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It’s a fickle thing, gods, and Time. Hermes, despite his many functions, finds far too much time to think in-between deliveries. He enjoys the sun, and the sky, and the wind that is him and what carries him. He enjoys the tread of earth on his shoes, the working order of things and the mischief that swings it in wild oscillations until the pace settles, and the world returns to its regular clockwork.
Work. Right. Yes, that’s what he was doing.
“Kharon! He~llo darling! Is that a new shawl?” He helps this mortal’s soul onto the boat, plucking two coins from out of their palm and into Kharon’s Time weathered bones.
The boatsman groans, tired but content.
“Ah, the same old same old ey?” Hermes smiles, tipping a shy toe onto the boat as he boarded, “Can’t go wrong with that darling. When I think Kharon, I think-“ he pauses. Thinking of an adjective- any adjective- “shawl.”
Kharon seems to find this an acceptable comment. The boatsman doesn’t bother to question Hermes’ motives for tagging along. Maybe the young god was bored. Hermes had a tendency to boredom. It lead to most of his great myths and great incidents.
Hermes leaps off the boat, just a few pebbles shy of the River Styx. He had a sense for souls, as a guide, a pathminder. Tiresias was striking, oracles always were. So many voices whispering in the wind around them. Their souls were sharp blades of glass, fractured and fragmented. Unlike the incorporeal smoke of shades in Hades’ domain. Hermes finds the man easily, like a shiny rock glinting in the sun. And he is- dancing. Cloak billowing with every movement, a small smile on his lips.
Hermes was almost giddy with excitement. Tiresias didn’t smile. He rarely had the luck of being thrown a happy memory from all the unhappy ones.
And he was dancing. Hands braced on his hips in a small trot as he spun. One, two, one, two cross and spin. He was dancing Balos, what was traditionally the woman’s choreography.
Hermes chuckles at the realization. The sweet dove’s been courted. He could imagine it. A gaggle of young men lined up to dance with Tiresias, awkward, lanky boys pushing each other into the dance, daring to catch the attentions of a priestess of Hera.
Hermes plopped down to watch, Tiresias turns his head to look at him.
Be it sound or prophetic ability, Hermes’ location is found. Tiresias decides it’s the perfect time to lend an arm out, pulling Hermes onto his feet in a grand flourish as the traveler god scrambled to find rhythm in long forgotten steps.
When was the last time his feet touched the ground like this? Hermes wondered. As he splayed his arms out wide, one two one two cross and kick.
Tiresias tilts his head at the sound. An amused smirk on his face. Hermes wonders if Tiresias can see him now, or if he thinks the god dances like a flapping chicken.
They dance around each other, completing the circles as Hermes upped the ante. Speeding the tempo faster with every kick and Tiresias watches too far and too close and far too amused for his usual demeanor. Hermes feels his stomach swoop as Tiresias gently guides his hand into his, spinning him into an embrace as the roles reverse and they circle together. Hermes’ back to the dead prophet as he’s lead on a merry dance around the fields of Asphodel.
He’s being spun, strong arms guiding him into the swing, their hands pulled taut before they swing together again.
The wings of Hermes’ helm flutter, echoing the skip in his heart. Tiresias looks light, almost ethereal. Like the glow of the moon on an eerie lake. His hands are cold in Hermes’ palms, cold as death. But there is a grounding, plummeting feeling to the touch. Like the cool mist of night when one travels alone but is not alone. Never alone when the moon is bright as the stars and the cold wind follows.
There is a freedom there. A lack of judgement. Cold, complete honesty reflected back in the dark of the night. Tiresias is calm. Tiresias is the winding path his feet follow by memory, the comfort of a night spent in pleasant company.
And oh how wonderful he is, pleasant company. Hermes sighs. Lovestruck and lovestricken.
Tiresias laughs. It’s more of a small chuckle, really.
“Hah. Adowrable darling~” The words leave Hermes' lips. Made real on this earth as they fall like the first slips of rain.
It all hits him in a bolt of fright. What he’s done. What he’s said. The world slows into the sway of Tiresias’ hair, the calm, almost smile on his face.
Hermes was the god of thieves. He’s stolen great things, terrible things. And yet he never found the trick to stealing time.
How does one steal a moment, my dear? He wonders. With an imperceptive click time snaps back into place.
Hermes trips over a kick and falls headfirst into the realization that he’s irrevocably in love.