said with a nod.

The shade smiled, pleased that his new friend was alright.

After long moments that played on Charon's impatience, Death arrived. Charon had gotten used to Hermes' speed.

"Kkkaagh?" Charon asked.

"Good to see you too, brother," Thanatos said, monotone. "Hermes is needed elsewhere. I was asked to pick up his slack."

Charon glanced over Thanatos' scant work and wondered who would be picking up who's slack. His docks would certainly be filled to bursting when Hermes came back to work. With another sigh and another suffocating cloud of smoke, Charon held out his hand. Thanatos' mob filtered to pay the ferryman.

The silence on Charon's dock was deafening. He yearned for someone to go on about the goings on of the upper world, to tell him facts and gossip of the gods on Olympus. Just one more thing he had grown accustomed to.

Thanatos cleared his throat and for a moment Charon thought he would get just that.

"Charon," Thanatos said, shifting in the air uncomfortably. "You didn't happen to, by any chance, mention to Hermes about the."

He cleared his throat again, shifted again, and looked up the docks, away from Charon. His face heated, growing redder by the second.

"The rabbit. Thing," he whispered.

Charon stared nonchalantly to his brother then looked away without a word.

Anger was a flattering look on Thanatos. He leaned in, not the close conspiratoral way Hermes did, but more to drive home a point.

"That was not to be shared!" he hissed, face illuminated in red. "I trusted you not to tell anyone!"

"Kkhheee hgggaanmm," Charon said smoothly.

"What?" Thanatos' voice cracked in anger. "What does that even mean? Associates. I don't care if you're associates, I am your brother! I would appreciate some confidentiality!"

Charon shrugged. Obol clinked, punctuating what he thought about that. Thanatos vibrated with restrained anger until finally he gave up trying to intimidate his older brother. With a huff, he leaned back in place and crossed his arms.

"Just. Just don't tell anyone else. I shouldn't have to say that," he said.

"Rrrrnn," Charon promised.

Charon performed his job in silence as the crowd tapered before his hand. They filed into the skiff, pushing the phlebotomist further against the side where he had been in the first place. At the very least Charon would get to hear about leech breeding on the trip back.

Without a running narrative, Charon's mind wandered. He had once been so focused, what with his singular purpose occupying his mind, but after filling it with new and interesting stories, Charon found himself craving more.

He glanced down his dock, once again thinking of it's over population when Hermes returned. He mused on Thanatos' distaste of violent death and how Hermes was quick to bring any and all to Charon's waiting hand. It would be a tight squeeze. A sudden idea slipped into his mind of how to get a head start curbing the on coming chaos.

Break one of his rules.

Charon carefully reached to his collar and idly played with an obol between his index and thumb. He rubbed the shape, traced the symbol embossed in the thick gold, really appreciated the coin. With a strong careful tug, he ripped it free of its ring. His hand drifted heavy to his side again and he let the coin fall free from limp fingers. It thudded dully against the wood, jumping once or twice before descending into a roll across the planks, and came to a wobbled dance at the feet of a shade.

Charon was surprised to find he recognized the creature. He was more aware of the shades and suddenly he could tell them apart. The shade had been a beggar on his dock for years, maybe almost a hundred. They looked down at the obol in disbelief, eyes wide and shock apparent. Slowly, they bent down to pick it up, examine it, run their hand over the hole where the coin had been pierced. They looked up to Charon, but he only looked away.

The queue neared it's end and the beggar was the last to board. They placed Charon's obol into his hand and it snapped with finality. They wore a quiet knowing smile that Charon promptly ignored.

Boat full, Charon bid his brother farewell, and climbed to his place.

"Ggghhhaaaa," he said to the phlebotomist.

"Ah yes," the shade said with excitement. "Well first you must find a mother leech. . ."

Charon pushed his skiff down the river Styx, once again absorbed by the lecture. He ignored the looks of horror from the other shades.

Chapter Text

Ares had called upon Charon as if he were some kind of lap dog that would come when ordered. Charon did not care for that one bit. He had fully intended to stay in his vault, among his precious gems and gold, if it had not been for his brother.

“Are you coming?” Thanatos asked, poking his head in through the open vault door, but not daring to enter.

Despite the relationship with his parents, Charon loved his siblings. He cared for them. He wanted no harm to come to them, only happiness and health and prosperity. He was the eldest son, their older brother, and no matter what he would watch over them.

And he could not say no to little Thanatos. He probably would never be able to. Even if he had learned the new ability to poke fun at his far too uptight brother. Hermes was right, it was nice to see him relax once in a while.

So when Thanatos had asked if his big brother would be joining him in catering to the god of war’s whims, Charon could not say no. Ares said jump and Charon followed Thanatos to Olympus.

Charon was inextricably tied to Styx. The two were one. He belonged to the river and in turn the river belonged to him. Upon leaving the comfort of the water’s edge, Charon could immediately feel the loss. He felt slow, drained, heavier. He could feel his essence sapped, could feel the sweet coil of death that had nothing to do with Thanatos at his side. Being among other immortals, in a place where immortals dwelled, there was some relief. A camaraderie in their everlasting life that the great mountain helped fuel. Charon knew in the depths of his bones that the waking mortal would not be as kind.

Charon followed Thanatos through the great halls of Olympus. The two of them were silent dark spectres to the passing glowing gods, leaving behind the stink of death and trails of darkness. They radiated a strength and power that Olympus had to flex to match. Charon paid them no heed, only stared at the back of his brother’s head and let his oar tap tap tap on the ground as he floated by. All the way to Ares’ war room. The great god stood impatiently on the other side, draped in shadow, and annoyed that he had to wait on the Chthonic brethren.

Looking as out of place as a shock of sun in a thunderstorm was Hermes. He grinned at Charon’s entrance and gave a little wave. Charon raised his hand to wave back.

Ares cleared his throat for attention. He nodded his head to the far side of the room and, like the good little dogs they were, Charon and Thanatos lined up next to Hermes.

“Hey old man, good to see you, how’re you doing?” Hermes whispered.

“Hrrnnn,” Charon said back.

Ares cleared his throat again and Charon and Hermes gave the god their attention. Thanatos, consummate professional, was already there. Once the room was silent, Ares cooly strut before them, his tattered cloak fluttered behind him and he idly played with one of his swords. He was making a show of it.

“I suppose you are wondering why I have summoned you,” he said.

“Not really,” Hermes cut him off. Leave it to Hermes to cut straight to the point.

Ares shot him a glare.

“God of war summons the three lads that move the dead through the underworld?” Hermes said, swiping his thumb back and forth in their direction. “Honestly doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together there, Ares. You could’ve just sent a letter, I would have been more than happy to deliver it.”

Ares glared dully down his nose at his shorter brother.

“Starting up a war then are we?” Hermes asked.

A threat radiated from the god of war’s very presence, maintaining that cool stare. On a lesser god, it might have been intimidating, the threat of violence as some kind of terror. To Charon it was only a blip of the Olympian’s ever wavering tempers. Just another posture from another pompous god.

Thanatos leaned forward to see around Charon, watching in mild fascination, just as unaffected as Charon was.

Hermes only grinned.

Ares breathed in deep through his nose, whether to calm himself or prepare a tirade. He took a looming step forward and pricked his finger at the tip of his blade.

“The pawns have been set in place and the motions have begun,” he said, silken smooth.

Hermes’ grin widened.

“Prayers for war have come my way and I only oblige in what the mortals ask of me,” he said, as if that were some excuse. “They want to fight, then let there be bloodshed. Peace, said simply, is not an option.”

Charon let loose a soft stream of smoke. Catering to the whims of mortals was out of his realm of comprehension. They came to him, they worshipped them, and as gods they were not there to be at the mortals' beck and call.

But then again, Charon was there at Ares’ insistence so who was he to judge.

“This is a professional courtesy,” Ares continued. “To let you all know of the sudden influx that is to come your way. I would only want my brother and his . . . associates to be prepared.”

Who did Ares think he was patronizing? A professional courtesy? Charon didn’t need warning, he didn’t need to be told how to do his job. He was who he was. He was the ferryman. He would do the job if there was one shade or a million, it did not matter.

Thanatos shifted next to him at the prospect of so much violence. Charon would not make such demands of him.

But Hermes. . .

“And you honestly think you need to tell us how to do our jobs?” Hermes scoffed, amusement laced in every word and laughter bubbling underneath. “We are not idiot demigods who don't know their right from their left, we’re not that slow. My associate and I will perform our duties regardless of your silly little war, and absolutely no need for you to tell us what to do, thank you very much.”

Hermes took the words right out of Charon’s mouth. Sensing Charon’s gaze, Hermes looked sidelong at his associate, smiled wide, and gave a quick little wink. As if he knew exactly what Charon was thinking.

Charon supposed that was what happened when someone worked so closely with another.

Ares took another powerful step closer, twisting his blade against his finger.

“Are you saying you would rather I–”

“Not waste our time? Why yes that would be lovely, please and thank you,” Hermes said, clipped and quick. “I am incredibly busy and there are only 24 hours in these gods forsaken days for me to perform my many many tasks, none of which are listening to you prattle on and on about your precious war.”

Ares glowered. He opened his mouth to respond, but as usual Hermes was faster.

“And wasting the time of my associate here,” he said. “He has no need to be here and you dragged him away from what is actually important. Not to mention Thanatos as well.”

Thanatos leaned back behind Charon’s shadow, suddenly no longer wanting to be a part of whatever sibling squabble was going on.

Ares’ stance was strong, grounded, ready for a fight. Godly blood dribbled from his finger, more show than the life essence mortals were so fond of keeping in their bodies.

“Would you care for me to really waste your time?” Ares said darkly.

“You’d have to catch me first,” Hermes said.

“Why you little–”

Ares stalked forward, blade singing as he pulled it at the ready. The typical blood lust in his eyes flared, ready to engage. Hermes held perfectly still next to Charon, but he could hear the tell tale way his feathers rustled before he took off. Wings twitched as they steadily unfurled.

Ares raised his sword. .

An oar whipped silent and quick between the two gods, as final as the river it stroked through.

Ares froze in place, scowled face a mask of terror that he attempted to hide, arm raised at the ready to strike his brother down. His eyes slowly slid down the length of the oar, down the arm that held it, and to Charon’s face.

Smoke hazed from his mouth, between his sockets, up under the space of his jaw. Eyes glowed from under the shadow of his hat and pinned the god of war in place with a single look. To the one side, Thanatos slunk further away, leaning back, in an attempt to remove himself from the situation. On the other, Hermes grinned up at his associate, smile and eyes wide and manic with what looked like surprised amusement.

“Kkgghhaaa,” Charon said.

Slowly, like a deer backing away from the shadow of a meteor, Ares lowered his sword. He took a step away, his eyes never leaving Charon. His tantrum subsided, falling back from attacker to a simple dangerous.

“Very well,” he said, completely professional. “Next time I will forgo the courtesy.”

Ares straightened himself up to his full height, still a head shorter than Charon’s own. He attempted to maintain eye contact and when he couldn't, he turned and promptly marched from the room. Leaving as if thats what he had intended to do all along instead of trying to save face. Only when he was gone did Charon pull his oar back to his side.

“That was completely unnecessary,” Thanatos said.

Charon’s younger brother sneered in distaste. His normally bland expression was marred with his disapproval. And Charon agreed with him. It was unnecessary. Olympians fought all the time and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time Charon would have witnessed it. Instinct had kicked in, a drive that in that moment he didn’t want to witness that particular fight and knew he could stop it with a single word. So he did.

He gave his brother a shrug.

“Tch,” Thanatos said and in a flash of green he shifted away.

Charon watched his light trail disappear down the hall, flitting past Ares, and out of sight.

It was only when they were alone that Charon noticed how suspiciously quiet the room was. He looked back to his associate on his other side. Hermes was still smiling, still wide eyed, frozen like that. The corner of his mouth twitched as he cracked.

“That. Was. Amazing!” he half shouted, rising to the air. “Did you see his face? I think he was practically shaking in his sandals. I’ve never seen Ares pull a look like that before, you absolute madman.”

Charon did not know quite what to say to that. A small giddy fluttering in his chest beat in time with Hermes’ wings and he pulled his oar closer, holding it in both hands.

“I knew you were a beast but I didn’t think you had the power to stop war itself in its tracks,” Hermes continued. “You’ve been holding out on me, associate. Who knows what other kinds of tricks you have up those big billowing sleeves of yours and here I just thought you were a quiet boatman who minded his own business.”

He was a quiet boatman who minded his own business. Just this one time he felt the need to intervene.

“You’re amazing,” Hermes said, once again floating up to get in Charon’s face.

Charon bristled. He lowered his chin into his collar and pulled the brim of his hat down over his face. Hermes laughed at Charon’s sheepish embarrassment. He slid smoothly around Charon and floated backwards out of the room.

“Its not as if I needed your protection,” he said. “I’ve had a good rough and tumble with Ares now and again. I mean, he always wins in a one on one all out brawl, but I know better than to stick around and let him commit horrible acts of violence on me. What I said was true, the slow poke would have to actually catch me first and by the time I get around to coming back home he’s worked out most of his frustrations and its all good.”

As they walked through the marble halls, they passed by Ares in the distance. He was talking with one of his daemons, probably alerting them to the oncoming onslaught. He briefly glanced over his shoulder and Hermes waved, dancing his fingers saucily in the air, secure in his situation at Charon’s side. Red faced, Ares went back to his instructions.

“He’s not bad you know, just misunderstood,” Hermes said. “And too easy to rile up. A lot like you.”

“Hhhnnnrr,” Charon said, not totally agreeing, but he couldn’t quite stop being, what was the word Hermes used? Flustered.

They reached the entranceway that would take Charon back down to where he was most comfortable. Hermes landed on the marble, pausing to look up at his associate. Again, there was that smile. Not the one that Charon was used to. There was no tease in it, no joke, just a pure and simple joy.

“So its not as if I needed your protection, associate,” he said. “But you. . . you did that and. . .”

It was odd watching Hermes stumble over his words like that. Charon listened as he started and stopped the sentence multiple times. He shifted his fingers over his oar, Hermes’ awkwardness marrying his own. Hermes looked down to the ground and scuffed his shoe across the marble.

“No one’s ever. . .” he muttered, almost to himself.

His typical speed returned and he looked back up to Charon.

“Thank you,” he said quickly.

Charon’s fingers shifted over his oar again, not quite finding the place where they were most comfortable. He nodded once. It was all he could do.

Another moment of silence passed between them, still so strange to share with Hermes, who filled up all the space in the room with as much chatter as he could. Quiet, still Hermes was a strange creature but not unwelcome. The silence between them stretched to what should have been painful, but Charon only found comfort.

“Welp!” Hermes said, breaking it with a too loud cry. He fluttered back into the air. “I’m officially behind on my to-do list and I really got to get going. I’ll be seeing you later yeah? Race you to the dock!”

Charon tried to nod, but could barely get the movement in before the quick god was running off the side of the mountain, leaving behind nothing but a blur and a trail of his neon cloak. Charon stepped into the portal, knowing that Hermes would be waiting at his dock by the time he got there.

____

Hobbies and pastimes weren’t something that piqued Charon’s interest. The gods on Olympus all had their follies and even the Chthonic gods in the house had their distractions and enjoyments. Charon had his duty, his existence, and there was little time or thought for anything else.

Except. Maybe. His vault.

In a secret corner of the Erebus, Charon had carved himself what could arguably be called his home. A natural cave in the yawning walls of stone. An outcropping of earth that told stories in its multitudinous layers. A massive door made of lead and gold sealed it away and when it opened and closed it shook the earth. Inside was a library Charon’s gold. Wall to wall of obol and gems and glittering gleaming riches. Carefully stacked upon one another in tenuous towers all compacted into one another to create a wallpaper of wealth.

When Charon was not aboard his skiff, he was in his vault.

He walked around the room, hovering just barely off the ground, and ran his fingers over the cold metal. The molding and seals that crimped and formed it. Such an innocuous thing, an imaginary concept. That something so plain could have been transformed into a symbol of worth. The more one had the more one could accomplish.

Including a ride across a river.

Charon preferred to horde the wealth, to keep them safe. He loved to gaze upon it, to touch it, to smell it. He loved the way his breath bounced off it, the glint of his eyes caught in the green of gems. He loved the sound as one coin clinked neatly on another, as he carefully stacked his earnings into yet another column.

He took a small handful from the top of a growing stack and let them rest heavy in his palm. He bounced the coin, listening to it clink and sing as they jostled against one another. Each new shape a fascination as they shifted and twisted.

Charon plucked one from his hand and held it up to the light, enamored with the way it shone. It was a perfect circle, the height of craftsmanship. He would add it to his stole.

“There you are!”

Charon jolted in place. His coins flew from his hand and clattered to the ground. It wasn’t that he was surprised, it was just that the voice was so loud. He twisted and glared over his shoulder at the intruder.

Hermes stood in the mouth of Charon’s vault, poking his head in from the side. He held up one hand.

“Hey,” he said. “How’re you doing there? You seem super busy. What're you doing?”

Charon narrowed his eyes at his associate and let out a low grumble. He disregarded Hermes and bent down to pick up his fallen treasures. Hermes whistled, stepping around the door and coming into full view. He looked around the glimmering walls and hovered past the threshold.

Charon froze.

Hermes slipped into his vault without a care in the world, looking up and down the walls in admiration. He almost blended in, with his bronzed skin and brilliant traveller’s cloak, but he couldn’t have been any more far removed. An aberration in Charon’s sanctuary.

The messenger god flitted around lazily, or as lazy as Hermes got. He inspected a precarious stack of obol and picked one up.

This invader, this interloper, had just strolled right into the one place where Charon was truly alone.

And Charon didn’t know what to do.

Hermes picked up the obol and inspected it, holding it to the light as Charon had. Charon turned in place and held up both his hands, as if braced to catch something fragile. A croaking creaking noise rumbled from deep in his throat, squeaking in a way he’d never heard before. Hermes blinked and looked over to his associate, noticing him for the first time.

“Whats the matter associate?” he asked, a sardonic smile crossing his face. “Cat got your tongue?”

He rolled the coin from finger to finger, dancing between his knuckles, until it dropped into a closed fist. His fingers danced open again, revealing an empty palm.

“Kkkkkkkkkkkk!” Charon croaked.

Hermes laughed.

“Relax, old man, your treasures won’t be gone from you very long, I can assure you that,” he said.

With a flick of his wrist, the obol was once again between his fingers. Charon held out an insistent hand and Hermes paid him with his stolen goods.

“I may be the god of thieves, but you are my good associate and I will never do you any harm,” Hermes said. “Psychological damage notwithstanding.”

“Haaaa,” Charon hissed and snapped the coin back in its rightful place, once again annoyed by Hermes’ giggles for the first time in a long time.

And just like that, Hermes had done it again. He had walked right past Charon’s line, prayed on his ire and cheapened his imposing nature. He had tested a limit, knowing full well that Charon would strike him down if he had gone too far, but confident that he wouldn’t. Standing in the middle of Charon’s vault, grinning like that, Hermes knew full well what he was doing.

After spending so much time with the little god, Charon found he didn’t mind.

Hermes was welcome in his vault.

Charon sighed, letting out another obscuring cloud of smoke, and looked to the door. He glanced to the outside world, wondering where the train of shades that trailed behind Hermes was.

“Hnnrr?” Charon asked.

“Oh this isn’t a business call, its purely social,” Hermes said. “We’re allowed a little break from time to time and I think its alright for me to call upon my professional associate, see how hes doing on his time off, have a little chit chat. I do like our talks, when we can have them.”

Even if those talks were mostly listening to Hermes, Charon had to agree.

“Plus! I come bearing gifts!”

Before Charon could even ask, Hermes went rummaging through his bag. In a flurry, Charon was attacked with an onslaught of color. Perfumed silks were abruptly thrown into his face and had he not caught them they would have rained down on the stone floors. Cloth to the wealthy dyed in an array of garish colors piled up in his arms. Some laced with fine gold threads, other embroidered with scenes, tales woven into the fabric.

Trinkets came next, baubles, jewelry. A far cry from the gems in his vault. Made with the precision and care for extravagance, to be shown off as a status symbol. The bounties of the earth crafted into lauded accessories.

Hermes kept going, carefully placing bottles of elixir and a vase among the stack in Charon’s arms. At one point he pulled a lambs fleece around Charon’s shoulders and from the weight of it Charon knew it was made of gold. At the end of it, Hermes hummed as he arranged peacock feathers in Charon’s hands and placed one ridiculously long one in the band of Charon’s hat.

“There,” he said. “Ta. Da.”

Charon was frozen in shock, having suffered the entire affair with only the ability to hold out his arms and take it. He slowly looked around the pile that was high enough to block his view.

“Hnnhh?” he asked.

Hermes gave a small shrug.

“Because I want to,” he said. “Can’t one professional associate shower another professional associate in gifts and pleasantries without needing a reason or motivation behind it? I swear onto you that I have no ulterior motive other than friendship and affection.”

Charon shifted, trying desperately to hold onto all the disparate parts. One of the silks sang a shifting song as it freed itself from its kin and fell to the floor.

“Ggaah hhkk?” Charon asked.

“I am the lord of merchants,” Hermes said. “I have plenty of friends who shop these wares. I provide and it is only fair that they provide right back.”

Charon narrowed his eyes at his associate. He also had first hand knowledge that Hermes was the lord of thieves as well.

“Mmmmrr,” he accused.

Hermes’ grin widened. He cocked his head to the side, raising his chin.

“Borrowed is a better term,” he said. “With no intention to return, but still. Borrowing. And besides, it's not like they were using this lovely assortment, merely letting them go to waste. I am only passing them on to someone who would truly appreciate them. They’ll never even notice they’re gone.”

As much as Charon wanted to debate that, he resigned himself to accepting. Besides, they were quite handsome silks. He plucked the vase from its tentative perch atop the stack and gently placed it on the ground. Hermes was quick to his side, taking away items and placing them in strategic corners around the vault.

“Might really spruce this place up,” Hermes said, tucking a few yards of silk inbetween gold, letting it unfurl over the stacks like a flag. “Make it a little more homey. You know you can indulge in some comforts from time to time.”

“Huuuaggh,” Charon said, placing the peacock feathers into the vase. He gingerly pulled out the one wedged in his hat.

Hermes snorted.

“You have a very strange definition of comfort, my friend.”

Silks were neatly folded in the corner and bottles of perfume were propped up on the coins like shelving. It did transform the vault, even if just a little, introducing new finery to his collection. He didn’t entirely hate it. The idea of investing in more folded in his mind. He kept the fleece around his shoulders. The heft and feel of its gold more comforting than any down blanket. He wondered if that was how Hypnos felt all the time.

“There,” Hermes said with finality, hands on his hips. He jolted in place. “Oh, one last thing.”

He rooted around his bag and frowned when he didn’t immediately find what he was looking for. He leaned in further, his arm disappearing all the way up to the shoulder, and Charon wondered just how deep the bag went.

“Aha! Here we go,” Hermes said and retrieved a square bottle. Brilliant amber liquid sloshed inside and without having to uncork it, Charon could already smell the ambrosia.

His brow pinched together and he let out a slow grumble.

“Come on, come on,” Hermes said, waving one hand as he turned to step out of the vault. “Come share it with me. Otherwise I’m just going to drink it all myself and then I’ll be all hopped up on ambrosia and flying around and who knows where that will get me. Let alone any more poor mortals I might borrow from.”

Hermes grinned up at him. Charon had no better nature to play on, but still, he joined Hermes as his side.

Outside of the shine of Charon’s vault, Erebus was a darkened haven of peace. Sound was swallowed up in its ever expanding infinity. The realm of Charon’s father had been commandeered by his river, cut through and split across, giving Charon access to the darkest deepest bowels of the underworld.

Hermes had gone out of his way to be there.

The bank on which Charon’s vault sat was shallow with a steep drop into Styx. Not a long drop, but high enough that Charon had to climb from his skiff. Hermes plopped down at the edge and let his feet dangle off, kicking back and forth as he did. He looked expectantly up at Charon and pat the ground next to him.

Charon stared down at the patch of dirt and realized it had been years, maybe decades, maybe longer, since he had since last sat down anywhere. Hermes had already moved on, popping the cork to the ambrosia and taking his first swig straight from the bottle. Charon clambered down to the river’s edge, feeling old bones creak as they bent into place. He hooked his knees over the edge and his feet dangled just past his robes. He was long enough that he could feel Styx’s mist kiss his soles.

Hermes passed the bottle without looking and Charon took it. He shot a contemplative look down the mouth of the bottle before mimicking his associate and taking a drink. Bitter, clean, just as he liked it.

He wondered how it tasted to Hermes.

Hermes rested both hands on the bank, letting his fingers crook over the sharp edge. He leaned forward, smiling out into the twinkling darkness, gazing upon the void as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Charon cradled the bottle in his lap, looking out over his home, and enjoyed the moment.

“Have you heard about this fascinating new invention the mortals made?” Hermes said, breaking it. “Its called paper. The process of making it was found on one of the trade routes and its been brought back to share with the rest of the populace or something. You see what they do is. . .”

Charon took another long drink and listened to his associate go on. Still enjoying the moment.

Chapter Text

Charon did not often go into the House. It was a construct that had been erected when Hades first came into rule of the underworld. A place for the divine to live, a structure that mimicked mortal life and created as such for gods. Nyx and Hypnos and even Thanatos chose to preside within, but not Charon. He continued to live alongside the river, as he always had, as he always did.

But he did visit from time to time.

The first time he entered the ostentatious house had been out of curiosity. The austere structure had been erected with such efficiency that it stirred the imagination. What could have been so important that precious chthonic resources were devoted to it's significance? In a rare moment, Charon explored the abode, needing to know.

Charon was pleased to find it more function than form. A place of greeting for the dead Charon escorted. Where souls would be surrendered and subdivided into their rightful after lives. A more needless and complicated system already laid on top of the simplicity that was death before Hades' arrival. Rewards and punishments handed out for what mortals had succeeded in life rather than a never ending existence without flux in death.

But it gave Hypnos a job. For that alone, Charon couldn't begrudge the House too much.

On that first inspection, Charon floated through the halls, taking in the near identical details to Olympus, just with a different color scheme. More gems and black marble over the pale gold from above the clouds. He had tucked away into what looked to be a vault and rather finding riches, he found paper.

Contracts. Pacts. Written promises signed in blood. Each and every soul Charon ferried had been processed and given their role in the after life. Some of which worked in that awful room.

Shades. With jobs. With careers. With employment.

It was ridiculous to Charon.

He eventually found what looked to be living quarters. Another preposterous contradiction. Why would a denizen of that realm, the lord of the dead, have a need for such a base mortal concept. What was there for dressers and rugs and a bed. What need did the master of that house have for such human comforts. What did a god, outside of his brother, have a need for sleep.

Hades had found Charon standing in his room. It was the early days, before they really knew one another, but in that moment, that room told Charon all he needed to know of the underworld's new king.

He was just like his brothers on Olympus.

Hades hadn't told him to leave, only stood in his door like the petulant child he was, waiting on Charon to simply go on his own. It was then Hades knew him too. Knew there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say. There were no pacts, no contracts. Hades would not assign Charon a spot in his underworld. He had to work around the force of nature that was the ferryman.

Curiosity had first brought Charon to the House. Fondness brought him back.

Thanatos frequented the place. Hypnos worked the pool. Even when she still graced them with her presence, Nemesis would come around to trash the halls.

Charon liked to stop by. To visit.

He stepped through the big doors and onto the marble floor. Down there, the stone ran hot and would scald flesh. For Charon, it was cozy. Those late days he found himself enjoying the physical comfort of walking. The slight exertion of long atrophied bones creaking with every step reminded him of the power in his body and he relished it. Thankful with every step he took.

As it had been on his visits before, he had been expecting Hypnos to be curled up at his post, fast asleep and snoring. Instead, he was leaned over a basin, laying face down in the air, chin propped up in his fists, legs folded and lazily kicking back and forth.

He didn't notice Charon approach.

Charon bopped his brother on the head with his oar.

Hypnos jumped out of surprise. He rubbed his head, but Charon knew an act when he saw one.

"Charon!" Hypnos said. "What are you doing here?"

"Hhhnnggrr," Charon said, smoke curling around his brother.

"No! No no no no that's not what I mean, of course I'm happy to see you, haha!" He rubbed his head furiously, ruining already asleep rumpled hair. "What ever gave you the idea I wasn't completely ecstatic!?"

Charon grumbled and his gaze shifted to the basin. It was an odd shape, made of tarnished metal and Charon swore he had seen it before. It was filled to the brim with water, running precariously from edge to edge, threatening but never spilling over. The water shimmered with an iridescence that emitted a faint light. A vision within displayed a scenic sight foreign to Charon.

The land crested in a soft curve, covered in a smattering of green plant life. Charon had seen sheep before, he knew what they looked like, but he had never seen them move. Puffed up creatures covered in blankets of wool, black and pink snouts pointing out from underneath like Hypnos when he was a tucked in babe. They meandered softly across the field.

A dog burst over the horizon at top speed and Charon could hear the tinny bleets of sheep as stalk like legs buckled and bounced in an effort to get away. A man, face filled with life and cheeks flush, followed shortly after at a much less strenuous pace. The blades of green kissed at his shins, hiding his feet. He leaned on a staff, watching the dog chase the beasts around the field, much like Charon would his oar.

The light from the basin bounced off Hypnos’ face and highlighted the dimples in his cheeks.

“Pretty neat huh?” he asked. “Its a gift from Hestia. She knows we don’t get out too much and wondered if we’d ever like to see the mortal world.”

Hypnos tapped the water with his palm and the ripples shifted from one scene to another. An indoor affair. Young women all sat around a circle, arms bare and tanned and strong from labor. They wove grass into one another, building them up into small baskets. Two of them laughed, leaning back, eyes squeezed shut in hysteria. A third huffed, her cheek puffed out in a pout, glaring at her compatriots.

Mortals. Living breathing laughing mortals. Walking around with blood pumping in their veins and skin pulling into smiles and frowns. Not faded from death, not stiff nor transparent. Not confused and wandering. No coins to hand over, terrified and anticipatory of what came next. Only. . .

Life.

Charon had never seen life.

He leaned in closer.

“I've got to admit, its pretty funny seeing them like this,” Hypnos said, leaning into his palms. “I don’t see mortals too much, except for the occasional nap here and there, so its kind of cool to see them with their eyes open.”

It was. The whites of the women’s eyes glittered in the sun, a film of wet over them, pupils constricted to show off an array of color in their irises. One of them smiled wide and it wasn’t the gleaming perfection of a god. Her teeth were jagged and yellowed. Her grin was lopsided. There was a mole on her face. The imperfections made her all the more unique.

Charon leaned in closer still, a low rattle vibrated in the back of his throat.

“Wanna try?” Hypnos asked.

Charon tapped the water.

The scene changed again. A woodland, darkened from the shade of trees. It wasn’t the dank of Erebus or the ethereal glow of Elysium. Leaves made a canopy that was alien to Charon, so strange. The light filtered through, leaving inconsistent beams of sunshine to dance across the forest floor with every gust of wind. A nymph stepped out from behind a tree, looking out over the landscape with trepidation. Eyes too wide and hair long, practically blending in with her surroundings. A noise Charon couldn’t hear startled her and she ran between the trees.

Charon tapped the water again.

“Ooooh,” Hypnos said and tilted forward, his legs going higher in the air.

They peeped upon a far more intimate affair. A sprawling bed decorated in pillows and silks, draped in soft fabrics that caught the summer breeze like lazy sails. A woman and a man were strewn together across the bed. He was laid out over her, pinning her to the plush pad, but she did not seem to mind. She laughed, her hands running through his curls, shapely legs hiked up on either side of him. Her eyes melted soft in the sun as she gazed upon him and that, more than anything, seemed the most inappropriate to see.

“And what do we have here?” Hypnos asked leaning in closer.

Charon covered his brother's eyes.

“Hey!” Hypnos protested.

Those dark eyes closed as the woman lifted her head off the pillow, when her partner stopped her with a finger to her lips and a word. The man clambered off his woman and his bed, making promises Charon couldn’t hear. He left the room and no sooner than he was gone, the woman was moving.

A completely different creature from the sensual one of just a breath ago, she rifled through the room with purpose. A large trunk stood stately at the end of the bed and she hefted the lid up. Bent over and digging through up to her elbows, she pulled out coins and jewels. A discarded chiton lay by the bed and one by one she put her pilfered treasures into a hidden pocket.

Charon leaned against the edge of the basin, gripping the edge and glaring down at the blatant disregard of another’s property.

“Huh,” Hypnos chirped, peeking through his brother’s fingers. “Well isn’t that the development.”

The woman’s attention was snatched away to a small square window that had been carved out of the stone. Peeking over the edge was a familiar face, framed with a set of golden wings and wearing a near constant mischievous smile. He beckoned her closer and a visible laugh cascaded over her body as she heeded her god.

Hermes, god of thieves, whispered in the mortal’s ear.

The offense seeped from Charon. He stood up a little straighter, watching his associate work his power over another one of his domains. It was bizarre to see Hermes, who stood so resolute at strict Charon’s side, gladly spur on the theft of another man’s gold.

And somehow that made Charon respect him all the more.

Hermes poked his head in through the window, looking towards the door the man had egressed. The woman’s head snapped to follow his gaze. Hermes whispered, shooing her away. She followed her god’s command and returned to the bed, resuming her lounge. Trunk closed, chiton disturbed as it had been before, Hermes awayed, leaving nothing looked out of place. She propped up on her elbows and smiled as her lover returned.

“Yeah, Hermes shows up a lot,” Hypnos said, tapping the water again. “He really likes to interact with the mortals. Dionysus too. Lets see. . . “

Scene after scene skipped across the water’s surface with each splash of Hypnos’ hand and not a drop spilled over the side. Children playing, an old man walking, prayer in a temple, masonry work.

“Aha!” Hypnos stopped.

An open green in the middle of a glade was decorated with the debris of indulgence. The remains of food had been laid out on the ground like so much waste. Barrels of freshly made wine dyed the grass purple. A slew of mortals laid out in pain and various states of consciousness in the noon day sun. What few remained alert wriggled like sailors on dry land in a mockery of a dance to music that was not playing. And at the center of it all was Dionysus, grander and larger than his mortal worshippers, spread out on a kline. He drank from a cup, laughing at the revelry of what few mortals survived him.

“Yup,” Hypnos said. “Thats pretty much all he does. All day every day. It seems. . .”

Hypnos yawned, a muted song drawn out behind a patting hand.

“Exhausting.”

Charon watched the scene continue in its repetitive fashion, waiting on his brother to change it. When he made no move, Charon pat the water.

He tapped through vision after vision. A school, a mine, bloodletting. Charon lingered on that one for a moment, fascinated to see the medical practice in action.

Hypnos tired of the basin and rolled over, pulling his quilt with him. He wrapped up in the air and was promptly snoring not a moment later.

Charon kept looking.

Flowers growing, sun shining. A blacksmith making the precious obol that came to him. All of it so new. Information poured into him like a waterfall. Stories he had only heard but could now see.

He tapped the water again and the ripples revealed a bustling marketplace. Buzzing with vendors and consumers alike, leaving barely any room to move. Produce and game and art and textiles. All passed hands one by one. Even through the mute of the water, Charon could hear the far off roar of combined conversations.

In the span of a hummingbird’s wing, Hermes returned. He flew down to the marketplace and in the single solitary empty space, as if it had been cleared for him, he rested one foot down. His landing was barely a breath long, but in its moment the market froze. Eyes were on him as he blessed the stalls, the coin, the customers. The power of his blessing was instantaneous, a golden effect that weaved its way into every facet of the whole affair.

By the next step, he was gone, leaving behind the familiar flutter of wings and a trail of his traveler’s cloak.

The god of commerce and the marketplace, having worked his power over the promenade, left behind a discernable energy. The already booming capitalism doubled from the boost and the excitement was palpable, all the way into the House.

Charon hummed, his vapors wisping around him, and he tapped the water again.

He didn’t know for how long he stood there. Biased stories from shades did the waking world absolutely no justice and for that he treasured them all the more. Skewed by the unique perspectives of those unique mortals.

He felt the pull of Styx whispering to him, telling him how much he delayed and how it was time to return to his duties, but he wanted just one more. Just one more story to take in, one more thing to learn about the mortals. One more chance to see Hermes work.

The waters stilled out into a mirror shine. On its opaque surface was an old man, hobbling to his bed. He climbed in painfully slow, each movement creaking as Charon’s own old bones did. The man settled down, a content smile on his face. He breathed in deep once. Then not at all.

The room faded to a sickly green. Thanatos stepped alongside the bed. He took the man by the hand and lifted him up to his feet. No longer flush with color, lips a pale blue and skin transparent, the man held Thanatos’ hand and was glad to see him. Together they walked off through his door.

Charon watched the surface still. Everything held in its crystalline moment. The man, gone from that world, left behind his corpse and it lay prone and alone in the comfort of his last breath.

It was appetizing to Charon.

He shook Hypnos’ shoulder and his brother jolted with a snort.

“Wh-what?” he slurred, lifting the corner of his sleep mask. “What is it? Do I have to do something?”

“Hrrrnngghh,” Charon requested.

Hypnos blinked sleepily, eyes thin and peering blearily at his brother.

“What would you need that for?” he asked.

Charon bopped him on the head again.

____

The bed took up a good portion of Charon’s main vault. A wide affair made to best suit a small family or one rich lord. Charon was nothing but that. If he was going to indulge, might as well indulge.

He laid out on the soft textiles, not needing to acquire any of his own after the multitudinous gifts Hermes gave. Sitting had been a forgotten experience, but laying was unknown territory altogether. To be supine, staring up at the canopy that barely diffused the glimmering light of his coin, languishing in the sensation of touch as he ran his hands over his makeshift sheets of wealth. All of it. Indulgence.

“Huuurrrr,” Charon purred, smoke pluming out thick and blinding his vision.

He lethargically marinated in the superfluousness of the multiple paddings. The scent from perfumed sheets. How they wrapped around his emaciated frame.

Would it be rude to ask Hermes to deliver him a quilt? Hypnos made the idea of being cocooned up in one so appealing.

Charon pulled his hand back down again, sliding his stretched out arm in an arc and pulling soft silks to coil around his fist. He could luxuriate there for a millenia, it would be so simple.

Deep in his pockets sat a small elixir, corked and tied off with an inelegant bow. Hypnos’ seal wedged the bottle closed. Charon held it up to the light and the near clear tint of the potion refracted new and interesting colors.

Sleep. Just a test. To see what it was like. A death in its own right. Things of the mortal world Charon would never get to experience. But for just a little bit, he could feel what infinity without thought would be.

That was for later. The present demanded work.

Charon groaned as he sat up, dragging his hat to place it on his head. His oar leaned against one of the posts and it leapt into his hand with just a flick of his wrist. Behind him, the earth shuddered as his vault door closed. He slid into his skiff and with a gentle nudge, he split through the waters of Styx and headed to her temple.

The anticipation was becoming customary. The thrill of something new to share. He couldn’t wait to tell Hermes about his bed. How he, the ferryman to the dead, did something so mortal as obtain a bed, as attempt sleep. He was sure the little god would get a kick out of it. Maybe he would visit again, bring more ambrosia as he so often did, just to bear witness to this strange event. If Charon asked, he was sure Hermes would be more than happy to ramble about the thieves he blessed.

But once again, Charon’s dock was empty. Completely barren. Gone were the beggars, all of them having somehow found the coin for a ride. The temple hummed its droning song that vibrated deep from the core of the earth and the soft plink of herbal water dripped from stalactites into the river.

Charon’s skiff tapped against the wood of the dock. Would it be another Thanatos day?

The tug of souls plucked deep within his chest as it always did, an informant of the passengers to come. Deep set galactical knowledge that there would be a shipment of dead for him to ferry plodded in his mind and he waited upon their arrival.

With a flurry of bombast, the temple doors slammed open and a slew of shades were herded in.

“Come on come on come on we don’t have all day, you lot are running late as is. Hurry up, hurry up, pushing and shoving is totally allowed, there you go everyone get in. Come on.”

Hermes’ voice rang out like a cracked bell.

One of the shades was pushed to the edge of the pier and almost fell into Styx. Her many hands reached out to swallow the poor thing whole. Before she could consume the wraith, Hermes scruffed them by the collar, fished them out over the crowd, and planted them directly in the center, dispersing more shades to the edge.

“Ooh no no no you don’t,” Hermes tsked. “You will not be the one to ruin my pristine perfect record, I will not have it. You’ll just have to be content following my most esteemed colleagues strictest of rules. And speak of the handsome devil, here he is.”

Hermes fluttered over the heads, flying low enough to tip hats off shades as he buzzed past. Wind rushed over the herd, following Hermes in his wake. He stopped short in front of his associate and a gust ruffled Charon’s robes. He rested a hand on his head to hold his hat in place.

“And just how are you today? Splendid, I hope I didn’t make you wait too long. Splendid again! I’m glad to see you’re alright, I hope you’re treating yourself well. Did you happen to see the latest to do Artemis got into? She’s all up in arms about something or another that Zeus is on about.”

He was in Charon’s face again, mere inches away. From that distance, Charon could make out the wideness of his eyes, the folds around the corners as they strained, how dry they were from not blinking. His smile was plastered to his face, his shoulders tensed with strain. Flyaways mussed up his hair in a way Charon had never seen before. Even his wings were splayed, feathers frayed.

“Speaking of Zeus, have you heard of his latest trist? I did. That was not fun I have got to tell you. He came to me all sheepish and had the gall to ask me to deliver the news to Hera, too chicken shit to tell her himself. I’m still in hiding.”

Charon stepped out of his skiff and held out his hand. Dutifully the shades lined up and paid their dues. Hermes took his spot next to his associate. He buzzed and thrummed and Charon could feel the heat of him.

“I don’t know why I’m the one who has to always let Hera know when dear papa has stuck it where it doesn’t belong. Well I do know messenger and all that, but still its the principle of the thing. Can’t they see I’m busy!?”

Charon could see that. Charon could feel that. He could smell taste and hear that Hermes was extremely busy.

“And now I’m behind on languages, and just when writing is picking up too. Did you know I took that over? The paper thing happened and writing can happen with more efficiency so now I have to spread language and the written word around faster, these mortals. They’re something else aren’t they?”

It would have been the perfect time for Charon to interject, to tell his associate about how he agreed, about all the things he learned and his new bed. Even if Hermes allowed for such an interruption to his tirade, Charon’s mind was suddenly elsewhere.

The coin in his hand piled up but his eyes were on Hermes.

“Not to mention the whole fertility thing is backed up. Why? Why why why why why was I given that responsibility? I know its because I asked for it, but I honestly did not think between at least 3 gods and 10 other demigods that I would be getting the prayers every time a mortal wanted a new baby. And sometimes they get switched up with the shepherding aspects and– Nope!”

Hermes’ already bulging bloodshot eyes widened and he held out his hands to the no one he was staring at.

“We are not going to get into that.”

With his awareness dominated by the biggest force in the room, Charon didn’t track his coin or his skiff. Obol ran over and dropped to the docks. His boat filled up, not growing in its normal way to accommodate its passengers. With no where else to go, the shades backed away from the flurry of the messenger god. The feathers of Hermes’ wings rustled in irritation.

“Come on! Come on!” Hermes leaned down and began shoving shades. “We don’t have time to watch the grass grow. The grass doesn’t grow here. Unless you’re in Elysium, but thats not real grass, my point is you’ll never see grass again. Wait. No. My point is KEEP THIS TRAIN MOVING!”

Hermes clapped his hands to punctuate every syllable.

Charon slowly slipped his hand in front of Hermes like a bar and gently nudged his associate back. The flurried fury of his companion was aimed solely on Charon and Charon alone, but he allowed himself to be moved.

Charon pulsed his palm and the coin disappeared, replaced with a now empty hand. The skiff behind him groaned, spaces formed between seated passengers to make room for more.

“Do not tell me to shut up!” Hermes barked at Charon. It sounded like a well practiced reaction, words that had been repeated before.

Charon did no such thing. He would never do such a thing.

“I have very important business to attend to and, while this is up there, I can’t just lollygag around waiting on these, these, these shades to just make their little ole way onto your little ole boat there. I have to get–”

Skiff full, queue empty, docks once again deserted, Charon could turn his full attention to his associate. He placed both hands on Hermes’ shoulders and with the same care as before, pushed him to the ground. Following Charon’s guide, Hermes’ jaw clicked shut and he glared up at his associate. At the first pause, Charon could see Hermes wobble, see him falter. He stumbled when his feet hit wood, but that petulant pout did not stray.

Charon reached into his robes and pulled out Hypnos’ tincture.

Hermes wavered in place, still glaring up at the god who dared stop him, before looking at the bottle held out in front of him. He went slightly cross eyed trying to read the seal and scoffed.

“Sleep?” he asked, voice cracking. “Does it look like I need sleep?”

Charon knew better than to answer that. He would never tell Hermes what he could or could not do, should or should not do. Simply give him the option. Charon held still and held the bottle in place, for Hermes to take it or leave it.

Finally slowed down, Hermes swayed. He probably wasn’t aware that he wasn’t holding still, vibrating in place, filled with sheer energy that was suddenly going nowhere. He glared at the bottle like it had offended his mother and tried to return it to Charon again.

Charon didn’t know what Hermes saw there, but the scowl died. The urgency and strain in his face smoothed out along his cheeks. He finally blinked.

“Fine,” he conceded and snatched the bottle out of Charon’s hand.

The seal tore and the ribbon fell between the cracks of the dock. In one swift pull, Hermes tilted his head back and downed the potion. His throat bobbed as he swallowed it down and he gasped for air when he was done. He wiped at his lips with the back of his hand and passed the empty bottle back to Charon.

“So when is this supposed to–”

Hermes fell forward and Charon jolted to catch him. He landed heavy as a stone against Charon’s chest, his face pressed up against his robes.

“Oh,” Hermes slurred, cheek distorted from where it was pressed against Charon. “And I thought I worked fast. . .”

Hermes’ legs gave out and his weight fell further into Charon’s arms. Not allowing his associate to fall, Charon scooped up Hermes, hooking his arm under Hermes’ knees and cradling his body. He lifted Hermes off the ground and only then did he realize just how small Hermes was. Hermes held his arms limply across his chest and his head flopped heavy against Charon’s collar. It seemed to be a great struggle for him to lift his head and look Charon in the eye.

“Charon. . .” he said weakly.

Charon wasn’t sure what it was that stilled him. Maybe it was the way he said it or the limp grip Hermes had on his stole. How this unstoppable force was suddenly so vulnerable and struggling to keep his eyes open just so he could look up at Charon.

Maybe it was because that was the first time Hermes called him by his name.

Charon released the breath he held and his pluming haze tucked Hermes back into sleep. Hermes gave up the fight and his head lolled against Charon.

The ferryman carried his associate onto his skiff, ignoring the way empty eyes followed them. He tucked the tiny god into the curve of his bow, his traveller’s scarf pooled under his head like a pillow. Charon went to stand back up, but stopped. Hermes’ pseudo bed was incomplete.

Charon pulled at his robes and peeled the top layer off, gently tugging it out from underneath the weight of his collar. His arms were exposed and he shivered in the mist of styx. He laid his robes over Hermes, tucking the billowing fabric up over his chin. Hermes curled in tighter on himself and nestled in further into the makeshift blanket Charon provided him. Until all that could be seen was a closed eye tucked under a coiled wing, and the rest was just lump.

Charon rose to his full height, his head cocked, making sure Hermes was asleep and safe. The gentle rise and fall with each of Hermes’ deep breaths was enough to soothe Charon that his associate was settled. He picked up his oar, turned to the shades, and rested a finger to his grim smile, requesting silence from an already silent crowd.

As gently as he could, Charon pushed off from the dock.

Chapter Text

The notes of the lyre echoed through the harrowing halls of the underworld. Some time ago a string had snapped with a deafening twang. The gravelled notes of a voice that had been singing for hours joined in time with the delicate strums. A tune that no longer had the lyrics to keep going. But still, step over plodding step, the musician continued.

The affair had enraptured the whole population of the dead and chthonic alike. They watched in strict attention as the pact was carried through.

A man, kissed by the gods themselves and under their protection, alive and breathing and full of moving blood, sang as he crossed the heated floors of Hades’ domain. Only lit by the candles that lined the way. A darkened trek that should have killed him with a stumble and a burn, but Orpheus only continued.

Behind him meandered a shade. A nymph at one time, but nothing more than the rest of the inhabitants. Formless and shiftless as they limped behind.

Orpheus sweated. His eyes had long since gone red from not blinking. The strain in his neck was obvious, fighting against the temptation to lose. To look. Long bony fingers shook as they plucked at the strings, managing somehow to keep the melody and time despite it all. His voice cracked once more.

”. . .and I will go. . . to wandering . . .”

The brief blossom of lyrics died again into the fade of mumbles and hums.

Charon watched from Styx. He gently rowed alongside the couple as they ventured their escape from an inescapable realm. He watched the man walk with careful steps and not once stumble. He watched the shade follow close behind, tempted by his siren song to follow.

Their attempt was futile, Charon knew that. In all his time on the river, in all his time working as the ferryman, not once had the dead left the domain. He was curious to see if Hades would fail. On the one hand, he wanted to fight to keep the shade where Charon had placed them. On the other, it would give him a sick sense of amusement to watch the so-called lord of the underworld lose a bet.

There was also the curiosity of music.

Music was a foreign concept to Charon. He had never heard such a thing before. Some shades would hum to themselves in a strange mockery of what human life had been, maybe something in the distance on Olympus, but other than that, Charon had never heard a melodic tune in his entire existence. Not like the one Orpheus brought.

Charon listened with all the attention of the rest of the underworld. All eyes and ears on Orpheus to see if he would complete his quest.

”tripping. . . by. . .”

It all seemed so pointless to Charon. The bet, the follow through to lead a shade out from the underworld, all of it.

But especially the music.

There was no function to it. The tune was used as a tool in that instance, but mortals seemed to keep such things on hand for mere recreation. It lacked the raw physical exertion of sport or the finality of art. Charon couldn’t cover himself in it, couldn’t smell it. There was no need for it to maintain human life.

Utterly pointless.

Charon slid his oar into the water and puffed his empty skiff alongside Orpheus’ trek. If the musician knew he was there, he didn’t show it. Not a twitch, not a glance, less he see his prize out of the corner of his eye. Charon followed. And he listened.

A unique concept to be sure, Charon would have to give it that. He had seen instruments of music in the scrying pool, but no sound came through. He had seen mortals open and close their mouths, tongues curled to make unique sounds, throats pulsating as they took deep gulps of air. Charon didn’t quite understand until he saw Orpheus hold those first long notes.

He still didn’t understand.

Eurydice followed. Entranced, leaning forward, spellbound by the shade’s one time lover’s song. Was it really so powerful to pull a shade from the depths? Charon didn’t see how.

Most confusing of all was Orpheus.

Even fueled by Olympus’ power, it was a dangerous gamble to barge into the land of the dead. To risk his pitifully small life like that, to risk it all, just for a shade. It made no sense to Charon. He simply couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

Shades died. They paid their dues. They spent the rest of eternity in death. There was no coming back from that. It was finality, it was ever lasting.

And this musician dared to go against that?

It was everything to lose with very little to gain. A few more short years with his nymph, that was all. Simply because the mourning and loss had seemed too great, he was to selfishly drag them from the pit back to where she would die all over again.

Music and risk went hand in hand with this endeavor, a swirling cacophony of confusion and pointlessness. The sheer definition of what it meant to be mortal, what it meant to be alive.

Charon pushed his skiff one more time.

A bead of sweat trickled down Orpheus’ forehead, down his nose, and hissed as it hit the earth. His legs shook with the next step, blisters evident when he raised his feet again. The gold of his lyre had become tarnished with smoke and soot. Sheer determination drove him ever more forward towards a fruitless goal.

Doors to the underworld groaned and shook the earth as they opened for Orpheus. Sun shone in, beating down on the floor as it shifted from dirt to ornate beneath Orpheus’ feet. A tentative smile worked its way onto the musician's face, shaking as fiercely as his exhausted fingers did. The exhilaration thrummed through his mortal body, raising goose pimples on his flesh. Charon could see his head shake and twitch with the desire to see if his nymph was truly there.

”back . . . unto. . . my love. . .”

He placed one foot just shy of mortal land. And turned his head.

Ah.

Oh well.

The effect was instantaneous. Eurydice’s shade screamed and was dragged back into the darkness. The overwhelming smile across Orpheus’ face turned wide with horror and he scrambled back into the underworld, tripping for the first time. Ineffective. Powerless. Mortal.

The scream of the shade pitched high and echoed louder than Orpheus’ lyre ever could. Filled with terror, betrayal, frustration, and a million other emotions that would dull down over time. A single note under the throaty scream that Charon couldn’t quite place. Something that had been unique for only Orpheus.

Charon stood and watched Orpheus’ failings, content that the shade he had placed would stay where he put them. He watched the mortal man cry into the dirt, his lyre broken at his side.

Charon pushed away to return to his duties.

____

“Hello associate,” Hermes said, drawing out the hello. “And how are we doing on this fine morning, evening, night? I didn’t check, far too busy. Oh no no no! None of that.”

Hermes waved his hands as Charon reached into robes for another one of Hypnos’ special potions. Hermes had a few boat ride naps by that point and again when Charon determined him far too frazzled to function. He had been grateful every time Hermes took the invitation, seeing his associate wake up rested and refreshed and ready to work. He had come to put faith in Hermes, that he knew his body best and when he said he didn’t need it, Charon would trust him.

Charon pulled his empty hand out of his robes.

“Hhaaaaa,” he said, smoke curling around his face.

“You said it,” Hermes said and landed in his rightful place at Charon’s side. “Seems we got a big batch today. I don’t think Ares was working on something, but Apollo might be dipping his toe in disease again. I know you’re about that mortal medicine but let me tell you, friend, in practice, their ideas do nothing.”

“Hhhrrrrmmmm.”

Hermes laughed once and loud. Charon held out his hand and gold clinked into it.

A pattern had risen that Charon had been slow to recognize over time, but was apparently there. When Hermes first came into the underworld’s employ, there had still been the dirge and drudge of the dead. A fear that had come over the shades upon reaching Charon’s shores. But with Hermes’ guidance there, a levity had overcome the situation. The journey had been less of regret and more the experience to look forward to. And as the waking mortal world came to know Hermes as their psychopomp, the expectation of what was to come prepared them.

Charon had to admit he felt it too. When his associate came flying in, smile first, bringing a greeting or a quip. The anticipation Charon felt waiting for him, the comfort at the sight of him. Charon had always fallen into his role, but he had found a joy in his work. A sense of pride that hadn’t been there before.

He had always just been. In those days, he was being.

The shades bustled, enjoying each other’s company and milling about. Conversation wasn’t high on the demands of the afterlife, but a facsimile to it buzzed through the crowd. Possibly spurred on by their guide.

“I'm pretty sure it's morning outside,” Hermes picked up, folding his hands behind his head. “Either just a little after sunrise or a little before sunset. It was still dark when I rounded up this lot. Its going to be a hot summer I think. The flowers are just coming into bloom. Its not like down here when flowers are always in bloom.”

He nudged one of the black weeds with his foot.

“On the one hand it lacks the delight of seeing them pop up out of the snow,” Hermes kept going, kept nudging the flower until a dry crackled black petal fell off and down to the dock. “But on the other hand, they’re here all year long, pretty and reliable. Kind of like you!”

Hermes had an array of smiles. Sly when he said something cutting, crooked when he laughed, and the one that split his face like the sunrise. Pure infectious joy that had spread to all of those around him. It ran rampant through Charon’s veins. He allowed its viral nature to take him over, not watching the coins that clinked into his hand.

The smile slowly faded.

“What?” Hermes asked. “Do I have something on my face?”

Charon inspected said face to find that something and did not know what he saw there instead. He shook his head and refocused on his task. On his job.

He could only barely recall a point where he once rebelled against Hermes’ involvement, thinking him no more than another unneeded Olympian nuisance. Another layer of bureaucracy that had silently shown disdain for the natural order of things. Charon’s natural order.

He couldn’t imagine working without the efficiency of Hermes’ aid. Charon’s dock was perpetually clear, the flow of dead had been streamlined, the overall mood of the herd was lifted.

Olympians were disruptive incompentent beings. Hermes was the exception to the rule.

Charon had come to treasure Hermes’ company. Not just as an associate but as a companion. Someone to talk to or at least talked to him. Someone who listened. He was charismatic and even Charon was hopeless to the whirlpool draw of his personality.

He couldn't imagine going back to working alone.

“Oh! Guess what I found on the way over here?” Hermes said, reaching into his bag. “Or rather who! Hang on just a second. I don’t normally tell people to wait but– ha!”

Hermes withdrew from his bag a small box like creature. A dark green fellow with a hardened shell on its back. Its head craned out on a long neck, small black beady eyes blinking against the sudden light. Hermes held it up between both hands and small stump-like legs kicked in the air.

Charon had seen a turtle before, but this introduction was his first up close and personal.

“I named him Speedy,” Hermes said, leaning to the side to look around Speedy. “Because he likes to go fast.”

Charon pocketed his accumulated change and stopped the line so that he could raise his hand and, using one finger, scritch Speedy on the head. Hermes’ close mouthed smile spread in pure pride for his new found pet.

“Poor buddy was just trying to have a simple day and cross the road. Damn chariot almost ran him over. Would’ve turned poor Speedy into Speedbump.”

He gingerly placed the turtle back into his satchel. The creature climbed atop a scroll poking out of the bag and extended its neck. It looked around with all the curiosity its master had.

“Hnnnnrrgg,” Charon said.

Hermes wrapped his hands around the turtle’s head and gave Charon a fierce glare.

“How dare you, sir!” Hermes hissed. “Yes I know, we all know, he’s going to die eventually. We’re all going to die eventually, but its not something we particularly want to think about now is it.”

“Gggnnngg, gghhnnrr,” Charon pointed out.

Hermes rolled his eyes.

“That is beside the point, my fine osseous friend,” he said. “Yes yes death is an inevitability, your boat ride is inevitable, we all know it and I wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t a constant truth, am I right?”

He gave a quick wink. Charon looked away, realized the line was still waiting on him, and held out his hand again.

“But that is part of what makes life so precious to those who have it.” Hermes gently stroked the turtle’s head. “There are parts of being alive that are so far removed from death that should be enjoyed with what little time is had. Theres so much the mortals jam into their lives to make the most of it that I think we take for granted.”

Hermes smiled softly as he ran his finger back and forth over Speedy’s folds.

Charon dwelled on all he had learned from his new found shade companions, all he had seen through Hestia’s scrying fountain. What Hermes said was the truth. Mortals really did accomplish so much with so little. The inventions and innovations and sheer amount of living they did in one life.

The sounds of Eurydice's screams and Orpheus' determination played through Charon's mind.

Hermes looked back to Charon. His smile was gentle, lacking the usual fervor that made up his entire being. It widened a little before his eyes shifted to the river behind Charon.

"Full boat," Hermes said with a jerk of his chin.

Charon turned and there was indeed a boat filled with shades. The dock was empty before him and his hand was full of coin. He wondered how long it had been like that. He clenched his fist and when he opened it again his palm was empty. Pulling his oar close to his side, he turned to take his post when he was stopped. A soft tug on his stole held him in place and he turned to see Hermes pinching the dark fabric between his fingers.

"Actually I'm ahead of schedule for once," he said. "I have a little time now and I'd love to witness your side of the gig. Mind if I tag along for a ride?"

Charon paused, inspecting his associate, then looked back to the skiff. It was filled to the brim with little room left for gods, no matter how slight, but Charon did not think that would matter.

Besides.

What was another hour with Hermes?

He stepped to the side and held his hand out, indicating he was more than welcome.

"Hhhaaaaa," he said.

"Thank you!" Hermes said in a clipped lilt.

Rather than boarding the normal way, he fluttered off the ground, skimmed over the ruddy water, and promptly plonked down on the side of the boat. The skiff lurched to the side and some shades shifted in concern, but it soon rightened itself out. Sensible Charon boarded correctly. With a swift push from the dock, they were underway.

The ride was a typical one and yet far from typical at the same time. Charon pushed his oar gently through the waters. His eyes kept glancing back and forth to Hermes. He wanted to gauge what the little god was thinking. Was he impressed? Was he bored?

Charon looked over the hopeful dead and did not find a warrior among them. He'd have to skip over Elysium and head straight to Asphodel. Which was a shame. Charon imagined Hermes might like Elysium. He contemplated making a detour, to show his godly companion one of the more stunning scenic settings in that underworld of theirs, but that would be cruel to the shades who would be unable to occupy it.

Charon just wanted to show off for Hermes.

. . . show off?

Hermes kicked his legs back and forth and his heels skimmed the water. Aching hands reached up from Styx's surface and ran over Hermes' bare legs, leaving behind red droplets to trail down his skin. He giggled, as if death's caress tickled him.

"It's pretty quiet out here," he said, looking back over his shoulder. "I can see why you like it so much. This really is your favorite part of the job huh?"

Charon wouldn't say that. He said nothing and pulled his oar again.

"Still could liven it up just a little, what do you think?" he asked.

"Hhhrraa?" Charon asked.

Hermes tilted his chin low and smiled up at Charon. He shifted on his precarious perch, straightening himself, and cleared his throat.

"To tell I did not mean to go, but far she lay in wait," he sang. "To compare was none and I shall be done. And I will go a wandering."

His voice rang like a bell, clear and rolling over the surface of the river, into the crevices of the stalagmites, deep into the shadowed caverns. He lacked the natural gift and trained pitch Orpheus had but made up for it in vivacity. An Olympian power that commanded attention.

It felt more personable.

"The nightjar calls out to the moon for lonesome lovers cry. A clear set path was laid out long ago and as I went tripping by."

His eyes were closed and he cocked his head this way and that, singing the tune of lost travellers. His toes dipped back and forth in the water, his wings wettening as they trailed behind.

The shades in the skiff all looked to the god that had possibly written the song. A few looked over the side at the water as it passed by slower and slower.

"The road is long and sun behind but I shall go and go. Back to the arms that welcome me. Back to the home that warms my belly. Back to my love."

Hermes tilted his head merrily to the other side and pursed his lips together. A tight whistle pierced through the rapt attention, notes dancing with perfect clarity to the tune of Hermes' song. He drummed his fingers against the side of the boat, playing his human instrument.

Hermes blinked his eyes open. The tune of his song slowly died down and the volume dropped. He looked down at the water to see his foot was no longer trailing through it at the speed they had started. The skiff was almost stopped. Silent, he examined the surface, looking back and forth, until finally he looked up at Charon.

Charon was staring. He was looking at Hermes. For the first time, Charon was really seeing him. Things he had known but failed to recognize. Details, small parts that built up a whole.

The smell of a summer breeze on the wind. The constant glint from orange wings as if the setting sun radiated from them. Dark eyes that sunk deep into unfathomable depths that held many secrets. Laughter that was warm and welcoming and was deceptively comfortable for better or worse.

Coy smiles. Laughing smiles. Smiles that burst like the sunrise.

Charon suddenly understood.

He understood why there was so much to do and never enough time to do it. He understood the need to pack so much into the little time the living had because even eternity was still too short. He understood with such a sharp clarity the innovation, the ideas, the bustle, even war. To care for, to impress, to draw ever more closer.

Charon understood why someone would travel into the depths to pull a long gone lover free. To bring them back home where they belonged. He understood the determination, the selfishness, the loss and mourning strong enough to stare down a god and say 'I dare you.' He understood why the temptation to look back would be so strong, just to get a glimpse of him one more time, overcoming even the need to win. He understood the scream. The betrayal and terror and loss all over again. He understood that underlying note that could only be shared with one other.

Charon understood music.

Hermes' brows rose and his smile cocked to the side.

"You doing okay there boss?"

Charon understood.

Chapter Text

Love had no set definition. A kaleidoscope of aspects and emotions and factors that all slid into one another, coalescing into a shapeless formless whole that a single word lacked the power to convey. It slipped into so many facets of the universe that the stars and the earth and the dead themselves may have been made up of it, revolved around it. It was nothingness that existence came from, but as it turned out it was love that caused it to continue.

Charon had been a part of that ever turning wheel near the dawn of its conception. He was born of night and darkness, of stars and the spaces in between them. Long before the world and its dead and Styx had lived. And even then, love was an ever present power that he simply failed to notice.

Mortal life thrived and ended in love. To die, to Charon, was simply the beginning of the end. The shedding of what had once been and accepting the inevitable that was Charon and his skiff. But how many times had shades come to him asking to be reunited with their loved ones. How many had begged to return to their unfinished business. Those who were tortured would sometimes not scream for themselves but for others. Those who were gifted claimed it was not as they were alone.

Love came in multiple forms.

There was the love of the self, the enjoyment of being alone and appreciating the form that had been given. The mortal Narcissus had discovered this to a deadly level, finding love no where else but his own reflection, but the gentler side held no egotism, only a care for the weary where they got none.

The love for work and craft. The products of labor. The inventions and work. The doctor who spoke so highly of their blood letting. The mortals who wrote words of their own creation on paper they invented.

The gods who loved their domains. Ares with his war, Artemis with her hunt, even Aphrodite in an endless meta circle of loving her love and all its facets.

But then there was the love for another.

Familial was the easiest to adapt into Charon’s canon. When he looked upon his brothers and sisters. Little Thanatos and his stern focus. Hypnos and his lackadaisical attitude. The fondness he felt for his siblings swelled with the knowledge of what it was.

Even for Nyx, as separated as they were, he would not have felt the disdain he did if there hadn’t been a time on which he felt an overwhelming love for the goddess who bore him. A feeling that still ran up until the present, if he was honest with himself. A complicated tapestry that wove in and out of other emotions until they rounded into a whole. A picture that Charon could finally see.

Friendship was almost beyond Charon, but he saw it too. Little relationships between the shades with whom he now spoke. Small sparks of a connection that fell into the deep definition that was Aphrodite’s domain. Charon had less of that in his life, unable to find kinship with those who did not understand his purpose, but he had seen it. Between the Olympians, between the mortals. Those without romance who still fell in love in tiny bursts that may last for seconds or centuries.

The undefinable love. That without words. Things that just were. Charon knew of that intimately. The instant connection he felt with Styx, as if the river were a part of his body, that he affixed himself to upon sight of its rushing waters. That was also love. Love the river gave him, love he gave back. A song that pulled between the depths of them and inextricably connected to them.

And then. There was the other love.

Classical love. Romantic love. The love that was conjured up when the word was uttered.

Love.

It too had its sects.

The initial fireworks when struck with Eros’ arrow. That reaction of affection and knowing it went beyond what had been there before. Something that could have built secretly over time or instantaneous upon first sight.

The settled sort that softly boiled over time. Whether reciprocated or not, the care that lasted for days or weeks or years or decades. A longing that turned creatures of all shapes in sizes into something from what they once were. Molded them to a state of devotion. It reigned heavy over arguments and hate, over quiet nights and tender touches, over sacrifice and the connection between.

The physical sort. Bodies entwined with one another. Lovers who did not so much as share names and others who shared lives. Exploring new nooks and crevices between one another or traversing over curves well travelled.

Loss was another. The sever between. Whether taken by Charon’s hand or chosen of their own free will to end relations. Eurydice’s screams throughout the underworld.

Charon. Was in love.

He did not yet know where he landed on the spectrum. Maybe in that initial infatuation phase. Maybe it had always been there as a low level hum he failed to recognize. It was different from how he felt about his brothers, different from how he felt for Styx.

Hermes was different.

Since his revelation, Charon’s mind was consistently occupied with thoughts of Hermes. Multitudinous, chaotic thoughts that slipped over one another, tripping between reality and fantasy. Memories of things Hermes had said, things he had done. Every little endearment, every pet name, twisted the galactic night that swirled within his body. Every touch sent his mind to combustion.

Painful and joyous and freeing and drowning all at once.

Being around Hermes under the new context was its own certain level of contradictory elation and torture. Existence had proved to be difficult.

Words were never Charon’s forte. He was still working on how best to describe what he was feeling, parce the rats nest of emotions that tangled between his heart and head, let alone convey them to another. He kept his knowledge to himself as he carefully worked between new information, but standing at Hermes’ side with what he did know almost made his resolve come crumbling down.

Hermes glowed.

He had an aura about him that matched no other. A fact that had been truth long before Charon’s skewed perspective. He was warmth and laughter and frenetic infectious energy. The words that flowed from his mouth like water over a cliff had fascinated Charon long before and were simply enrapturing during his descent.

And when Hermes turned to Charon, to look him in the eye and smile at him, Charon felt the world drop away, leaving nothing but a void where only Hermes and that attention existed. Deep dark eyes and a smug smile, soft hair that was perpetually wind swept, glistening feathers that fluttered when Charon looked.

He could barely keep his eyes off Hermes and at the same time strived to not become distracted less he fall deeper and deeper. For the first time in his eternal existence, work had become difficult. The perpetual distraction that was Hermes made even the simple task of taking coin intricate. Not when he was floating so near that Charon could feel the heat coming off him. Not when he hovered just above Charon so that he had to look up at him.

It felt like worship.

Charon was in love, but he did not yet know how.

He studied the mortals.

Things like touch, the way they brushed against each other, the proximity as they stood side by side, was far too similar, far too close, to how Hermes stood at his. When hands intertwined, fingers lacing so neatly with one another, Charon could practically feel Hermes’ touch. The way his hand would sometimes brush against Charon’s, it was far too easy to picture how his fingers would slot into Charon’s palm.

Dancing was ridiculous, just as music had been. Wriggling bodies and a mass of limbs that moved with either a strict set of rules or none at all. Often times alone, but with a partner it became one more definition of love. Charon did not fully agree with it until he imagined Hermes, taking him by the hands, spinning him around, laughing all the while. Until ridiculous became something Charon wanted.

Things like holding hands and hugging and running his fingers through Hermes’ hair, catching on his wings and across the feathers.

Kissing was a major factor, that became clear. Most everyone on the mortal surface who were ‘in love’ kissed. First kisses and slow kisses and short brief pecks. Long kisses that lead to something else and the quiet ones that meant so much more.

Charon ran his hand over his exposed mouth. Smoke that plumed from between his teeth, that originated deep within his core, where the night and darkness swirled. A prototype of what a god ought to look like. Fantasies of duplicating tender kisses seemed far out of his reach.

What those lead to was far different. The naked embrace, some fast and angry, some slow and tender. Charon had little wonder what Hermes’ speed might be. That was more in the realm of possibilities, with such acts falling under one of Hermes’ vast domains.

Then there was the act of gift giving. Of handing off tokens to one another. Charon hardly needed any leaps to imagine that. Hermes had draped silks over his head with such care, came to him with ambrosia under his arm, placed peacock feathers in his hat. Affection he had called it.

And Charon let himself wonder.

At every little action Hermes had for Charon, the dull ache twisted. First one way, then wrung the other. His mind wondered and that wonder picked up speed.

Did Hermes feel the same. . .

Even down the smallest mortal necessities were shared in acts of love. Sleep was one of them. To be curled up against one another, nestled under blankets and framed by pillows, sharing in each other’s heat, or at least the heat of a winged god of Olympus. Arms wrapped around each other in embrace, unaware of the conscious world where they held fast to one another.

Charon remembered a sleeping bird, tucked under his wing, curled up under his robes.

“Back again?”

Charon looked up from the scrying pool where an elderly couple lay cuddled against one another in bed. He tapped the surface until the ripples obscured any visions at all.

Hypnos stood a safe distance away. He swirled a goblet in his hand, a small smile curling his lips.

Charon wondered if he was that easy to read.

Hypnos took a long pull from his drink, sucking in more air than water with an obnoxious slurp.

“You’ve been here a lot lately,” he commented. “See anything good?”

His distance wasn’t that safe. Charon scooped up his oar and bopped his brother on the head.

He walked back to the Temple of Styx. The path was long, but Charon needed long at that moment. He needed time. He needed to think.

The conclusion he had settled on was that he was in love. With Hermes. He loved Hermes. That was an important revelation and it was equally important to put that label on it. He was in love.

Charon rolled it around again and again in his head, hoping it would eventually become banal, but it only spurred on deeper and fuller emotions.

He knew what he felt. He knew how he felt. And he knew why.

Another prickling question still niggled at the back of his mind:

How did Hermes feel?

Charon paused somewhere around Asphodel. He stood on the fiery shores, feeling the magma lick at his bare feet. He clung his oar to his chest and tilted his head down to hide beneath the shade of his hat’s brim.

Hermes, who covered him in gifts. Hermes, who called him associate and boss and boatman like they were endearments. Hermes who consistently lit up when he saw Charon, who pulled Charon aside to have a world of two. Hermes, who had once called him handsome.

Hermes, who had admitted he held affection.

Charon looked up. He wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t tamp down the hope. And with that hope, he knew what he had to do.

He would tell Hermes. He would say to Hermes that he loved him.

It wasn’t something that could wait. He needed to tell Hermes as soon as he could. Not for the next time that Hermes came to his shores or the next visit to Olympus, but then and now. Charon would go to Hermes, he would tell him everything he felt, and then. . .

Hope.

The flowers along the river Styx grew up ivy twine and blossomed black petals that had no need for sunlight. At one point, Hermes had called them pretty. Charon plucked one such flower from the shore. He would gift it to Hermes, as a sign of his affection. He held it up in the soft glow that persistently emanated from Styx, examining the way the bloom caught the green sheen. He carefully slipped the flower into his robes and headed for the entrance to the underworld.

Without hesitation, Charon took his first steps into the mortal world.

____

Charon instantly felt the separation from Styx.

The strength of his preternatural body had been taken for granted. On the mortal earth, his bones were too weak to hold him up. His body was too heavy to carry. The weight of his gold dragged his enfeebled physique towards the ground. The oar that lived as an extension of his limbs was dropped and went abandoned. Behind him, Charon heard the sizzle of the wood and gold as it melted into the earth. Knowing his body would follow shortly after.

Every plodding step was a chore. Every push forward was agony.

But he had a purpose, he was on a mission.

He had to tell Hermes.

The sun crackled over the horizon, humming with a power that rivalled Charon’s own. In that place, it beat down on him, dominated over him. As the land went from a near blissful night, so similar to Charon’s own natural habitat, to the dawn of a glorious new day, Charon felt the defeat. He held up a hand to shield his exposed eyes from its light, feeling the heat of it penetrate through his robes and warm up his gold.

Through a forest he trudged, walking where men ought not to dwell. The pull of the underworld thrumming around it, obscuring mortal eyes from ever finding its gates. Not unless they were determined. That power held no such sway to a native of its lands and Charon found himself emerging from the labyrinthian depths of those woods.

A path cut through the land. A man made track that had been trod on so many times that it left a permanent imprint in the earth. A trail that lead mortal kind from one point to another.

A place for travellers.

Hermes’ domain.

Charon stepped onto the path and felt Styx’s call leave his mind entirely. Fully in the mortal world he moved one shuffling step forward. The effort of it like dragging so many souls down river without a boat. Another step. Then another.

The ground called to him, the underworld where he belonged. His oar had disintegrated and the earth had consumed it as it dragged the instrument of death back down. If Charon stopped, he would receive the same fate.

Charon did not stop.

The sun climbed up the curve of the sky, illuminating the land from a dusty orange into multi color. Clearer and more vibrant than anything below the earth. A crystal beauty that far outweighed whatever he could see in the scrying pool. Charon almost paused to take it all in.

He wouldn’t dare stop though.

After what felt like a millennia of dragging his dead weight of a body down that abandoned dusty road, he saw a change. A marker along the side. A symbol etched into stone. A wing.

Hermes.

Whether a blessing from the god himself or mortal made to request for safe passage, it was a totem to Charon’s paramour.

He placed a hand over the wing. And in his heart whispered Hermes’ name.

Charon had stopped. He stood on the road with one hand over the rock, hunched over, feeling the soil beneath his soles drag him down. Something akin to sleep pushed on the back of Charon’s head. He wheezed, his body convulsing, and great purple smoke coughed from his mouth. It flowed like liquid, hitting the earth in a splatter before seeping into the soil.

He prayed to Hermes.

“Charon?”

The mere act of turning his head to look up into the sky was a force in itself. His stiff neck creaked as he pushed against the weight in his skull, lifting his chin to look out from under the brim of his hat. He shook as he did, his coin rattling against one another.

Hermes hovered in the sky, back lit with the radiance of the sun. He was cast in shadow, but still Charon could see the brilliance of his smile. His wings caught the light like Charon had never seen, glowing like so much gold in the rays of sunshine. His cloak flowed behind him in a wind of his own making. Laughter bubbled under the way he said Charon’s name.

“What are you doing out here old man?” he asked. “You’re a long long way from home.”

Charon heaved heavy breaths, smoke still dropping like water from his mouth. It sat heavy on his tongue, seeping from underneath his robes, tugging on his bones, on his core, heavy as molten lead. His hand shook, an anchor he dragged up from his side to search the interior of his robes.

“Come on now, lets get you back to where you belong,” Hermes said, fluttering down and reaching out to take hold of Charon’s shoulders. “You’re a mess, associate, come come, time to go–”

Charon pulled the flower from his robes.

And held it out to Hermes.

The flower was also of Styx and fared just as well as Charon had. It curled in the sun, the edges of it fraying with burns, petals jaggedly coiling in on themselves. It hissed, a light whistle as it died. But it still held all of Charon’s intentions, all of the words he could not say.

He held it to Hermes and waited for an answer.

Hermes stared at the pitiful thing. In the slowest action Charon had ever seen of his associate, his eyes moved up to look at Charon’s face. They were wide, whites surrounding the dark of his irises. His hands hovered around Charon, no longer looking to help but held up in defense, as if Charon had attacked him. His mouth hung slack. Nothing came out. A rare moment of silence from his typically vivacious partner.

Glacially slow, Hermes took a wary step back.

Urgency ran rampant through Charon’s bones. His heart thudded like a disease. He tried to shove the flower ever more forward and fell to his knees in the process. An incomprehensible groan gurgled in the back of his throat, trying to plead with Hermes.

Hermes jolted backwards, going back up into the air to put more space between them, his wings beating hard enough to buzz in panic.

Charon’s hand shook as he held the flower up. The delicate thing that had been effortlessly plucked from its vine had transformed into a burden. Far too cumbersome to hold up, but still Charon tried.

Hermes’ chest pumped as he took quick shallow breaths. His eyes darted, going from the flower to Charon to away and back again. Charon could see the tremor in his thighs, the shake of his hands.

Charon tried again. The deep rattling death moan vibrated the back of his throat. Plume came out of him in the last gasps of his resources. He fell down to one hand, still holding the flower up like a torch.

Still hoping.

Charon stared up at Hermes, still lovely in the sunlight, still beautiful despite the horror on his face. He could feel the strain in his eyes, could feel the skin sloshing off his bones. All his precious gold drew him down, Styx screamed in his ears, but hope held Charon in place.

As Charon’s arm buckled, as his body gave out, Hermes ran.

He flew away, nothing more than a blur, an after image that blurred before Charon’s eyes.

Charon dropped to the ground and sank into the earth.

And then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Charon woke up deep within the embrace of Styx. Buried under the surface of her waters, surrounded in the ruby gleam that shone even in the murk. The thudding heart beat of the river plodded muted around him, cocooning him in the cycle between death and life. A listless body that floated adrift in the endless void of Styx's depths.

Charon had half a mind to simply stay there.

Shame kept him drowned, kept him in place. He curled in on himself, naked as the day he had been created, wallowing in his own self pity. The surety that he had held before his venture into the sun only reeked of foolishness. Of idiocy. Of things he simply did not know.

He would spend the rest of his days under the water, never to be seen from again.

Long lanky arms held long lanky legs close to his sunken chest. He stared into the ruddy murk and could only see the look on Hermes’ face. Eyes pulled wide in terror, mouth hung open in a silent scream, arms up as if Charon might attack him.

It was enough of an answer.

Rejection had been a possibility, but Charon had stupidly chose to be ignorant of it. He had set it aside, not deciding that it was an impossibility, but instead following hope and the elation of his blind emotion.

How foolhardy. How ridiculous. Like a child, Charon left the safety of his post and put himself in danger all for what?

Charon peered into Styx, eyes and ears clogged with water and shame.

For Hermes. Of course.

Even in his dejected state, Charon still felt the ache, the burn, the pain of love. He felt it like a poison in his veins and he knew he'd never be able to siphon it out.

He didn't know if he wanted to.

Charon hid his face into his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible. Even as an immortal, he felt the strain on his half dead lungs that told him even Styx was rejecting him. Be it responsibility or simple inertia, Charon dragged himself out of the water.

From the first step onto the shores, his robes fell back into place. Gold laced itself around his shoulders, heavy in all the correct ways. His oar was in his hand without needing to call upon it. Everything was as it ought to be.

And everything was different.

Charon held the oar in both hands and pulled it close to his chest. He stared at the mossy green of perfect grass, heard the whistle on the wind, and felt the gentle breeze caress his cheek. Elysium then. He looked to the waters from which he had just emerged, to Lethe, and was tempted. But his was not a mind that could be erased. His was a being long before memory. And even so, he knew, he'd never scrub himself clean of Hermes.

The winged god has branded himself on Charon's heart.

His skiff waited for him, serene and still, rocking back and forth in Lethe's current. It waited for its master, ready to begin their responsibility once more.

In love or not, rejected or not, shamed or hurt or foolish, Charon was still the ferryman to the dead.

He climbed aboard the boat. His oar weighed that of a dying star. His arms struggled to move. But he pushed off from the shore.

The travel down the river was slow going, stalled. Charon dragged, each paddle an exercise in lethargy. Each pass of the river brought him closer.

Closer to the temple.

Closer to his dock.

Closer to. . .

Charon held still, his arms hung heavy and low, the oar dragging in the waves. His heart thudded heavy in his chest with the pain of anticipation.

Hermes was still his psychopomp. He would still bring the dead to his shore. He'd still be there, hovering just over the masses with that smile on his face and a pet name on his lips.

The stutter in Charon's heart beat denoted the hole that was there. It rocked him and he was forced to sit down. He rested his oar in his lap, tight between his fists, and he stared at the memorized strands of gold etched into the handle, falling into them and getting lost.

He did not know how long he delayed there, in that haven for the exalted. He did not count the minutes. It could have been hours, it could have been days. Charon did not know and he could not bring himself to care.

He bowed his head and wallowed in his shame.

A flash of green lit up the already verdian land, casting the world in a brief monochrome. The tone of a bell pealed through the quiet, perpetually signalling the end. A familiar song that did little to stir Charon from his sulk.

The wind pushed around Charon’s head as his little brother floated into his periphery.

“Charon?” Thanatos asked.

With his usual weakness, Charon spared his brother some attention. His head creaked as it rose to look Thanatos in the eye, his neck aching from having held it hung for so long. He did not know how he looked, but from Thanatos’ expression, it must not have been good. Thanatos fidgeted uncomfortably, tightening his grip on his scythe and his eyes darted away. He pressed his lips together.

“You have been missing from your duties for some time,” he reported, as if it weren’t obvious.

Charon only stared. The presence of his brother was a welcome sight and somewhere deep inside it soothed him. That sense of a familial familiarity that he had held long before Hermes had ever come along. Thanatos who still stood awkwardly stoic, a role he may one day grow into, but Charon would always remember him as the little thing who could barely lift his weapon.

Thanatos looked back at him, holding his scythe in both hands, worrying over the handle. He held his breath and puffed it out when he found some resolve.

“Are you. . . are you okay?” he asked quietly, as if they were sharing some secret.

Quiet plume drifted from Charon’s teeth and he softened. He did not know when he had changed so much that he warranted pity. That his brother would come looking for him, not to drag him back to his post, but out of concern.

Charon appreciated it.

He slid over on the bench, making room, and pat the wood three times. Thanatos looked from the empty spot back to his brother and down again. Like it were a snake that might strike and he was something that should fear snakes. Heeding Charon’s request, Thanatos floated down to sit next to his brother.

He was just as weak as Charon was.

Thanatos settled down, wriggling in place to get comfortable, and he looked side long up at Charon. Waiting.

Thanatos and Hypnos had been so small at one time, unlike Charon who had emerged fully formed from his mother’s essence. His brothers had been babies. Tiny fragile things. Nyx had carried them with such care, given them the attention they rightly needed. Hypnos who slept through the night, Thanatos who was always so serious.

When Nyx had requested that Charon help from time to time and Charon carried the twins on his back, that kindling in his chest had first arose. Nyx had already moved away from him by then, the canyon between them already growing, and the time he spent with the infants only endeared him to them all the more. A family he cared for. The first real connection of love that Charon had not yet understood.

Thanatos had grown. What had once been gangly limbs had filled out into a god’s body. What had once been a scruff of silvered hair grew to cascade long down his back. His armored hand clacked nervously against his weapon.

Despite having grown up, he would always be that infant on Charon’s back.

Charon observed his brother, the one he cared for and would always protect. The one he wanted nothing but the best for. He wished the world for him.

And he wanted Thanatos to have what he had in that moment.

It was not an ill wish. He didn’t want Thanatos to have the pain he was suffering, but rather, the cause of it. He wanted Thanatos to experience a love so shocking and so deep that it could cause pain. To reach those elated highs. To find someone he looked at and loved so dearly that it hurt sometimes. To find someone he’d be willing to risk leaving the safe haven of his home just to gift a flower.

For as much pain as Charon was feeling in that moment, he was still in love. He still felt the warmth of it, the aching hurt of it.

He had changed so much because of it. One person grabbed the world by the handles and flipped it upside down, opened windows and doors to let the fresh air of a new world in, forcing Charon to see things differently.

He talked to shades. He broke his own rules. He collected items of the mortal world he had become so fascinated by. He had a bed!

And he was in love.

Charon wanted all of that for his little brother.

He raised one hand, uncurling stiff fingers that had gripped his oar so tightly, and he rested it on Thanatos’ head. The god of death flinched under it, ducking his head low and his eyes wide. More confused than anything else.

Charon ruffled his hair.

Thanatos squinted his eyes shut and sneered, but waited for the whole ordeal to be over.

“Heeooo,” Charon said.

Thanatos almost smiled.

He was right. It was time for Charon to get back to work.

Charon rose to his feet, his whole body as stiff as a tree from lack of use. He took his oar in both hands and resumed his post at the back of his skiff. With a single great stroke, he pushed the boat forward again.

Like the polite young man that he was, Thanatos sat with good posture and enjoyed the ride.

____

Charon’s dock was full.

Shades mingled and pushed around each other, trying to find room in the tight space that they had. A small rabble of conversation between the hissing dead. At the sight of Charon’s skiff, the noise slowly died down, dropping from a lull, then into silence. Hollow eyes all turned to him, waiting for their ride to their ever after.

It was a familiar sight, almost like coming home.

But something was missing.

Hermes had been clearly doing his job still, guiding the lost souls to their rightfully earned spots on that lonesome dock, but he was not there. Normally, prior to Charon’s ill gotten adventure to the surface, Hermes would have been there, fluttering just above the crowd, hands behind his back and a smile on his face.

The lack of his associate twisted something in Charon’s chest. An anticipation he’d been carrying since he made the decision to return to his role. That he would eventually see Hermes again, see that look on his face, the one of horror.

Somehow, Hermes not being there was worse.

Charon had dragged himself that far. He had a job to do.

He parked his boat where it belonged and stepped off onto the dock. The shades all made way for him, giving him ample space despite the lack of it they had for their own.

Charon stood in his spot. And he held out his hand.

Obols began clicking into the center of his palm as one by one the shades who could pay did. Further down the dock, the beggars meandered awkwardly. They swayed in place, looking to their peers for coin to rejoin their loved ones. Charon had cleared his dock of such lollygaggers. He had worked hard to put shades away, sneaking them in one by one. A bad habit he had learned.

Charon went to pluck another coin from his necklace as he would have done in another lifetime and he paused. Remembering that particular habit, thinking of clever fingers that fished obols from his messenger’s bag, and slipped them not so subtly to wanting shades hands.

Charon rubbed his thumb over the coin in contemplation. He searched himself for who he was, who he had become. Was he still that person who mimicked Hermes, who snuck coins to desperate shades? Was he going to go back to the creature he once was with his rules and his mandates?

He was in love.

Charon plucked the coin from his necklace and it clinked when it hit the dock.

Returning to his duties was like slipping on a second skin. Stepping into the legs, pulling it up over his hips, until he had fully found his place again.

Charon, the ferryman. Charon, the taker of coin. Charon, the first face that greeted the dead.

He was who he was.

The doors to the Temple opened and a warm breeze slithered into its marble halls. The hum of more shades filing into the afterlife reverberated across the walls. A slow marching stampede headed his way.

The flutter of wings unmistakeable.

Charon had almost fooled himself into thinking he was stable. That everything would be as simple as it was before. That he could do his job.

But the second he heard those wings, his heart leapt into his throat.

He stared straight ahead, his throat constricting closed, the twist in his chest working double time. He froze, as still as a statue, not daring to look at Hermes.

Thinking only of the last time they were together.

Shame weighed down on him like the pressure from deep within Styx, rushing back in like so many waves. When Hermes had last seen him, he had been on his knees, dying and holding up a flower that went unaccepted. A pitiful sight, the exact opposite of what Charon wanted Hermes to think of him.

He didn’t want to look Hermes in the eye. He didn’t want to see the pity or repulsion or rejection again.

Instead, he focused on the work he had to do.

A warm presence flew over the crowd with uncharacteristic silence. It beelined to Charon and a compact body settled in at his side.

Charon became distinctly aware of Hermes. In his mind’s eyes and spurred out in his periphery, he could see the god at his side. Shorter, hands folded behind his back, staring out over their work. The two psychopomps working side by side to usher in the dead.

Coins rattled together, shuddering in Charon’s palm, and threatening to spill over the sides. He willed them to stop and realized it was his own hand that was shaking. He flexed his palm closed, as tight as he could, to regain command over his muscles. When he opened again, his hand was empty, but still trembling.

He tightened his grip on his oar. He stared just over the shades. He ignored the body at his side and the itching crawl of anticipation that ran up it.

“You know,” Hermes said. “Flowers are such a temporary token of sentiment, don't you think?”

That gained Charon’s attention. Before he could stop himself, Charon whipped his head to look down at Hermes. Beautiful as ever, glowing with the natural holy radiance that emanated from his very core. He stared up at Charon with dull eyes, his brows raised, and no smile on his face. Almost bored at the situation.

Charon wasn’t sure if it was better or worse than the wide eyed terror from the last time he saw him.

“Even if they weren’t from the land of the dead, they would eventually wither and wilt away,” Hermes continued. “Is that really the message you want to send?”

Charon could hear his heart beat heavy in his skull. An itching anxiety overcame him, playing over the words Hermes was saying. Rampant confusion became his default state.

Hermes clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes.

“Must I do everything in this relationship,” he said and fluttered into the air.

He rummaged one handed in his bag, eyes never leaving Charon, and pulled out a small blade. He leaned in close, intimately close, the closeness of a lover, and Charon recoiled. Hermes furrowed his brow, annoyed by every little thing Charon did, and reached out anyways. He took a long lock of Charon’s hair gently in his hand and brought the blade to where it tucked under his hat. In a neat little slice, he shorn it off.

Hermes had always been confusing, but Charon had never been more bewildered. Where was the creature from the surface, the one who ran away? Instead replaced with the Hermes he knew, the stock version he had come to love.

Charon wasn’t sure which way to turn.

Hermes folded his legs in the air and pinned the lock of hair to the end of his chiton. He pulled taut on it and began to braid. He glared angrily at Charon.

“Never mind me,” he said with a wave. “Quit staring and get back to work.”

Charon jolted as he righted himself again to once again face the shades and his obols and his duties. One by one they filed onto his skiff, but still Charon could not pay attention. He glanced again to Hermes.

His head bobbed as he braided Charon’s hair, dancing to a tune that only he could hear in his head. He wove the strands tight, not allowing room for frays or flyaways. As he did, some of his own natural power seeped into the strands. The same golden light that bloomed when he touched down to bless marketplaces and thieves and travellers. It shifted Charon’s hair from the grey of a corpse to a spun gold. Plucked from the chain of a necklace rather than from his scalp.

When Hermes was done, he tied it off, looping the strand back around itself. He slipped it onto his wrist and sealed the ends in a tight knot. It hung from his arm like a cuff, loose, but not loose enough to slid over the butt of his hand.

He jangled the fresh bracelet in the air, a pleased smile on his face.

Once satisfied, Hermes unfurled and landed on the ground. He wrapped his fingers around one of his feathers, the second one from the end, and tugged. It didn’t immediately dislodge and his face contorted into that of pain.

“Haaaa,” Charon said, raising his hand in an effort to get Hermes to stop.

But there was never any stopping Hermes.

“Ah!” Hermes yelped and yanked his feather free.

His wing shuddered from the pain, shaking out and acclimating to the new sensations. The hollow space where the feather once sat was apparent to Charon, having gone from full flush wing to suddenly not.

Hermes held up the feather in the low light of the temple, nodded once in approval, and reached into his bag again. He pulled out a string that glinted gold and pierced a hole in the hollow quill at the tip. The feather dangled, a charm at the end of a necklace.

Hermes rose to the air and loomed close to Charon.

Once again, Charon leaned back.

Hermes glared, holding the necklace up.

“Hold still,” he ordered and Charon had no choice but to obey.

Hermes reached under Charon’s collar, leaning in close to wrap his arms around Charon’s neck. Charon tried to look away, to look anywhere else other than the object of his affections as he looped the token of sentiment around his neck.

It was almost as if Hermes was hugging him.

Charon tried not to think that. Tried not to place that label on what they were doing.

But he couldn’t help it.

When Hermes was done, he pulled back and examined his work. Charon looked down to check on it as well.

The sunrise colored feather hung just below his collar and blended in with his necklace of obols. It shone, but its shine was hidden by the coin. One would hardly knew it was there unless they were explicitly looking for it. Charon plucked it up to better see it, shifting it in his hands, and wondering what it meant.

What message was Hermes sending?

“There,” Hermes said, hands on his hips and nodding satisfactorily. “Perfect.”

He stood at a distance, admiring his work, before looking up. Like a magnet drawn to its opposite pole, his eyes met Charon’s. The first real exchange since the horror show from the surface.

Hermes bristled. His eyes went wide and the corner of his smile shook. A golden flush kissed his cheeks. He quickly looked away, as if he couldn’t stand what he saw.

Charon didn’t know what was going through Hermes’ head and all he had in his own were questions. All of which he was too terrified to voice out loud. Scared of breaking the tentative tenuous connection Hermes had built for them, made of frail thin crystalline glass.

Charon only held onto his feather and silently sent his thanks.

“Looks like you’re going to have to make a couple of trips there associate,” Hermes said, the title ignited a fluttering in Charon’s chest.

Charon looked back to his full skiff then the still populated dock. Normally he could carry a full load, no shade left behind, but even his ever expanding boat couldn’t push itself to those limits.

“Maybe next time you won’t lollygag so much,” Hermes teased.

From the shake in his smile, from the crumbling mask of confidence he wore, Charon could see they both knew why he’d been delayed. And that neither would talk about it.

“Until next time,” Hermes said, gently floating higher into the air. “You take care of yourself now, associate. See you later!”

With a blur of color, Hermes was gone. The dash, just as speedy as it had been on the surface, but that time it did not leave behind a gaping wound. The pierce from the surface tentatively began to knit itself closed.

Charon looked back down at the feather in his hands and ran his thumb over the vane, barbs fluttering in a neat little row. He did not know what it meant, he did not know where he stood with Hermes, he did not dare.

Try as he might didn’t dare.

Charon fought it fiercely.

But in the end, he hoped.

Chapter Text

Soft tines of a golden feather fluttered under Charon’s touch. It had become habit, to run his thumb over the silken strands, to hear them rush as they fell back into place. When he was alone, when the river Styx was quiet and still, Charon would stand on the back of his skiff and gently stroke the feather that hung around his neck. When he was in his vault, laying on his bed, staring at his gold and not seeing it, because there was something far more precious in hand.

The greatest treasure the world could offer. All the riches in the underworld, all of creation from mortal hands, all the grandeur on Olympus couldn’t compare.

Hermes had given him something far greater.

Charon gently pushed his skiff through the river Lethe and let it glide through serene waters. He paused, as he often did, to toy with the feather around his neck. Time would slip by as he dazed off into the middle distance and let his mind, the one that had been once so singularly focused, wander.

To the sunshine wings and lilting laughter. To the songs that sung sweetest from a perfect voice. To sun kissed skin and dark pools of eyes. Eyes that saw past Charon, eyes that knew more than Charon would ever know.

The open door to the rest of the world that gently guided him by the hand into spaces he would have never considered before.

Charon ran his finger over the feather once again and thought of Hermes.

In turn, another habit had formed.

Charon Charon Charon

Completely out of his control, the mantra of his name would repeat in his head. It had started intermittently, sometimes going days without a single syllable. Some days it would be all he would hear. For hours he could hear it whispering in a hush. A sound that he did not hear but simply knew.

It was a prayer.

The mortal world would sometimes pray to him, pray for leniency, for forgiveness, to allow them passage regardless of their compensation.

This was a prayer for him.

Charon Charon Charon

Charon closed his eyes, stroking the feather under his thumb. The song played in his head, worming its way into his heart. It constricted and praised and flowed over his body. Replaced the night in his veins as he thrummed with a renewed sense of power. A confidence that he had never felt before.

Charon was a fixture to Styx, an extension of the waters. The rapids was his roar and the stillness was his serenity. He had no need for self doubt, no need for confidence. There was no low, there was no high.

The voice inside his head raised him up.

Charon Charon Charon

It was hushed. A whisper. A swirl on the wind. It was almost imperceptible, indecipherable, but Charon could hear it.

He recognized it.

A song that he had heard and fallen in love with.

He knew whose voice it was.

Charon

One last thrill over the feather, one last dance of its sunshine tines, a spit of day light in Charon’s gloomy world, and Charon tucked the feather hidden behind his obol necklaces. Two hands on the oar, he pushed into Styx and rounded the corner into the Temple.

The docks were empty, devoid of all activity, but Charon knew the latest caravan of the dead would be arriving soon. He could feel it in his bones, taste it on the wind. He could sense Hermes coming for him long before he arrived.

The bow of his skiff kissed the dock and Charon carefully stepped out. He stood at the side and waited and listened.

The prayer sped up in excitement.

CharonCharonCharon

It whirled like a cyclone, eliciting a tingle in his chest, riding up his throat into his skull. He stared at the great doors to the underworld, waiting on the inevitable who would come bounding in with all the fervor of a summer storm.

The prayers died out. The constant chatter that Charon fixated on suddenly gone. There was no need to pray for something that was already given so freely. No need to ask when he was already there. The doors groaned and shook as they opened. The ground vibrated. The wisp of dead filed into their new ever after and the sweet scent of the hot mortal world seeped into the marble and stone and dank.

Hermes arrived.

He flew in first, above the crowd, smile as bright as the sun and scarf trailing behind him. The sight of him was greater than any sensation Charon had without. Not the prayers in his mind or the feather under his touch. Not Styx or night or darkness or death.

Hermes. There.

“Come come don’t dawdle, we're on a tight schedule and you lot are slowing me down so keep up,” Hermes spoke to the shades that filed in. He clapped his hands together in a repeated rhythm to get the march to go faster. It didn’t. “Chop chop, you aren’t getting any deader, and we need to get you back home.”

The shades made their way onto Charon’s docks and slowly approached him, wary and lost despite their guide, confused at their sudden end of life, and aware at the sight of Charon where they had arrived. Charon held out his hand, expectant and waiting, always there for their arrival.

“Thats it there we go, now just line up for my good associate there and you’ll be on your merry way, quick as a flash.” Hermes hovered over the crowd, gently urging each and every of the shades on like their experience was different and special.

After all that time, Charon had learned that they were.

Hermes’ eyes flitted up to Charon, looking to the associate he referred to, and at their meet he looked away again. The confidence he wore like a badge of honor wavered and his chatter stopped. He patted the heads of some shades, pushed them gently forward, until all of them were queued up and handed their fare to Charon.

“Hello associate!” Hermes chirped, landing at Charon’s side and not sparing him a glance. “Gotta say you’re pretty lucky to be down here where no one can bother you because let me tell you, Olympus is having one of their tiffs again and I am sick and tired of it, but hey what can you do.”

Charon was content to do his work and listen to Hermes go on. He looked side long at his associate, at the little god he loved, and took him in.

“Ares is just restless because he’s in another one of his lulls, you know can’t have war if you don’t have a peace to fight for, that kind of thing, so he’s the one stirring up nonsense this time. He’s messing with Aphrodite again and you know how she is. She’ll bounce off him and suddenly its everyone’s problem.”

He tilted his head when he talked, bobbing it back and forth as he slipped from sentence to sentence. His smile was unstoppable, even as he complained, still amused with life in general. Hermes’ optimism and his willingness to see the best in the world had spread to Charon like an infection.

“I try to keep away from that mess as much as possible.” Hermes closed his eyes, his grin widening and pulling up crooked. “Aphrodite can have her mess and her drama, but thats not going to be my problem.”

Charon couldn’t help but notice Hermes had stopped looking at him.

They had exchanged favors, tokens of their affection for one another, a connection between them that Charon thought would never be severed. Hermes spoke the same, did his job the same, radiated the same energy, but he was different.

“So naturally Zeus thinks he needs to get involved, you know how he can be, sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. I’m only hoping that one day it gets cut off. Don’t tell him I said that.”

Where they should have been spiraling in a dance of affection, a distance had grown between them. Hermes started to stand just a little further from Charon. He stopped looking at Charon if he could help it. Rarely did he address Charon directly. The visits to Charon’s vault stopped. When he came with deliveries of mortal shades, he talked and talked and talked, leaving no space for nothing more than continuous idle chatter. Not even a breath between words. He arrived shortly after the shades and left before the last shade boarded Charon’s skiff.

“Thank goodness Hades keeps to himself down here with you Chthonics, could you just imagine if all three of those clowns were involved in this? It would be another one of those sibling wars I keep hearing about, from ‘the good ole days.’”

Hermes kept his hands behind his back. They could have been misconstrued as folded behind him, a position of politeness and respect for his station. But Charon could see what was happening.

He could hear it.

Charon Charon Charon

“At least then Ares would be happy,” Hermes laughed, eyes still closed and feathers shaking with his own humor.

Fingers ran over the golden bracelet around Hermes’ wrist. They traced the braid, tightly woven and not a fray or hair out of place. Forever entwined tight together like Charon’s feelings for Hermes.

He fiddled with it, spun it, played with it. A nervous habit that seemed to be second nature. He probably wasn’t aware that he was doing it.

All the while, Charon heard Hermes’ voice repeat in his head.

Charon

“I figure I’ll just keep to my duties, keep myself busy, and just avoid Olympus. Just for a little bit.” Hermes spun the bracelet again. “Lots of messages to deliver, travellers to bless, and of course our little gig with the dead here.”

Charon wished he knew what was going inside Hermes' mind, what he was thinking and feeling. Charon had been so open, so blatant, about his feelings towards the little god and yet in return he got fed piecemeal puzzle pieces and still had yet to see the whole. The fear on that sunny morning. The irritation and determination when they had made their exchange. The way he avoided Charon. The way he played with the bracelet.

God of obfuscation, of trickery and lies, of muddled messages.

Charon wanted to know.

“But you know even I need to rest now and again, you know that better than most,” Hermes said without looking at Charon. “My bed is in Olympus and do you understand how hard it is to sleep with all that racket going on?”

Charon reached out. He wanted to rest his hand on top of Hermes’, to quell the fidgeting. To soothe Hermes and convey a sense of security.

To get an answer from him.

“Hey maybe I should get Hypnos to–”

Charon’s fingers brushed Hermes’ hand and the reaction was instantaneous.

Hermes jolted from Charon, leaping up in the air, fluttering backwards over the remaining crowd. His eyes wide like a helpless animal facing down a predator. The space he put between them might as well have been a natural disaster. Charon could see the way he froze up, the tension in his shoulders, the quiver in his wings, the breath he held.

Once again, afraid of Charon.

Charon held his hand out, trying to coax Hermes back to him.

“Haa–”

“Well I guess thats that,” Hermes said laughing, nervous and shaking and once again not looking at Charon. “Shades delivered. Duty done.”

Hermes swallowed heavily, looking back to his exit.

Charon didn’t want him to leave. He wanted Hermes to stay, to ride on his skiff, to sing to him again. He wanted Hermes to stay, to talk to him about anything and everything, to share ambrosia. He wanted Hermes to stay and be irritated that Charon couldn’t express his feelings correctly.

He wanted Hermes to stay.

“Ggraa–”

“Gotta go, people to be and places to see, you know the drill, until next time.”

And he was gone.

Charon watched the after image of him fade, feeling far more hollow than the initial rejection. Unsure of the nature of their relationship, working and romantic and otherwise.

Shades wavered on the dock, waiting for their ferryman to once again take their coin. Charon only stared at the door from which Hermes had escaped.

Hermes wasn’t going to visit him, he wasn’t going to explain.

If Charon wanted answers, he’d have to seek Hermes out himself.

____

Never before would Charon voluntarily choose to go to Olympus. Never before Hermes. For a time, he had been dragged there. By his mother, by a summons, and had chosen that next time someone asked him to climb the mountain to visit the infuriating gods who sat high on their thrones, Charon would say no.

Yet there he was. Walking through the gates. On his own of his own volition.

Searching for Hermes.

That tugging draining pull Charon so often felt when separated from Styx niggled at the back of his throat. A hint of what had transpired on the mortal surface that conjured a sense of panic deep within him. He wanted to never go through that ordeal again, but for Hermes he would do so a thousand times over.

His oar tapped along the marble floors, echoing off the hallowed walls. He floated, leaving behind wisps of violet plume in his wake, evidence of a chthonic being trespassing on holy grounds.

Olympus was both barren and bustling. Ghosts of the deity’s servants scurried about, hurry to perform their duties for their masters. A demi-god would meander, looking just as out of place as Charon. The sun radiated from deep within the halls, the wind whistled high up on the mountain. The air was thin and reedy, giving Charon a sense of vertigo.

He searched down the tributaries of hallways that branched in a labyrinthian likeness. He had never traversed that deep into Olympus, never had a reason to. He looked into emptied rooms where wars and famine and plague lingered. Where invention and celebration and recreation lived. Where the concepts that made up the mortal world cycled with the creation of gods. Both feeding and fed by one another in a symbiotic relationship.

But no gods.

The first god he came across was not the one he was looking for. At a pool, surrounded by her entourage of nymphs, was the goddess of love. Charon had little interaction with Aphrodite, never needing to converse with her. Their worlds hardly collided, their work not having any overlap, despite how much her influence held sway over those that came to Charon’s shores.

She bathed among those that doted upon her, a great woman that towered over them all. She pat back the hair of one such nymph, the pathetic thing smiling up into her palm at the praise.

It wasn’t until she finally noticed Charon that he recognized her for the terror she was.

Glowing eyes that radiated with a power that Charon had previously never appreciated saw him. Never before had Charon felt so perceived. He was an almighty power, as steady and transfixed as a mountain, as permanent as the stars, and yet in that moment he was ineffectual.

Aphrodite’s brow pressed together, her lips pursed in confusion as she looked Charon over. A question that she was sussing out the answer to. Charon knew when she had found it, when her expression relaxed and a small knowing smile quirked on her lips. Her chin tilted low, her gaze transforming into something dangerous, something hungry.

She knew.

Out of all her siblings, out of her parents, out of everything that shook the earth and raged war and toppled civilizations. Those that unmade kings and remade the world. The eaters and consumers and destroyers and crafters and that which held sway and power over every little thing.

None of them were as dangerous as Aphrodite.

No longer able to live under her knowing stare, Charon left and continued his search for the one that weakened him so.

Charon wandered the halls, neglecting his duties once again. He felt the pull of Styx beckon him to please return home. He did not call out, not wanting for his presence to be known.

He ended up back at the gates.

Charon sighed in a huff of smoke, his body going slack.

He could hear the whispers in his mind.

“Charon?”

Not whispers. A voice. And not in his mind. In the world.

Charon turned in place and found Hermes, floating just off the ground, standing in Olympus’ welcoming halls. His eyes wide with confusion, mouth slightly open at the sight of Charon.

Probably replaying the last time Charon had found him away from the river Styx.

“What are you doing here?” Hermes asked.

Charon reached out, wanting to touch Hermes. The desire to pull him into his arms, to hold him close again, to run a hand over his face, was overwhelming. He floated closer, wanting nothing more than to close the gap that had grown between them.

"Hhaaah–"

Hermes' eyes darted, looking from side to side to see who else noticed Charon's presence, a flush on his cheeks. Embarrassed to be seen with Charon, despite being his associate, despite having been seen with him multiple times before.

"Come on," he said.

Hermes darted forward and snatched Charon by the wrist, dragging him away at top speeds. Charon felt the force of Hermes' flight slam his breath into the back of his chest, knocking the wind out of him. With more knowledge and focus than Charon would ever have of Olympus, Hermes led him down halls and corridors. The hand on his wrist was a searing brand, a touch from the once so tactile Hermes that Charon had gone too long without.

In the darkest corner of Olympus, Hermes pushed Charon into an alcove, crowding him conspiratorially. Charon only focused on the scent of rushing wind that Hermes carried with him, too distracted by his proximity to worry about his ire.

"Are you stupid or something?" Hermes hissed.

He was finally looking at Charon. Warm, dark eyes that saw through everything that Charon was and dredged out everything he could be finally finally saw him again.

Charon didn't mind that it was from anger.

"Grrraan," Charon hummed.

"That's all very well and nice boss, but you can't just go leaving your post like this you do have a job to do," Hermes said.

"Huuuah," Charon pleaded.

Hermes scoffed and looked away, falling back into his new habit.

"Now is not the time," he said.

Charon didn't need to ask when it would be the time. He had a feeling it would be never.

If Charon wanted more from Hermes, anything from Hermes, he would need to persist.

"Kkuuuah."

Hermes' eyes snapped back to Charon, wide and enraged. His face skewed into a snarl, nose wrinkling as he sneered. His wings ruffled, growing large and imposing in a way Charon had never seen before. He reared back to look down upon Charon as if he were no more than an insect.

"Afraid!?" he boomed, his voice taking on a commanding holy quality befitting a god. A shuddering volume designed to make ears bleed. "Me!? How dare you!"

A brilliant light emanated from Hermes, blinding and cold. A wind picked up, swirled around them as the Olympian's anger flared.

"I am Hermes!" Hermes beat his chest, fist to his sternum. "I am a god of Olympus, the messenger to the pantheon. The god of travelers and thieves. I command the winds and I fear nothing! I do not fear the elements! I have no fear for any of my brethren, I have no fear of Zeus! I am great and powerful and have no need for fear, let alone fear for you!"

Charon, who knew he was untouchable, was small and powerless before the might of Hermes. All he could do was look upon Hermes with adoration and love and be in awe of him.

"So do not dare insinuate such a ridiculous notion ever again," Hermes sneered.

Hermes could shout. He could yell and give Charon commands to his heart's content. Charon would take it.

It did not stop his accusation from being true.

"Hhhaa–" Charon tried again.

Hermes bristled with the energy of a stampede. A runaway storm tearing through countrysides and bringing nothing but ruination. He darted forward, attacking Charon, bringing with him the heat and gust of hurricane winds.

Hermes grabbed the sides of Charon's face and in one swift movement kissed him.

The wind blew past the two of them, ruffling Charon's robes and nearly knocking off his hat. The brilliant gradient of Hermes' scarf trailed past them in a sunset colored flag, flapping violently in the angry storm. Hermes' messages clattered together in the cacophony.

Charon froze.

Again, once again, Hermes had taken impossibilities and made them real. Charon had long since written off the possibility of physical love, of anything more intimate than an embrace. He was simply not built for that. Just as he hadn't been built to learn of the mortal world, had not been built for curiosity or inquisition, had not been built for beds or baubles.

Just as Charon had not been built for love.

And yet, Hermes loved him.

Hermes' hands shook, from the strain or the rage or the fear, Charon did not know. He clutched Charon's face, pressing his hair against bone and pulling on it. His lips, soft and supple, pressed fiercely against Charon's exposed grin. Harsh at first, filled with the adrenaline of his tirade, a determination to shut Charon up, to prove him wrong, to do what he wanted without inhibition. He held his breath and Charon waited on the world to start again.

As slow as a flower blossoming in the sun, Hermes' press relaxed. So slow it was almost imperceptible at first. Charon could feel the strain and purse of his lips ease and slack. His body lowered from its attack, legs floating gently as he lined up with Charon. The fingers that gripped his face went from a painful grip to a soft steady one.

Hermes fell into the kiss and forgot himself. Charon could never forget.

Slumped and pliant, Hermes maintained their connection for the length of a dream. It whispered truths and promises, hidden words and prayers spoken to no one in the dead of night. The kiss revealed Hermes to Charon.

Charon was sure. Charon had his answer. He could feel it, he could taste it.

Hermes loved him.

Lips dragged as Hermes pulled away, tasting the last remnants of death on Charon's teeth. He moved heavy and sluggish, the antithesis of all that he was. Charon had turned him into that.

A soft sigh left parted lips and some of Charon's smog seeped out. His eyes blinked open, lids heavy, as if coming out of a dream.

He looked at Charon. Raw and bare and naked. Gone was all his shields, all his bravado. All that was left was the single look he gave Charon, like there was nothing else in the world that mattered.

Like he loved Charon.

Charon reached up, wanting to touch Hermes again, to complete the connection he'd started.

"hhaa. . ."

Hermes snapped back to reality. He sucked in an air of breath, eyes snapping wide again, and he recoiled sharply. Once again putting that canyon between him and Charon.

Charon had seen that face before. The abject horror as he stared down at Charon. The terror of being the subject of Charon's adoration.

The look he gave before he ran away.

Charon was not going to give him the chance to do so again.

Charon dropped his oar with a clatter and lunged for Hermes. Long before his oar could hit the ground, Hermes had turned and began to run. Charon reached for him, tried to grab him, but was left groping air. He managed to get his hand around the end of Hermes' scarf, but the fabric whistled through his palm long before he could tighten his grip.

Hermes disappeared in a blur of color, going over the mountains edge and far away.

Leaving Charon alone, holding nothing but air.

Chapter Text

Hermes had not returned.

Charon stood on his docks, staring at the Temple doors, waiting for his energetic associate to come flying in with the same vigor as he always had. Hoping for it. Praying for it. He ran his thumb over the feathered tines and wished for not the first time that maybe, maybe, it would be the day that Hermes returned to him.

The doors opened and Charon held his breath. The procession of souls meandered aimlessly into the marble halls, looking around in confused curiosity without a guide to introduce them to their new existence. They had been clearly ushered, gathered up like a herd, but promptly forgotten at the gates.

Anticipation seeped from Charon. His hands slowly slid down the shaft of his oar, fingers loosening from a white knuckled tightened grip. Disappointment that yet again he was left alone.

Charon had lost count of how many times the same occurrence had happened, each one a splinter that dug deeper.

At first, Charon was sure that Hermes would return to his side. He would be forced to confront Charon after his dramatic exit. He could run but not forever. Their stations demanded it. But clever Hermes would always continue to prove Charon’s expectations wrong.

The hollow door that Hermes failed to come through dug into that empty void in Charon’s heart. Where had once been so much chatter and idle conversation transformed into a silence that rang in his ears. The routine that he had grown so used to had dissipated into the one he wore so long ago.

Where he worked alone.

Charon’s grip tightened on the feather to near strangling. A sturdy totem that would never break no matter the circumstances and it was a wonder that it had even been plucked in the first place. It could suffer Charon’s momentary temper tantrum until it passed. Once again left in a wallowing melancholy.

The shades did not line up in the neat order their psychopomp normally demanded. Without a loquacious guide to queue them in a row, the shades meandered in a mob as they once had long before. Charon held out his hand, a regrettable slow action, wrong in how natural it was. There should have been a presence at his side, dual pillars for the dead to be greeted by, not just the grim ferryman. One by one the shades drew their coin from where it had been hidden between their teeth and they paid covetous Charon for a ride to their after.

Charon’s work was so far integrated to his very being that the motions came as secondary. The rowing down Styx, stopping at her shores. Taking coin, greeting dead.

Holding tight to the feather.

Hoping.

The more it went on, the longer Charon did not see Hermes, the deeper his loneliness drilled into him. Where he had once been whole had been punched out, a perfect empty ring that had been carved by a messenger god, stolen by the thief and taken away, leaving Charon with nothing but the wind that whistled through it.

It could have been days. It could have been years. Charon lost track of time.

Constantly backed by the ever present mantra.

Charon Charon Charon

Charon bowed his head, ducked under his hat, listened to the voice that sounded so much like Hermes. Not a sound that whispered in his ear but in his heart. An echo he felt calling out to him and only him.

It would have ached far less if Hermes did not care for him. Charon was sure of that.

In a lonely moment, Charon left his post. An unthinkable act prior to Hermes. Charon was a constant as the river, as constant as gold, as constant as death. But here he was, not for the first time, once again walking away.

Leaving behind his boat, his duties, his shades. Leaving the docks, the gold, Styx. He stepped into Erebus, into the realm named for his father, and continued to walk. Legs moving in an automatic motion the way it had when he walked on the surface, sliding into a long forgotten familiar realm, untouched by mortal hands, living or otherwise.

Charon could feel his body trudging on its own without his thought or command. It moved of its own accord, seeking comfort, seeking familiarity. Not the rigidity of his purpose, the place he had carved out in the mortal minds, in the grand scheme of things, but a place where nothing mattered. Fluid and void, the spots between stars. Dark matter that slid across his bones.

The place from where Charon was born.

His oar, too tangible and physical for that place, slid from his fingers and clattered in the muck. His feet touched the ground and yet he still floated. A primordial place where the earth itself came forth. Younger than Charon was and yet still full of knowledge he could not touch.

They both came from creation, but Charon was so far behind, the whiplash of everything he did not know transforming his personal vision time and time again.

Charon would never wish that he had never met Hermes. The thought had idly run through his mind, intrusive and poisonous, wondering what his life would have been without the influence of the little god. And despite it all, despite the pain and remorse, knowing Hermes was still one of the greater parts.

Charon had changed. For the better. And he wouldn’t change that for anything.

Charon looked down into the void beneath his feet, the swirling endless darkness and nothing from which he came, and fought the urge to lay down in it.

Starlight glittered from that darkened place. The illumination that could only be cast by the moon. The warmth of darkened skies that draped over the land like a down comforter, snug and secure in the wash of night. It warmed the side of Charon’s face, a sensation of home that had long since been forgotten. He turned to the source and found the ancient goddess who would outlast them all.

“My child,” Nyx said. His mother said.

The fondness for Nyx had never been particularly strong, not even when he was fresh and new. An independence he had worn like armor that his mother admired and respected. The distance between them was prevalent from the very first breath.

Charon had changed.

He trudged towards his mother for the first time in search of comfort and direction. A being made of pure night, Nyx had always presented herself in the image of a mortal woman. Beautiful beyond compare in an effortless way, but in that place she was a child of Chaos. An indecipherable shape that took no concrete form. Merely starlight and void, one with the landscape from which Charon was sprung. Greater than she had been in the House, larger and more all consuming.

Charon dropped to his knees before her, feeling the weight of defeat knock him down, the directionless lack of knowledge of what to do next, of where to go.

Of how to handle love.

Nyx sighed, sounding like a chilled breeze and smelling of ozone. She sat back on a seat that wasn’t there and gently placed a hand on top of Charon’s head, guiding him to rest on her lap. She removed his hat and ran moonlight fingers through his hair. Each stroke shimmering the gold and night that made Charon what he was.

A child and his mother.

“You are in pain,” she said.

Charon turned his face, hiding behind his hair and away from her. She stroked it back.

“My heart aches to see you like this.”

Charon gripped her skirt like a toddler with his first scrapes. Infantile in a way he was unused to, but comfortable in that position all the same. A security that his petulant emotions of heartache and longing were allowed.

Nyx stroked his hair, let him rest. She soothed her child in a way that had never been needed before. A parental figure for the first time in their shared existence. A bond that Charon hadn’t realized was there. Chraon allowed himself to drift, aimless, not weighed down by the anchors that kept him fixed to his point in the universe.

His hand still on the feather.

“Your father and I first met each other on this plane,” Nyx said.

Eons had passed since Charon had last seen Erebus in his corporeal form. Like Nyx, towering and gargantuan and forever greater than creation in Charon’s mind. A beast that consumed the sky, but gazed down at him with fondness. What little memory Charon had of him was skewed by a juvenile mind, where everything was new and exciting.

A sensation only brought to him twice.

“What we had felt for one another,” Nyx said. “Was not unlike what I suppose you are feeling now. A tether of profound longing, an excitement at the existence of the other.”

Love, Charon whispered to himself and ran his thumb over the tines.

“We were inseparable.” Nyx ran her nails pleasantly across Charon’s scalp. “In those early days when there was nothing but us and innovation, where we could be foolish. I was fond of them and I do sometimes yearn for them. I am only sorry that you are not indulging in such times.”

Charon groaned in commiseration, wishing for the freedoms his mother had, the unmoored carefree machinations of an intangible existence.

Nyx sighed with resignation and no small amount of sorrow.

“Olympians,” she said. “Are such fickle creatures.”

Charon huffed, his fist tightening around her skirts. She wasn’t wrong, he had thought as much at one time. Those that lived above the clouds with their own views of the world, living on shorter, faster timelines than what Charon was accustomed to. He had thought them lesser, ignorant, flighty.

Hermes. Hermes was different. And yet the same.

His inability to hold still, his multitudinous domains, his hunger and thirst for knowledge to an obsessive level.

How he loved Charon. How he ran from Charon.

“I have witnessed time and time again their volatile ways. From the titanomachy to their many trists. Even now they are unsettled and unsatisfied in their riches and glory and covet more. They are not like us, my child.”

Charon wanted to snarl and growl. A deadened anger dug in the corner of his mind, offended that she lump Hermes in with his ilk. Her hand brushed through his hair again and he was settled.

“You, my son,” Nyx continued. “Have chosen the most enigmatic of their brood as your love. He is not as capricious as the rest, despite how his natural disposition would say otherwise. Of all the Olympians to have become smitten with, you have chosen wisely.”

Charon would not have called it a choice. A blessing and a curse, but not a choice.

Charon Charon Charon

Even in that place he still heard the voice.

Nyx’s hand stopped grooming, resting simply on top of Charon’s head. A gentle touch, restful. A peace brought on of sleep, of death.

“You are unlike my other children,” Nyx said. “You were not created from the love between your father and I. I had created you on my own as my parent did of me. I wanted you, Charon, as my own child, and raised you from the void. Of all my children, you are unique. The gifts that you have are specific and special.”

She slowly rounded her touch, cupping his chin under his great collar, and coaxing him to look up at her. Her hands were large enough to wrap around his head and she cupped his face.

“Set aside your temper, my child,” she said. “Put away your willfulness. You were born with patience and time and that you should give to your love.”

Charon relaxed, feeling his heavy body let go and leaned his face into her palm.

“He is complex and you need to be simple where he is not,” Nyx said.

“Patience. And time.”

Charon stopped running away.

When he left the point of Erebus where the land shifted from indistinguishable to tangible, his mother had once again faded. His oar lay where he had dropped it and he picked it and his responsibilities up off the ground. He stepped out onto the marble platform, dusted off his hat, and placed it on his head. His skiff waited for him as it always did. He climbed aboard, pushed off from the shore, and sailed Styx once again.

Charon Charon Charon

_____

Finding patience proved to be easier than originally thought. In concept, it seemed like a daunting task. The desire to see Hermes again, to talk to him, to find out what they were, where they are, was still so overwhelming. A great fist that took hold of him when he was not looking.

But the resentment slipped away.

The loneliness became a passing thought.

He was in love and he was loved back and he would wait. For as long as Hermes needed.

He had patience and time.

Charon delivered the latest crop of dead to Tartarus. One such shade still shook on the memory of a feeble body they no longer had. Hunched over and shaking on weak legs that were not there. Charon held out his hand, not in request for coin, but to help the shade off his skiff. They accepted it and slowly stepped out onto the shore. Charon patiently guided them to their afterlife and was rewarded with a soft, ghastly ’thank you’. He nodded his head and moved on.

He detoured through the Lethe, enjoying the quiet of Elysium. Gentle grass blowing like ripples across the fields. A vision that he had previously taken for granted. The natural development of the underworld that had acclimated and fixed to its point. Long before Charon, long before Hades. He enjoyed the veridian gleam, the gentle eddies that swirled around bends, details that shone like treasures in Charon’s eyes.

He returned for another shipment, a gaggle of more shades waiting on him without a guide. The routine was the same as it always was, quietly filing the shades onto his skiff, vaguely aware of the warm summer breeze that still lingered in the air. The idle question of how long did Hermes linger before he ran away flitted through Charon’s mind, acknowledged and he let it pass.

He turned to the shade in the front of his skiff and asked them about their life. A musician, a subject that Charon had been fascinated with for some time then. He made sure to question everything he could of every musician, singer, songwriter that he came across, interested to learn more.

Replaying the specific tune of a whistle in his mind.

During his wait, he avoided the House. There was little reason to visit in the first place and even less so as time went on. The scrying pool was always a fascination, but Charon preferred the one to one testimonies.

He didn’t want to risk catching sight of Hermes. To see him, free and smiling and content in his work felt like cheating.

Charon had patience.

Charon had time.

Occasionally, Charon would find himself stepping from his skiff, walking through the temple, enjoying the chill of stone under his feet, enjoying the way his oar tapping on the ground would echo off the high walls. He would slip outside into the waking mortal world, not far, but enough to get a taste. He had sat on the ground and felt sunlight seep through the branches of the dense forest. He had felt snow nip at his toes and flowers sprout up through the earth. He had seen stars that were fixed in the night sky, a far cry from the miasma that was his mother.

There was no expectation with his visits, no hope that he might see a hint of a god darting in and out between the trees. It was purely for his own enjoyment, his own relaxation. And when he began to feel the pull of Styx, calling him to return before the ache became too strong, Charon would rise and meander back to his skiff.

One of the stranger occurrences was the sighting of the underworld’s master himself. Hades, who had slunk from his throne into a dark cramped shadow of Asphodel, alone with his own thoughts. Had there been any rumors as to why, Charon would not have known them, being so far removed from the rest of the goings on.

But he knew upon sight.

The way that Aphrodite had recognized the condition he was in, Charon could see it written across the god’s face. The loneliness and the conflict. The fret and overwrought worry.

The way another had wormed its way into his heart.

The weakness.

Olympians were fickle, Nyx had said, but despite their differences, Charon had never thought that of his would be master. Stringent and over bearing, a micro manager yes, but resolute. The strain and angst that was written all over the god’s body language was recognized easily.

He had not yet discovered the peace that Charon had found.

Lord Hades looked up at the sound of Charon’s oar shifting quiet through the current. Ashamed of his own sulk where he thought he was alone. The urge to fight, to bark out an order, hackled up the big god’s spine.

Charon simply nodded his head once and went on his way. The event was never brought up again.

The place of most peace for Charon was his haven of solitude. His vault, completely covered in the details of the mortal world. Items that he had no need for, but found enjoyment anyways. Decor that adorned his chambers like some champion on the surface.

Most that had been given. Tokens of affections. Portions of a world that Charon did not belong in, was integral to, that reminded someone of him. That made someone think of him. Charon hung them where he and only he could see them.

He walked around the bed that had still gone unused, running his hand over a banner that hung from a particular precarious tower of gold. It swayed as he stroked the finely woven fabric, the metal rattling as he passed. His rings sang as they trailed over the marble bust that had been left on his skiff. Bottles of unknown liquids, perfumes and drink, shivered as he drummed his fingers on them.

In his other hand sat the feather permanently hung from his neck. He ran his thumb across the tines and listened to the mantra in his mind.

Treasures that he had come to cherish more than most.

His back was turned to his open vault door, but he could still hear the quiet fleeting steps. The rush of wind and the rustle of rocks as they rolled from the force. A quiet hiss, a curse probably, that had been uttered under a breath.

Charon drummed his fingers on the glass again.

He knew better than to look.

Sometimes. . . sometimes temptation got the better of him.

With glacial slowness and an endless well of patience, Charon turned in place. Foot first, then body, then shoulder, giving his quarry ample time to do what he did best.

The short suck of air had the same high pitched intonation as his singing. A gasp of shock before the quick staccato of footsteps, the running start on stone before flight. By the time Charon turned around to look, all that sat in his doorway was a single bottle of ambrosia, wobbling in place. It rattled and rolled on its rounded glass bottom, singing in a quicker and quicker song as its cycling died into briefer, less turbulent circles. Charon placed a single hand on the cork and the bottle promptly clamped to the floor.

He lifted the bottle off the ground, gripping the glass loosely by the neck, and brushed aside the hand crafted orange bow that had been tied there. He huffed, nothing but a short puff of humor, that evaporated between his teeth in a brief spit of smoke.

Charon carried the bottle back into his vault and placed it on the small collection that was beginning to form beside his bed. Waiting, as he had been, for a partner to share them with.

Charon had patience.

Charon had time.

Chapter Text

The comforts of the mortal world were nothing more than a fleeting amusement. Trivialities and curiosities, innovations by mortal hands for mortal hands. Comfort for bodies that needed it, support for the tiny lives that held it. Idle trinkets that occupied minds far more outreaching and imaginations stimulated by constant change.

Charon’s latest addition to his collection was interesting. It occupied an odd place in his mind. In the shape of one of the fowl from the surface, a creature he had never been privy to outside of the scrying well. Stout feathered sides had been simplified in the carved wood. Wobbling poorly affixed wheels sat on either side of the bird, a distinction delegated to just this play thing with no basis in reality. Charon flicked the wheel and it clattered in its frame. Misshapen circles that would do nothing for locomotion, but were charming in its way.

It had been left on Charon’s dock. Snuck in behind his back before he could push off.

It was a curious addition and Charon had half a mind to hand it off to one of the shades, one that might have looked far too unripe for its time, but severed from their material plane none would take the offering. Leaving Charon with a child’s toy to add to his ever growing mountain of mortal trinkets. He placed it precariously at the edge of a vase. The wheels dangled on either edge of the wide lip and Charon flicked the wheel one more time.

He reached his hand into the vase where a pile of folded silks began to fill it. Every so often, Charon would reach in and pull a few out, inspecting the dyes and the finely woven work, rubbing the finery between his fingers, and wondering again the decision making process that had decided on that particular one chosen for him. He pat the material instead, leaving them where they were. Another time perhaps.

Instead he crawled onto his bed. An object that had been his own decision and his own indulgence, still having gone unused save for moments of quiet contemplation. He had yet to find solace in sleep, not wanting to miss the moments that may pass him by when he wasn’t looking.

Instead, he lay on his back, stared up at his canopy, and, as he so often did, reached up into the array of obols laced around his neck where he found the single feather embedded within.

Charon had a gift of memory. An unending being that knew the world when it was young and would know it when it was gone. The finer details of an ever growing timeline yawned out behind him and Charon would memorize every last second.

He remembered the lines of Hermes’ face.

The last time he had seen Hermes. That moment on Olympus. When Hermes had rushed forward and held his face, when Hermes had pressed soft lips against him, when Hermes ran away.

But there had been that moment. The moment between. Hermes had forgotten himself. Forgotten he was a god, forgotten his fear, forgotten where he was, just who he was with. The satisfaction of having finally obtained what he had been struggling so long for. Softened and guard stripped away, dark eyes that glinted like black fire, a slow heat that simmered Charon’s bones.

Charon held tight to that part of Hermes. And every other part of Hermes. No contemplation and no questions, no attempts to pick apart previous moments between them. A simple enjoyment of Hermes as Charon knew him. Even in the moments where he hadn’t seen him. The hint of Hermes’ presence. A warmth that kissed across Charon’s arms, a scent on the skin.

Children’s toys left on his dock.

Charon rumbled, smoke billowing before his eyes and up into the air above him. He ran his thumb over the tines, feeling the bit of sunshine that didn’t exist in his vault. A rapid beating of a heart that had long stilled. Tines thrummed as they fell back into place.

“You can stop praying now.”

It had been so long since Charon had last heard that voice, he wondered if he had dreamed it. But no, the quiet statement slithered through his room, had been heard with his own ears.

He sat up in bed.

Hermes stood in the vault door. He leaned against its arched walls, his weight resting against the gold barrier. One hand rubbed against the back of his arm, apprehensive in a way that Charon had yet to see on the god. Cowed and defeated, a foreign expression on the force of nature that was Hermes.

Hermes kept his eyes fixed to the ground before they slowly looked up to meet Charon’s.

Charon was quick to swing his legs over the bed, grabbing his hat in the process, attempting some form of decorum and presentation. Hermes may have been seeing him the whole time, but it was the first time of true interaction since the stolen kiss. The first Charon had seen of Hermes in what felt like a millennia. With Charon’s tripping concept of time, it might have been.

He was different and yet the same. The same windswept carefree hair, the same brilliant sunbeam wings. The same strength in a compact body, a godly essence that came from effortless creation.

He was close enough that Charon could reach out and touch him. He wanted to. He wanted to close the gap between them that had grown like a fissure, to take the compacted power and energy into his arms and never let go again.

But Charon was patient.

Charon remained patient.

“I can hear you loud and clear,” Hermes said. “So you can stop praying now.”

Charon looked down and attempted to see the feather just hidden by his broad golden collar. Only the faint glimmer of preternatural light sparked just in the corner of his vision, a hint of Hermes. He hadn’t realized, the totem Hermes had left him was an extension of his being.

He would have heard all that Charon felt.

Charon dropped his hand.

One arm crossed his body and Hermes’ hand trailed over his elbow, down his forearm until touch reached his wrist. Where the braided lock of hair lay woven in a bracelet. His fingers traced the folds, his touch leaving behind glimmers of gold.

Charon. . .

The prayer coated over Charon’s mind with warmth. The way Hermes yearned for him, asked for him, said his name in comfort, just as Charon had done the same. Reaching out to one another, despite the time separated and the circumstances.

Hermes couldn’t look Charon in the eye, but like the effort it took to bring him to Erebus, he raised his head.

Freshly hatched, Charon had once thought. Young to the world.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation.” Hermes’ mouth pulled into one of his smiles, dissipating slowly when he couldn’t keep the joke up.

Charon shook his head, a rumble deep in his chest, not having the words, never having the words, to tell Hermes everything he needed to know. That Hermes didn’t owe him anything. That all Charon wanted was the company they shared in that moment.

Hermes bowed his head. He scuffed his boot against the dark marble.

“I want to give you an explanation,” he muttered.

That was different. Charon’s arms lowered to his sides, settling to a relaxed position. He looked around his vault, examining the piles of gifts from Hermes, an attempt to mend what wasn’t broken. It seemed wrong. There needed to be a quiet place of comfort, one where they were both on an even level.

Charon stepped closer to Hermes and Hermes did not flinch away. He did not look away. His head tilted up to keep that eye contact, to keep sorrowful deep eyes on Charon.

Charon rested a hand on his shoulder as a point of comfort. Hermes was warm. Like the sun that had melted his skin, but safe in all the ways the mortal world wasn’t. Skin like sunshine and solid with power. Charon didn’t want to linger his touch there, to bask in what he had been denied for so long. That was not his intention.

He kept his hand firm and unexploring on Hermes’ shoulder. He held out his other hand to the space just beyond, indicating where they should go.

Charon led them free from his vault, over the steep sides of Erebus, to where his skiff sat waiting in the stillness of Styx. It rocked as Charon stepped down, holding out a hand Hermes did not need to guide him into the boat. Hermes took it, climbing like a mortal into the belly of the boat. Together, they situated themselves on a bench towards the front, sitting side by side. Two shades looking for their hereafter.

They sat. And Charon waited.

“At first,” Hermes said. “It was just an infatuation.”

Charon settled in, hands folded gently in his lap, and he watched. Hermes fumbled, one hand folding over the other over the other, rolling again and again.

“And I get infatuations,” he said with a smile. “Its not uncommon, especially in my family. Fleeting feelings come and go. Beautiful people, demigods, gods.”

His eyes flicked up to Charon, the familiarity of a smile breathless like the wind.

“You,” he said. “I had thought that it would fade. They always fade. Whether I act on them or not, they eventually go away and I move onto the next. But it didn’t.”

Hermes talked slow, every word became a struggle to get out. Apprehension was foreign on the normally boisterous and confident god.

Charon felt the blame and resisted the will to touch.

“I kept thinking about you. All the time,” Hermes choked. “You were always on my mind. I . . . wanted certain things from you. I wanted to be near you all the time. I took more trips than necessary just to come see you and I stalled for longer than I needed just to stay by your side. And you listened to me.”

Hermes choked out a quiet little laugh. Humored and pained at the same time.

“Not just listened, but heard,” he said. “I would suggest something and you’d do it. I would complain and you’d have a response. I would tell you stories and you would absorb them. You paid attention to me like no one else ever has and I was selfish. I wanted to keep you near me all the time, just to have your company, just to keep feeling like I did.”

Hermes dropped his head, a withered smile strained against his face.

“I fell in love with you.”

Charon knew it. On some base level, he had already learned long ago. Even with the distance that Hermes kept between them, even with the hesitance, Charon knew. Still, to hear the confirmation, sent static through Charon’s heart. Small jolts of electrical joy that he struggled to keep in place. To do what Hermes loved him for best.

He listened.

“I didn’t know what to do with it,” Hermes said. He held his hands out and inspected his palms, staring at them as if the fragile concept of his love for Charon sat cupped within them. “I hadn’t experienced real love before. Not like that. Not like this. Infatuations yes, fondness yes, but love.”

He sighed, a sad deflated frustration that he might have been carrying for the spans of multiple lifetimes.

“I didn’t know what I would do if I shared it with you,” he said. “What you would do with it. How much it might hurt. I wasn’t sure I could handle that. I’ve seen how that’s affected others. Mortals, my siblings, my parents. I was. . . selfish.”

Hermes’ hands curled into tight fists, shaking with the strain as he did. His face skewed into a harsh frown, his brows pinched tight.

“I kept it,” he said. “I held it close and would not tell anyone. I could feel love for you and no one needed to know, most of all you. I would stay by your side and enjoy you as you were and I would never be hurt.”

His head whipped to look up to Charon, eyes wide and filled with the same terror Charon had only seen a handful of times.

“You weren’t supposed to reciprocate,” he said, coming out as a cry.

Hermes was small. Hunched in on himself, hands fisted one over the other and pulled tight against his stomach. Looking to Charon for a lifeline, for help.

“I’m so sorry Charon,” he said in a rush. “You’re right. I was afraid. I was afraid of what you might do with me and afraid of what you were giving me and I didn’t know what to do. So I . . . I ran away and I left you there and I’m–”

Charon couldn’t resist. He tried, but with Hermes seated right there next to him, he had to reach out. He rested a hand over Hermes’ fists, the size of his gentle hand encapsulating Hermes’ fingers. Hermes didn’t flinch away. He bowed his head again and Charon was unable to tell if he had helped or hindered.

“I tried,” Hermes said, painfully small. “I tried to bring it back to the way it was and I tried creating that connection between us and I tried to have it both ways. I wanted so many things from you, I wanted to be with you, I wanted to give into everything you were promising me, but . . .”

Shaking, Hermes managed to pry one hand out from underneath Charon’s and rest it atop his knuckles, his gold rings, holding Charon as he held him.

“I didn’t want it to change,” Hermes said. “I wanted to love you and everything would stay the same. If it didn’t change then nothing would happen. But I saw it was hurting you and it was hurting me and nothing was the same anymore.”

Hermes snapped away, hiding his face in his hands, fingers tight in his hair. Wings quivered and strained. His body was a tightened coil.

“Its too much!” he said muted behind muffled palms. “Its all too much Charon. I love you so much it hurts. I’m still so scared. I don’t want to change, I don’t want to be someone different, I want you and I’m a selfish wretch for it.”

Hermes curled in deeper, fingers digging in until it visibly hurt. His body shook, whether from rage or sadness or love. He rocked back and forth in his seat, trying to lull out thoughts that Charon knew.

“Its too much,” he said, small and faint.

A shuddering breath rattled through his body and finally Hermes was settled.

Charon sat beside the little god, watching him for more activity. The words of Hermes settled neatly into Charon’s narrative, clicking into place with both understanding and not. Where Hermes had come in and changed Charon, little facets that took him from the fixture he was into a being capable of love and being loved in kind. An evolution that snuck up on him so naturally he barely noticed it had happened until he stopped to look back at his tracks in the sand.

Hermes had dug his feet in. Even there, sitting next to Charon on his skiff, he still fought tooth and nail.

But Charon could see it clear as day.

Hermes had already changed with him.

Over the time Charon had known Hermes, he had learned. His education had been slow, but he accumulated the new knowledge with a clear and open mind, ready to be filled. Facts and facets of the mortal world that had been so foreign to him, pieces he could only learn about, observe, and never truly experience first hand.

Not like Hermes had.

Hermes had been molded in the ideal image of the mortal world. As he had been born, so had the mortals with him. Growing together as one. His grasp on concepts such as music and medicine, trade and travel. Love. All of it he had known as he had grown and expanded and influenced and adapted.

Hermes had a human mind. He loved how a mortal would.

But Charon had always been a god.

Charon lifted his hands and, as gently as he could, slipped them between Hermes’ barriers. He pushed between Hermes’ hands that hid him so ineffectually and convinced them to fall to the side. He wrapped around Hermes’ face, tilting his head to look up at Charon. To see Charon. To be heard.

Hermes was lost, drowning in his own confusion and the swell of emotion that stormed inside him. He finally looked up at Charon, finally saw him.

Charon tilted in, casting Hermes in shadow.

“hhhaaa. . .”

Charon breathed into Hermes. Purpled mist that filled his entire being from toe to tip. Everything that Charon had been composed of from the day he was conceived, since the primordial world first held him as a thought and from darkness and night he emerged.

Charon did not have the gift of words Hermes did, but he spilled into Hermes with all he was understood to be. He told Hermes everything he knew.

He told Hermes of the primordial place that had been before the earth. The endless night and darkness that oozed from every corner and filled every crevice. Of how his mother had created him, had taken him by the hand and pulled him fully formed from that bleak. Already filled with a purpose long before Styx split through the underworld, long before the underworld was a thought. Charon’s hands already itching for the need to hold gold.

His existence had been set in stone from his very first breath. His place in the universe undeniable, unshakeable. He would not be moved.

The confusion of knowing and the patience in waiting for it to appear. Watching Styx grow as the world parted before him. The clash of giants fighting in a war that was so far distant from his own and listening only to the song of his purpose. The skiff that Charon simultaneously created and appeared before him. The first souls that appeared on his shore. The fist obol placed in his hand. The first request to safe passage.

Shades and Charon working with a knowledge based in pure instinct.

Rules that had fallen into place so neatly. No coin, no passage. Simple as that. Rules that had been bent and twisted and altered. Rigidity that Charon had been born with that was proven to be flexible.

The immoveable inevitably without change.

Until he did.

Until Hermes.

Until the little god showed up at his banks, different from the other Olympians that had attempted to insert themselves into his life, how cleanly Hermes had slid into his side. The things Hermes brought to him, the light he introduced, the way he made Charon want to learn and grow and do better and be better.

Charon promised to Hermes. He promised he would wait, he promised he would always be patient. He promised to be there when Hermes was still afraid and to always listen.

Charon told Hermes he wanted to share everything with him. All that he learned, all that Hermes learned. He wanted to stand by Hermes’ side as a sentinel, as a partner, as an associate. Hermes would travel the world, he could live unrestrained, uncontained, Charon would never hold him back or hold him down. And he would wait, he would be patient, for Hermes to return to his side.

Charon breathed into Hermes and promised.

Charon promised to love Hermes.

He pulled away, once again leaving behind a trail. Remnants of his essence dabbed at Hermes’ lips. Hermes’ eyes closed, the relaxation and calm evident on his face. Dully heavy head sunk into Charon’s palms, reliant on Charon to hold him up. His eyes blinked open slowly, processing the piece Charon had given up to him, the stories Charon had just shared, the promises given freely.

Charon waited. Waited to see if Hermes would accept his offer.

“You taste like stars,” Hermes said and leaned in again.

Hermes’ arms draped over his shoulders and once again soft lips pressed against his teeth. Not a mindless forceful action driven by an overwhelming need. Not the bubbling over of tamped down and hidden feelings. A more deliberate choice, falling past the unnecessary barriers to take what Hermes truly wanted, what he always had, what was freely given to him.

Charon didn’t let surprise overcome him that time. He reciprocated, his body not made for the act, but Hermes barreled through regardless. Charon’s arms wound around Hermes, holding his small frame in what seemed like an eternity, for the first time. To hold Hermes in his arms, to have him comfortably snug against his side, was all Charon had wanted and Hermes gave him so much more.

Wind bustled, the skiff rocked in the water, and wings fluttered. Hermes took flight, keeping hold of Charon, tilting and fluttering around until he could settle once more. Comfortably seated in Charon’s lap like a throne. A more comfortable fit between them, like he belonged there, curled up into Charon’s shape.

Hermes kissed him like a mortal would, loved him like a mortal would, went through all the motions of mortal life. Details he brought to Charon, bits and pieces that had changed Charon.

Charon held fast to Hermes, hands on his back, slipping underneath the straps of his bag. Wings beat and rustled against Charon’s hat, hands slipping into his hair. Air shared between them that they did not know where one began and the other ended.

A whole being once more.

Hermes settled down first, slumping until he was once again fully grounded against Charon’s legs. He pulled away, leaving behind traces of him, taking traces of Charon. The speed of day settled at dusk, where sun kissed night and left behind traces of inky haze.

“Alright,” Hermes said quietly. “I’m done being scared now.”

A lie, god of liars. One that Charon saw right through. Hermes was afraid even still. But it was not that Hermes chose to be unafraid.

His Hermes chose instead to be brave.

Hermes pulled himself down to meet Charon and Charon followed.

____

Charon pulled his skiff up to the shore to be greeted by the awaiting batch of souls at Styx’s banks. Above them hovered their guide, waiting on his associate just as kind and polite as the souls he shepherded. Small smile, hands folded behind his back, caduceus held there in a straight line.

“Took you long enough, associate,” Hermes said, settling down on the dock. “I thought I might be late for our little appointment only to come here and lo and behold you’re lollygagging and wasting away the day. Time is short, time is precious, my good boatman.”

Charon stepped out of his skiff with a grumble in the space that Hermes left for him. Hermes offered a hand for balance and, even though Charon did not need it, he took it regardless.

“Old man,” Hermes chided.

“Hnnn,” Charon grumbled back, smoke curling from him in great irritated waves.

Hermes threw back his head and laughed, no longer offended by the slight, having long since turned into affection.

“Want to hear all the hot news from Olympus?” Hermes asked excitedly.

If it was coming from Hermes, always.

“Well you remember my brother Apollo,” Hermes began. “ He’s on another one of his tirades and somehow that always comes back around to me. He still brings up the cattle thing. It was ages and ages ago and I still stand by that I simply cannot be held responsible for my actions. I was only a child, children are bound to perform feats of stupidity, you understand that right boss?”

“Hhhnnng.”

“Don’t give me that. You may be dark and brooding, but even you had days of youthful ignorance. I’m sure you gave ole mother Nyx a fright now and again.”

Hermes nudged Charon’s side, not the quick jab but the sink of his weight momentarily against Charon’s.

He was back to his mile a minute pace, as if nothing had changed. And nothing had. The world kept turning as if nothing had changed. The routine existed, as it always had. The dead died, showed up at his shore.

Greet the dead. Take the coin. Ferry the dead. Repeat.

With his psychopomp at his side.

Everything was different.

Charon was different, Hermes was different, the world had become something new and unique. Skewed through the ripples that had been caused from a dropped stone. Transformed and distorted, refracted through crystal until new colors spilled out, waiting to be defined.

Where Charon had been and continued to be a vigilant staple of the afterlife, he became so much more. Hermes acquired one new role to his every growing arsenal. The docks that slowly filled, passing off into fields of judgement and peace were tinged with the light that swirled from smoke and speed.

Tiny details that found themselves creeping in through casual touch, through a unique smile or a wheezing laugh. Through the exchange of small glances and favors and handoffs. A boat ride in which rest was taken, another trinket from the surface. The way the word associate was uttered with more fondness than professionalism. Hints and glimpses of the new and unusual that hadn’t existed before.

The same, yet different.

“Anyways, to make a long story short, apparently he doesn’t appreciate it when someone decides to take his chariot for a joyride.” Hermes rolled his eyes. “Is it really my fault? The whole contraption is so slow, I just wanted to give it a little boost, thats all.”

Charon gave his partner a skeptical look, smoke silently seeping from between his lips.

“What?” Hermes grinned. “Oh not you too. Listen, if he didn’t want the thing stolen, he shouldn’t have made it so accessible. I’m blameless really. Full boat.”

The last of the shades meandered from the docks onto the skiff, gently swaying as its passengers found their seats. Charon’s fingers curled up around his freshly acquired gold, disappearing until the obols found their way to his horde.

Hermes fluttered and left the ground.

“That does it for this shipment,” Hermes said. “Until next time.”

“Haaaa.” Charon bowed his head, tipping his hat.

Hermes lingered, dark eyes inspecting Charon, in that brief breathless moment that slipped between them. It was becoming more and more familiar as the days and nights and months and years went by. Where he took the time, even if just for a second, and slowed down. Where he saw Charon and allowed Charon to see him back.

“Be back with a fresh batch quicker than a flash!” Hermes chirped, already backing away. “Don’t be late this time.”

He turned to fly away, ready to leave behind nothing more than a sunset streak that cut through the air. The after image of Hermes. Charon turned back to his skiff, full and waiting for him, turning his oar in the air and readying himself for the voyage ahead.

The only warning he got was the rush of wind at his back.

Charon turned again and had seconds before he realized his hat was taken from his head, shielded close to his face, and lips pressed against his teeth.

There was no hiding what they were doing, obvious to only the shades who would never say. Two faces, connected and hidden behind a flimsy cover of Charon’s hat. Intimacy that snuck into the quiet moments of Charon’s life, a very mortal behaviour that invaded his personal space and he would only welcome time and time again. Little points of physicality between them that felt more like the collision of galaxies.

Hermes pulled back and within the shade of Charon’s hat, his dark eyes gleamed. He wore an exhilarated breathless smile and a splash of pink across his cheeks.

“Save a bottle of ambrosia for me,” he said quickly and placed a brief peck between Charon’s eyes.

He placed the hat back on Charon’s head, pat it once to tamp it down into place, and flew out of the temple as quick as he could. Properly leaving behind an after image and a taste on Charon’s tongue. He brought a hand up to gently touch where Hermes had kissed him, his own smoke seeping between his fingertips. When he could feel himself again, Charon straightened his hat and turned back to his skiff.

Shades leaned over, interested in the series of events that played out before them. With a quiet rumble, they all faced forward once more. Satisfied Charon climbed aboard and took his rightful place. He pushed free from the dock, fulfilling his duties and his designations.

As the waters parted before him and he guided his souls to Asphodel, he leaned forward to ask the shade in the front row what their lot in mortal life had been. A story to listen to and share when he next saw Hermes.

The same. But different.