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you with the dark curls—you with the watercolour eyes by nambi
Fandoms: EPIC - Jorge Rivera-Herrans (Albums), The Odyssey - Homer, Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
05 Apr 2025
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Summary
The tip of the mountain was just broad enough for a dozen men to stand abreast, and it balanced precariously on a much thinner base, like plates spinning on a mummer’s stick. Tiresias sat by the ledge, his legs dangling over the abyss. When Hermes sat beside him, he met his gaze easily, unseeing but finding him regardless, recognising him through the star-filled sockets of his eyes, a space reserved just for Hermes in the unending void of him. Hermes liked to consider himself one of these stars, somewhere Tiresias could always see him. He did always seem to expect him when he came.
“Hermes,” he said, with all the recognition of birds returning home after winter. Hermes loved hearing his name like that, said in that lovely, droning voice, even and steady as the man Tiresias had been in life. He loved arriving somewhere and being welcomed just for the sake of his presence, needing to do nothing other than being there.
“Hello, darling."
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Or: The weight of mortality, and a place to put it down. An average day in Hermes’ life as psychopomp—and the leisure that follows when his work is done.