Chapter Text
“—for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.”
William placed a hand on the shoulder of his son, intent to comfort clear, but unacknowledged. Hermes was too preoccupied with his staring down the grass, as if it were particularly fascinating, to reciprocate the action - or appreciate the gesture. He felt an emotion unknown rise to the surface, something that mixed the coldness of indignation with bored amusement.
No one here knew his mother, by name, perhaps, but they didn’t know her. They didn’t know Vivian Granger. They knew not of the way she’d comfort him while he caught influenza, or how she’d slice the crust on his toast off for him every morning, despite his insistence on doing it himself now that he was 11. They knew of her dental practice, her polite small talk, and, possibly, her favourite wine. Who were they to sit up here and mourn for her?
To recite scripture, which she only loosely followed? To claim the loss he feels is a reminder of her love? Appropriate? That they’ll be reunited in the atmosphere in years to come?
What a joke.
Hermes is far from an idiot, much less a sentimental one, ever so precocious.
He knew his mother was nothing more than a cold, rigid body under the dirt at this point. A memory. As he, and everyone else at the ceremony, were destined to become one day alongside her. They were never going to meet up in a place of light, or love, or whatever those zealots spouted, after death.
Still, he wonders why they can’t do her more duty in these few hours. Is it always like this after the death of another? Painting them to be larger than life, a mere character, that lacks complete depth? His mother was never anything great, whether that be a community leader, a devout follower of Christ, a supportive neighbour, or even an exceptional mother. He knew that more than anyone else, so why does he feel guilty about admitting it, even to himself?
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“Do you want to get a Chinese?”
That sounded like the last thing Hermes wanted in that moment. Nothing like room temperature, hard, inauthentic, greasy takeaway to bury the grief trying to claw its way out of his chest.
“Not hungry.” He mumbled, biting his cheek slightly.
“What was that?”
“I’m not hungry.” Hermes said, more forcefully and enunciated than necessary. He ignored the brief look of hurt that crossed his fathers face, turning on his heel and walking up the stairs to his bedroom. “I’ll eat later.” He amended, softer.
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“Hermes, you need to leave your room,” his father sighed, appearing about 15 years older than he was in actuality, “it isn’t good for you to be cooped up like this. I understand you’re having a hard time processing—”
“I’m fine! I swear!” He shouted. “Why do you assume I’m in shambles or something, it’s like—”
He was promptly cut off by a loud knock on the door, all too eager to avoid the conflict he’d created, he ran downstairs. “I’ll get it.”
He swiftly opened the door, half-expecting to see a shady door to door salesperson, but instead being met with a woman who looked straight out of one of the period dramas his mother enjoys—enjoyed. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun so tight it looked like a bullet could easily ricochet off it, not that he found that wise to voice, as she looked particularly stern.
“Mr. Granger?”