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There’s not a day in Olympus that doesn’t end with Hermes dashing down one passageway or the other with a thousand delivery deadlines nipping at his heels. The little buggers have more tenacity than the great hound of hell itself, which is easily tamed with a mere sack of vermin. Hermes himself can only be bribed with a good sob story, or at least one interesting enough to offset Aphrodite’s fury when he shuttles her letters in too late to save her from an ill-fated date with the wrong paramour.
By the time he reaches the Styx, the ever-present line of dead souls has dwindled to a rather quaint crowd of geriatric faces who look between him and Charon and promptly burst into giggles. The Stygian Boatman ushers them patiently on, expression hidden under the broad brim of a well-worn hat.
Hermes has always been quite fond of that hat. The sun might not penetrate the dark depths of Tartarus, but the lava certainly does, and Hermes gets hot enough from all the flying around without an extra helping of liquid rock searing through his flesh. Sometimes, during a rare, well-earned break, he’ll drop a coin on top of Charon’s weathered hat and settles himself under its shade, letting his eyes slip shut against the steady trickle of the river against the boat.
Charon never pushes him away – doesn’t have the hands to, most likely; the great oar the boatman wields requires two muscular arms to control it. Hermes, more accustomed to using his own two hands to perform a hundred things at once, finds this rather fascinating. Something about the tight coiling of Charon’s muscles as they contract makes Hermes feel as if he’s taken one too many gulps of good nectar. It takes Charon’s entire body at work to manoeuvre the boat full of souls downstream, but once these wandering spirits disembark, the journey back is so quiet it’s almost unsettling.
Perhaps Hermes is more tired than usual, or perhaps the Underworld itself has reshaped its chambers yet again. The meandering river seems to stretch on further than he remembers. Belatedly, he realises that his fellow Psychopomp is ferrying them to the shop instead of the waiting crowds of the departed. Hermes senses rather than sees shadow falling upon his body, layered amidst the silky fabric rusting around him as Charon rows them steadily onward.
The boat taps against stone with a force that jolts Hermes out of his reverie. Charon sweeps a fistful of black-and-gold cloth out of Hermes’ face and runs a skeletal finger gently down his cheek.
Hermes nearly jumps right out of his toga. “Hades’ glossy beard!” he yelps. “I was just on my way to see Morpheus, but you sure dragged me back in a hurry!”
Charon’s skull quivers in an approximation of a laugh. Hermes shivers at the hiss of purple smoke passing through eroded teeth and wonders vaguely how it would feel to have that dissipate over his skin. The cold that envelops Charon is a boon for Hermes, who always feels like he’s running a fever after a busy day. He reaches out to bring Charon’s hand back to his face and sighs in bliss.
“Hhnhnfgh.”
“Quite right you are,” Hermes agrees. “The conditions they have us work under are simply unconscionable. If the realm of the gods had labour laws they'd be breaking every single one of them.”
Charon huffs out a few more wisps of smoke. Hermes takes great pleasure in the observation that his professional associate has yet to make any real attempt at leaving the boat – he’s sorry to Zagreus, but he hopes his cousin dies a few times before making it to the shop today. Turning his head, he burrows into the draped robes, brushing his nose against the inner rim of Charon’s pelvis. The boatman’s hand stiffens against Hermes’ cheek.
“Sorry about that,” says Hermes, decidedly unapologetic. “Say, old friend, what are you putting up for sale today?”
Charon’s pale hand disappears under the shadowy robes. When it emerges again, it’s holding a small, bone-ridged hourglass, one that Hermes is certain doesn’t have a price tag attached to it – at least not in Obols. Hermes stares at the amber liquid swirling inside and suddenly feels rather overwhelmed.
“That’s Ambrosia,” he says, voice choked. “In an hourglass. In your hourglass.”
Charon pushes it into his hands, insistent. “Urrrnghhh.”
By Olympus, Hermes thinks. Charon likes him back? Charon like likes him back? His heart beats heavily against his ribcage; the wings on his head start to flutter uncontrollably. He’s like an arrow on the verge of being released from a bow, strained with tension, ready at any moment to arc into the air.
The boatman’s bony fingers stroke the length of Hermes’ wings, all the way from base to tip; Hermes near shudders at the intimacy of it. Against his will, his mouth makes a low, incoherent groan, not unlike Charon's usual manner of speech.
Charon’s teeth chatter. The great wooden oar plunges back into the water, propelling the boat back down the boundless river. As they disappear into the darkness, Hermes spots a small, bloodied figure charge into the chamber they’ve just vacated. Oh well, he thinks, curling his hand around a sturdy femur. His cousin will just have to wait – Hermes has more pressing matters to attend to.