Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

The dead have a tendency towards silence. For a while, at least. The shellshock of crossing from the warmth of life into the immediate intangibility of their spectral selves leaves one speechless, sometimes for hours, sometimes for centuries. 

This has never bothered Charon. He has never been capable of speech anyways.

He’s never needed to speak. It’s not part of the job. If he had ever been capable of the art and merely lost it due to disuse or if Nyx had never gifted it to him in the first place is a mystery he has no interest in solving. What purpose would that serve? 

What does he exactly have to communicate?

The dead come. He holds out a hand. They pay their dues. He takes them down, down, past the levels of the Underworld, down to Tartarus to be processed. Some, who have their facilities, tell him stories. Some complain. Some cry. 

Most have nothing to say. 

Neither does he.

2.

Charon could care less about the war against the Titans, being so far away in his boat. He has no stakes in this conflict, its participants immortal and uninterested in Nyx and her domain. Let them rage above; here, in the Underworld, it means nothing to him.

Of course, once all is said and done, it ends up meaning everything. 

In the changeover, it is both he and Nyx who greet Hades at the upper banks of the Styx. Charon, stoic as ever, smog fuming from his mouth, and Nyx, face set in something resembling indifference, yet the boatman knew better. The Night Mother was fuming at the time, this infringement forced upon her domain with which she had nothing to do with yet now has to live with. 

“The titans have fallen.” She had said, seated primly in his boat, opulent as ever and out of place on its chipped and unpolished wood. Nyx could take them to the upper shores of the Styx herself, but these humble trips have always been a rare occurrence when information needed to be relayed, when she had words she could not say to those who had lips to repeat them.

She doesn’t say much to him otherwise. 

“I swear to you, my child, even as the Fates will it, I will not allow us to be ousted from what we rightfully claim as ours.” The bitterness is immeasurable and she casts her gaze to the waters of Styx lapping around them. “I was not even a part of this war, and yet still my hand is forced.”

Hades is an imposing figure, as one would expect from the gods, and Charon assumes that most fair spirits would cower at the sight of him towering over them. Nyx is unimpressed and Charon is not far behind. In fact, it is Hades who is taken aback when Nyx informs him of Charon's role in this afterlife as the boatman tips his hat back to careen his neck to better see the god before him. 

“Could you not have made him easier to look upon?” The god growls, clearly off put as he looks anywhere but Charon. The ferryman should be more insulted by this, but he’s heard it before. The dead who can speak are often murmuring disgust or fear at his ghastly visage. 

There is power in being perceived as terrible. It keeps the dead in line on his boat. Perhaps it will keep the god there as well.

“Everything about Charon serves his purpose, which he completes with an efficiency to be envied by any who is incapable of doing the same.” She replies coolly, face an impassable mask, though one could feel the barely restrained offense simmering just beneath as the shore line grows darker around them. “As such, you would do well to respect that.” 

Charon says nothing, as he often does, allowing his mother to take the reins, remind Hades of their respective places. For all intents and purposes, Nyx is still above him, and, by some accounts, so is Charon. The only thing allowing this changeover to happen is the impending war the Olympians would rain down on them should they fight it.

Hades tsks, shaking his head as he crosses his arms over his broad chest as he holds back whatever retort he has a want to say. He still avoids direct sight of Charon, and the tension does not leave Nyx’s shoulders for decades to come. 

“Just take me down already.” 

Charon entertains the idea of asking for payment as the now crowned God of the Underworld steps onto his dock. How quaint would it be, holding out a palm expectantly to the new regime. What would he say? 

One look at Nyx, and Charon thinks better of it. 

3.

Tartarus, Asphodel, and Elysium are cordoned off proper and guarded. Hades puts his hound at the front door whom Charon has no feelings for and who dislikes Charon immensely. The house of Hades is built. Filing systems are put in place. Jobs are given, taken, and rearranged. A shaky, unsure economy is established. The Underworld, as it were, changes. 

But not Charon. 

Still he demands payment. Still he stands at his docks. Still he rows.

What a queer thought, to change. His mother did, now managing the Underworld with another. Hades certainly has, drawing his unfortunate lot and chained to his new position by the very daughters of the primordial who aids him. Charon’s brothers have; being given new tasks to better run the Underworld. 

According to the souls who do speak upon his boat, the realm of living does so often. 

Yet his shoreline never changes. His boat never changes. His routine never changes. 

He never changes. 

Charon was brought into this place with a singular purpose, a niche he was made to fill. He has no need to speak because the dead do not need spoken to. He rows with an efficiency unmatched and unwavering as he never tires and is incapable of doing so. The smoke that leaks from his lipless mouth is a beacon for the lost, for the wandering, a point to anchor oneself to before continuing on their own journey. 

Charon has never thought of doing anything but row his boat and take his coin as he was made for nothing else.

What is it like, to do something new? To take on something different and wholly not yourself, not what you were created for? To make something disparate of oneself? 

Hypnos, on the off times when he sneaks away from the house to be gently rolled along the river Styx for some quiet napping, complains of his new position, of the unruly spectres and Hades’s demands. As the red waters part with a quiet ease against his aged boat, Charon listens as he always does, silent save for a death rattle he is known for, a burgeoning, bothering thought coming to fruition as Hypnos whines. It’s frustrating, out of place, odd, a question he desperately wants to ask but by his very nature cannot: 

How can one dislike what they are tasked to do? 

It eats at him, even as his brother nods off predictably and Charon turns his boat round, the green of Tartarus and the distant wails of the damned signaling the time to head back. Hypnos has never complained before of his duties, at least not before change of management, but this list-keeping Hades has him doing seems to draw the lethargic god’s ire. It’s one thing to change, to take on new duties, and yet another altogether to be bothered by it. 

Has he ever disliked his work? Charon has to ponder, to think back on it as they continue their journey back, arms rowing in the same mindless yet efficient manner as he always had, always will do. In the way he was made to. He was crafted specifically for this wasn’t he? There was no other task imagined at his creation, a being made purely to row this very boat up and down this very same river and demand the very same payment and take the very same paths for what amounted to the very same souls-

The boat drifts, no longer guided by the oar, its sudden change of course causing only the minutest of ripples to upset the walls of Tartarus. Charon stands erect as he always does but frozen in motion, oar lax in his hands, eyes staring off in the distance where the green fades to red, where lies is the house he has never been invited into. Smoke billows endlessly from his mouth, building up a violet fog around his head as he brings his instrument from the water to set to the bottom of the boat. He leans upon it, whatever energy that he runs on having been whisked away in that moment. 

Does he even have the capacity to do something different? He isn’t like Hypnos or Thanatos or the Furies or even his mother, creator; he is not a god, not really, not even an aspect, but merely a pure being with a sole purpose and a seemingly endless capacity to row a boat. Even the souls, once settled into their appropriate places, can take on new hobbies and patterns and forge their senseless pattering lives around the Underworld, but he has never, has never even thought-

“Charon?” The absence of the oar hitting water must have wrested him from his sleep and Hypnos blinks at him from where he sprawled across a few seating planks. He glances around, takes in the unusual lack of direction in the middle of the Styx, the deflated posture of his ferryman, and blinks some more. “What’s going on? You’ve never stopped like this before...” 

Charon straightens, gripping his oar and continues to row with a placating groan, leaving the smoke and the thoughts behind. Hypnos takes one last long look at him, shrugging as he settles back into the boat and closing his eyes. 

“Whatever you say, pal."

4.

Hades never has visitors. His brothers are uninterested in the Underworld, and unbothered by their eldest brother’s absence. It is well known they hold no favor for Nyx nor for any of the business dealing with the dead. Knowing this, Charon’s shock at the appearance of an Olympian at his shores is understandable at best.

He pulls into the dock, as always, boat colliding gently with the petrified wood with a decisive thump, water sloshing at its upset as he secures his vessel. Practiced. Nuanced. A series of actions and reactions ran through a thousand times as their particular minutiae have been sown into the very fabric of his being as he moves on muscle memory alone. It is this well-worn distraction that keep him from noticing the god before he hears him.

“Ah, there you are. I was starting to get worried I was told the wrong place-” Boyish. Jovial. There's a certain ease he exudes as the god places himself in front of Charon, floating on the ground by the flapping of the wings off his ankles. Charon balks, leaning back to keep his visage in the shadow of the night as the god attempts to peers beneath his hat.

Charon steps back, not out of fear or distaste, but more out of a need for space as the god flutters too close, closer than he’s used to. 

"Oh, sorry, sorry, a little too distracted I suppose!” The god sets his feet to the ground and Charon would be remiss to not see how short this newcomer is in comparison to him, "Charon, right? They told me you were rather prompt, but I’ll say this isn’t a great look for you though I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to rectify it! Hermes, by the way, probably forgot to mention it-”

Charon grunts in a confused manner, the distinct sense of whiplash coming over him as he tries the parse the amount of words that had just been spewed at him. Charon tears his gaze from Hermes to the dead behind him, shocked at what he finds.

They’re lined up, single file behind the god, neat and orderly. Efficient. Most psychopomps drop off their lamps, leaving them to mill about for Charon’s arrival, long gone before his boat pulls into harbor. Even Thanatos rarely sticks around with the crowds he tows, always busy, never one for the finer details as he leaves his flock scattered and impatient along the river. 

“Well, great meeting you! Should be seeing each other again soon.” And Hermes is gone, off to who knows where before Charon can even eek out another sound. The souls left behind, calmly waiting to board the boat are just as confused as he with the haste they were brought here. 

5.

The chatter is unnerving at first, strange, out of place, as much as the chatterer is. Too bright, too lively for the slow roll of the Styx and the patient deliberateness of Charon and his boat. He moves too much, speaks too much. Charon finds it hard to keep up. 

The Underworld is an ebb and flow, outside of the constraints of time, its denizens and its land marching ever on within its own impeccable, unknowable pace. A pace Charon was molded for. Even Hades and his renovations are subject to this law, to this nature. In the Underworld, there is no hurry. The dead are dead. Time means nothing. Nothing more can happen. They have nowhere to go.

Hermes seems incapable of grasping that.

“While I do appreciate your work, my silent associate, it is very admirable and there is not a soul out there who could do it as well as you-” Charon finishes the knot, tightening it as he always does despite knowing the boat would not move even without the anchor. Its mostly ritual at this point. “If I could make a possible suggestion, if you were amiable-” 

Charon groans, floating down off the dock to begin taking his payment from the frazzled, milling souls lined up neatly, awaiting him. He is not looking to take criticism at this time. 

“There are certainly ways you can speed this process up-” One obol, good, dusty, the deceased is allowed to board. 

Charon huffs, annoyed, taking the next soul’s payment with a little more vigor than usual. Hermes can leave at any time. That much is clear. There’s no real reason for him to stick around once the Stygian ferryman has arrived. Which he definitely knows as he doesn’t do this every time. 

“If I were to leave you, then who would keep you in line? Can’t let any of them-” He gestures to the two souls who haven’t moved so much of an inch since being brought here. “Gallivanting off in the meantime while you’re fussing with the rope and all that.” He sighs, “No, I’m certain I need to keep an eye on things.” 

The groan the ferryman makes is one of complete disbelief and utter indignation. To speak of such things that have never, will never happen, at least not while Charon is still helming his vessel. 

“I know you’ve been at this for a long time, forever in fact, and sure, nothing has happened yet during all that time but how do I know you won’t eventually slip up unless I’m there to witness it myself?”

He’s floating by as he says this, on his back, scarf trailing behind him as if in a breeze despite the still air. Maybe it's the pompous, self-satisfied grin. Maybe it's the laissez-faire way his eyes are closed, creating the perfect picture of indifference to Charon’s mood. Maybe it’s the weather, tense before a storm, electric with the coming downpour. 

Whatever it is, Charon makes a swipe at him, striking a hand out, meaning to grab Hermes, shake him a little for being so…

Presumptuous. 

Hermes easily skirts him, swifter than Charon could ever hope to be. Not unexpected, and Charon rattles after him when Hermes initial shock morphs into an ear-splitting grin, now out of arm's reach. 

"Well, color me surprise. You're faster than you look! Not as swift as me, of course, but a notable effort. You'll have to try again some other time, unfortunately." He flicks the brim of Charon's hat, eliciting a roar from the boatman, who swipes again, this time with the oar. The god is long gone, however, leaving Charon with nothing to do besides readjust his head wear.

He grumbles to himself, taking the last of the souls aboard and puffing a right fog around him in the process. It's only later Charon realizes Hermes had an inkling of what he was annoyed with, having given an at least halfway correct response to his formless groans. After the initial surprise, he puts it to the back of his mind and thinks nothing more of it. 

A lucky guess, that’s all. 

6.

Or perhaps not. Hermes is observant, amicable. His ability to parse the minutiae of Charon’s gesticulating and the undertones of his death rattles within a degree of accuracy becomes startlingly clear with each interaction. 

“Wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get here today. This one,” The god indicates a particularly shifty soul, “Kept wandering off like he had somewhere better to be with his afterlife. Had to go and herd him back at least five times. Absolutely unbelievable. How was your day?” 

Day is a subjective term in the nebulous space of the Underworld. Nyx’s domain has no understanding of the Sun or the Moon, only the flowing of its rivers and the meandering of its denizens, but Charon understands the platitude either way. He has come to interpret it to ‘since the last time we spoke’, and answers thusly. 

“Ah, a little irritated there, my good boatman.” It’s true. Hades had a message delivered his way not too long before this pertaining to where he lets the souls off at the House and inquiring if he could do outside of eye sight of the god. “I can only imagine what gets under your hat, other than me of course.” 

Before he can stop it, his hat has been flicked again and he has to scramble to keep it on his head much to Hermes delight and his own groaning disapproval. He's not sure when Hermes decided this very act was so entertaining as he keeps doing it when Charon's attention is elsewhere. Hermes beams at him as Charon gets himself sorted, mischief always sparkling in his eyes.

“I could start asking, if you’d like.”

Their conversations are mostly one-sided, as to be expected from the chatty messenger and a speechless ferryman, but every now and then, when Hermes picks up on the stiffness of Charon’s groan, or the far off look in his eye, he’ll start asking questions. Never anything too complicated, inquiries with yes or no answers that gradually fine tune themselves until Hermes has a clear idea of what has Charon acting any different. 

Effective, but-

Charon takes in the souls awaiting their journey, neither patiently or impatiently, having nowhere better to be yet clearly eager to continue with their afterlife. He shakes his head, waving Hermes off. Too much to do for these pleasantries.

“Ah, it does take a bit of time, doesn’t it? Don’t want to keep dead waiting for their trip. Fair enough. I’ll keep in mind for next time, yeah?”

There’s a hopefulness that overcomes Charon at the god’s words, a weightlessness settles in him bone deep. It's enough to give him pause and watch Hermes flit away after their goodbyes. 

Hermes will speak to him later. Of course. He has, always. He is incapable of silence, of just leaving the souls at the shores of Styx like so many others. They will always speak later so why would this give Charon a spring in his step and a lightness to his paddling?

7.

“You seem more at ease as of late, my child.” The water is slow today as is the trickle of souls. Whatever war the mortals were raging has ended and the survivors cling to their lives a little longer. 

Charon groans in reply to his mother, noncommittal. It’s not a description he’s ever found himself of needing, being a creature of his own time and his own pace. He is rarely shaken, even when Hades makes benign requests and souls question his authority.

“Perhaps that is the wrong observation.” Nyx has fixed him with a rare thoughtful gaze. So often those eyes roam her domain as he paddles them along at a lackadaisical rate, but to have them concentrated on him is a curious feeling he rarely has to confront. He answers in a questioning moan, never skipping a step in his never ceasing rowing. 

“There is a contentment in you lately. It's as if you are unafraid to speak more than you used to.” She observes and Charon finds his ministrations stuttering, an extra splash as he raises his oar for another stroke. Nyx’s placid face is serene yet at her words Charon has the rare flash of guilt.

For what, he is unsure, and he warbles such a concern. His mother, of all things, chuckles. Hermes may have a knack for Charon’s unique form of communication, but there is no better at understanding him than Nyx.

“Do not feel ashamed, Charon. Whoever has taken to you, has inspired such an ease, there is little doubt they are more than welcome within the upper limits of my...Hades’ domain.”

Charon bows his head in deference, wondering if that warmth extends to the Olympians who find them so distasteful. 

8.

There’s a devastating famine at one point, as the rain refuses to fall and the bountiful farms yield nothing but dried nothings for seasons. The psychopomps are busier than ever; Charon’s voyages almost nonstop as the starvation and eventual plague seep into the populace. It is good, however, this busy work. The souls find their resting place far from the suffering of their abandoned flesh and Charon is left without the time in between. 

Left without time to think.

It's a child, back of the line. Diminutive, unsure, even more dreamy than the other spectres, their head swiveling in wonder and an anxious energy. As they approach him, it is clear they have no payment. Unsurprising, during these times. Hunger has probably taken them, and if their elders were the first to go, it could be awhile before their bodies are found for burial. 

The child stares up at Charon, as most do, though his prompting for coin is met with a tilt of an ethereal head. He leans down, tucking the oar under his arm and lifting his other hand towards the child. Most children come to him with payment, their deaths mourned well by families, but every now and then the circumstances are as such and Charon will never set a young one to wander the shores for a century more. The fault is not theirs that the people around them may forget or be uncaring in their death. 

Or, in this case, merely not there.

“Charon-” There's a hesitance to Hermes' voice, ever-watching close to the dock. Even he has been ragged this past while, coming to and fro with a startling speediness yet as the famine drags on, so does Hermes infinite energy. He makes to stop Charon but pauses when the boatman lifts the child gently as he has done a thousand times, gingerly placing them in the boat nearest the back, in case they need to grab onto Charon for any reason. 

Charon turns to his anchored rope, boat now carrying all those brought to him. Whatever lives they’ve led up to this point will soon be mute, pain forgotten to the Lethe or faded away within the plains of Asphodel.

“You know, you’re not much like they say you are.” Charon straightens, giving Hermes his full attention, the rope dangling in his hand. Charon warbles at him, waving his fingers at him in disinterest in what the gods may have to say as he takes his position upon his vessel. The child immediately grasps onto his clothing, pulling themselves close. 

“Just full of surprises, you are.” This gives Charon pause once more, oar barely having skimmed the surface of the Styx as he casts a long look at Hermes still floating at his dock. His expression is unreadable, brow knitted as he fidgets with his staff and, shockingly, biting his tongue.

Charon shrugs, beginning his push off to follow his familiar path down, down, down with his steady rowing and trailing smoke. Hermes is wrong. Charon has no surprises to give.

He merely does as he always had.

9.

What a strange evening it is long after the famine abates when Hermes chatter dries as the grass around the Styx does on a blistering summer’s night.

The fleet-footed god waits as he has come to do, close enough to be suspicious, watching as Charon completes his diligent work with his set motions. Coin is taken. Souls board. And through the whole process, Hermes says barely a word, reaching constantly into his bag as if checking the permanence of the messages it holds before letting out a breath  and snatching his hand back out. 

“Oh, um, Charon.” Charon finishes untying his boat, straightening to give his proper attention, turned fully to the god. Hermes has come closer, fingers deep in his bag and glancing constantly between Charon’s face and the petrified wood at his feet, vibrating with an anxiety Charon has not yet seen of him. 

Charon lets his head tilt to the side, exhaling in a droning curious sigh. 

“Ah, yes, I’ve been a bit quiet, lost in thought, so much to do after this but-” He pulls something from his satchel, holding it out to Charon in one hand and categorically not looking at the ferryman. “For you.” 

It's a bottle, small, round, the amber liquid inside twinkling in the moon and torchlight. Taken slightly aback, Charon plucks the offering from the proffered hand, as he has done with a thousand and more souls, though this is distinctly different. Not a payment, not for services to be rendered. It was not even asked of the god and yet here he is presenting it to Charon, completely unexpected.

He holds the bottle up to the fire, observing the swirl. Nectar, a rarity among the Underworld, sought and well- fought for in Elysium and only dreamed of the lower one goes. Even the House rarely knows of its taste; Charon himself only partaking of the drink perhaps once or twice. 

Hermes is eyeing him warily, winged sandals fluttering nervously as he awaits judgement. Gripped by the sudden and awkward need of compensation, Charon lets out a groan, beginning to dig in his pouch for a proper trade, but Hermes stops him as he holds out a few obols. 

“Oh, no, no need for that, my fellow associate.” He pushes Charon’s hand back, smiling. “Just a little something, you know. You’re always amiable to my presence and my conversation even if it is a bit one-sided, not that I particularly mind but-” He takes in a breath, “And I wanted to say thank you.”

Ah. 

Charon tucks the bottle and the rejected coins away with a nod of head, groaning in his acceptance. Hermes grins at him, though he is quick to hide it, taking off soon after. There’s something jovial in his flight, though it could be a trick of the clouds above.

Charon keeps touching the nectar the entire journey down, faintly mystified even as they make it to the House of Hades, it’s stern Master glaring openly as the boatman awaits his wards to leave his vessel. It does not give him haste to leave, in fact, he almost forgets until Hades’s booming voice rings out for the first soul to get in front of him.

Even the whole way to the Temple, he cannot keep his focus upon the rushing Styx, nearly hitting the shore more than once.

A gift. For him. How novel. 

10.

It's the nectar that gives him the idea. It’s placed among other precious things of his, mostly obols, upon the stone table in his alcove, awaiting an appropriate moment to be imbibed in. He spends quite a bit of time here, counting his coin in a quiet meditation, awaiting the next call for his services. 

It is in one of these moments, paused in his calculations, the nectar catching his eye as Cerberus shifts and rumbles by the gate, that an interesting prospect comes to mind. The river is ever rushing not far from his resting place, carrying nothing more than its red waters and echoing down down down and Charon picks up the bottle again, swiping away the small accumulation of dust from its smooth glass with a thumb. He rolls the liquid, letting the breeze from the outside take the smoke wafting from his mouth to be dispersed among the depths.

He sets it back down carefully, enjoying the soft reverberation of the clink on stone, and he grabs a piece of parchment. 

11.

“You know, I do have quite a bit to do these days, messages to send, travelers to oversee, Olympus to fly up and down and up and down again, all that-” It's cloudy this morning, fresh from a recent rain and mist covers the river in a pleasant blanket that reaches far enough back to whisper against Charon’s alcove. “And I don’t have much use for your shiny coins, though I’ll gladly take them.” 

Hermes stands in front of Charon, by the docks, arms folded over his chest, a wooden crate of nectar behind his ankles. There’s mischief in his eyes, a gleam Charon would find most worrying had he not known the god for so long at this point. He almost wants to put a hand over his hat to keep in place should Hermes be planning anything involving it. 

Almost.

Charon huffs, retracting his offered pouch of obols and hesitantly curious about what Hermes is thinking.

"Now,” Hermes starts again, once Charon has gestured vaguely for him to continue. “There is something that would be more helpful to me, that you could provide, if you’re willing of course.” He’s shifting from side to side. 

Anxious. 

Charon hisses, telling him to get on with it. He is a patient man, but not for beating around the bush. Hermes stalls, his peacocking, advantageous front crumbling as Charon tightens his grip on his oar. 

“I, uh, well,” Hermes steels himself, mentally, “Certainly you have some form of room or resting place nearby. You’re never very far off when I come here, so not exactly hard to figure that out, but, well-”

Charon groans again, louder, impatient. The breeze around them knocks a few leaves around as Hermes steels himself for his next few words.

“R-right, sorry, bit of a tangent, but if I’m going to be doing the extra running around for your side business, I would like access to said chamber in excha-” 

The rumble Charon lets out at the suggestion would frighten any being, living or dead, mortal or immortal, yet Hermes remains steadfast, emboldened even. 

“Not for anything untoward! My, you jump to some awful conclusions on very lackluster evidence.” Charon’s answering rattle brings a quirk to Hermes' lips that he finds most annoying and annoyingly endearing. “No, truth be told, my fellow associate, I’ve many places to be and many people who want me to be many places, and many of those people in many of those places have a nasty habit of knowing where I am at all times…

“And every now and then it would be nice to just take a moment to myself without all of those godly eyes on me and some place in the least nasty parts of the Underworld should obscure me quite nicely. Now, I have no intention of going anywhere near the true depths. Pass on that, thanks, but if such a chamber exists as I well think it should, and you are agreeable to me using it from time to time to get a moment of peace then-” 

Boldy, Hermes sticks out a hand toward Charon, open palmed and determined. 

“We could have a deal? My impeccable services for a measly portion of your space.” 

If Charon could blink, he would, staring openly at Hermes in his assured assessment. The god does, or rather, will do quite a bit for him, this is true, and the alcove he uses as a storage-cum-resting place is in a heavily obscured area with Cerberus around the corner. Hermes is at a disadvantage here; sure he would be within touching distance of Charon’s hoard, but he would not get far with it, and any attempt to enter the Underworld would net him the ire of the hound. 

Charon takes Herme’s pleasantly warm hand in his, broader palm dwarfing the god’s as he gives it a singular shake. Rules would have to be drawn up, an agreement signed, but Charon loses nothing really in this. If Hermes would like to wile the time away in the dank alcove, then so be it.

He must hold onto Hermes for too long to be socially correct as Charon is not in the domain of making deals and handshakes often, for the god makes a strange nervous laugh, cheeks glowing, and pulling away the moment Charon lets go. 

“Oh, ha! That’s uh, quite the-the grip you have there!” Hermes turns away as Charon looks down at his fingers curiously. Perhaps it is too cold? Surely he did not hurt the god.

He is about to inquire when quite quickly Hermes is facing him again, composed and holding the crate with a self-satisfied grin. 

“Lead the way!”

12.

To begin with, Hermes and Charon are rarely in the same place for long. After delivering the souls, he would follow the vessel to the Temple and loiter to his heart’s content. By the time Charon returned from ferrying the dead and tending his burgeoning shops, Hermes is long gone. The first time this happens, Charon immediately counts his hoard, though is satisfied when the numbers come back correctly. 

He never bothers counting again, at least for potential thefts.

After the first test of their new deal, Charon gets a stool, more to denote a corner of his alcove for Hermes to occupy, and less for him to actually use. The god floats a good chunk of the time, so the idea of him actually using the stool for sitting seems far fetched. That is, until he finds that Hermes has moved the stool next to a pillar, presumably to lean upon for comfort. 

“It’s fine, really,” Hermes assures him when Charon points at the thing in its new location during the few times their paths cross in the Temple, ha-ing and hor-ing after the chair’s use. “I mean, a little uncomfortable, and gives you a crick in the neck, not that you would know seeing how I’ve never actually seen you sitting. Can you even bend your knees?”

He can. 

“I’m not even sure you have knees…”

He does.

“Regardless, considering what you’ve available to accommodate and the rules you’re currently bending, it's fine .” 

Charon commissions a couch immediately following this, nothing too large, but enough for the god to find some more comfort on. None of the souls dare to question him, not when he’s holding a case of nectar and the threat of transportation to Erebus over their ethereal heads. Getting it to his alcove is a hassle, but it's worth the genuine surprise on Hermes face when he sees it. 

And the way he grabs Charon hand as he thanks the ferryman. It is also worth that.

13.

The idea of selling nectar and ambrosia takes off. With Hades love of wealth and establishment of a small economy within his House, the influx of obols around the Underworld has increased, with little to spend it on. Charon falls into filling that gap with ease, an extension of his capabilities. Coin can be traded for more than just his boat, it would seem.

It starts with the drinks, but eventually, other items begin being requested, especially in Elysium. Weapons, helmets, foods of all sorts, cloths; Charon takes all orders, filling his shops when able. Hermes takes the orders, brings back the goods, and while he partakes in some payments Charon shoves his way, he seems pleased by the privacy Charon can afford him from his family.

Charon knows his and Hermes' business is going well when Megaera is awaiting the latest delivery of souls at the House’s dock, jaw set and arms crossed with her whip in hand. It’s a rare sight for him, the Furies, often too busy torturing the damned to pay the ferryman any mind. Sure, he’ll catch a glimpse of Meg speaking to Hades every now and then, but, by the nature of their paths and duties, they never truly cross. 

“Know anything about this?” He catches the small bottle of amber she tosses his way. It was only a matter of time before she got her hands on the nectar. A hurdle he’d expected they’d have to come to. 

Charon warbles, turning the bottle this way and that, catching a glint off the lights streaming from the House’s torches. Beyond them, Hypnos naps as Hades fills endless lines of parchment before calling to the next wayward soul. After a moment’s contemplation, Charon hands the nectar back with a shake of his head. 

“That’s very interesting Charon.” She takes it, holding it out in front of her with a quirk of an eyebrow, observing the way the liquid settles. “It's coming in here from the outside and, unless Cerberus is suddenly sleeping on the job at the gates, you’re the only point of entry.” She fixes him with a look that is most likely the reason she’s kept her job all these ages, her whip arm dropping to the side and her hand relaxing to let the weapon droop just a bit more. “You’re certain you know nothing about how this came into Tartarus?”

Charon would laugh if he could. What does she expect to happen? For him to confess to smuggling? To catch him in a lie?

Unfortunately for Megaera, Charon has a critical asset when it comes to deceit: he doesn’t have much of a capacity to speak. Or much of a face. 

He shrugs, groaning a plume of smoke that Hermes could interpret as meaning something at the very least, but Megaera has spoken less than ten words to him over the course of eons within walking distance from each other. She sighs, pocketing the nectar and folding her arms back over her chest. 

“Tch,” She starts to walk away, posture falling just a touch as she returns empty handed to Hades. “I knew this would be a waste of time.”

Charon huffs, boarding his boat to return to his shops. Yes, speaking to him could often be seen as an action of futility. 

For most, anyways.

14.

The first time seeing Hermes asleep on the couch is even more of a shock that realizing he was using the stool. Charon had not ever imagined the god to sleep, so swift and unceasing, always moving, always going, always somewhere to be. 

And to be still, to be silent, to be unaware of Charon docking his ferry and gliding over to his table, warily watching Hermes, wondering if he should wake the godly messenger...

He sleeps serenely, relaxed, supine with his hand clasped on his stomach, staff fallen to the floor, and chin tucked into his neck as if he hadn’t quite meant to take this nap. As if sleep had come upon him swiftly and suddenly, drifting his eyes down and down until he succumbed to the unconscious. Placid. Peaceful. 

Charon lets him nap, going about his tabulations, his calculation, his counting. There’s so much more now than just his pile of obols; in fact, he found himself a new nook to stash his more valuable wares and growing wealth. No, now his alcove within the Temple is home to a variety of goods: cloth, weapons, nectar, armor, all things the denizens of the layers beneath have requested, slowly eked into his shops to be doled out in the most frugal of manner.

He finds himself drifting, however. Constantly having to drag his attention from the figure slumbering not far away. It's not as if sleep is foreign to him; his brother is sleep incarnate and naps in his ferry with enough frequency to label it a bad habit. While Charon may not know the sweet embrace of slumber, or feel the need to partake in its offerings, he is still familiar with it enough to find it boring. 

And yet-

It is almost unnerving to see the restless god so still, so calm. Charon has caught him sleeping before though these moments are fleeting at best. Hermes is quick to awaken when Charon arrives, either flitting off or sticking around to chatter; either way he’s hesitant to be seen resting as such. 

Distracted, Charon drifts over, silent, feet off the floor, freely roaming with his gaze as Hermes is unaware. He looks like many people, and no people. A boyish face, athletic build, skin well acquainted with the sun; nothing extraordinary when you’ve ferried every soul to the depths of Tartarus. Especially still when Charon has seen this face more times than he could count.  

And still Charon stands over him, still he stares, eyes caught on the swell of his chest and the softness of his neck, catching himself with his hand reaching out, not to take as he often does but to touch-

Charon pauses, unsure, surprised. What an odd thought, an odd want; to touch. And not just anything, but a person. He understands the need to feel, to comprehend the new and enjoy the old, but to be so taken by the visceral urge to touch someone else... 

Has he had this desire before? Charon wracks his memories, still stuck on observing the slow breathing of the god below him. Surely not. All he knows are the dead and their guardians. At what point would have such a want, to touch? For his mother? His siblings? Hades? The Furies?

Absurdity. 

Yet here he is, hair’s breadth from making contact, looming over his supine associate, fingers curling and uncurling with each breath. His smoke hangs heavy in the air as Charon is unsure of his next move, too caught up in this queer desire to properly ventilate the violet haze.

What if Hermes were to wake, see this grim visage standing over him, staring with no real intent? Will he laugh it off, as he is prone to when Charon does something unusual to his Olympic sensibilities? Or would he retreat, fleeing with a speed, forever wondering what the ferryman was up to?

It matters not for it seems the capacity for inhibition is gone to the howling rush of the Styx as Charon puts his feet to the ground and raises a hand. Its a simple touch, nothing egregious, nothing forward, just an effortless line he draws as he brushes a knuckle across Hermes’s cheek. The god is warm under his own frigid fingers, invitingly soft, and, emboldened by the nigh imperceptible sigh Hermes makes, he continues. 

His fingers barely ghost the line of Hermes’ jaw, enough to understand, yet not enough to satisfy this sudden want. So Charon follows his whims, traces the shell of his ear, flattens the curve of his brow, lingers on the pleasant hairline of his forehead. His motions are slow, deliberate, wandering, drinking in not only the pleasing textures and sensations but also Hermes' face, its contours, its valleys, its unblemished nature. 

Strange to think they have been in association with each other for centuries yet Charon has never allowed himself the simple pleasure of looking, always careful to keep his eyes from wandering out of respect and to draw attention away from his own face.

It's at Hermes’s mouth Charon finds himself stuck, thumb finding the suppleness of his bottom lip to be fascinating. He touches his own mouth with his free hand, familiar with the taut dried immobile excuse for lips and toothy maw. Two diametric entities, two vastly different creations, distant in so many ways yet together here and now. 

Olympians are one way, sculpted as the ideal of their subjects, something to worship, something to seek for guidance. Charon is another; an example, a declarative statement that life is over and the afterlife is now, both the ferryman and the final warning of the journey ahead. This is not a new observation; it’s old hat, well understood, but why here and now as he traces Hermes' lip again does it make him feel-

Hollow?

Hermes shifts and Charon is across the alcove with speed even the sleeping god could be impressed with. When he awakes fully, Charon is adamantly at his table, his posture stiff and immobile as Hermes yawns behind him. He smacks his lips, asking after how long he slept and Charon has no answer, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, the ghost of sensation still found in the cold skin. 

15.

The arrival of Persephone in the Underworld is met with a chill hush and an uncertainty that echoes long into her reign. Charon is there at the gates when Hades brings her to the Temple, her hands dwarfed by the massive forearm they cling to and her warm eyes empty and distant. Behind them, the gates slams with a finality Charon would label dramatic at best.

“As far as anyone from Olympus is concerned,” Hades’ expression is pinched, authoritative, as he addresses Charon. “Persephone was brought here against her will, is that understood?” 

Charon’s answering groan is taken for the affirmative, and Hades parts with his new queen for a moment, presumably to prepare a quicker transport than the boat provides. Hades never did take to Charon’s ferrying, or even, in actuality, he’s never taken to Charon. This leaves the goddess standing alone in the middle of the Temple, immediately holding her arms to her chest as she gazes with an uncertainty about the pathway.

He feels for her, though he is uncertain of the circumstances of her arrival. Nyx will inform him sooner or later, but he cannot imagine this was an easy choice- contacting Hades to be whisked to the Underworld. Whatever brought her to this point, Charon could not imagine anything that would lead to seeking an escape from all he’s ever known. 

A thought comes to Charon, and he swiftly takes to his alcove, grabbing a bottle of nectar from under his table before returning to the lone Persephone. She acknowledges his approach, weary yet steadfast as she lowers her arms to her sides. 

“Hello,” She starts when Charon comes to a stop just next to her, taking in his golden collar and obscure face with an open curiosity. “I suppose we’ll be getting... to know one another rather well in the coming days.” 

Charon nods, warbling as he holds out the bottle to her. Persephone blinks at it, her hand drifting to take it. 

“Is this for me?” Charon nods again, and as Persephone closes her fingers around the nectar, he places his index finger over his mouth, indicating a need for her silence on the matter. Persephone’s brow furrows, unsure to his meaning until she hears the resounding stomping of Hades beginning his return. 

“Oh!” Her eyes alight with a clarity, taking the gift and hiding it within her clothing quickly, gratitude evident in her small smile. Hades reappears, suspiciously looking between the two before demanding Persephone follow him. 

She does so, but she is sure to turn back to the Stygian ferryman one last time to mouth a ‘thank you’ before he is left alone once again in the Temple.

16.

The beginning uncertainty begins the fade around the new queen, her kind and warm demeanor assuaging many of the fears of the denizens. She is open and amiable where Hades is stubborn and short, and Persephone’s presence blunts the worst of his temper. He even appears to glare less when Charon lingers near the house. It is a new era for the Underworld, and a welcome one at that. 

Charon quite enjoys Persephone as well. She seeks him out during many of his stops in Tartarus, whether to chat or to press a new order for something from the mortal realm into his hand with a finger to her lips and wink. He is more than happy to oblige, passing the orders to the increasingly suspicious Hermes who of course has gleaned everything about Persephone’s situation from the Charon with the greatest of ease. 

“I must say, you speak about the new queen quite a bit and half of the orders you’ve been giving me are coming from her. I do hope you’re not seeking to replace me there, my good boatman,” He had said once, “Not that you ever could for shepherding the dead; there’s no one quicker than I and Hades’ ‘special guest’ can’t exactly leave the Underworld at the moment, but-” 

Charon cuts him off with a questioning groan and a plume of smoke, amused at the hint of jealousy in Hermes prattle. The god has enough sense to at least pretend to be offended, cheeks glowing the longer Charon eyes him inquisitively. He flaps his mouth a bit, floating just beside Charon in his alcove and the ferryman shakes his head, going back to re-organizing his growing collection. 

“I- you-” It’s rather nice to have him at a loss for words, Charon finds. “W-whatever it is you’re thinking Charon is entirely incorrect, and also highly offensive, I assume, and I can’t believe you would even believe that, if I’m correct, so I’ll just be on my way if you’re going to be completely incorrigible…” 

Luckily for Hermes, as time passes, Charon has less to say about the queen, and she needs less and less as her garden begins to take hold. The Underworld grows accustomed to her presence as she does to her new position. But there is one being who’s tension over the change in ruler ship has never waned even as days turn to weeks and weeks into months and months into years.

Nyx is in his boat, a rare happenstance these days. They’ve been drifting for some time, and she hasn’t spoken a word since requesting this ride. She just sits, primly, staring off into the distance as they pass Tartarus, and Asphodel, and even into Elysium she is silent. 

An even rarer happenstance indeed. 

It is as they move past the bounty of Elysium that Mother Night collapses into herself, falling forward into her knees and covering her face with a sob Charon has never heard from her. 

“I have done something very foolish, my child.” She whispers into her palms, quivering as Charon leaves his post to kneel in front of her. He takes her hands in his, sees her troubled face, the cracks in her mask. She avoids his gaze as he searches for clarity to her upset, such an impossible thing he has never seen from his mother. 

“Oh dear Charon, “ She places a hand on his cheek, a sad smile upon her lips as her eyes water. Her palm is cool as a summer’s eve upon the upper shores of the Styx and he cannot remember a time he had felt it last. “I’ve fallen in love.”

17.

“Not to be rude, or maybe to be rude, I’m never quite sure sometimes with you...either way you seem out of it there, my good boatman.” Charon’s troubled groan must only act as a confirmation as he counts his coin for the fifteenth, sixtieth, hundredth time this eve. They clink pleasantly as they get shuffled, dropped into the accounted pile. 

The numbers add up. Smoke billows and clouds his head as it does at these times. He starts again. 

Change. Always change. Good or bad, it happens. Even to the night herself giving him a last look of troubled secrecy as he left Nyx in the hall of Hades. As he observed Persephone perk up at her arrival, clasping her hands and wondering aloud where she had been with a laugh. 

Nyx has never taken a lover to his knowledge, if she did, it was before his time. 

Romance, infatuation, love, these are not things that happen often, to Charon’s knowledge, within the Underworld. He’s heard tales, sonnets, poems, songs of such affection in the mortal realm more often than not; it is a common enough subject and Aphrodite is a popular goddess, but to hear such things happening here...

He didn’t even think Nyx was capable of-

A coin rolls away from his frozen hand, clinking as it bounces three times upon the stone floor, rolling before coming to a rattling halt a few feet away.

There are questions that Charon has never thought to ask himself, questions he would never have even thought to form. He was made with a simple purpose, long long ago, to fill a niche duty that no one else can. He rows his boat, carries his passengers, takes their payments. What outside capabilities were in Nyx’s mind when he was formed? 

If she has the capacity to love does he? 

His fingers curl against the table, nails scraping against the hard surface as he exhales a great gust of smog. If Hermes is speaking, it is from far away, too far to reach Charon’s racing thoughts. 

He understands affection. It's there when his mother sits herself primly upon his ferry, and tells him of what she can tell no other. When Hypnos asks for some ‘brother time’ to sleep in his boat carried away by the gentle rush of the river. When Thanatos grumbles as he drops off the dead about how Hades never recognizes his work, twisting his scythe in his hands and waiting expectantly for Charon’s groan of agreement in the cool winter afternoon. 

There is love, yes, of a sort. A familial kind, bound in loyalty, a shared origin, a history of trial and tribulation, forged in a shared space and time spent together through sheer force of circumstance. These affections, these bonds, do not leave him hopeless, do not leave him staring misty eyed in abandon, do not leave him aching for something more.

But that still doesn’t answer the question. Outside of these familial relationships, with someone wholly separate from himself and them, could he be, is he even capable of-

“Hey,” There’s a hand on his, warm, steadfast. Grounding. Hermes gives him an amicable smile, hovering ever so at his side. “Not to pry or anything, my family forbid, but I can’t imagine what got you so worked up you almost let this slip into the river.” He moves his hand away, revealing and holding up the same obol that had fallen between them with a cheeky grin. 

He put his feet to the floor, stepping back flipping the coin between his finger before flicking it to Charon. The ferryman catches it with a put upon groan before it collides with his hat. He grumbles in clear irritation, though it is still soft in comparison to other times Hermes has annoyed him, slapping the coin to his table and side-eyeing the Olympian messenger.

“Got your attention away from it, whatever it was, didn’t I?” He did, and Charon rattles his admittedly vague grievances as Hermes takes to hovering again, flitting to Charon’s other side. “Not that it should matter much, at least to a person such as yourself.” 

He’s close, strangely close, and the coin is warm where it is still being pressed into cool stone. There’s an inkling, a thought brewing as Charon continues to stare down the increasingly smug Hermes, a blooming warmer than the swiftly cooling obol against his skin. It flutters, strange and out of place, like the wings upon Hermes heels, gentle, unknowable. 

He swipes at the god before him, unsurprised when Hermes easily evades his assault. 

“Ah, ah, missed again.” Hermes waggles a finger at him, slowly drifting once again to the other side of Charon. “But you are getting faster, I’ll give you that, old friend. Maybe next time, if the stars are in place and the sun’s in my eye just right-”

Charon makes a low gruff sound, grabbing a scroll from his pockets and brandishing it at Hermes who sighs. 

“You’re right. I suppose my break is over.” He snatches it from the grey hand, stuffing it in his bag with one final smile. “Off I go then, things to deliver, contraband to gather, and all that-” In a smooth motion, too fast for Charon to stop, his hat is flicked up. Charon growls in response, shoving his hat back into place as Hermes flits off with a laugh and a “Till next time!” 

Charon stares at the place his associate had been for a minute, two minutes, an eon, rubbing a thumb over the ridges and stamp of the obol that is now no warmer than his own skin. There’s a chip in it, barely so from plinking off the floor below and it catches his thumb with each pass. 

Hermes was right; if love, passion, was written into his fate, the very fabric of himself from the moment of his conception, than it matters little in the long run. He is a ferryman of souls, unknown to all but the dead and his relations. 

He grumbles, to himself, taking the chipped obol and fastening it to his front with the others he presents himself with and floats to his boat, intent on whiling away the time between ferrying with his shop in Elysium. 

When would he have the time or be in the place to find anyone to fall in love with anyways?

Chapter Text

18.

The top of the Lethe is misty, forever obscuring the blue-green waters that lay below, sparkling and inviting for those who look too close. Some shades call it a trap; the liquid ever calling to those too broken by their memories to continue on without its amnesiatic effects. Still others find it a blessing, freed of the pain of life so they can drift effortlessly in the beyond. 

Charon finds its slow roll pleasant, an easy ride for Hypnos when he requests his boat for some quiet time. He’s allowed for these off the books trips to last a bit longer, Hades now too busy mooning over Persephone to notice the sleepy god’s absence. Times are slow for work anyways; for the mortals, it's a good year to cling to life and for Charon, Hermes has been busy with other work to bring too much to sell.

A haze of green and a puff of unnecessary smoke has Thanatos appearing just barely above the front of the vessel, scythe at his back and arms crossed as he looks down upon them. Charon warbles in greeting and Death lowers himself to the boat on the plank behind his brother’s head, just barely upsetting its balance, but enough to wake Hypnos. For a second, Hypnos is in a panic at the intrusion, but calms to his simple unperturbed self swiftly enough.

“Still slacking off, I see.” Thanatos observes, eyes narrowed. Hypnos yawns, craning his neck backwards to give his brother a sleepy grin. 

“Relax.” He says with a gesture, fully relaxed. “Bossman is helping the Queen in the garden and besides, it's a slow day! That’s why you’re here, right?” There’s a tic that starts under Thanatos’ left cheek and Hypnos’ smile widens. “Charon wouldn’t let me in the boat if I had work to do anyways, right Charon?”

Thanatos rolls his eyes, casting his gaze to the Stygian ferryman opposite them. 

“Why do you enable him so much?” Charon shrugs, continuing his rowing, equally as nonplussed as Hypnos, who has already drifted off again. The work of the House is nothing to him; should Hypnos slack off for a ride affects him not. Thanatos sighs, knowing this and clearly thinking of what to do next. 

“Mind if I join?” Charon indicates the empty planks before him, and, hesitating only so, Thanatos takes a seat. 

“Just like old times.” Hypnos sighs. The words are as amused as the smile on his lips and Thanatos can only shake his head, the rigidity in his posture loosening with every one of Charon’s even handed strokes.

Charon keeps their pace steady, drifting, not giving his oar anything more than the barest of force as they rock through Elysium. Mist furls around them, obscuring the bank and the spectres beyond but the clangs of undeathly battle remind the trio of their location, of the swaying grass and the moss covered marble construction just outside of eyesight. It is unlikely any of Elysium's populace notices the ferry, save maybe for the trail of ever wafting violet smoke. 

While Hypnos sleeps the trip away, Thanatos says nothing, even as they turn and roll into the Phlegethon, white mist fading into the boiling steaming orange. Death sits staring out into the passing landscapes, stern face glowering as placidly as he can. He has always done this; passively observing and lost in whatever thoughts plague the hard-working psychopomp. Never does he imbibe Charon in these musings and never does he have a secret to tell, but Thanatos sleeps only marginally more than Charon, which is to say never, so the boatman assumes these once-in-an-eon romps are a moment of meditation. 

Charon is unbothered by the silence. The reasons for requesting these short, irrelevant journeys are unnecessary. There’s something to be said about having someone in his boat, someone who is neither dead nor a contractual obligation. Someone who merely wants to exist for a while, gossiping, sleeping, observing, on his boat. 

Charon wonders then, as the spectres of Asphodel line the banks to silently watch him and his siblings, what kind of passenger Hermes would make. Chatty, surely, that particular aspect will never change no matter the location, but in what manner will he incessantly talk? Will his words be of casual observation as they aimlessly sail past the distinct layers of the Underworld? Would he divulge secrets yet untold, ever to be lost in the rush of the rivers and the smoke of Charon’s maw? Or would he merely be as he always has, friendly, meandering, filling the ferryman’s perpetual silence with story after story?

Hermes has never asked for a ride, mostly likely assuming such a thing is off limits to him and his kin, which is a fair supposition. It's not as though Charon could bring it up, however; there’s a ritual to these sorts of things, a process that he dare not break. There must be some way to encourage this line of thinking in the messenger...

“I had almost forgotten what it looked like from this side.” Charon is snapped from his reverie, fixing his attention to Thanatos. Death’s words are poignant, somber, contemplative. So odd to hear him speak anything more than general fluff, Charon groans, just to let him know he’s listening. “I suppose I was feeling a bit nostalgic with how slow it's been lately.” 

Charon scoffs at that, and Thanatos huffs good-naturedly back. They may not speak much, but Charon knows him well enough. None of them are beings of the past, nor the future. Death is now, it is present, it is unchanging, even if the circumstances may shift.

“That is a little far fetched, isn’t it?” He says, face falling. A troubled wrinkled sets into his brow and Thanatos takes a moment for consideration, watching as the Lernaean Hydra breaches the many points of its spine above the boiling waters before leisurely swimming away. Charon allows him as much time in the world.

“I don’t know.” He settles on, finally. “Perhaps all of the noise in the House as of late is inspiring a certain loneliness in me. There isn’t much talking when I’m working. Though you’d know better than anyone.”

19.

Thanatos leaves them rather abruptly as they near the House, clearly not wanting to get caught dodging work like his layabout brother. Hades’ wrath is immediate, demanding why Hypnos is slacking off again, but Persephone is close by, amused by Hypnos’ attitude and calming Hades with a few teasing words. There’s a softness to his shoulders now, Hades’ dominating posture is dulled, falling even further when the Queen bats him playfully on the arm.

Charon watches from his dock for a long pause, Thanatos’ words rolling, pricking at his head, moving only when Hades catches sight of him with a grimace. 

Hades must know loneliness. Charon would never be able to ask, and Hades would never be alboe to tell but the ferryman assumes so. Drawing his lot, chained to the Underworld away from his family, the unwilling god of the dead. With only the strained biting conversation to be had with Nyx and the supervisory relationship with her sons, it is understandable the isolation Hades must have felt before Persephone entered his life.

Charon has never thought of himself as lonely. He spends a great deal of time alone, away from anyone, by his very nature, very design. By the very people he is in contact with. But the specific concept of labeling any of these moments as lonesome is foreign to say the least.

He is not welcome in Hades’s domain, the master of which makes that clear as often as he can, not that Charon has had an inkling to enter the House. Any extant time spent with his brothers, his mother, Hermes, the few souls who seek him out are upon their own accord. By their own wishes or duties. Charon cannot imagine a time he has gone searching for another. 

People find him as they please, very few are happy when they do so, but it’s not ever been a bother to him. Even the times between; long quiet moments spent on the river with no one beside himself and his thoughts, these are fine, he supposes. There’s no one in particular he could fathom to want around to break the silence.

It’s the way it's always been. No need to change it now. 

When he pulls to a stop at the docks of the sunny upper shores of the Styx, he strains to see who brought these souls today. They mill in disorderly fashion, confused and waiting, their particular shepherd nowhere in sight. He takes their coin, lets them board his ferry, takes them down, down, down. 

None of the souls can speak today. Not a word is said the whole way. A common occurrence that he never notices.

But today, maybe, he does. The silence seems to have a weight to it, on his back, on his thoughts. He catches himself, straining to hear even a whiff of conversation, but, as it were, there is none forthcoming. 

20.

Another spring, another summer, another year or two. Seasons blend together and rarely does Charon make note of the changes to his little expanse of the mortal realm save for the difference in the rush of his rivers and the debris that may lie atop it. There are other things to be concerned with and such mortal tribulations as temperature bother him not. 

It's a routine drop off today. Hermes with his well-shepherded gaggle of recently deceased, eagerly informing Charon about the times in between while the ferryman gathers his dues. It seems fall is here on these shores, the tail-end of it as rain swells the rivers and the wind blows quite cool along the shoreline. 

“Of course, you’d think I’d seen everything, being around for so long. Not as long as you of course, but long enough-” Charon listens dutifully, nodding and groaning at the correct intervals. 

Hermes has stated previously he appreciates Charon’s unhurried nature, as other beings are always in a haste for whatever messages or what-have-you the god delivers, never interested in his chit-chat. As he says, with the Stygian boatman, he can be untethered from swift sentences in need of a point. He is allowed to meander, to spout words as quick as his mind moves and with little care for precision.

Charon doesn’t mind. The chatter, the noise, it's a break in the silence he’s found he’s becoming more and more aware of as of late. The time when he found it grating has long since past, now all but enjoying the news and stories and tales Hermes brought along with his flock and his deliveries.

The breeze picks up as Charon takes the last of the payments and shuffles the last of the dead onto his ferry, carrying with it the wet natural detritus endemic to this season. Perhaps this is why, then, Charon does not notice the hue of green that overcomes the shore as a leaf lands itself delicately atop Hermes’ hair. Hermes must not have felt it, deep into his tale of a man and a bear. It is only innate following this, for Charon to slowly reach over and pluck it from the god’s head. 

Hermes goes silent at that, bodily jumping as if shocked, ears glowing and staring, disoriented by Charon’s action. The boatman holds the bit of leaf up to answer whatever question his never ceasing tongue is failing to ask. It only causes Hermes’ godly blush to grow brighter.

“O-oh!” Hermes touches his hair instinctively and Charon lets the leaf flutter away in the wind. “Ha, shocked me a bit there, sorry. You’ll have to warn me next t-”

There’s a cough, a gruff clearing of a throat that cuts through the shore and both their attention snaps to Death standing not far off, three or so souls meandering behind him.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything too important.” Thanatos’ dry remark shocks them both, neither having noticed him appear. He frowns, placing his scythe behind his back. “Though this looks rather standard.”

Hermes has gone positively golden, oddly flustered as his wings beat endlessly at his heels. 

“Oh, no interruption at all!” His voice is oddly high. “I was just about to be on my way actually. Can’t dilly dally, you know. So much to do! Good seeing you Thanatos, Charon.”

And he’s gone, perhaps faster that Charon has ever seen him. Thanatos watches with a brow raised before shaking his head, motioning for his souls to approach their ferryman. With a shrug, Charon begins taking payment, his brother is silent in this, observing with disinterest.

It is quiet now, no sentences told, only the wind whistling among the grass and the trees. Charon would be remiss if he denied he didn’t want to hear the end of Hermes’ story, now lost to circumstance as once distracted, Hermes will never remember to bring it up again.

Unfortunate.

“He only seems to slow down for you, you realize.” Thanatos states after a while. For a second time today, he surprises Charon, tearing his gaze away from the soul in front of him to meet Death’s forlorn accusatory stare. The ferryman gives a low intonation, unsure of his brother’s implication. 

One has to slow down for Charon. It is in the very nature of the thing; speaking, conversing, doing business with a being such as he. He moves at only the pace he wills and if Hermes is to be his associate, then that is a sacrifice that must be made. His brother would have to forgive him for not understanding.

There’s something in the way Thanatos stares him, their eyes meeting for far too long with nothing said in between. Charon can’t quite place it, even as he ripples in indignation. 

“Nevermind.” Thanatos scoffs, taking his scythe in hand and making to leave. “I suppose in the long run, it doesn't matter.”

No, Charon supposes it doesn’t.

21.

Listening to Hermes is almost a pastime, a hobby, an art, though an enjoyable one at that. He always has something to say, an event to recount, a story to tell. His life among the mortal realm and Olympus is vast and rich and Charon finds it easy to get lost the many threads Hermes manages to weave when he can stick around for longer than a few minutes here and there.

They’re in Charon’s alcove, as has become a usual meeting point for these social moments when Charon is without duty and Hermes wishes for a moment of privacy. The ferryman organizes his many wares, wondering which to use to fill his shop next as he is careful to keep the flow of items to a trickle, keeping demand high. 

Hermes has placed himself on the couch, content to sit with his knees drawn to his chest as he gabs endlessly about someone or another. His chiton rides up in this position, revealing more of his well-toned thighs and Charon has found difficulty in not being distracted by the sight. His eyes are especially drawn to the band Hermes wears, as its purpose alludes him. Is the skin under there paler that the rest of him or are Olympians not subject to the same whims of the sun as mortals?

Many of the subjects Hermes speaks of are involving himself in some way. Understandable, as one can only tell of things they have known. An uncommon theme is of his lovers, both past and present. Uncommon is subjective of course; given the amount of times they have spoken over the many years they have known each other, Charon has heard plenty of them. 

Gods and mortals, men and women and people of all flavors, Hermes has no real preference. It does not matter to Charon, nor does he mind these particular branches of conversation. While he has no experience or history or even real empathy to contribute, the subject matter is always conveyed with a certain nostalgic happiness. 

And if Hermes is happy to speak about it, Charon is happy to listen. If only to pass time.

But this particular conversation takes a different turn than the others. The smug countenance of Hermes fades today, however, into hesitancy, and his words waver. He puts a thumb to his lips, worrying it as he rests his chin upon his knees and gazes at Charon.

“This may be a bit forward,” He starts again after a moment, brow knitting. “You’ll surely let me know if it is as you’ve never been exactly hesitant to let me know when I step too far, but… have you ever...fallen for anyone? Not in the general sense, mind, but more colloquially in terms of…” He takes in a rather large gust of air, steeling himself. “Love?”

Charon pauses as he sets aside a chest of cloth, taken aback by the question at hand. What’s more surprising is the chuckle that burbles out of his throat, a strained ugly rattling noise that takes both him and Hermes off guard. Charon puts a hand over his mouth to stifle himself, shaking his head and waving away the raised eyebrow the god directs his way. 

“I suppose it is a silly question to ask you,” Hermes continues with a forced laugh, looking away from Charon to watch the river flow beside them. Bitterness seeps into his voice, fingers tightening on his knees, the skin turning white under the pressure. “No, you’re rather far away from people; alive people, that is." He picks at loose thread in the couch, plucking at it with no real malice or conviction. "I would go so far as to count yourself lucky to never have experienced it.” 

What a strange thing to say. He's heard much on the subject from the few dead who deign to speak, but perhaps it is different for the gods, both above and below. He knows the Olympians to be forceful, violent, underhanded, even traitorous to each other. Could they also be such a way in love? Could they also take misery from it?

Mother Night is certainly pained by her's. He's seen it at times, when her and Persephone come to greet him together, how Nyx is always finding excuse to touch her, to be near her. She listens to Persephone as if she speaks only in the sweetest of songs and looks upon her as if she was carved from the most precious of stones. But there is a sorrowfulness there as Persephone returns to Hades side, dutifully wife and queen and even Nyx's own impeccable facade slips as her shoulders fall and her gazes grows distant at the sight.

Is this was Hermes is speaking of? Charon warbles at Hermes, concerned and curious. 

“Love is...well, its nice and all, wonderful even, don’t get me wrong, no better thing out there, inspires loads of amazing and horrible things from the mortals and even us gods sometimes, maybe more than sometimes if you look at my dear old dad- but when it isn’t mutual-” He stops, biting his lip. "When they can't..." Bitterness still lies in his voice, in his frown, but it is accompanied by a sadness, a wistful despair that pains Charon to see. 

For a moment, Hermes is lost in thought, staring blankly at his sandaled feet, toes tapping out a slow uneven rhythm. Charon groans when he feels the pause has gone on long enough, and it seems to snap Hermes from his reverie, swift to mask the plain doubt on his boyish features. He fights to grin, though it is tight and false, holding a palm up at Charon’s concern. 

“Oh, don’t mind me, my friend. Just babbling, as usual, you know-”

The boatman steps closer and, before he can doubt his actions, he has placed a hand upon Hermes’ shoulder. The messenger quiets down, mouth falling shut as the hand squeezes gently. Comfort is not in Charon's purview, and he immediately begins to hope he has not overstepped any bounds, but if there’s anything to be found in the way Hermes lays his fingers over Charon’s, he must be doing something right.

Hermes gifts him a small smile, tightening his grip on Charon’s hand. 

The boatman stands there as long as the god needs. He could not imagine anyone, mortal above or god on high, who would reject the fleet-footed messenger but he hopes, for their sake, they come to their senses about the whole thing.

22.

“Persephone is with child.” Nyx’s words are soft, far-away, unsure. Charon’s stroke of the oar stutters, the wood slipping from his fingers. He manages to regain his hold just as it starts to be taken by the river.

Oh. 

There's been a tension in the House as of late, some unspoken current, but if what Ny x is stating is true, then that would explain it . Why Persephone has asked for very little, why the shades within the place are on edge, why Nyx has been distant. A child, a pregnancy, here, in the land of dead. 

How novel.

For an age, there is silence between the Stygian ferryman and Mother Night, only the rushing of water to fill the quiet as they float through Asphodel. A smoke lifts from the river, but by either his or Nyx's own will , it does not obscure their vision of the spectres milling about. The fields are green as ever and the denizens pay the boat no mind today. Should they hear Nyx's words, they have no one to tell but themselves.

“No matter what she tries, it will not survive this pregnancy.” Nyx stares out blindly into Asphodel, face impassable. Charon feels less as though his mother is speaking to him but confessing something to herself. “Despite what warnings me and Hades provide, she is determined to see this through to the end. Even when assured this will come to tragedy-” Affection, warm and beatific, creeps into her voice as Nyx drops her head to stare at where her hands are clasped in her dress, curling and uncurling in the fabric. “There’s something infectious about her hope.”

Nyx has no more words on the trip back, and Charon, for once, cannot interpret the complexities of her emotions. It isn’t until they reach the House once more that Nyx looks at him, really looks at him, placing a hand on his chest. 

“I suspect things will not be as easy from here on out, my child.” She leaves him then, fog wafting from his mouth and clutching his oar as Nyx grants him one final forlorn nod.

23.

It’s not surprising when Persephone approaches him, her usual self confidence in speaking to the boatman laced with a nervous determination. Hades is off elsewhere, the trickle of souls awaiting judgement too bare to stick around when there are other things to tend to on this eve. Thus Charon takes the opportunity to await at the house’s dock. The spectres of the lounge have gotten their goods, leaving him alone as the queen of the Underworld stops by. 

“Well, this is very bold of you.” She muses good-naturedly, though her hands are clasped together tightly under her stomach, thumbs roving over each other, “Taking advantage of the Master being out to sneak us some goodies.” Her eyes traverse over the now empty boat and Charon groans, signalling he has nothing specifically for her. 

“Oh,” She pauses, but laughs softly when clarity dawns on her. “Oh, no, I’m not here for that. I just-” She glances over her shoulder to the empty entryway, pulling something from her clothing. “Nyx nudged me to… If it wouldn’t be too much trouble…”

An obol, pinched between her thumb and forefinger, held aloft for Charon to take. He hums, plucking the coin from her grasp before sighing in approval. It is wholly unnecessary, he would easily allow Persephone a ride without payment, but he appreciates the gesture nonetheless. He steps aside, and Persephone, not missing a beat, boards his boat. 

The Styx is cool as of late, even this far into the Underworld. Its rush is choppy, upset by the winter gales above, but the ferry is stable, its sailing smooth. Charon rarely finds that he cares for evenness of the ride, but for certain passengers, he finds it in himself to make an exception.

“I see now why Hypnos sneaks off like this.” She is leant on the side, arm over the ridge as she mocks skimming her fingertips over the passing water. She stares into its murky depths, relaxed as they sail and lost in her contemplation. "It's rather peaceful. Shame Hades took me down the other way all those years ago..."

Charon rattles back, more in acknowledgement than anything. 

“You know, when I first came here, Hades was adamant you were unapproachable, unsightly, yet you’ve never been anything but kind to me.” Persephone rests her cheek on the back of her hand where it lays on the side of the ferry. “Even that first day, you hadn't even met me yet and you were already trying to make me feel welcome."

He shrugs at that, not that Persephone is looking at him. He had never thought of it more than in the moment. Persephone did not belong here, taken presumably under undue circumstances. If he had eased that process even slightly, then that is all Charon could hope for. 

"Charon," She states, after some consideration, now laying on both hands. "I think I may be about to do something very foolish." He waits, silent, knowing whatever it is she needs to say will come in time. 

“I think-” She sucks in a great breath, closing her eyes and nodding her head to only herself, the ferry rocking in particularly rough current. “I’m thinking about leaving with the child.” Her eyes slam open, head shooting up and Persephone claps a hand over her mouth, stunned at the words she just spoke. 

Charon slows his rowing almost to a halt, carried only by the water and his own will, and Persephone slowly lowers her palm, fingers shivering.

“I can’t- I didn’t mean-” She turns abruptly to him, gaze wild and fearful. “Charon, you mustn’t tell anyone in the House, I beg of you.” 

Charon bows his head once, let the handle of the oar clunk as he rests it on the bottom of his ferry. He expected as much. The Underworld is no place for child, especially if that child survives the pregnancy. Where would she and Hades raise it? Just in the House, stifled, isolated, alone from the world it is entitled to? What would that do, one would have to wonder, to a person.

Charon carefully, slowly, approaches the still kneeling Persephone, decision already made. From his pouch, he pulls two obols, presenting them to a wary goddess, arm outstretched and palm open. They seem dull in the green of Tartarus and Persephone eyes them with a powerful hesitation. 

“Charon…” She whispers, brow furrowed, a hand upon her stomach. She takes them, slowly, dreamily, holding them with the utmost delicacy to examine before fixing the Stygian boatman with a wondrous watery expression. “I- I don’t know what to say…”

Charon takes his arm back, bringing a finger to his mouth. Persephone covers hers again, barely hiding a teary smile as she conceals the obols away into her clothing. Charon returns to his post and she to her seat, and while the remainder of the ride has nary a word between them, there is an electric undercurrent, too strong to describe. 

24.

Taking someone out of the Underworld, now there’s an unusual request. Charon has never considered it before; those not made of this place, once having entered, are not allowed to leave. Not Hades, not the spectres, not the titans, not Persephone. There are rules for these kinds of things, traditions, immutable laws he dare not test. 

But here he is, having made an to do so should the Queen ask it of him.

In this moment, perhaps, he should think he would experience more trepidation. Instead he is emboldened at the thought. Persephone has never found comfort here, never found where she truly belonged among the humdrum order of the House, even her and Hades marriage took a more loving turn. To be able to help her, truly assist her in more than temporarily easing her homesickness with trinkets and plants should she need him to…

It is the correct thing to do, he should think. Both for her and her brood.

Even Hermes finds it exciting, practically cheering Charon for making such a strange bold decision, suggesting some form of celebration.

“I was planning on saving this for a rainy day, but seeing how it's neither day nor raining, not that either of those really matter down here-” Ambrosia is held aloft in front of Charon’s face, Hermes shaking it lightly to give the contents a pleasing swirl. The alcove is dank as always, and Cerberus is asleep near the gates as he generally is, leaving the two alone for now. “For your potential treasonous action.”

Charon stares at him for a long moment, exhaling softly in his befuddlement before indicating the place he stores the few bottles of Ambrosia he keeps on hand to sell to the Elysium stadium or to the House chef. Hermes wrinkles his nose, quick to shake his head.

“Oh, no, not those. Not that there’s anything wrong with them!” Hermes is quick to add, backing into the stone table and giving the ferryman some space as Charon begins an angered growl. “Just, this is something I- well, let’s just say borrowed with little to no intention of returning, from my rarely-sober-enough-to-notice brother’s private stocks.” He pops out the cork with his teeth, the definitive noise echoing around the alcove though Charon hardly notices, too caught up in the way Hermes mouth moves as he spits the cork elsewhere. 

It bounces away on the tiles, rolling and finally plonking into the river. Eventually, it will wash ashore somewhere, or be plucked by a curious spectre, or burnt to ash in the Phlegethon. Somewhere beyond he and Hermes, Cerberus shifts with a huff and the god redirects Charon’s attention as he tilts the now open bottle toward him with a cheeky smile. 

“Care to join me?”

The truth is, Charon has an extremely muted sense of taste. He has no need to eat or drink, as such he was given no tongue. Nectar is nice, as its flavor is bountiful enough to break through his general inability to experience taste, however light, and, as it turns out, Ambrosia is much the same. It's fine, but he has no reason to consume more than the amount needed to please Hermes. 

And really, it is pleasing to Hermes, if his demeanor is any indicator. He ends up drinking most of the ambrosia, through some insistence from Charon about his less than stellar enthusiasm for the drink is needed for Hermes to imbibe free of guilt. 

He’s more smiley than usual, cheeks aglow with a warm golden blush, limbs and mouth loose as his stories and anecdotes take on a more wild interpretive nature. He never strays far from Charon, physically, hovering close, a hand always just lightly touching his robes. There’s a newfound bravery about him Charon finds endearing, if not frightening. 

Not for any threat or violence. Hermes is a god, yes, but Charon is older, of a different purpose, of a different make. Even Hades is of little consequence to Charon, no matter his ill temper and authoritative disposition. No, what Charon fears is his hands, his tricky mind, and the way his warm eyes make the vapor in Charon’s veins shudder in strange and addictive waves.

Charon can’t quite place it, the fluttering in his chest when Hermes bites his lip to hold back a raucous laugh as to not disturb the grumping hound, or the constriction in his throat when Hermes fingers grasp his forearm at the high point of a tall tale that is neither singularly true or demonstrably false, or how a tingling warmth blooms across his shoulders when Hermes leans in to whisper, seated upon Charon’s table as if he owns it. 

In some ways, he does. This alcove and all that is in it are marked by his presence, by his touch. He fills it with trinkets and prizes just as Charon does, spends enough time amongst the Temple and the river to have carved at least part of a claim to it. When he is absent, Charon’s want to spend time here is much the same and he finds himself toiling away in his hidden hoard in Erebus rather than in the alcove that feels hollow without the messenger filling it with his voice and his smile and his everything.

What is the point of spending his time here when it is so dull with the god there as well?

There is a distinct lack of speaking that pulls Charon from his thoughts and brings him back to the present where Hermes’ eyes fix on Charon’s hat, mischievous and as subtle as Hypnos when he eyes the ferry. He has but a moment to react before-

“I’ve always wondered…” The hat dwarfs Hermes’ head, dropping well below his ears as something about it sends him into a peal of victorious laughter. Charon swipes at him, at his hat, with an indignant groan but Hermes is gone before he can make even the barest of contact. 

“Ah, what’s the problem, old friend?” Hermes laughs, floating behind him just out of reach. He’s on his back, having to hold the hat to head to keep it from falling to the floor. Charon follows him, waiting for a moment to strike despite knowing full well Hermes will never allow himself to be caught. “I’ve never seen you without the hat, and I must say, now that I have, I don’t quite understand why.”

Charon expects revulsion. He expects Hermes good humor to sour. He expects Hermes to look away from him, avoid his gaze, avoid his barred head. Instead, Hermes lifts the brim of Charon's hat, just enough to peak at Charon’s face, now fully in the light of the torches. There’s an aura of surprise, of self-confirmation, of peace that comes over the swift god as he floats closer, reaching out at just ghosting a touch to Charon’s limp locks. 

“If you wanted my opinion, though you didn’t ask, I think you should keep it off sometimes, maybe, if you wanted.” His voice is low, breathless, and he’s close, too close for Charon’s liking. A feeling creeps into Charon, one that grips him thoroughly, to grab Hermes and do...something. He ignores it, choosing instead to swipe at his hat again, missing as usual and Hermes effortlessly changes the subject to which is Charon is more than grateful.

It's a relief when Hermes eventually dozes off, understandable for the workload he’s taken on as of late along with the Ambrosia now dulling him, having pulled Charon to the couch to rest beside him.

The couch is comfortable; he’d made sure of that centuries ago, and given the moist, dank nature of the alcove, it’s been reupholstered a dozen or so times. What even more surprising is Hermes, gently napping again at his side. He is warm, impossibly so for something existing in the Temple. He rests against Charon, head leaning on Charon’s arm and side pressed close. 

He smells faintly of the wind, of an autumn day, of the ambrosia they just shared. It's hard to see his face under Charon’s own wide brimmed hat, but he can easily picture it at rest; mouth just slightly open, features at ease lacking the sly mischief usually present there, cheek smooshed in a silly manner from where it rests upon Charon’s ribs. 

Charon finds he has a fondness for these moments in general, when Hermes slumbers peacefully under Charon’s watchful eye. They provide ample time for Charon to observe the god and sate a fatal curiosity he’s grown around his associate. Nothing terrible, nothing immoral (even in the face of an Olympic god), just to simply look. To watch. To understand without causing discomfort in Hermes with his ceaseless unblinking staring.

Never has this kind of opportunity arisen, however. Never have they been so close and Hermes so still because of the messenger’s own chaotic decision. 

Does he dare? Is it too much? Would he be crossing the line again? 

Charon is a simple being, this he knows of himself, with few desires. His collections, his riches, his few precious moments with those around him. He has no interest in denying himself these small harmless things. 

And this time is no exception. 

Carefully, so as to not disturb the slumbering Hermes, Charon lifts his arm. He is slow, methodical, pausing with a trepidation when Hermes snuffles at his side, continuing only when he settles, now somehow pressing even closer into Charon’s robes. Satisfied that Hermes still sleeps, Charon gently, softly, places his arm around the god at his side. 

It is not a tight hold. In fact, Charon is barely even touching Hermes, having been careful to keep the cool skin of his arm off of the god’s own, but it is enough, he thinks. For what, he could not say, but in the small time Charon has to sit here with Hermes, hushed, close, warm, unbothered by labor or time, he is, undoubtedly…

Happy.

25.

The Fates are cruel and Nyx was correct.

Charon finds Persephone at his docks in Asphodel, battered and torn from her fight to reach here.  

She places a single obol onto his open palm. His fingers curl around it, around her hand, and he helps her silently to his boat. 

26.

The Temple, when they arrive, is empty save for the imposing figure of Hades standing statuesque between them and the gates. Charon is set on passing him by, single-minded in his purpose, his journey, but Persephone begs him to stop. 

“So you’ve decided then?” He is steady in his tone, resolute in the lonely hall, hands balled loosely at his side. He does not look at her as she approaches from Charon’s vessel. Persephone is weak, walking on shaking legs and clutching her abdomen. She refuses Charon's guiding arm, choosing instead to approach the lord of the Underworld with her back as straight and adamant as she can muster. 

“I cannot stay here any longer.” She tells him, always determined, always unswayed. Hades’ face shows nothing but apathy at her words.

“Then go.” He points swiftly, violently, damningly at the temple gates which are open to the biting storm raging outside. Persephone grants him one long last look, whatever words she means to say dying on her lips as she nods shortly. 

Her footsteps echo within this empty hall, resounding even as Styx rushing evermore under them. Hades is still staring forward, facing the docks, not seeing as she crosses the threshold and is soon swallowed by the gall howling beyond their gates. Behind her, the gates close, their creaking closure a final note.

Persephone is gone.

Hades collapses to the floor, to his knees, head bowed and face dark. Charon comes to a stop beside him, offering nothing more than his presence for however long Hades has need of it.

27.

Charon does not see Hermes for a very long time. 

The world grows cold, bitter winds and freezing snow befalling the mortal realm with no signs of slowing. The Underworld is in mourning at Persephone’s departure, her brightness now an empty spot in the house. Nyx leaves to beg her daughters for the life of the stillborn child the queen left behind, determined that Persephone's time here was not in vain.

Famine sets in with the mortals. Wars are started. People die in ever growing numbers. Psychopomps are constantly in the act of catching up and Charon’s boat runs non-stop. 

Hermes is not exempt from this. Charon finds his shepherded souls neatly lined up on the Styx’s frozen shores, but the god is nowhere to be found. Understandable, yes, as Hermes has many responsibilities, is a god of many things and a messenger for the highest authorities. On top of that, with how many souls needing brought to the Underworld, it's no wonder Hermes is long gone by the time Charon stops at his icy dock. 

This is how things are. 

But his dock is cold, quiet. The light of the sun and the moon filtered through grey oppressive clouds day in and day out and Charon has never been more aware of time than now. Mornings and nights and weeks and months passed before now, before Hermes ever spoke to him the first time on these very shores, and he never cared for the finer details, for the moment to moment passage of time.

First he began keeping tally of every missed chance for meeting in a passive sense. Once, twice, five times, the tenth, the thirtieth, but each mark soon grew more and more sour to keep track of. He docks, sees the dead awaiting him in their neat row, and he groans something that is wholly meaningless to the lot of them, mentally adding another tally. 

It's so quiet, as of late. In the scant times he can step into his alcove, the place is dark and empty, even though all of his things are there. The couch is cold, the river drones, and Charon cannot find it within himself to stand it. He takes his dwindling stock and goes to Elysium to trade his goods, collect more coin. At least there’s some noise, some chatter there.

Is this loneliness? Is this the ephemeral isolation Thanatos has waxed about? To be so aware of every moment that one is only with themselves?

No, Charon thinks not. He’s always been sequestered, closed off from people, from talking, from conversation. That is normal. That is him. Why would that need to change now that he has made a-a friend as Hermes does call them?

Even still, to be lonely, one would think you would have to find joy in any iota of company you find yourself in. Thanatos hangs around at times, bringing his dead, just to give a quick statement on the affairs of the mortals beyond Charon’s shore and other small remarks of little import on happenstances he’s dealt with. Were Charon lonely, he’d welcome these moments, however brief, but instead he finds them hollow, joyless, frustrating. 

One-sided.

There’s something missing. A back and forth, sense of companionship, an understanding, a warmth . He knows his brother all too well, is grateful for these short interludes as he is neither able to see Hypnos for their rides nor Nyx as she is still pleading with the Fates, and Charon should find Thanatos’ willingness to engage him either selfishly as a break to his own isolation or in an earnest effort at camaraderie but Charon simply-

Does not.

Is that loneliness; yearning for something specific, for someone specific? Is it loneliness as he stands on frozen petrified wood, touching the chipped obol on his chest, peering out into the gray gale of snow and wind for a specific silhouette and finding nothing more than the landscape he knows so well? Is it loneliness when he sighs, checking another mark, adding it to the thousands now, and beginning to to collect the frigid golden coins from his well-tended flock?

Is it loneliness when he takes one last forlorn glance over his shoulder, the rough Styx rocking his ferry with the force of the storm, the dead silent as they often are, violet mist thinned in his held breath, searching for a hopeful glimpse of something bright at his dock before his shoulders fall at the empty shore, turning his head back to the river and stroking his oar just a little harder than before? 

28.

Nyx finally returns, face gaunt as ever, but there’s a new joy to be found there as she carries the swaddled pink babe in her arms. Hades' resentment begins to fade as he holds his only son, alive and crying, for the first time. The House undergoes construction, rooms getting added, jobs created, taken, swapped around. 

The Underworld changes, as it were, once again.

The snow hasn’t stopped above, this never-ending winter refusing to break. Hermes is still absent. Charon still rows his boat. 

The day he finds a little note, carefully tucked in a box of fresh nectar and other goods for his shop, with swift yet neat penmanship, unnecessarily apologizing for the delay and ‘hoping my fellow associate is doing alright though I don’t expect to be hearing back considering I’m not actually there-’, is a good one indeed.

29.

Glowing with life is a curious observation to make in the Underworld, but it is how Charon would describe the young Zagreus should he be pressed. 

No one has, of course, but he’s made it anyway. 

For a long while, Charon is unable to see the child. Hades has him under a strict watch, with very few allowed to be within contact of the boy he almost lost. Charon is obviously excluded from this, especially how Hades holds him in a certain amount of contempt considering his complicitness in Persephone’s escape. Charon finds no real fault in the god’s reasoning; he’s always viewed Charon as monstrous and subversive to his command. This is merely a further extension of that.

The first time Charon is able to interact with him, after the Fates had restored breath to the babe’s chest and the pink returned to his cheeks, Zagreus had just begun walking. He toddled at Mother Night's side, eyes roaming everywhere and lips bubbling with the beginnings of speech. His wobbling burning little feet left the tiniest ash in their wake, sizzling upon the blood-water that splashed in from the river’s pool and Charon had initially recoiled as Nyx drew closer.

“Worry not, dear child.” Nyx had placated, scooping the toddler into her arms as Charon tips his hat down. Zagreus had affixed his roving mismatched eyes upon his face, reluctant to move them as he took in the novel sight. “An infant as such has no concept of what he can and cannot fear.” 

Charon exhales a great plume as she stops in front of him, reaching over to push the brim of his hat out of the way and he warbles in worry. 

“To him,” And she places a hand upon his bony cheek, the babe in her arms tracking the motion carefully, spittle wet mouth open in curiosity as he burbles. “You’re nothing more than a wonderful new face to see and learn and understand.” There’s a peaceful smile on her lips, confident as she removes her cool fingers and takes Zagreus’s chubby arm between them. 

She leans them in, reaching out and letting tiny burning digits touch the smooth line of Charon’s jaw. He holds his rattling breath, fully expecting the half-open mouth to begin wailing as Nyx coos and encourages. She removes her grip, just letting the baby continue to feel, to explore.

The baby takes in what he is touching, what is attached to what he is touching, and smacks his hand into the jawbone three times. It is soft, impossibly so, even when Zagreus tries to find a grip on Charon’s face. There are no screams, no recoiling, only the purest of wonder as the child bubbles with sounds. 

Swiftly he grows bored, letting go of Charon’s face to turn back to Nyx and pick at the shoulder of her dress with a vivacious smile. Charon exhales only then, the smoke wafting hurriedly away from him in his worry and Nyx laughs light and happy at the sight. 

30.

The storms quell their fury, though snow still blankets the land. The flow of souls falls to a more manageable level as the mortals grow accustomed to their icy world, the ever flexible creatures they are. Charon finally has time to do nothing in between his trips once more. 

His surprise when this holds true for Hermes is understandable.

“Ah, wondering when you’d get here!” The sight of a boyish face and the ever-fluttering scarf is more than a welcome one that the ferry has not even fully stopped before Charon has floated off of it. “Had a moment, thought I’d stop by to see how everything’s going, see if you need anything, make sure you haven’t fallen off your boat, though that is a farfetched idea but quite funny if you think about it…”

Hermes trails off as Charon comes to rest before him, looming above him, empty-handed as his oar was left forgotten on his boat. Hermes has to crane his neck to stare up at him, flat on his feet, smile faltering ever so as a silence befalls them, looking just the same and as wonderful as the last time Charon saw him. Somewhere, Cerberus grunts, but it is far off, muted, in comparison to the here and now. 

Is it the Styx rushing in his ears or something else as Charon takes in all that is Hermes standing before him? He has so much he wants to say, wants to catch up on; questions burning his dry smoking mouth that he could never voice even if he wanted. He wants to ask what Hermes has been doing, where he’s been, for all the tall tales and quick-witted asides he can bear to muster. He wants to tell him about the child, about the quiet, about anything, everything. 

Most of all, he wants to touch. To take Hermes’ face in his hands, feel the warmth and the soft skin. To physically know that he is here and real and not some impossible figment of the imagination. It's frightening how much this want overtakes him, that Charon nearly recoils from the way it grips him. 

Charon indulges, just a little, slowly, carefully, so as to not frighten, placing a hand on Hermes’ shoulder and gripping it tight. He lets out the softest of sigh, plumes of violet and deep purple swirling out behind him in the breeze carried in by the river, and he hopes, he begs, Hermes understands his meaning. There is a moment, a pause as Hermes stares at him and Charon is certain he will crumple from the anxiety before the messenger’s fallen smile blooms in full and assured fingers wrap around Charon’s wrist.

“Missed you too, old friend.” 

A finger flicks the brim of Charon's hat up, and he can't even bring himself to be offended by it, not when Hermes is looking at him like that.

31.

The child grows, energetic and loud, playing as he can within his father’s house when the god allows it. Charon hears much about it, from Nyx to Hypnos, both of whom start taking to his boat a bit more often. They tell him these things with an exhausted sort of affection, as to be expected from dealing with a shut-in athletic child.

Even the hero Achilles who has taken up chatting with him from time to time, about Zagreus or the house, or the Underworld itself. Well, chatting towards. And chatting is a stretch considering his sentences are brief, probing, and often cut short when he determines Charon has nothing to say back. Hermes finds it most amusing when someone attempts a conversation with him. 

“Not everyone has my determination and charisma it seems.” He had said, floating at Charon’s side. He was being good natured in his boast, but there was a prideful gleam in his eye as he spoke, one Charon would have to agree with. 

Not that Hermes would ever hear of it. 

In any case, Zagreus is a curious creature, bold in his sense of adventure, often finding himself at Charon’s dock, staring wide eyed and asking all sorts of questions Charon is incapable of answering, though he is more than happy to make up the answer. He would always be whisked away, either by his father’s demands or by Nyx’s gentle hand, but his visitations were pleasant as is. To be a child and still learning of the world in which one lives; a time Charon has no experience in. 

And it’s only a matter of time before he works up the courage to ask for a ride aboard the ferry.

“I want to see the surface.” Young Zagreus, not even a decade old, demanded, holding out an obol and emboldened by his father’s absence. The hall behind him is empty, save for a straggling spectre or two, though if Charon were to squint, he could see the blonde locks of Achilles hidden behind the corner.

Ah. He understands now. 

Charon lets out a low moan, shaking his head and waving a hand in a definitive no. Not to be deterred for more than a second, the boy holds his ground. 

“Just around the bend then!” He pleads, still thrusting the coin in Charon’s direction and his dark hair falling into his eyes. “You don’t have to take me all the way up! Just a little bit, please?”

How could Charon deny such a request? 

The boy is pouting, youthful face fallen as his hopes begin to fade the longer Charon stands there, violet smog beginning to build around his head. He places himself on the stone floor, regarding Zagreus for a length of time before plucking the coin from the small palm. He pretends to examine it, weigh it, even bite it, before nodding gravely and moving out of the way so the giddy child can clamber into his ferry. 

Zagreus sits in the boat much like his mother did, leaning on its side and watching the red water rush past, pointing at any fish that happen to swim by so Charon can see them too. He keeps his fingers close to the river and Charon can only imagine what sort of innocent ruminations may be going through his head. 

“How far will you take me up?” It's innocent, leading. Charon groans in response, and Zagreus smirks, turning his head just so he can glance at the boatman. “Oh, so you will take me all the way then?” 

When Charon’s answer is more decisively negative, the young boy frowns, and he continues to stare at the water. 

“I know. I was just joking.” He mutters, downtrodden in a way that speaks to the amount of times he has been denied in his simple requests. “Father says no one leaves this place, not really. Even you and Than have to come back.” Frustration lines his words, and, were he not aware of the consequences, Charon would love nothing more than to fulfill his request.

Does Zagreus, in his childish knowledge and limited experience, know he’s being lied to? Can he sense it in some way when Hades does not meet his mismatched eyes or in the despondent manner Nyx gazes upon him at times? Charon cannot know, has no way to ask, but could he intonate his intentions, if he could inform the child in so many words, he’s certain he would. 

Hades is ever lucky Charon has no tongue.

“What’s it like, up there?” It’s not often Charon is flabbergasted by a question, but this one surprises him. Not for its contents, but for the empty way he asks. He knows no answer is forthcoming, knows he will never truly find out, yet still what else is a child as chained to the realm of the dead, just as his father, supposed to do save for ask the one entity he can?

Charon sighs, plume of purple streaming from his own personal frustration at being unable to answer. Zagreus may be Hades’ brood, but he is also Persephone’s. Half of the Underworld, half of the surface. It calls to him, clearly, as he constantly searches for routes to get closer to the top, often caught by Nyx herself attempting to leave the House. There’s nothing Charon would love more than to take him to the Temple, at the very least, but even that is over-stepping bounds he dare not cross. 

As much as Charon does not fear the God of the Dead, he does fear what restrictions Hades would lay upon the child.

He does not take Zagreus far, just a short jaunt barely halfway into Tartarus proper, enough for the boy to understand there is so much more to his world than he is allowed to see. When they come back to the House, thankfully no one more than a sleeping Hypnos greets them and Zagreus scurries off his ferry. 

“Wait,” Charon pauses dutifully, oar lax in his hands. Zagreus fidgets with the hem of his clothing, glancing behind himself to ensure their privacy. “If I ran away one day, would you help me?” 

Charon stares at him for a long, long time. Long enough that Achilles appears again, asking after Zagreus and hoping he wasn’t too much trouble. He takes the boy by the wrist, intent on leading him back to his room, perhaps for some training or just to keep him from his father’s wrath should Hades be approaching.

The question rattles him, makes the vapor in him twist and clench in unknown ways. Why should he promise anything to the child, let alone just a farfetched fantasy? Hades’ child is not his business, even if Mother Night is masquerading as his mother. He’s aided one god in their escape, which ended in nothing more than secrecy, a stifled child, and a growing divide between him and the Underworld’s master. 

Eons ago, when the world was young, Charon would never have entertained the notion. This family, this house, this problem is not his. Charon is a simple being of simple purpose. He takes his payments, he rows his boat, he takes the dead down down down. Anything else is anomalous and yet-

The Stygian ferryman stands at the House of Hades, observes small burning feet be shepherded away, tracing the chip in the coin returned to him by an Olympian god he should have never spoken to for more than the souls he brings. After the ferryman leaves here, he will traverse his river to Elysium to sell wares smuggled in from the mortal realm he has no business in. Once concluded there, the ferryman will return to his alcove to spend an untold amount of time staring at gifts and trinkets and an old well-used couch that he himself has no purpose for other than to invite a god who shouldn’t be there.

Maybe, perhaps, when one takes in all that has happened since the youth of mankind, the Charon standing in the House of Hades now is not much like the Charon standing on the shores of the Styx then.

Zagreus takes one last look at Charon before he and Achilles disappear around the corner, eyes widening as he sees the boatman answering his question, placing a finger to his non-existent lips.

32.

Zagreus grows, chained and isolated as he may be, into a fine young god. Most in the House respect or even care for him dearly. His heart is open and sympathetic, and he even brings some amount of joy to the generally dour Thanatos and the angry Megaera. The world above is cold and frozen and has been for a while and the boy is just itching to see it.

“Zagreus is going to attempt to escape for Olympus.” Nyx informs him, and Charon is, if anything relieved by it. “The hero Achilles has already begun training him to battle his way out, though I foresee this will not be enough. As such, I have a request of you.” 

From her voluminous robes, Nyx pulls a sealed scroll, perfectly rolled and tied with a deep dark ribbon. She holds it to Charon in her pale fingers, neither expectant yet perfectly assured he will take it as she makes no move get up from her seat upon his ferry. 

“The next time you find yourself in the company of your talkative friend, ask that he deliver this message to his sister, Athena.” Charon nearly drops the message at the mention of Hermes, already beginning to warble an excuse, a denial, but Nyx holds her now empty hand up in a sign of peace. “Worry not, dear child. Hermes has proven himself more than capable as a keeper of secrets and an ally to you. As I’ve said before, he is more than welcome within the halls of my domain.”

Perhaps it was Charon’s own comfort and foolishness that led him to believe he could keep his association with the god of swiftness a secret from Mother Night. Perhaps she knew it would happen before even he. What other things have her daughters whispered to her the last they met?

“I have known of his aid for as long as he has shepherded the souls to our shores, and I have been aware of your companionship from the moment you allowed him into your favored place of rest.” Nyx stands, regarding Charon with a serene expression and places a hand over the fist clutching the message for Athena. There’s something knowing in her gaze, something proud, something that rattles Charon to his core. “Despite my missteps in your creation, I am so very pleased you found someone who could make you happy.”

That gives Charon pause. He's never thought of it, outside of singular moments they've had together, never thought much of his over all contentment but it is undeniable; Hermes makes him happy.

Nyx sits back down and begin detailing what she has predicted may happen upon Zagreus beginning his escapes, but Charon hears none of it, thoughts ablaze at her words.

33.

“Bit odd you requesting my presence given it's usually the other way around,” Hermes grants him a cheeky smile that alleviates the immediate anxiety Charon had been experiencing regarding the whole affair. “But I suppose there’s a time and place for everything.”

He lands on his feet, snow crunching up his sandals, just before Charon aand next to the ferry on the upper shores of the Styx, just as he has a thousand times before. This time, however, there are no souls milled behind him. There is no contraband to deliver. There are no breaks to be taken. Only the simple request of a Stygian ferryman to be filled.

Charon spent a long while contemplating how and where to give Nyx’s message, not just due to its sensitivity, but also for what Charon will be asking of the god. Zagreus will need more than just the Olympians and Charon can only do so much without someone topside delivering more supplies and messages.

“What is it that you’ll be needing of me tonight, my fine fair associate?” Ah, the anxiety is back, trickling coldly throughout Charon as he sighs out a thin stream of purple. Hermes, sweet Hermes, is patient as he works up the nerve for what he is about to ask. 

Charon is a simple being. He rows his boat for those who ask and those who pay him for it. Even if the Fates themselves had told him that on this evening, he would be stepping aside, tearing his gaze from the curious expression in Hermes’ face to gesture at the messenger to board the ferry, he would never have believed them.

And yet here he is, doing just that. 

“Huh,” Hermes looks between the ferry and Charon, blinking. Charon thinks he may fling himself into the river to avoid the uncertainty festering within him. “You know, I’ve always wondered if I’d ever get the opportunity to ride in that thing, but figured it would never happen, being immortal and all…”

Charon waits, nodding his head and groaning, begging Hermes to end this nervous torment. Hermes must take some meaning from it, holding up his palms and chuckling. 

“Alright, alright, don’t get your coins all twisted.” And with that, he steps onto the ferry.

Unexpectedly, not that Charon had thought about this moment in any capacity, Hermes actually sits, at least at first. As the evening outside, Styx is calm, flowing without urgency, unbothered by the ferry and its dedicated oar. The vessel sails smoothly, and Charon is dedicated to its untroubled journey. An effort he makes only for a few. 

He turns them into an offshoot of the Styx. It leads to nothing of import, far enough from any shades, or monstrosities, or gods who may have ears to listen. When he finds them a comfortable distance away and alone, Charon stops his strokes, letting the ferry glide as he moves closer to the vaguely amused Hermes.

Charon hands him two scrolls; one addressed for Athena and the other for the messenger himself. With several words, Hermes takes in Charon's request, outloud as he reads anything Charon gives him. It’s contents are simple, detailing Zagreus’ vague plan to join to Olympians and what Charon would be needing of Hermes, but it’s implications are vast. 

The only real light comes from the lantern at the front of the ferry and a luminescent moss that grows abundant on the cavern. Still, as Hermes thinks over the scroll in his hands, Charon is stuck by how the shadows play over the particular features of the god's face. Distracted as he is, he nearly misses Hermes beginning to speak again.

“You’re asking quite a bit here. More than usual; even giving this one to my sister is going to be quite the stretch for me…” Hermes smiles, packing it all away in his bag. “I’ll have to start gathering everything immediately, even it won’t be for a few more years before Achilles has my cousin ready to start throwing himself headfirst into the fray though I may wait to give this to Athena until then, so you will have to let me know-”

Charon makes a noise of surprise, of worry. 

“What? Oh, of course I’m willing to help, friend Charon, not like me to turn down a challenge and besides, nothing could be more entertaining than pulling one over on dear uncle Hades himself…” 

Charon groans, low and long, hoping Hermes is certain. This isn't like other requests; should they get caught, or the hidden details discovered, there could be war-

Hermes tilts his head, blinking and curious in a frustrated manner.

“Charon," He starts, brow furrowed and looking down at Charon's feet. "You...you must know by now, I would do anything you asked of me. You had to have at least figured it out, though, perhaps not, given it’s not your area of expertise, but it’s not as though I’m exactly subtle with how much I lo-” The color drains from Hermes face, though Charon barely notices given that which has been spoken echos between his ears.

Oh. Oh. If Charon had a heart, it would be in his throat as he cannot exhale due the very sudden constriction there.

“O-oh, um,” Hermes is in the air, winged heels fluttering out of sync and he stumbles over his next words though it sounds as if he is miles away instead of right in front of Charon. “Nevermind all that.” He says with a forced laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should be going, lots to do now, especially with all...this,” He begins floating away, refusing to look at Charon, face aglow and miserable and Charon cannot stand that.

Maybe it's the oppressive nature of the Underworld. Maybe it’s the self-conscious upset he’s experiencing. Maybe the stars are aligned and the sun is in Hermes’ eyes, but when Charon reaches out to the swiftly escaping Hermes, his grasp holds true. He grabs Hermes by the ankle, just above the winged sandals.

“Wait-!” Hermes struggles against him, straining to get away, wings beating desperately against Charon cool skin. The god may be swift, but Charon is strong, strong enough that he only needs the one hand to pull Hermes to him. “Charon, please, if you let me leave, I swear, we can never speak of this again, I never meant to trouble you with this-”

Troubling him? How could he believe such things? How could Charon have failed him so terrifically, so much so Hermes would believe himself to be inconveniencing Charon with-

Is that what this feeling has been, Charon has to wonder as he maneuvers the mistakenly downtrodden Hermes. Is that the name for this warmth that fills him when Hermes grants him a smile, for the ease that becomes him when Hermes is near him, for the joy that overcomes him when Hermes lays a touch upon him? Is that why his shoreline and his alcove seem so bright when the god fills it with his presence, his joy, his laughter?

Charon expected sadness, expected longing, expected the bitterness both Nyx and Hermes had expressed. How could he have connected that with this adoration, this affection, this happiness he’s felt, he’s known years, decades, centuries?

It is all too natural, then, to pull Hermes to him, to take his face in his hands, to wipe away the frustrated tears he finds there. Charon leans down, gently bringing their foreheads together in an act that too right and Hermes ceaseless excuses and pleas fade.

Please , Charon begs, letting his thumbs stroke Hermes’ cheeks reverently, thin trails of smoke exhaling from his mouth to be lost down the river, please understand my intentions.

For a moment, the Styx is still again as Hermes hesitates, unsure, before burning hands cover Charon’s own. He grasps the Stygian ferryman’s fingers in his own, a joyous sound wracking him as a smile breaks out over his lips. Arms wrap around Charon’s neck and Hermes pulls his face from Charon's reverent touch.

Though Charon is reluctant to let any space come between them, the lips pressed to his face over and over he finds are a more than appropriate trade.

35.

It seems as though Zagreus is not doing so well on this attempt. No obols to trade in Asphodel, bloodied as he approaches the hydra; Charon is certain it is another failed escape. It is why he is confident to be standing here, Hermes floating at his side, napping and snoring softly into Charon’s shoulder. 

Charon’s arm is around him, allowed there now. He counts his obols from recent sales with one hand, the other mindlessly stroking Hermes’ arm, finding peace in the smooth skin and the pleasant smell of the messenger being so close. There is little he has found he enjoys more than these stolen moments, save, perhaps, for when Hermes awakens, grinning and teasing as he kisses Charon’s cheek

The tell tale patter of burning feet that alerts him, makes him tense. Zagreus has beat the odds, made it to the Temple. He’s spotted them, determination at temporary patricide draining to a dull surprise, not only at the physical manifestation of the Olympian messenger, but at that very same god sleeping soundly against the Stygian ferryman of the dead.

Charon eyes him, unsure, glancing hurriedly at where his oar is resting within arms reach. He puts a finger to his mouth, a low long ‘ha’ echoing, wafting around the Temple; a plea to the young god for mercy in this. Zagreus blinks, wondering, and Charon is certain he will interrupt them, awaken Hermes into fleeing, cutting their time short. The two are frozen, Charon and Zagreus, eyes locked, each waiting for the other to move, and Hermes sighs in his slumber.

A smirk comes over Zagreus’s mouth before he raises his arm, pressing a finger to his lips before dashing off into the sewers beyond.