Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Explain to us also what sorrow makes you weep as you listen to the tragic story of the Argives and the fall of Troy. The gods were responsible for that, weaving catastrophe into men's lives to make a song for future generations." 

Hermes is aware of the pain. 

Funny enough, it’s something of a novel concept. As gods, they don’t really have an abundance of physical hurt, mostly because physicality is kind of a human construct that they don’t necessarily have to abide by. Especially with him, when he was constantly kind of in the in between, passing messages, guiding souls, that sort of thing. Between Olympus and the mortals and the Underworld, never settling. Never wanting to. The freedom to come and go where he pleased was part of the job! He likes that. A quick escape always brought a sort of peace, if that was the word, and sticking in one place too long has always made him uncomfortable. He is free in morals and permanency. He takes that boon very seriously, even though most of the time he goes out of his way to make it seem like he doesn’t.

But… pain. He knows of pain. He’s seen it, of course. Being a conductor of souls, there’s never any shortage. He’s the one who’s witness to those conversations between old friend Death, the begging, the pleading, the tears. The brokenness of those who were not ready to let go. Hermes recognizes all of that, but he doesn’t really understand it. The closest he’s ever gotten was maybe… maybe was Crocus, but he swears that’s different than this. That had hurt in his chest, not his bones.

Nothing has hurt like this.

And rightfully, he has no idea what’s happening. He’d been– in trouble, again, always, but Father had taken interest this time and– well, he hadn’t stopped to think twice about the meeting. For one, you didn’t ignore the summons. They had all seen what had happened to Athena when she had come on her own accord. But for two… Hermes is always in trouble. Usually it’s a mark of a job well done. He has always basked in the praise for his misdeeds, and now he is suffering for them instead.

His body is alight with fire, and electricity burns beneath his palms.

He thinks he screams, but no sound comes out.

From on high, he can make out the form of his father watching, expression unreadable. Almost bored, like this is the everyday. For him though, Hermes supposes it is. Hera stands next to him, head cocked, equally as uninterested. They haven’t been on good terms ever since he had taken a liking to Tiresias– she seemed to hold a grudge as tenuous as her husband, and their prophet smacking those snakes had evidently gone over so poorly–

Other faces he can’t make out. The blinding light blurs them all into giant points of heat and space, watching this pain be meted out without a chance of protest or concern. Hermes falls to his knees, if he has such a thing anymore, and tries to beg with a throat that makes no noise.

Eventually, the pain? subsides enough that he can exist again. He is more than light and static himself. He still feels like he’s floating, but it’s wrong, and not anything to do with the wings on his heels. Even more eventually, he can make out the words of Zeus shaking the heavens around him.

“For you to take the fate of that Greek into your own hands–” The Greek… “ – what gives you the right, trickster?” Wait… “– believing you are of my caliber to make such decisions of divine intervention?” Oh.

Odysseus.

Of course. He remembers now. The summons. Zeus’ anger. Talk of his actions on Aeaea. And then pain. Punishment. Divine retribution. It shakes him to his core, but… this was his great-grandson they were talking about. What else was he supposed to do? He would do it all again. He would… he would do it all again, to see that man home to his wife and child.

He now knows, by this time, of the showdown outside of Ithaca, and Poseidon’s defeat alongside it. All of Olympus knows. It had been a scandal, at the time. And don’t get him wrong, he’d thought it was fantastically funny, but it had been overtaken with the knowledge that Odysseus had made it home. His great-grandson, outsmarting a god. Defying the limits of what mortals could withstand. Hermes had nearly laughed himself sick, but oh, he had been quietly and fiercely proud of what his blood had done.

But he guesses all things come due, even for gods. Even for him.

The pain subsides. Hermes is very, acutely aware of the breath he draws in.

“If you’re so taken with the mortals, son, you can live as one yourself.” What…? “Perhaps you will learn distance as you witness their indifference towards us with your own eyes.” Wait… “You will know the suffering of no god coming to your aid.” Wait.

“What?” he rasps, levering himself up from the floor. His arms shake. His feet are bare. His helmet is gone, too, burned away by the heat of the charge, and his hair sticks limply to his temples. “What are you talking about…?” he manages, as he pushes himself to his unsteady and aching feet.

“Go below, child. You will return when I see fit.”

He’s– tired? Is that the word? He’s heard it thrown around so much with the mortals. He’s said it himself on busy days passing missives to and fro. But it feels different. It feels deeper. His chest aches. He takes another breath, and squints up at Zeus. “What is my mission?” he murmurs, a million years of instinct ingrained because this is his duty, this is his life.

“Repent,” Zeus says. 

His voice is like thunder, and it explodes Hermes’ mind into a million more pieces. When he falls to his knees again, he keeps going, and doesn’t stop until he hits the earth below.

Chapter Text

When he wakes up, something is strange. Even more than usual, for him, which is saying something, but– ah. His body hurts. His body… hurts. His body? Hurts? He turns the words over in his mind, trying to figure out why he thinks that. Knows that. He never hurts like this, but he does now. Huh.

His head hurts, too. Fancy that.

Well, he can figure that out later. First off, he needs to– what was he supposed to be doing? And why is he so scatterbrained now, mind flitting from one topic to the next without grasping any of it? Focus was occasionally hard won, but he was usually able to lock in when he needed to. Maybe he’s just… something. Yes. Something.

Anyways.

His mission here was–

Burning light licking down his palms. Static rising the hair on his head and arms and the back of his neck. The smell of cooking flesh. Pain wracking his body, prostrate on the floor in front of his father. Repent.

Hermes’ eyes shoot open, his mouth making a noise he hadn’t previously known it was capable of. His hands clench around the phantom memory of pain and he jerks upright, wobbling and woozy and squinting from the light still burned behind his eyes. No… wait. It’s just bright here. He takes stock of his surroundings and– right, right, it’s the mortal’s world. He recognizes it by the organic nature of it on its own, something Olympus could never replicate even if they’d tried. (They hadn’t tried.) And that’s fine, that’s familiar, and would be okay, but the rest of the pain-hazed conversation comes back with this burst of memory. Zeus’ anger. Divine retribution. Dismissal to the mortal realm. If you’re so taken with the mortals, you can live as one yourself.

Hermes stares at the dirt and grass. He stares at his empty hands steadying himself slumped there. He stares at his bare feet. He stares, and thinks, oh, surely not.

With intention in mind, he reaches for his magic. It is never far. He is gifted with his tricks. He holds out a hand to summon the caduceus, but there is nothing there to find. The power is not laying waiting for him to weave to his whims. He focuses, and tries again. His mind is still so scattered. It is even moreso when there is no spark at his fingers. “Surely not,” he murmurs, and raises his hand to his head. No helmet, just his hair hanging in loose curls around his cheeks. He grasps for flight, for speed, and– nothing. Nothing. “Oh, come on,” he says out loud, and tilts his head towards the sky. “You cannot be serious about this right now. Because of my great-grandson??”

There is no response forthcoming. Live as a mortal. He supposes there wouldn’t be, would there?

“This seems like overkill for such a silly thing…” he mutters, but his mind is whipping into a frenzy again. Faster and slower than ever before, and it feels so patently unique that he knows, without a doubt, living as a mortal had been a true threat. The racing thoughts. The body pain. The fear. They’re so– so human that it– yes, it scares him. Was this what the mortals went through every day of their lives? If so, he has drastically underestimated the kinds of things going through their silly little heads at any given time–

– but he doesn’t linger on it, because his own situation takes his full attention. The fear turns into something he does recognize– self-preservation– and he’s on his wobbling feet in the next moment. He’s alone. He has no power. He has no idea how to get home. He is stranded in this world he has never bothered to learn more than superficially, and that… his throat tightens. Something tastes bitter on his tongue. What on earth is he supposed to do with this?

“Right.” He says it out loud to break the monotony of the quiet. His voice is still his own. There is a large part of himself missing right now, but his voice is still his own. “Simple. Live like humans do. How hard can it be?” He is on his feet, overly aware of how heavy his body feels like this. He feels– clunky and uncoordinated, which is strange, because he’s always known how to fly. He doesn’t like the heaviness of it but, yes, how hard could it be? “Food, water, shelter.” He ticks off the ideals he knows for humans on his fingers. Eating for sustenance instead of merely pleasure. Wine will have an… altogether different response in this body than it would back at home. He’ll have to be careful with those things. But– “How hard can it be?” he repeats, brushes his hands down his tunic, and starts walking.

Turns out, it’s more difficult than he imagines! He has to laugh at himself when sand and stone burn the bottoms of his bare feet only after a couple of– hours? walking. And don’t get him started on walking. He hates walking. He’s done it before, of course, because he is a regular visitor to this realm and most of the time you didn’t necessarily want to appear as a god to the mortals, so he’s done it. But it’s so self-limiting. And it hurts. First the soles of his feet as he wishes for his sandals and then the steadily building ache in his calves the further he walks. The ache in his body from Zeus takes on a different feeling, deep but steady, and when he stands up again after having a moment to rest, he nearly staggers from the discomfort of it all. This would about be the time where he’d take flight and refuse to settle for anything less than trickery, gluttony, or a simple little nap.

A simple little nap sounds heavenly, honestly, but he keeps going. He can tell a storm’s coming on. He feels it in his bones more than he can really see it in the sky, so maybe something innately preternatural is still with him. He keeps walking until he hears the thunder in the distance, and something in him– panics, for a lack of a better word. He feels the rumble echo in his chest. He feels the far off lightning jolt in his veins. It isn’t near, but it’s encroaching, and Hermes picks up the pace with a new kind of skittishness in his veins. He just needs to– well, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but his eyes scan the horizon anxiously all the same.

Run, flee.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he mutters, twisting his bangles around his wrists. “It’s just a little storm. What’s the worst he could do?” That he hadn’t already done.

Deep down, he knows it’s one last way for Father to get the final word in. Live as a human, suffer as they do. And Hermes knows that, but he’s– frustrated– and tired, and his body aches to curl up in some soft grass and catnap until all of this is over, but he knows that isn’t viable. It isn’t something he gets to do right now. And he just doesn’t really want to be out in the storm.

Shelter, something reiterates, just as the heavens open up over top of him. He runs.

He feels drenched in seconds, even as he yanks his cape over his head to try for some semblance of protection. It’s– miserable, and his feet slip in the grass and mud as the wind changes and sprays drops of mist into his face. It’s cold, he realizes, too, something so unknown to him even more than heat, but it’s definitely cold because there’s nothing else it could be. Pimples spring up beneath the fair hair on his arms and his body is starting to shake when he catches sight of an overhang of rock a few stones throws away. He books it, feeling slower than ever before.

His chest is heaving when he staggers into the protection provided by the earth. He can’t breathe. His lungs burn and his legs collapse the moment he’s out of the rain. He scoots back as far as he can as thunder rattles in the distance, and shivers from the cold and wet. His fingers shake as he unclasps his cape and deposits it in a wet heap on the stone ground. It’s miserable.

“Well, this just isn’t fun at all,” Hermes mutters with an uncomfortably damp petulance, and rests his chin on his knees to wait out the storm.

It lingers longer than he expects; so used to Zeus’ small tantrums that they’ve all seen and heard of countless times, he expects the storm will rage itself out in no time and he can continue on to wherever he’s going. But he underestimates human exhaustion, and the tolerance of a body that has been through– honestly? More than it's ever been, and all within the past day. And he isn’t aware of the shutdown happening until after it does; Hermes falls asleep then and there, under his sad little shelter, cold and uncomfortable and drenched to the bone.

When he wakes, the storm has passed, but he is more uncomfortable than ever. It is not like resting at home. Sleep wasn’t necessary, but a luxury. Always a luxury. Always comfortable. But he pries his eyes open, still sat, slumped back against the warming stone, and his body hurts worse than ever. Mostly, his clothing has dried, but as he unfolds himself to stretch, he hisses in pain both from overworked limbs and the pang that stabs red-hot into his belly. He recognizes it as hunger, although not like he’s ever felt. It nearly doubles him over where he stands. Food, his mind reminds him again.

“Yes, well.” He swallows as he stands, and braces his arm against his stomach. “That may be more difficult than you’d think.” There’s nothing for staying where he is now. There’s nothing here. His stomach grumbles at him, but he grumbles right back. “We’ll deal with that when we can. You’ll have to be patient.”

He’s never been good at being patient. He despises that he’s being forced into it like this.

“There had better be wine whenever we get where we’re going.”

Empty and aching, his stomach growls in agreement.

He walks on.

It doesn’t take the day to find the road and then, blissfully, a town. It’s only a mid-sized place, but it is bustling enough to meld into the crowd; the only looks he gets are because of his muddied appearance and bare feet, and those things are easily rectified. He might be mortal now, but he finds that his quick fingers are not tied totally into his otherworldliness: before the day is out, he manages to steal shoes, a cloak, and a loaf of bread that tastes like nothing he’s ever eaten before, nutty and sweet and soft despite the time of day. He pickpockets people as he explores, a coin here and there, the hood of the cloak pulled loosely around his ears. By the end of the evening, he’s accumulated enough to secure himself a bed for the night. “Maybe this won’t be so bad,” he muses to himself, then falls into bed and sleeps late into the next morning.

He spends two more days like that, reacquainting himself with the pleasures and frivolities of being around humans. He makes his way through, finding the best source of water and easiest place to get food. He cleans up the best he can, trying to put himself back together as much as he’s capable of here. He incites a little chaos in the crowded morning market and slips away before he can watch it all come to its conclusion, but he laughs as he goes all the same, buffing an apple on his cloak. 

On the evening of the third, he gets his hands on a map and finally settles down in the little taverna with the intention of figuring out where he is. His direction is impeccable. He is not the god of travels for nothing. Unfortunately, the map has little by way of actual distinguishing landmarks, so short of recognizing that he’s still somewhere in literal Greece, he can’t make heads or tails of the thing.

Three tables over, someone throws a set of cards with a roar of indignation. Hermes grimaces and raises his head, fingers twitching around his curls. It’s– strange. He likes people. He loves people. He loves to be in the thick of it, watching everything go down. He loves to have his fingers in all of the pies, so to speak. He’s always been charmed by mortal lands, and this should be no different! But this taverna is hectic in the night, loud, and pressing in a way that pinches his brows and has his fingers itching to borrow the Cap of Aidoneus again, if only to pull him away to a place where he could be but remain unnoticed. Unfortunately, it’s not an option because he doesn’t have any of his otherworldly implements, but… a habit at home, when the eyes of the other gods pressed in too tight, to escape without a care. He misses it a lot more than he’d ever thought he would, but you didn’t know what you had until it was gone and all that.

He knows he could just ask anyone here for any information he needs, but it feels too… personal. Too seen. He’s barely interested in talking to the tavern-keeper for room and food and wine– which is cut, barbarically, a true tragedy– because he knows for certain he definitively does not have the upper hand here, and he doesn’t like it.

Across the bar, someone demands more wine. There is a series of thumps that make his head pound in tandem. He frowns as he looks back at his notes.

Someone, stealthier than he expects, sidles up to his table in the back. Before he even looks up, she’s braced a foot on the bench and hopped up to plant herself on the tabletop. Her skirts fall haphazard over his map. He recognizes her ilk, the type of woman who prowled around the taverna everyday he’s been here. Friendly and jovial and trading companionship for coin. 

“Hello, handsome.”

Hermes stares a second longer at his papers, then tilts his head and cocks a brow. He looks up into her honey warm eyes, and leans back. “I was working, you know.”

She leans forward. Her breasts are on full display. He considers them. “So am I,” she says easily.

He laughs, but the ache in his temples pulses. He hasn’t had enough wine, or maybe he’s had too much. Everyone is entirely much too loud, and he still can’t– well, he does have a companion now. Maybe she can block out the noise and solve his little problem.

He takes her hand. “I can see that, darling.” He cups her jaw in his other, swipes his thumb against her cheek. He is no stranger to seduction, of course. “So hard at work, every night!” Being tempted is never a hardship. “You must be brimming with possibilities! So I just have one question for you.”

“Oh?” She braces both feet near his thigh as she leans in.

… were it not for the headache, and the overwhelming press of humanity around him, that was. “Can you tell me the name of this city?” he asks, sliding his map out from under her skirts. “I’m dreadfully turned around. You wouldn’t believe the– few days I’ve had.” It feels like longer. He wonders if time flows different here, for mortals, and he’s never noticed.

She stills from where she is still leaned into him. Nothing for a moment, two, and he is just thinking he’s going to have to abandon this one and actively ask another human when her face twists into an expression of distaste, and she sits back. “I’m offering you your passions, and you’re asking of this city.”

Oh. Well, he hadn’t meant to offend. It’s hardly her fault she’s the path of least resistance right now. “You are beautiful,” he says, and pulls his hands back to sleight a coin into his fingers instead. He holds it up for her to inspect, a promise of no neglect. “But my passions don’t exactly lie with this city as a whole.”

She stares at him. Stares at his coin. Then, huffs a breath, snatches it from him, and stuffs it down her bosom. “Can’t fault you for it,” she says, with a distinctly more prominent accent now. He’s thrilled at the shift. “Place wears you down ‘til there’s nothing left. I’d get out, too, if I could. What do you need to know, love?”

They pore over his notes, now. She still lounges across the table and Hermes feeds her coin and grapes as she tells him of the city, the people, and what’s waiting out there nearby. He doesn’t need the latter, really; his knowledge of geography kicks in with a little clarification, and he plots his position out on a much larger, mental map. It doesn’t help his predicament, but it gives him something to go on. 

“Where did you say you were headed?”

“I didn’t!” 

“And how did you end up here?”

“I don’t even know.” He laughs because it’s true, and he sees the distrust in this woman’s eyes, but it softens until she is laughing with him, too. A quieter part of humanity in the middle of the mess.

Maybe it isn’t so bad, he thinks again, as he crawls into his blankets alone. He is woefully out of money again, but full of information and watered down wine. For the first time in three days, Hermes even thinks he actually believes it.

He sleeps soundly, even as the din outside rages on.

Chapter Text

He finds complacency for a week. Then his mind inevitably wanders back to Olympus, and the frustration stronger than he’s felt before that he can’t shake. How was all of this his fault? Honestly! He hadn’t even started it! Why was he the one being blamed when Poseidon was the one to hold a grudge over one silly cyclops? He had more. And, really, it wasn’t like he had ever really taken much interest in them prior to the little debacle a decade ago, so all of the kerfuffle that had followed was just pointless. And then there’s Calypso, that unfortunate thing, keeping a pet mortal for seven years, and no one was pulling at the threads of her fate for overstepping those bounds. Not that they could do much more to her than had already been done, mind, but… the injustice is astounding.

Which, Hermes suspects, is another part of this whole grand plan.

The frustration flavors into resentment, instead of pride, for his father, and then an even deeper determination to get back home.

It surprises him, really. All of the emotion. It’s impossibly stronger with a human mind and he’s never been angry at Zeus before. He’s always respected him. He’s almost always respected all of the gods. They’re his family. His kin. They all have their hang-ups, himself included. Apollo had been on a warpath with him from the very start! He’d only appeased him by tweaking some catgut into a little tune and sending him off with the first made lyre. They argue. They disagree. But they’re Olympians. He’s always been proud of that.

He still is, really. It’s not the end of the world, even if it privately feels like it. But he’s angry and frustrated and a little bit sad. He misses home and power and familiar faces. And all of that whips his head into a frenzy of complicated things he’s never had to feel before. And is that how mortals felt all the time? How did they ever manage to get anything else done when their heads were so full of pain all of the time?

Hermes sighs, and tilts his head towards the crumbling detritus of building before him. He doesn’t know what it had been, but it had fallen into ruin long ago. He’s been coming here the past couple of days to clear his head, is what the mortals called it. To escape from the press of an ever watchful crowd. He steps his foot up onto old metal casing, braces his hand on the wood, and uses the boost to propel himself up to grab the old rafters above. Then, he climbs, picking here and there through the rubble, worming his way as high as he dares to go. It’s never enough, never close to being one with the sky like he is when he’s equipped with his power, but it’s as close as he can get.

It’s a nice view. The nights are quiet in this dilapidated part of town. The breeze blows cool through his hair. He stretches against the old framework, leans out further into the night, and breathes in the smell of the city. “Piss and wine and rot,” he says out loud, and has to laugh at the fact that he’s even getting used to that.

Then the wood splinters beneath his feet. He thinks he says “oh shit,” before his leg goes out from under him. He tries to catch himself, but he hadn’t been holding on expecting to pitch down. His other foot slips from where he’s trying to balance and his hands slip and he plummets.

He does manage to catch a lower beam, or, well, it catches him; he slams into it and it slows the momentum just enough for him to scrabble for purchase. He clutches onto it with both arms, feet dangling, and scrambles to find something to get his footing back. He manages, after a few harrowing seconds, but that leg hurts, the one that had broken through the wood to start with. He hisses in pain and digs his nails into the wood to haul himself back onto something more stable. He pulls himself over, collapsing onto something horizontal and flat and safe. Mercifully, it does not buckle under his weight. His heart is pounding. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears. He collapses in a huddle of shaking limbs and winces at the pain still throbbing in his leg. He’s shocked into silence when he looks down and sees a stream of blood down his leg.

Blood. Blood. When was the last time he’d bled? Never? Hermes blinks down at the red oozing down his skin and reaches out to press his fingers to it. “Huh.” The pain takes less precedence. Even at home, he’s heard of injuries but it’s always– ichor matches them. Apollo would probably bleed sunlight or something. Golden instead of this. But this is so stark red against his skin, warm and wet and slick over his fingers. It smells like copper in the air. Human blood.

“Well, of course it is,” he says. He bundles up the bottom of his cloak and uses it to swipe away at the blood, but it just irritates the scratch even more. “Of course it’s mortal blood. Of course it hurts. You practically fell out of a building. What did you think was going to happen?” He sighs and gives up on the scratch. His chiton isn’t long enough to stain, and the cloak is black anyway. There’s no point. He gingerly gets to his feet, testing weight on the injured leg. Painful, but manageable. So long as he doesn’t bleed to death before he makes it back to–

– oh. Wait. Wait a second.

Hermes looks back at his bleeding shin. He can bleed. If he can bleed, can he die? He– well, surely, right? Mortals did that. All the time. Every day. If he can bleed, he can die. He can– he can get to the Underworld, at the very least, without having to trek to the gateways. He can summon Thanatos. He can get back together with familiar faces. He can plan a next step in a more familiar locale. If he can die– in the mortal sense– he can leave this realm.

Well, of course he’s going to risk it. What does he have to lose?

He knows he can’t die die. Not really. Gods didn’t. And he’s still a god; humanity is just a minor inconvenience. He’s not worried about death being a state of permanency for him. He’ll end up back on Olympus one way or the other. So, this works or it goes wrong, and he ends up leaving the human realm either way. But how to do it? He looks up at the broken wood above him. “It couldn’t have been so easy, could have it?” Well, he isn’t going to be climbing back up with the way his leg is aching. He doesn’t have alcohol, or better yet any kind of stronger poison on him, and with the way the wine is so weak here, blatant alcoholism seems like a method that would take longer than he’d like, anyway. And he’d have to lift enough alcohol to do it. It’s so much work. Why should dying be so much work?

Hermes hums, staring down at the leg again. The blood. And– oh. Bleeding. Cutting. He looks at the thin skin of his wrists, and tips his head. That was a thing. He remembers people having done that to end their lives. A blade against your wrists and waiting for the end to come. It doesn’t sound bad. It sounds peaceful.

He doesn’t have a blade, but… he’s in a place of abandonment and refuse. He barely searches for two minutes to find an old, dark colored bottle, dirty and covered with filth. He considers it, because it’s here and what he has and it’s easy. He’s never minded taking the easy way out. He doesn’t know what that says about him, but why should he bother when there’s a low effort choice right there?

He curls his fingers around the neck of the bottle, and slams it into the concrete.

It shatters into a multitude of pieces, fracturing and splinting away from him. But he’s left with a piece still in his hand, large and jagged, and perfect for his quiet little intention. Perfect…

He passes his thumb over the edge of it. Immediately, there’s a spark of pain in his skin, a bead of blood from the cut. Everything really is so fragile, like this. It’s disgusting and elating and terrifying in one. How easy it was to take one’s life. He tilts the shard to catch the reflection of the moon. Of his eyes, just this side of too bright on this earth. He– hesitates. That’s the only word for it. Something gnaws at him, something buzzing in his skull telling him this isn’t right. This isn’t moral. But that’s silly. Wasn’t there power in choosing the way you would go? The ultimate moment of taking control of your own destiny. Having your life literally in your hands and choosing to leave everything behind. Hermes… wonders, and his fingers hesitate over the glass.

The buzzing gets louder. His tongue tastes like tin. He’s– afraid, maybe? That fits into place. That accounts for the hesitation. That something in his mind is scrambling to keep him alive. 

“Funny…”

He tightens his grip on the glass, and drags it deep across his wrist.

The pain comes first. Or, well, the blood does, actually. He’d pressed hard, and as deep as he could on instinct, and the blood pours out before he can suck in a gasp of pain. And then the pain, burning at the gash and then radiating to the tips of his fingers. His hand convulses, more blood streams down his arm, and he nearly drops the broken bottle from the shock. But no. No. Again. No half measures.

His fingertips are going strange. He does drop the glass when he switches to the injured hand. The blood makes it nearly impossible to hold even if the feeling in his hand doesn’t. He mirrors the slice on his right wrist now, but the glass slips again; it’s a messier, jagged slice to mimic the first, crooked across the fair skin of his wrist. It hurts just as bad, or worse. He makes a noise he isn’t aware of until after the broken bottle finally slips from his grasp, and bounces to the floor with the stream and droplets of his own blood.

He takes it back. Not easy. Not peaceful. Good gods.

The buzzing in his head reaches a crescendo. It screams in horror and panic and no, no, no! It tries to tell him this was a mistake. He tries to tell it where it can stick that, but the pain spreads inexplicably from his arms to his chest, and he almost believes the part of him that says this wasn’t right, this wasn’t what he’d wanted. It was supposed to be easy. It was supposed to be quick.

It’s neither, and the amount of blood is staggering. He feels woozy from the sheer amount of it when he’s never seen himself bleed before this. His head feels heavy. He has to sit down, and practically folds to his knees in the growing puddle of his own blood.

Oh. Death is supposed to be easy. Isn’t death supposed to be easy?

But… maybe not. He remembers all the times where he’d shown up in time to watch Thanatos take someone. Mostly invisible, watching from afar because it wasn’t his thing. But sometimes up close, hands behind his back, quiet as he’d listen to the victim cry and weep or beg. Some begged for it not to be their time. Others begging for it to end. And Hermes understands, then; if dying hurt so much, and took so long, he gets why people want it to end. Why they beg either of them to help.

To make the pain stop. To turn the fear away.

He realizes the tingling in his fingers has turned to a dull numbness. He raises his hand and watches it shake and touches his fingertips to the blood, but it doesn’t feel, not like that. It’s– wet, and slick, but he can’t feel it, or anything. It’s weird. It’s weird in a way he decides he really doesn’t like.

But too late now.

He slumps back against the wall. Stares out over the night in this ridiculous, charming little city, still halfway up in this old building that no one will find him in. And it’s pretty. He’d thought that before. There’s something to be said for dying as close to the sky as he could get.

But it still takes too long. 

It hurts the whole time, and it takes too long, and it isn’t until his arms are limp in a pool of blood and his head bobs to his chest that the feeling shifts towards something else. Exhaustion. Not just like wanting to sleep, but… but also like wanting to sleep. Acutely– in a way he knows he shouldn’t know– he realizes this physical body is giving out on him. And the panic dulls to being tired.

Tired he can work with. Sleep can be easy. A luxury. 

He closes his eyes willingly, waiting for it to end.

There’s a rush of air that wakes him. It’s warm through the cold that’s been stuck in his veins, and ruffles his hair where it’s fallen into his face. The displacement of a presence. It’s enough to make him try and raise his head and squint his eyes open. Because who else would…

The dark shape in front of him blurs in on itself, and then coalesces. It shifts from a blurry, nondescript thing to something… familiar, the voice in his head sighs in relief. An unwieldy, stick thin wraith with a shock of black hair and pitch eyes, and a dark cape that vanishes even as he tries to focus. It bleeds across his vision with the darkness already there, then it is gone, and only the familiar form of a dark haired young man with golden eyes crouches in front of him.

There is a moment, and then an intake of breath cuts the air. “Hermes…?”

The sound hurts. His name hurts. Oh, he’d thought he was done with the pain. His head lolls. He tries to move his heavy arms, and can’t. But that’s okay. It’s fine. It’s okay now. “… hello… oldest friend,” he mumbles, and tries to smile and can’t do that, either.

Thanatos reaches out to him, and then stops. His hand hovers, unsure, in the air between them. Hermes wants to reach out and complete the circuit, or crack a joke, or do– anything, but the moment he tries, the agony wracks his body again, and he wishes he were still asleep. He tries to squirm to get comfortable. Can’t. Gasps.

Something grasps Thanatos’ resolve. His hand moves to the wounds on Hermes’ wrists. His eyes linger over the blood, and then he passes his palm above both of the cuts. 

The pain is instantly gone.

Hermes sucks in a breath from the shock, and his head snaps up too fast. But his vision doesn’t sway. His temples don’t ache. He can breathe. He can talk, and says in relief, “you came.”

Thanatos sits back on his heels, eyebrows furrowed. “I had to.” He looks between Hermes’ face, and the wounds, and Hermes can see the discomfort stark on his face. It’s really a look, considering who he is and what he does.

“Than,” he says, pointing at him. He notices the blood is gone. His skin is clean. But when he tips his wrists towards himself, the cuts are still there. Somehow, they look even worse this way, open but not oozing. Unhealed and raw and a dreadful mess. That right wrist had really gone poorly. He dismisses it for the time being, eyes snapping back to Thanatos. “Are you hesitating?” he asks incredulously. “I’ve never seen you hesitate!”

“I’ve never killed a god before,” Thanatos says uncomfortably. His hands are clenched into fists on his knees now. He looks– torn. Also a really weird concept.

Hermes wants to tease him more, because it’s a comfortable place and a pleasant friendship, but he takes pity. His friend had come. That means a lot, right now, even if he’d had to. He holds out his hands in a so? sort of manner, and then folds them into his own lap. “I’m just a mortal right now, old friend.”

Thanatos’ frown deepens. He slouches fully back onto his ankles and his shoulders slump. “Hermes, what happened to you?”

“Family.” He watches the lines tighten in his friend’s face. “You know all about complicated families.” Hermes rests his elbow on a knee, and props his chin on his fist. “I gave divine intervention when I maybe shouldn’t have. It got back around to my father. He didn’t approve. I disagreed on his assessment,” he says lightly, “and he changed me into a mortal being to learn from my mistakes.”

“Zeus did…” Hermes arches an eyebrow, and Thanatos does not finish that sentence. Instead, “and you deemed it necessary to take your own life? Hermes. Was humanity really so bleak?”

“No. Not at all.” He’s being honest, for once. “I like them. They’re fun. This body is impossible, and the things in your head all the time are, frankly, completely unnecessary, but…” His eyebrows pinch. “I don’t like being confined, Than. And I don’t like being played. Not even by my own father.”

“What’s your plan, then?”

He relaxes, a little. “I need to get to the Underworld,” he says, raising his head. “I need to talk to Hades. My powers are limited in this form– which is to say they’re completely gone, even the sandals, did you see? It’s dreadful– but if I can get an audience with Hades, I can at least get a step closer to having the pantheon’s ear. The mortal realm has its charms, but I can’t do anything from there.”

“That’s…” He can see the explanation working its way through Thanatos. He’s never been the brightest, their dear god of death, but he can see the understanding of Hermes’ game. “You know there’s a chance it doesn’t work the way you hope.”

“I know.”

“You are foolishly optimistic sometimes.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“To a fault.”

“Than! This is a slight to my name!”

“Hades might not let you leave.”

“Hades will let me leave,” he promises, with more bravado than he feels. The two of them are cordial through necessity, true, but deep down he knows the king of the Underworld holds a grudge against his duties in particular. He’s trying not to think about it.

“Hades might not have a choice.”

There is that, too. Even they as gods aren’t immune to the binds of Fate. He knows that, too. “Maybe not. But I did.” He holds out his wrists. Something in his stomach twists at the cuts still, but he pushes it aside. “Can you get me to Charon? He’ll take me the rest of the way.”

Thanatos watches him for another moment. Hermes puts on his best smile to win him over, and rallies when Thanatos sighs and bows his head. “Yes. Of course. I’ll get you to the river, my friend.”

“Thank you!” he trills.

Thanatos holds out his hand. He does not clear the distance yet, but pauses and says, instead, “I’m sorry, Hermes.”

“I’m not. It’s your job. It’s just our job.”

“Not for that,” Thanatos mutters. “For–” He gestures vaguely. “This.”

“Ah.” Hermes chuckles, and leans forward to meet him. He still doesn’t complete the circuit, though. He knows it wouldn’t make any difference if he did, from his end, but he waits all the same. For his friend. “This,” he echoes. “Puts things into perspective, a little.”

“Yes…” 

And Death reaches out to touch two fingers between his eyes. 

Hermes feels it all fall away, the heaviness of his mind and body, the past week of unknown discomfort clinging to his skin. Any memory of pain vanishes on the wind. He feels lighter, like he could float to the heavens again. He knows intrinsically that he cannot, yet, but it is so close to feeling like where he belongs that he lets out a breath he wasn’t aware of holding, and relaxes for maybe the first time since the summons from Zeus had come back at home.

Thanatos removes his hand. Hermes stretches, his neck and spine and arms where the cuts on his wrists remain, definitive but now healed. There is no blood. There is no pain. Only the scars he’d put there himself, and he can live with that. When Thanatos helps him to his feet to prepare for their walk to the river, he catches sight of–

“Oh,” he says out loud, the single exclamation dropping from his tongue before he can stop it.

His own body, slumped against the wall where he’d started to doze. Head slumped. A smear of blood against a pale cheek. Arms limp at his sides in a river of blood. And he’s so still. 

It’s– jarring, to say the least. He’d sort of thought all of these complicated emotions would go away after he died, but… he guesses he is still mortal, in whatever sense now. So it’s startling, to see himself like that. More than he wants to admit. 

It must show on his face, though. The hand that Thanatos is still holding is squeezed, very lightly, drawing his attention away from the scene. “Are you alright?” he asks quietly, the perfect picture of bedside manner. Hermes has always respected that. 

“No?” He says that without meaning to, too. “I don’t know.” But he squeezes his hand back all the same. “But, a part of life?”

“A part of life,” Thanatos agrees gently, and gestures him into the void.

Chapter Text

Hermes likes to consider himself pretty well versed on fun; being the master of trickery tended to let you get a sense of overinflated ego, even if it’s just a slightly overinflated one. He likes to play. He can appreciate a good joke. So, he would normally be enthusiastic at the fact that he keeps walking into them, like this, but honestly it’s one bad joke after the other, and he can’t get used to that at the rate they’re coming.

Walking with Death through the Underworld is routine and familiar. They each have their own quota and they aren’t at all always together, here, but they’ve walked the route in each other’s company enough for it to be nice. He likes the Underworld, in its way. But it’s different– so different– now. It sinks into his skin the longer they walk, drawing little shivers to the surface. It makes him anxious and jumpy, eyes flitting to take in everything he knows he’s already seen before. It all looks different. It all feels different. He sort of feels like he wants to turn around and go back, but it isn’t a viable option in any sense of the word.

The sound of the river fills him with dread. He doesn’t notice he’s been twisting his bangles around his wrists until Thanatos glances over and draws attention to it.

“Hermes.”

He looks up, over, dragging his attention back to the conversation at hand. “Hmm?” Thanatos glances at his wrists. So does Hermes. He laughs when he realizes he’s fidgeting, and lets them fall back over the scars. “Ah. New tics!”

“It’s a lot.”

He nods. “Mm, yeah. You don’t notice, really, when you’re sort of in your own domain, do you?”

“No.”

“I’ve been here more times than I can count, but it’s…”

“A lot,” Thanatos repeats.

“Yeah.”

“It’s alright to be scared.”

Oh, he doesn’t like that he’s so obvious. He’s a master of obfuscation. It’s his job. But… Thanatos has it on the nose. “Normally,” Hermes says thoughtfully, “I’d remind you I don’t need to be mollycoddled, old friend.”

“Normally, I would agree.” Thanatos looks at him. “But normally you aren’t of my charge.”

That. He nods. He knows. “It really turns everything you know on its head.”

“It does.”

Thanatos reaches over and musses his hair. Normally, he would splutter at the casual disrespect, or have the helmet to avoid the whole situation. But now something cloys at the back of his throat and sticks uncomfortably at his eyes. He feels– small, and impossibly human. He pushes the feeling away, and scrunches his nose instead. He doesn’t take the last word, though, so that’s probably telling, too. 

Charon is waiting, because Charon is always waiting. Hermes tries to perk up, even as he can hear whispers in the water beyond. He doesn’t think he wants to know. He’s pretty sure he’s going to find out, anyway. “Charon,” he calls, and waves.

To his credit, Charon doesn’t look surprised. Or, well– honestly, it’s hard to tell? It always has been with him. Hermes has always privately thought the fact that he looked older than Death itself was kind of a strange situation, but he’d never been one to judge. It had never made reading him any easier. Though, as they approach, the ferryman’s head tilts to the side as though in question. Why are you bringing me a god? he imagines he might be asking of his brother.

“It’s a– actually, it’s really not a long story.” Hermes licks his lips and glances over Charon’s shoulder. Then back at the boat. “Did too much. Zeus got mad. Mortal,” he gestures to himself, and then Thanatos. “Dead mortal, now, I suppose.”

Thanatos and Charon shared a look, a conversation that Hermes is sure they’re having even though he’s never actually heard them speak to each other. The communication is beyond that. He has never pretended to understand.

“I leave you with my brother,” Thanatos says, turning to him again. “For what it’s worth, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Me, too.”

“If Hades isn’t accommodating…”

He swallows. “Then you might be seeing a lot more of me until my father gets tired of this game.”

Thanatos smiles, quiet and calming and kind. “It wouldn’t be so bad, Herald.”

“Ha. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Thanatos replies, and Hermes almost laughs again.

Well, no time like the present. He steps forward to Charon’s boat, but draws to a stop as Charon wordlessly holds out his elongated hand. “Charon. You won’t even bend convention for a lost god?” Charon looks at him passively, and Hermes giggles, fishing a coin out of the pouch at his waist. “Or did you know I wouldn’t ask you to?” He holds it up, and then places it in Charon’s hand.

Charon’s claws curl around the coin, and he steps aside to allow Hermes access to the ferry.

It wobbles unpleasantly as he steps onto it, panic swelling the vertigo into a wave. The whispers get louder. He resolutely turns his back on the water, and waves at Thanatos instead. “Until next time, oldest friend.”

“Until next time.”

The boat sets off. Hermes watches until Death whips itself into a shadowed cloak and vanishes with the glint of a scythe. Then he settles himself down to wait, anxious and nervous in turns again. Any of the peace he had been holding onto seemed to have left with their old friend. It isn’t until they’re crossing the river that he realizes how scared he really is. It’s terrible. He hates it. And then the screaming starts.

He’s a little ashamed to say he nearly pitches over the side of the ferry from the shock. His hands clutch at the sides as he tries to steady himself, but any semblance he has of control is as unstable as this crossing. Despite himself, he raises his head to stare into the water surrounding them.

The Underworld has never been unwelcoming. Like he’s said: he likes it. It’s quiet and calm and peaceful when he floats above Charon’s boat, tagging along to deliver messages or seek his friends. He has never noticed anything out of the ordinary. But now it’s murky water that holds the faces of– faces of beings indistinguishable. The boat shakes. And all he can hear is the sound of the screaming and moans of the dead.

He’s rooted to the spot. His eyes are wide. He can’t unsee what he’s seeing now, he just knows it. Nothing will ever be the same after the crossing. His chest heaves. He tries not to panic, but it’s already too late.

He sees– concepts. Things. People he’s known. People he’s– lost? He isn’t sure it’s an accurate term. He doesn’t have the mental acuity to think of anything better. The screaming is so loud he feels like his head is going to explode. His vision burns and blurs. He spirals into the despair.

And then, Crocus rises from the river.

There’s a rush of warmth that cuts the cold. The breeze of a warm summer day, sunshine baring down from the sky. It tousles his hair. There is the weight of a spherical disc clutched between his fingers. A smile on his face that he shares with the crowd. And then, Crocus stands up and–

Hermes cringes, recoiling in the ferry. He has to brace his hands to not fall off the seat. Crocus stares at him, watching, as– as beautiful and as perfect as he remembers from those days so long ago. Dark wavy hair, hypnotizing green eyes. A freckle on his jaw that Hermes can remember lavishing with his fingers and his mouth and his tongue. The joy of laughter shared between the two of them.

“That’s not fair,” he breathes, and something replies in his mind, why on earth would you think the Underworld is fair?

The river of the dead. It makes sense. But it still isn’t fair. Why is being human so irrevocably unfair?

That absolute shitshow of a day had been terrible. One of the worst of his life. And Hermes is no stranger to lost loves. He has had many, of many genders and creeds. But Crocus had been different. He had been full of such life, matching him in a way no mortal should have been able to. His determination and dedication had been more than he’d expected, from a human. And more than he’d deserved, given he was ultimately the cause for his death.

He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t– it hadn’t been his fault. No one had said that explicitly to him, because they were gods and his lover had been mortal, and consolation for the loss of such a simple thing had been trite. Except Apollo, who– well. They had conspired, briefly, to put an end to discus altogether, but of course it had never stuck. But he knows it hadn’t been his fault. Just a freak accident. Two things in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Crocus had been so full of life, and now the echo of him is standing before him in death. Hermes can’t look away. The wailing surrounding them prickles his skin, scratches his ears. He feels like he’s bleeding from every pore in his body again. He doesn’t know if he is. He can’t move to check, stuck in Crocus’ blank gaze and the memory of the way his name had sounded on his lips.

He relives their passions and their pains. It’s the blink of an eye. Or maybe it’s the stretching of hours into days and weeks. Hermes sways under the agony, and is buoyed back only by the suddenness of Crocus in front of him, so close he could almost touch. He wrenches himself back. The boat lurches. Crocus reaches for him and Hermes gasps in terror and old broken love alike.

“Cro– Crocu–”

Spectral hands close around his arms. Hermes winces again, yanking against the touch that is so wrong but still there. He can’t pull free, which is laughable because he had always understandably been the stronger of the two. But this mirage keeps him in place, holding his arms, and he panics. He tastes blood in his mouth. There are tears on his face. “Don’t,” he gasps, but still cannot pull away from him.

It always had been difficult to do, that.

The grip on his arms changes. It is not a vice. It’s a caress, and Hermes wheezes miserably. The fingers glide to his wrists, and curl around the new scars there. No– He tries to wrench free as Crocus’ fingers trace the cuts. His touch is featherlight and far, far too gentle for the situation they’re in. Hermes cannot pull away, and he cannot possibly face him. He jerks his head away, staring into the water instead. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he gasps. He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for. Which part he’s repenting for. But he’s shaking in Crocus’ grasp, and he cannot say anything else. “I’m sorry–” he whispers, as more tears fall anew.

And then the ferry bumps into the awaiting dock, and Crocus is gone.

Hermes is left stunned, gasping and in tremors. His hands are still aloft, still curled into fists tight enough to draw blood beneath his nails. He stares at the space Crocus had been, face wet, breathing hard, but… there’s nothing. He is as gone as he has been.

When he lifts his head to look around, Tiresias is waiting on the pier. Oh–

“Hermes,” he says, and offers his hands.

Oh. He– oh. Of course he would know– but… Hermes looks back to the water. He lingers. And then his fists slowly unclench, and he reaches for Tiresias’ with hands that shake, and lets him help him off the boat. “Tiresias…” he murmurs, still somewhat surprised despite his friend’s gift of foresight. Still more than somewhat rattled. But he is back on solid ground now, in more of a familiar territory, so maybe…

He looks back to Charon, in time to see his demonic features take the shape of Crocus again. There is a beat of– of shock, of horror, of waiting– and then Crocus’ body jerks– a memory– he screams, like that day, the worst sound Hermes has known, and collapses into the water. It turns to blood. Something reaches into Hermes’ chest and claws stone cold into his heart.

“No–!”

Crocus is still screaming.

Hermes breaks. 

His knees buckle, but he tries to pitch forward to lunge for the body in the water. Tiresias’ hands hold him back, but he really needn’t have. His legs collapse out from him. He hits the pier on his hands and knees and sobs, guilt and regret and loneliness choking him from the inside out. His stomach clenches and seizes all the way up to his throat. His body does something truly abysmal as it heaves and something bitter forces its way through his mouth and nose. And through all of this, through all of this, he can still hear the screams. He doubles over and clutches at his head and wants to scream back to make it stop, but he doesn’t have the breath left in his lungs to do so.

And then the Underworld muffles. Tiresias is kneeling in front of him, his hands over Hermes’ ears. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he says anxiously, and Hermes can hear him as clear as day even as the screaming is quieted. “Mortals aren’t meant to linger here.”

Hermes agrees. He doesn’t have a single ounce of strength left to do it, but he agrees. And then he collapses forward into Tiresias’ lap, unable to control a single part of himself any more, and weeps.

He is– officially– over all of this. He wishes the finality of the scars on his wrists could be permanent, just so all of this pain would end.

He loses track of time, again. Such an easy thing to lose. Tiresias stays with him. Around him. His hands are still over his ears. He doesn’t really notice or remember until that seal is broken; sound filters in again through his left ear, the wailing again. He panics, trying to grab Tiresias’ hand back.

“Just a moment,” Tiresias murmurs. There’s a little rummaging. The pull of muscle and sinew in movement. The tickle of power tangible in the air. 

Hermes swallows, and shoves his finger in his ear. It’s not necessary, though, because that power coalesces a moment later in a way he recognizes as Tiresias’ mild magic, and the atmosphere changes around them. It is no longer the pier beneath his knees. And the screaming stops so suddenly that the silence is a physical ache. Tentatively, he unplugs his ear again. Tiresias’ hand pulls away from the other, and combs his hair out of his face instead. When he cracks his eyes open, he thinks he can just about make out Tiresias’ home around them. Somewhere safe and familiar and free of the immediate stress of the Underworld. 

The relief of that sends him sagging into Tiresias’ lap again, a puddle of limbs and clothes and exhaustion. He turns his face into Tiresias’ cloak, and lets out a shuddering breath. Holds onto a fistful of it as he tries to catch his breath. Whatever that meant, here. Whatever it meant anywhere, now.

Tiresias doesn’t say much, but that silence is familiar. They usually balance each other well in that regard; Hermes likes to talk, Tiresias likes to observe. So he’s quiet, but his hand rubs along his spine and he strokes his hair as he– recovers– and it’s… nice? Maybe? Hermes thinks nice is probably the word. It’s a disrespect to his friend if he uses any other adjective. 

(It is nice. He’s never spent time with Tiresias because he’d had to. Duty rarely brings them together, but affection does more often. He’s always visited when he can, and it’s always nice. But nice is a term that feels so far off, on the floor of his friend’s chambers, revisiting his love’s death after reconciling his own suicide.)

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, either. Eventually, in between Tiresias’ hands in his hair and opening his own eyes to stare into space, he finds his tongue. He finds his own voice. He still doesn’t raise his head, because that’s still beyond him, but… he can speak. He finds it necessary to state the obvious. “… being mortal is hell, Tiresias,” he murmurs, staring towards the wall. He’d never thought it was. But now he really thinks it is.

“You’ve seen the worst of it,” Tiresias murmurs. His hands hesitate, and then his fingers creep beneath Hermes’ chin to tilt it up. Hermes looks at him blearily, and Tiresias continues: “now you have to find the best in it.”

It sounds exhausting. “Is there a best in it…?” He definitely catches the look Tiresias gives him in response to that. He sighs, and clumsily turns his head away again. “Fine. I know… I know. I’m just– tired,” he says, which feels pathetic and unfulfilling as a way to describe it, but it’s the best he’s got.

“You should sleep, Hermes.”

“I would really love to.”

Taking a nap sounds divine. Sleeping for a millennium sounds even better. He knows he won’t get the latter, but… sleep sounds good. Needed.

He lets Tiresias guide him to his bed, and he falls into the rumpled blankets with a silent prayer that he doesn’t dream at all.

Chapter Text

The horror of the river fades the longer he stays confined to Tiresias’ home. He knows he needs to get back out there, and at this distance, he probably won’t suffer the ill effects of seeing the dead in the water again, but the toll of the whole thing keeps him at his friend’s side for longer than what’s strictly necessary. Tiresias doesn’t seem to mind. At least, he never has before this, so Hermes can’t imagine why he’d start now.

Well, you are human now, something nasty and wheedling says in his mind.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He was human once, too.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” Hermes replies, kicking his feet over the side of the chaise. He tips his head on a pillow, and watches Tiresias across the room. “What are you doing over there, anyway, darling? You’ve been at it for I don’t know how long.”

“Prophesying.” Hermes snorts softly. Tiresias continues, “but most recently… I made tea.”

“Ah!” 

“Can I tempt you?”

“Well, always.” He swings his legs off the sofa entirely and sits up. He doesn’t need things, down here. He doesn’t need sleep or food or drink, much like back at home, but he finds it comfortable to want it. The ingrained urge that came with needing those things as a living, breathing human apparently didn’t go away when you went to the Underworld. Or maybe he’s just special, which… really has been true since the day he was born, wasn’t it? Hermes chuckles as he takes the dark, chipped cup that Tiresias offers, and touches his fingers to the back of his hand in thanks.

“Since I can’t give you nectar.”

“Isn’t that a colossal shame?” Hermes laments, but smiles into his tea. “You know I’m taken by your herby concoctions, Tir. More than ever, even,” he says, and takes a drink. It’s sweeter than he remembers, and warms him from the inside out. He sighs softly, and pats the sofa next to him. “But do sit down, you’re making me tired.”

Tiresias laughs warmly, but takes a seat with his own cup of tea. “Idle hands do the devil’s work, Hermes.”

“The devil?” He twitches his head towards him. “Are you talking about Hades? Gods know he hasn’t done work in a thousand years.”

Now it’s Tiresias’ turn to snort into his tea. He resurfaces to wipe his face. “You forget where you are.”

“I absolutely do not.” He slumps back on the sofa, swirling his tea as if it were wine. “It’s paperwork, darling. I respect him for the organization of the Underworld, but I’ve never seen him lift a finger for the physical labor.”

Tiresias’ fingers tug lightly at the ponytail Hermes has taken to throwing his hair back in. “Have we seen you do that?”

“I beg your pardon!” He nudges an elbow at Tiresias, who just as casually avoids it. “I do more work than most! You know how the gods love to talk and I’m the one who has to deal with all of their messages!”

Tiresias smiles in a small but infuriating way into his tea, and takes a small sip. Well, fine, he hasn’t been doing much these past few however-long-its-been-now, and avoiding physical labor as much as possible really is where he prefers to lay his cards, but it isn’t like he oversees athleticism for nothing.

It’s moot now. He really isn’t doing much of anything. He doesn’t mind, but it still makes him antsy to think about being in one place too long. He’s sure it’ll kick in soon. For now, he drinks this tea and lounges on this under the world sofa and chats with Tiresias and it’s– surprisingly okay, all things considered.

“What are you going to do now?” Tiresias asks eventually, when the tea has been swapped for wine and only Hermes continues to want to feign thirst. He’s slouched sideways on the sofa now, bare feet on the cushions and happy to relax, but he glances back at the question.

“I have to talk to Hades. I have to see if he can… try to help. Or, at the very least, ask him for his advice on this whole mess I’m into.”

“It isn’t going to go the way you want it to,” Tiresias says, and Hermes stiffens, immediately tense and full of instant anxiety again. Because he’s afraid of that. He hadn’t thought this plan through very well, but he’s very afraid of Hades being able to do nothing. And here’s his friend, stating the worst fear aloud. Something in his stomach sinks, while the halfhearted indignation flares.

“Tiresias,” he chastises. “What did I tell you about using your powers of foresight on your friends?”

Tiresias stills almost imperceptively. “Oh.” His eyes aren’t focused on Hermes, but they look away. “I’m sorry.”

He has to huff, because the principle of the thing. But he sounds genuine, like it had been reflex after years of work. They have talked about this before, at length, how much Hermes does not want or need to know whatever prophecies he sees. There’s boundaries. He isn’t a client come asking for the future.

“Things can still change. Even your prophecies aren’t set in stone.” Tiresias does not say anything, which Hermes knows is an attempt at being polite. But now it’s already out there. It can’t not be out there now. “Damn it,” he mutters, and slumps back with Tiresias’ shoulder in the middle of his back. He tips his head to stare at the ceiling. “Well, how does it go, then?”

He feels Tiresias shift behind him. And then he says, “he won’t get involved in something Zeus designed.”

Yes. That. “Damn it,” he hisses. (He’d picked up the language in his single week in the mortal realm. He hadn’t understood it much as a whole, but it feels good to say sometimes, especially right now.) He’d been worried about that. Nobody crossed Zeus. That’s fair. He’d always kept a respectable distance himself, but– it’s different. He’s just a lowly messenger. Hades is king of the Underworld. A brother. There’s more power there, more respect. Surely he could try.

… Hermes knows he wouldn’t, either, if the situation was reversed. But it’s not, so he’s angry and disappointed and scared. He’d taken his own mortal life to be here. What did that mean for him now?

“Hermes?”

He tilts his head to look over his shoulder at him. And it’s just– sadness, really, on Tiresias’ face, too. He’s upset about the perceived outcome, too. He’s worried for Hermes. He can see it in the pinch of his brow. And Hermes is all of those negative emotions, but… Tiresias doesn’t have to be. He shouldn’t be. He’s been helping him since he’d come down here. That’s everything, right now.

So Hermes sighs, and smiles faintly. He reaches back to cup the side of Tiresias’ head, and pulls him in until their temples touch. “I’m still going to try, Tir.”

Tiresias hesitates for a moment, but must realize Hermes isn’t really mad at him. As if he could be. He leans a little into Hermes’ half embrace. “I know.”

Hermes nuzzles his cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I haven’t seen a future where that’s happened yet.”

Hermes laughs, threading his fingers into Tiresias’ hair. “Well, darling, it’s bound to happen eventually, I’d say.”

Tiresias hums disbelievingly, and they subside into quiet for some time again. 

It’s comfortable, nice. Hermes is just about between considering if he wants to take a nap like this or deciding if today is going to be the day he wanders out to the House to have that conversation they’ve been talking about when Tiresias speaks again.

“I did have a consideration.”

Hermes tips his head from where it’s resting on his shoulder now. “Was it a consideration, or is this a thinly veiled attempt at nudging me towards Fate again?” he teases.

“A consideration.”

Hermes laughs, but, yeah, he doesn’t want definitive proof of the prophecies. And he doesn’t really know if Tiresias is being honest or lying to hide a vision, so it’s still firmly in the realm of Not Knowing. “Okay. I’ll consider the consideration.”

“If Hades can’t help,” Tiresias says, “it’ll be spring before long.”

“So it will,” he agrees, and then understands what Tiresias is saying to him. He sits up. “No. Surely not?”

“Why not?”

“It can’t be my jurisdiction anymore.”

“Why not?” Tiresias repeats.

“I’m human.”

“You’re here.”

He does consider this consideration. The pilgrimage each spring is a familiar one, traversing the quieter paths of the Underworld with Persephone at his side. She’s been his charge for that journey ever since the deal was reached. But it’s different now, surely…

“Who else is going to guide her?” Tiresias asks. “Ares?”

He splutters, whipping his attention back around. “Please. Don’t insult me. He’d get lost on the way back to Olympus if someone wasn’t holding his hand.”

Tiresias coughs, turning away, but Hermes’ mind strays from insulting his war-breathing brethren. If it is still within the parameters of his duty to make sure Persephone made it back to the mortal realm this spring, it could be his ticket out of her as much as hers. Fate would have to let him leave, for him to actually physically see her back to her mother.

Granted, all it’s going to do is get him back to the mortal world. But he can’t stay here. He knows that now. He’s just putting off the inevitable. The mortal realm had mostly been safe until he had decided to slit his own wrists. And, oh.

“Can I go back, though?” He tilts his head, and holds up a wrist. His bracers and bangles are set aside for now, so the consequences of his actions are on full display even if Tiresias cannot see them. “In the technical sense, I did die.”

“I think, in the technical sense… you are still a god.”

“Which was the initial thought, but… do I keep this body? Did I ever really leave it behind me when Than visited? Because I definitely saw it.”

Tiresias shrugs slightly. “That kind of thing is beyond my purview. But if Zeus’ magic could make your form mortal in the first place…”

“Right… the curse will carry?”

“Maybe.”

“And just deposit me back the way I was before, like nothing ever happened. In true god form.” He taps his fingers, and then holds out his hands. “Well, could be worse! Honestly, Tiresias, this is novel. You’re a genius,” he praises, even though they both already know that’s true.

He’s still pondering the logistics of this divine power and this potential trick to leave the Underworld when he realizes there’s a question he hadn’t asked. He isn’t sure it matters. He isn’t really sure he wants to know. But it’s on the curve of his lips now, and he’s never been good at biting his tongue. “Can I ask a question? Unrelated! Sort of.” Tiresias looks towards him, and Hermes continues, “did you know this was going to happen?” He gestures to himself. 

“No,” Tiresias replies, and Hermes drapes in relief. He doesn’t know why it’s important. He hasn’t wanted to know the prophecies. But to know he hadn’t seen it is a relief all the same. “I Saw you when you were on your way here. That was all.”

“Father’s really playing a game no one’s expected.” He knows, if this were anyone else and it wasn’t him in this situation, he’d be more than a little impressed. So he’s a hypocrite. Trickery is fun when it isn’t happening to you. “I’d applaud him if I didn’t want to complain at him first.”

“Don’t get on his bad side, Hermes,” Tiresias advises, and Hermes snorts softly, sinking lower on the sofa.

“I think that ship has sailed, darling.”

It isn’t a surprise when Hades refuses point blank to do anything to assist in his attempt to contact Olympus. He guesses it’s kind of moot, now, considering he is the usual source of communication and here he is, refusing to beg for his soul. Not that he’d have to. Hades had told him he didn’t have control of it, anyway. So chalk one up on the ‘dying as a mortal still isn’t permanent’ but also tally a point to anger and sadness as he bows to Hades to thank him for his time. It’s another one of those strangely human moments, overwhelmed in his emotions enough that his eyes burn as he stands in front of his fellow god. He bows low enough so that he can avert his eyes because he refuses– refuses– to cry in front of him. He’d guessed as much. Between his own anxiety and Tiresias’ half prophecy, he’d guessed as much. 

But he just wishes frustration didn’t seem to go hand in hand with tears. Mortals cried entirely too much at quite literally anything. One of the worst parts of humanity, tied up there with slow travel and needing to void any liquid consumed.

But he digresses. He sweeps out of the House with that frustration still in his heart, angry but unsurprised. He isn’t necessarily dismissed when he leaves but– if Hades wants nothing to do with the situation, then Zeus certainly won’t be hearing of the slight. So Hermes goes, still breathing a little hard, still sad and defiant in turns. Tiresias is waiting outside, face drawn into that near-permanent state of consternation and worry. His head tips towards the doors as Hermes steps outside.

He’s really too much, Tiresias. He’s so concerned. He’s so fond. He has been at Hermes’ side through all of this since he arrived and he hasn’t even needed to be. And, yes, the others here have been as friendly as ever when they see him out and about along the Elysium, because they know who he is and he knows who most of them are, but he also isn’t sleeping in the middle of the Fields. So Tiresias is really too much in his distress. 

But that’s why he likes him, he supposes.

He lifts his chin and crosses the distance between them. Tiresias angles his face towards him in preparation to speak. Hermes beats him to it. He reaches to take his face in his hands and stretches up to kiss him. From the surprise, he feels Tiresias wince and he thinks ha! you didn’t see that one coming, did you? But his prophet recovers quickly, like always. He kisses Hermes back with the same lack of urgency as always. It isn’t unkind. It is just Tiresias.

It has been a while since they’ve passed the time like this, hasn’t it? They really need to remedy that more often. 

Hermes drags his fingers through his hair, leaning up on tiptoes. He kisses his mouth with a desire he hasn’t yet experienced. The nervous, angry energy from inside the House of Hades spurs him on. Is this what the mortals called an outlet? He wonders, but doesn’t care either way. It’s nice, his mouth against Tiresias’ and his hands in his hair. It’s a nice change to all of the bullshit he’s been through lately.

Tiresias kisses him in kind, although he doesn’t touch. It isn’t until Hermes’ thumb catches on the blindfold tied snug around his eyes that he reacts beyond stock-still kissing. Hermes hates that blindfold. He knows it’s part of the identity. He gets it, and has always respected that. But Tiresias removes it when they’re safe in his own home, and Hermes loves his eyes. He thinks he hates the blindfold. It feels like a symbol of what they’ve been forced to be.

(Funny. He’s never thought this way before.)

But as his fingers crawl towards the fabric to remove it in a fit of quiet resentment, Tiresias turns his head to dislodge his wandering fingers. He turns his face and whispers into his hair. “Ease up, Hermes.”

That’s– frustrating, too, in a way he has never experienced. The anger of being denied at the eleventh hour, even though they are nowhere near the eleventh hour. This is barely the second hour. Maybe still the first. He wants to keep his mouth nearby. He wants to claim his skin and strip him down starting with that blindfold, and– and–

Hermes huffs, and drops his forehead to Tiresias’ chest. Good gods, what is wrong with him? He is no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh, but the desperation thrumming in his body makes him have to laugh. It feels so volatile, hyperactive but sad and lonely, too. Tiresias stopping him hurts more than he’d expected. But that’s alright. Hermes knows a lot of his brethren like to take, but he’s never felt the need for such coercion. He wouldn’t want it, anyway. Much less with a person he already has such a long-standing rapport with.

“Easing up,” he agrees breathlessly, and places his hands on Tiresias’ chest to put a little distance between them. And then, as though all of that had not just happened, “well, you already know how my little talk with Hades went.”

Tiresias stares at him for a long moment, always unseeing. Unseeing but perceptive, and always, always contemplative. He stares at him, and then he nods. “I do,” he says, and takes Hermes’ hand to lead him back to his home.

He wakes up with the rumpled blankets still sweat damp beneath him, and Tiresias’ long hair splayed across the pillows. He knows he isn’t asleep; prophecies come in dreams often, and he’s always courteous when Hermes shares his bed. Like his attention is fully present on him. Well, it’s a nice thought, anyway, Hermes thinks, stretches, winces, and sighs. He feels like he’s gone through more of a workout than usual. Patron saint of exercise and all, he thinks, and beams as Tiresias tips his head to look toward him.

“You fell asleep.”

“Sorry,” Hermes says, rolling onto his side. “That happens a lot, like this.” He gestures vaguely.

“I don’t mind.” Tiresias’ lips twitch. “It’s very endearing.”

He raises his eyes heavenward, but can’t be mad. All of the frustration from earlier seems to have been properly fucked out between them. He worries about what it’s going to come back as, later on, as the dust settles from this failure today. But he can’t think about it now. Tiresias is comfortable in the linens next to him, looking happy and amused. His silver white eyes watching just off focus. They’re beautiful.

Hermes reaches over, thumbing a piece of his hair out of his face. “Well, of course, darling. I am a very endearing person, you know.”

“I know.”

Hermes laughs and drapes himself across the bed, and Tiresias, and revels in the prophet stroking his fingers up and down his bare spine again. It’s nice. Comfortable. Maybe it’s the ‘best of it.’ Maybe it’s just the best he gets. He thinks he can handle this much, if it is. For now.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. He has to. There’s only putting it off so long as reality sets back in, and the nerves return for different reasons. This is the best he gets, for now. He looks at Tiresias from his side of the bed, cataloging everything. His pale skin. A few errant pieces of hair. His face, full of comfort and no expectation. Hermes has to break the silence, even if it tastes like copper on his tongue.

“Will you have me until spring?”

Tiresias doesn’t flinch. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

The in-between stages of the last of the colder months and the start of spring pass. Hermes rightfully loses track of what time is slipping by. It’s hard to judge, in the Underworld, even when he’s here visiting as a god. He knows the passage only by Tiresias keeping him updated, but he doesn’t fret overmuch. Everyone knows he’s here by now, and Persephone will summon him when the time comes. Poor girl. She misses the mortal realm as much as he does Olympus. He’ll be glad to see her back to Demeter even if it’s just to reunite her with her second love: the world above. He might not be able to help himself, but he can help her, so it counts for something in his book.

In the meantime, he gets comfortable in the Underworld. Turns out, when you’re not actively coming in from your own death, it’s pretty much the same as usual. He spends a fair bit of time in the Elysium, and even some afternoons and nights at the Meadows. Tiresias is his home base for this visit, but sometimes he doesn’t make it back to him for a night or three, and altogether the situation is, frankly, amazing. Even with his wings clipped, he still isn’t caged. Tiresias has always afforded him his freedom, and, well, honestly? Hermes thinks he’s probably glad to be rid of him sometimes. He knows he can be a little, hmm… overwhelming. 

So he spends time with the departed souls, sometimes. Sometimes, he brunches with Persephone, who has both access to and no qualms about sharing ambrosia and nectar with her kin. Eurydice always makes it her priority to see him when he visits and this time is no exception; this time is also no exception that he tells a little white lie about not knowing of her lover’s fate because some tragedies did not need shared. He spends a tiny bit of time watching Cerberus stalk the grounds, but he’s never really been a dog person and one head was really already doing too much. He doesn’t stray much closer to the Kindly Ones, because he is still a little nervous about their interference in his own life now that he’s down here. He manages to catch up with Thanatos a handful of times, and even Hypnos on one occasion. Unsurprisingly, he has the best nap of his life that night, so much so that when he finally does wake up, Tiresias is staring at him in concern.

He does stay as far away from the rivers as much as he can. Lethe makes him nervous for an altogether different reason; he knows he had only been permitted to go without drinking the waters because of his tenuous position as god and Zeus’ child, and he doesn’t want to push his luck. And as for everything else… well, Crocus is always close behind, he thinks, and he doesn’t want to revisit it again. He deserved better than that. Hermes had created the flowers as a tribute for the beauty of the man, so seeing him writhing in pain was… it just wasn’t how he wanted to spend his time in the Underworld. He knows not facing that is a little bit selfish, but he is, undoubtedly, somewhat of a selfish creature.

And then, one evening, Hermes sees himself into Tiresias’ home with the usual boisterous greeting, and he is met with only a mild, anticipated prophecy in return.

“The pilgrimage begins in three days.”

“Oh.” Hermes tilts his head, trying to place where the time has gone, but he has no idea. “Really? So soon?”

“You arrived past winter’s crest.”

“I guess I did.” He sets aside his cowl and combs his fingers through his hair. “But three days. I’ll have to double check she has everything in order.”

“I’m sure she does.”

“She loves that man– gods know why– but you can’t fault her for being eager to get back to sunshine.”

“No.”

“Would you go back?” he asks, offhand. “If you could?”

“I…” Tiresias trails off, looking a little surprised like no one’s ever asked the question. They probably haven’t, but he hasn’t, either? Where have his manners been? “Probably…” Tiresias continues slowly, and then nods. “Yes.”

“Thebes?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a nice city.”

“Yes…” Tiresias murmurs, and when Hermes glances back at him, he has this strange look on his face that it takes him a moment to realize is wistful. And then he realizes he’s being insensitive again.

“Oh, sorry, darling.”

“No–”

“I didn’t mean to dredge up memories.”

“No,” Tiresias says more firmly, and smiles. “It’s just… been a very long time since I’ve seen it.”

He does not, this time, say the usual joke. Instead, “I’d guide you there if I could.”

Tiresias laughs, going back to sorting contracts and missives he knows by touch only. “I appreciate that, Hermes, but I’m not your lady of the underground.”

“Well, technically, you were close that one time…” Hermes wheedles, and rests his chin on top of Tiresias’ hair. He feels him laugh, and slings his arms around him. “But truly, darling. I wish I could.”

Tiresias tilts his head a little bit. He doesn't dislodge Hermes, but he can practically feel him trying to look up at him. 

“Yes?” he drawls playfully. 

“What's wrong?”

“I–” He pauses, looking down at Tiresias. “Who said anything was wrong, darling? I thought I was in an altogether good mood.”

Tiresias touches lightly at his hands clutched against his chest. “This said.”

“I can’t be sweet on you?” 

“I find it sometimes comes as a part of your mask.”

Is he so obvious? He… kind of despises that he’s being read so easily, even if it is only by Tiresias. Trickery and deception and all. “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have a mask. I don’t even have a helmet right now.”

“What’s wrong, Hermes?”

He sighs. He really is no fun at all when he gets like this. Determined to wiggle his way beneath the deception. But… he isn’t wrong. Dropping the time limit really solidified things, didn’t it? Hermes pulls back, busying his hands by sectioning Tiresias’ hair to begin to plait. Idle hands and all. “Three days, you said.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I’ll be taking off then.”

“To return to the mortal realm, yes.”

“The thing is.” He clumsily crosses Tiresias’ hair, and then criss-crosses. “I don’t think I’ll be returning for some time.”

“Maybe not.”

Hermes swallows. He wants to fidget, but he keeps braiding instead. “So, I’ll obviously be gone, darling. For an indeterminate amount of time.”

Tiresias starts to turn his head, but a sharp jerk on his hair from Hermes stills him again. “You’ve never operated on a set schedule before this.”

“‘Before this’ was dependent on me flying down here for a little pop-in whenever I wanted or was needed,” Hermes says impatiently. “I don’t have that option now. I’ll just be stuck. I won’t get to visit.”

Instead of turning his head again, Tiresias leans back into his hands. Just enough to pause his anxious twisting of hair. “I’ll be here, Hermes.”

“I know you will.” He tries not to pout, and then just doesn’t bother going against his nature. “It doesn’t change the fact, though, Tir. Months and years mean nothing when you can reverse it any time. But this…”

“Time will pass quickly above after you get settled in, I think.”

“I’ll miss you,” Hermes blurts, because that’s– the crux of the matter. He’s never really missed Tiresias before, because he could always just be there. He’s never had to be away from any of his friends. Everyone was always just a flutter and flit away. But this is… this is going to hurt, he thinks.

“… ah.” 

It’s such an inconsequential noise, such a simple sound that Tiresias responds with, but it sounds so knowing that, in that instance, Hermes feels his cheeks burn without the aid of nectar or alcohol. His face feels so hot he can feel the shame slide down his throat and seize at his gut. He swallows, and lets go of Tiresias’ hair.

This is too open. Too raw. Another quirk of humanity. He hates it.

“I’m sorry,” Tiresias says quickly, and turns around to face him. Hermes has already made to retreat, prepared to run straight out of here and into Persephone’s voyage, but Tiresias starts after him, sure-footed but searching as he reaches for him. “Hermes. I’m the one being insensitive.” He pauses, and cocks his head to listen. Hermes is doing his level best at not breathing to keep quiet. “There are infinitely worse things than being missed, my friend. Hermes?” He takes another step, feeling for him. “I’ll miss you, too.”

… so there is that. Hermes exhales in a rush of noise that tickles his lips, pushing the dwindling air out forcefully from his lungs. Tiresias immediately looks towards him, and Hermes takes a deep breath to speak again. “Well, who wouldn’t, darling?” he forces out.

Tiresias laughs softly, even as he lays hands on him. “I trust that you’ll be back, Hermes. And I’ll be here when you do. Nothing need change with time and distance. I’ll be here. And so will you.”

He doesn’t know if that’s a prophecy, but– right now? He might choose to believe it’s one all the same.

Chapter Text

“Are you glad to see it go?”

Hermes glances over his shoulder, and then shrugs both of them. “Yes! But will I be in a week? Who knows!” Considering he’d only made it a week as a mortal in the first place, he might be begging to be back in Hades’ domain so soon. But he has to try. He looks back at Persephone. “What about you? Happy to leave it behind?”

She smiles in a way that Hermes is starting to recognize as melancholia. “I will miss my husband, and our souls. But you already know I’m always ready for the spring, Hermes.”

He nods quickly. “It’s a bit of a double-edged sword, isn’t it? I’ve never noticed.”

“You’ve never had reason to,” she says, raising her eyebrows at him.

He nods again, and bows his head in teasing deference. “Amazing how things feel when you walk in someone else’s shoes!”

“Yes.” She laughs, and then glances at the ground. “Speaking of walking…” She eyes their feet, the gentle crunch of earth giving way beneath their steps. “How’s that working out for you?”

“I hate it, Seph!” he replies immediately. “It’s so slow, and my feet haven’t stopped hurting, and it’s really terrible being short and not being able to fly up and clear the distance!” He pouts, almost shoulder to shoulder with her, longing for the flight to get him up in the air so can laze about above. He’d had to stretch to kiss Tiresias, which had been, he doesn’t know, emasculating? “I don’t know how mortals do it all the time.”

Persephone laughs, easily reaching over and ruffling his hair. He tries to duck out of the way, but it’s mostly futile, and he won’t stray from her side in these parts of the Underworld. “We all can’t have feathers on our feet, little dove,” she teases.

“Well, no, I agree, because then my purpose would kind of be moot! You can’t be a messenger if everyone else can, too.” He pauses, considering the words as he gets a thought he hasn’t put more than a few seconds contemplation into. “Actually, have you heard anything about messages? As in, how communication is getting around?”

“Not particularly. No.” She considers it herself for a few seconds, and then shrugs. “Either father isn’t of any mind to be in contact with us, or he’s relying on other channels.”

“‘Other channels?’” he repeats. “There are no other channels. I am the channel. I’m irreplaceable, darling.”

“I’m sure Hera would lend Iris if Zeus wills it.” 

“Oh. Spare me, please.” She always had been dreadfully dull and disapproved of him so much as sniffing the air. He’s never been a fan.

“And there are other, slower, ways to send a message. If the need arose.”

Hermes gives in, and rolls his eyes. “Tiresias mentioned maybe father would send Ares to collect you if you didn’t make it back. Could you imagine?”

“I can, and so can you,” she replies smartly. “If it weren’t for him, Thanatos would probably still be held in chains.”

He gasps. “That wasn’t my fault! I didn’t even know!”

“Mhm.”

“I would have come! If I had known.”

“I’m sure you would have.”

“Excuse me, I could have given Sisyphus a run for his money.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

He huffs, yanking his cowl up further over his chin. “You are patronizing me, darling, and I find it dreadfully unfair. You wait until I get my powers back. I’m going to do so much to make up for it.”

“I’m sure, brother.”

He catches sight of the sly grin she’s trying to conceal by way of inspecting the landscape. He has to tuck his face even further into the cowl to muffle his own laughter, because he refuses to let her think she’s won. Really, she has by default, since she is still a goddess and he is currently mortal, but he isn’t going to think about it that way. It wounds his pride more to think of losing another argument amongst family.

“What about your great-grandson?” Persephone asks eventually. The scenery has begun to change, but they’ve walked these paths many times before; it’s still a long way to the surface.

Hermes’ mind has been wandering during the walk, so much so that her non-sequitur startles him a bit. “My great-grandson?”

“Odysseus.”

“I know who my great-grandson is, darling. I’m muddling over what you’re asking.”

“Well, why don’t you go and visit him, silly!” Persephone retorts. “You know this pathway will close once we’re out of the Underworld, and my husband will only open it in time for my return. If you’re going to be tethered to the mortal realm again, why don’t you go see how he’s doing?”

“I…” he trails off, realizing that the idea is… honestly? Not a bad one. He hadn’t thought about it, not at all. Not for a lack of love towards his kin, but, well, you didn’t really visit as a god regardless of whom you were related to. Going to check in after Poseidon’s storm hadn’t crossed his mind once he’d heard of Odysseus’ success, nevermind going for a leisure visit as a human. He’d kind of forgotten mortals just did that. “… could do that, couldn’t I?” he continues. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

Persephone looks at him like she cannot believe him at all, and sighs heavily. “Men. Deeply inconsiderate and endlessly unfriendly.”

“I am very friendly.” He nudges her shoulder with his own.

“And I’m sure he would be happy to see you again. When was the last time? Ogygia?”

“Oh, not exactly? I followed him,” he explains. “From Calypso’s island to the coast of Ithaca. He didn’t know I was there the whole time, but I was interested. I’d been quiet the last few days of the journey, though, so he didn’t know.” He had seen the desperation creeping in. Inevitably, Odysseus would have turned to him with questions, and– clearly– he had already given too much to begin with. But he had still followed, curious to see how it would turn out. “But… I didn’t dare stay when Poseidon rose. I would have been caught up in it as much as anyone else. And I’m pretty sure he’s still mad at me and Aeolus. And Circe.”

“He does know how to hold a grudge.”

“Honestly!” Hermes trills. “I mean, ten years for a cyclops who still slaughters to this day? I couldn’t imagine putting so much effort into it. How he held onto so much anger, I still don’t know. It seems exhausting. Fig?” he offers, plucking two from his pouch.

She blinks at him, looking half bewildered, but takes the fruit. “It’s the only thing keeping people going sometimes, spite.”

… well, now that he understands. He feels like his own situation is more personal than a human blinding a cyclops (although he’s sure Poseidon would have words about that) but he can understand the spite. He wonders if that’s what’s going to keep him going until Zeus decides he needs his royal messenger again.

“Speaking of ‘going,’” he transitions smoothly, “how on earth would I get from Olympus to Ithaca? I can be there in a blink when I’m above the world, but… human travel? Is it even possible?” He knows, intrinsically, that it isn’t impossibly far between the two. He isn’t keen on how he would cross the distance like this, not to mention the sea. But… the idea has been sown. He wouldn’t mind visiting Odysseus in this strange in-between where he has nothing else to do.

“You can travel just as well as the rest of the mortals can,” Persephone replies. “There’s carts and mules. Ships to cross the sea.”

“It’ll take ages.” He knows that it won’t, but it feels nice to complain to someone who will listen and snark back in kind.

“Good thing you have time,” she says, and pops the last piece of fruit into her mouth.

“Yeah, oodles and oodles.” He wipes his fingers on his cloak, and rubs the back of his hand against his mouth. “But first, darling, we have to get you back home.”

“No carts and mules here.”

“Trust me, I know.” He winks, and offers his arm to her again. “Until then, milady?”

She laughs, looping both of her arms around his. 

The first breath of fresh air as they step out of the Underworld is like magic. He knows it shows on his face because Persephone laughs at his side, but he doesn’t mind. The air is warm and fragrant with the smells of the flora of the area. The sunshine beams down on his face. He tilts his head towards it, and sighs happily.

“Spring,” he says out loud, greeting the air around them.

“She knows I’m on my way.”

“She knows you have a good guide!”

It’s a beautiful day. The weather would be great for flight. He misses it a little less than he might have, though, just because the warmth of the sun on his skin after the Underworld makes him contented enough. He throws himself with animation back into their conversation as they keep up their journey.

And then, eventually, Mount Olympus comes into view. All of his jokes falter on his tongue as he stares at the mountain in the distance. His home. Huh. It’s never seemed so… insurmountable. 

“Hermes?”

“Hm?” His head swivels back to her. “Sorry, darling, I could pretend I was listening, but we both know I wasn’t. What were you saying?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Ah!”

She rests her hand on his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, Hermes, I think you did right by him.”

“The divine intervention?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” He hums as though in deep contemplation, although he agrees with her still. He’d do it all again. … maybe. “Don’t let Zeus hear you say that, darling. You might end up where Athena was, or where I am. No one knows, with his whims.”

“I know,” she says, and clasps her hands in front of her again. “But all the same. Some people are worth standing up for.”

“And sometimes, some people get you in over your head.”

“You live for being in over your head, Hermes.”

“True!” he boasts. “That’s very true!”

They walk on.

Hermes finds his own voice faltering for reasons that he doesn’t entirely understand; when he falls silent, so does Persephone. And while they have had content silences, he finds this is not the same as before. The trepidation grows as Olympus looms closer and closer in the distance. He shivers at a gust of warm wind, and the hair on his arms starts to stand on end.

… ah. Of course he would not be allowed to re-enter the place of the gods. He hadn’t really expected to, but… a reaction even at this proximity… All he had really had to do to complete his duty was see Persephone back to the living realm. Hades had always made sure the route led as direct as possible, and resurfaced as close to their home as possible. It made it easier, for her to meet up with Demeter and return to Olympus or tour the earth, depending on their whims. So Hermes has fulfilled this plan. It certainly wasn’t going to get him up the mountain, but… why does his body want to crumble the closer they get to his home?

He stubbornly pushes forward. It’s at least partly out of pure spite. The other part, he’s pretty sure, is sheer, untameable desperation. He tries not to acknowledge that part too much, because it’s easier to be bitter when he’s standing outside his home with all of the doors locked and no way inside.

He’s never really realized how big the thing is. He’s always– well, always been able to crest their golden city in the blink of an eye, like everything else. But it’s daunting, as they reach the base of the mountain. It disappears into the heavens where he knows his brethren reside, tucked away safely amongst the clouds. He has to crane his neck to look up at it, and such an overwhelming sense of vertigo washes over him again that he breaks out in an immediate flop sweat. His stomach turns. He has to look away, and pick up his trudging feet to keep moving.

He doesn’t know how far he thinks he’s going to get, but he keeps pushing. And it isn’t until Persephone puts her hand at his shoulder that he realizes she’s still speaking. Or, is speaking. “Hermes.”

His head feels heavy. His heart is pounding a rapid staccato rhythm in his chest. “Hmm?” he manages, and turns to look at her.

There’s worry on her face. She reaches from his shoulder to his face, deliberately, and wipes her knuckles beneath his nose. It comes smeared away with blood. He feels faint.

“Oh,” he says, scrubbing his own hand beneath his nose. He hadn’t noticed. He wipes the blood on his cloak, and surreptitiously wipes his eyes and below his ears. Nothing else is bleeding yet, but maybe it’s just a matter of time. Come to think of it, maybe he doesn’t feel faint. Maybe it just feels like his head is going to explode. Maybe it really might. “I– I think I can’t go much further, darling,” he rasps, and wishes she would step back in case he needs to vomit another liter or so of blood from this proximity to the gods.

She doesn’t, unfortunately. She hovers, too, just like Tiresias had. Well, it wasn’t every day you got to see a god brought to his knees by humanity, he guesses. He’d have to have his nose in it, too. “This is ridiculous,” she murmurs instead, and takes Hermes’ hand to pull him away from the path.

He is grateful for that. “He’s just reminding me of my punishment.” His nose is still bleeding. He feels it drip past his chin. “The consequences of trying to disobey. I’ll be fine,” he says, even though he feels anything but.

She makes him sit down, which he also appreciates. He can steady himself against the ground, and yank his cloak away from his neck for more air. He still feels like he’s going to throw up, but he settles for continuing to mop up his own blood. Maybe later, once Persephone leaves. Honestly, he’d tried to woo her once; those days are long gone, but he still doesn’t fancy expelling his guts in front of her. Not for the disgust, because she’s seen much worse in the Underworld, but mostly because… being so blatantly human in front of her feels humiliating. He can laugh and joke and still mostly seem himself, but being sick is a very human thing he will be glad to leave behind.

He doesn’t know how long she sits with him, which is really entirely unnecessary. He’s sure he’ll be fine once he leaves the presence of Olympus, and she could continue on her own without him now. She could be home by now. But she stays, helping him clean up and trying to make him comfortable, even as he tries to shoo her on her way.

“Really, Seph, it’s just–”

He feels the atmosphere shift, but Persephone notices it first. Her head snaps around to the mountain. Hermes sluggishly follows her gaze to see a figure descending. Oh, they’ve sat so long. Thankfully, it isn’t Zeus, so he gives up squinting into the sun pretty quick. “You should go, Persephone.”

“It’s just my mother,” she says, looking longingly up the mountain. “She must be worried since we stopped.” She looks for another moment, steels herself, and looks back at him. “That’s alright. A few more minutes isn’t going to change anything.”

“Really, you’re worried for no real reason. I just need to– go. Somewhere. Anywhere, really.”

“Only after you catch your breath,” she repeats for the umpteenth time, and practically shoves his own waterskin back into his hands.

“Really, I’m going to pop, Seph,” he jokes wearily, but swallows another mouthful to wash away the taste of blood from his mouth.

It isn’t long before Demeter rushes into view, eagerness and worry on her face. And then– ah– Hermes distinctly sees the look on her face when her eyes land on him. Thankfully, he doesn’t think Persephone sees it in her rush to greet her mother, because, well, it wasn’t a very nice look.

But, oh well. He wipes his face again and raises his voice. “Hello, Demeter!”

Her gaze turns to him again, expressionless as possible this time. Bless her for trying, he supposes. “Hermes.” Oh, not even Herald. Then she looks back at Persephone. “Come along, child. I can take you the rest of the way.”

“I’m just going to see Hermes off–”

“Hermes will be fine,” Demeter interrupts, taking her arm. “And we have much to discuss as we walk.”

Persephone gives her a strange look.

Hermes sighs, and props his head on his hand. “I’m still the same herald I was bringing her home every year prior, Demeter.” She looks at the blood on his chiton and cloak, the sweat on his brow, and the wine in his hands. Ah, well, he takes her meaning. She’s not really wrong. “I’m still me,” he clarifies, which is mostly true.

He knows it won’t help. He’s a pariah right now, after all. But he’s still compelled to make his case anyway.

“Mother, what is–”

“Zeus has forbidden all contact with him,” Demeter interrupts. Oh. That… made sense. “Which is why I came to collect you before he notices.”

“He is my escort. He always has been–”

“And I’m sure Zeus understands the gravity of your situation, the only reason he has allowed the journey thus far. You don’t need to be seen with him longer than necessary.”

“Mother.”

Hermes feels tired. Worn out from the walk and this mountain and the gods. “That’s unfair, darling,” he says before he can stop himself.

“Is it?”

“You know how he is,” he whispers.

“I do,” Demeter says, lifting her chin. Her eyes blaze. Her resolve hardens. “I don’t get to pass judgment on higher decisions, Hermes. For what it’s worth, I feel sorry for you. But I won’t have your presence near my daughter drawing his eye more than it already is. I won’t.”

Persephone flounders, looking aghast and– and…

… honestly? He gets it. She’s trying to protect her daughter. Their bond is deep and Zeus’ whims are fleeting. She just doesn’t want Persephone hurt. To see her suffer Hermes’ fate, after everything she has already been through, would probably destroy her. He gets it. It’s still unfair to him, but he’ll complain to himself, later, when he’s back to being alone with none of the gods on his side.

“Go on, Seph,” he says, a little louder. He grins, and tries to put more enthusiasm in his voice. “I’m going to– I think I actually will try to get to Ithaca. So don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“I…” He can see the struggle in her face. The desire to be with her mother after a half year in the Underworld, and also her friendship towards him prompting her to try and console. But their duties won out. They always would. “Can I send for someone to try and help? Apollo, maybe?” 

He shakes his head. “I’ll be fine,” he repeats. No need to bring him into it. Nevermind orders, Hermes is pretty sure Apollo has no way to heal the hurt that’s been done to him. And it would only hurt his brother for making him know he was unable to help. Healers were always like that. “I’m going to take off as soon as you do, promise.” He pats her hand, and smiles wider. “Go,” he says, and pushes himself to his feet as well. “I’ll see you this time next year, at the very least.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Persephone says.

“Good! Do.”

She kisses both of his cheeks, and her and Demeter trundle off. It’s only after they’re gone far enough up the path that he ducks behind a tree and retches until his stomach is empty again.

Chapter Text

So, Ithaca! Now having a better point of reference and a little more handle on the situation he’s in, Hermes knows how to get there. South, and then west, crossing the sea. He’d been there before, of course, because he’s been everywhere. But flying was faster and he could usually be anywhere in no time at all. He wouldn’t even be able to guess how quickly he could get around because he was just so used to it, and had never considered the time-distance conundrum. Now though, the home of his great-grandson seems very far away.

Once he’s dragged himself away from his own home, his strength comes back. The shivers stop. He doesn’t feel like collapsing under the weight of Zeus’ punishment. Now, he doesn’t have wings or anything, but he feels lighter the further he goes. So, goes he does. 

He finds a town and follows Persephone’s advice in looking for a faster transportation. Travel by cart cuts a couple of days off of the journey, but there’s eventually nothing for it except the mule itself. It’s funny, because the shepherd squints at him and makes a comment about ‘how he looks like the patron of livestock’ and Hermes just laughs and grins and twirls his hair, and he is sent on his way with the animal apropos of no payment. He had wondered if anyone would make the connection. His temples have him depicted generally accurately– as far as that went– and shepherds did tend to take great pains with protecting their flocks. He’d worn the cloak back in his first week to avoid any suspicion, but had left thinking maybe humans only saw what they wanted to see when they wanted to see it. Why would a god walk amongst humans? But some people see it. Some people see him, and he has to laugh about it. All told, the fact that someone still recognizes him as a god pleases him. He’ll have to give them special blessings whenever he gets the chance.

It’s back to walking in the end, as he leaves the mule in a small livery outside a town with a pat and a… prayer? Blessing? What did he call these things now, when he whispers into the mane for a long life. Did they even work? He wonders, but in the end, he does what he can do because it’s familiar as breathing, and heads out on his own again.

He makes it to the water in just a week’s time, which is… appalling, but. Doing what he can. There he’s stuck until there’s a ship to charter him across the sea. They are promised a two day journey to the islands, which turns into a truly unfortunate four days on a rough sea where he spends most of it either hurling over the side of the ship or wrapped around a bucket. He briefly wonders if he’s acquired some terrible human plague, but the crew assures him having an unsteady stomach on the sea is normal. Then again, they’re also the ones who swear up and down that the journey has never been so rough, so Hermes is about ready to tell them where they can stick his sickness. Briefly, he wonders if Poseidon has something to do with this, but then he decides that no, not even he would try to muddy the waters so soon after Odysseus outsmarting his grand plan. He wouldn’t dare show his face so soon, both from being scorned but also just, like, being stabbed.

He feels like he’s being stabbed in the stomach, he laments, as he curls up tight on the floor and tries not to choke to death on his own bile. He might end up back in the Underworld sooner than he thinks. He wonders what Tiresias would say, or worse, Hades. He groans, curls up tighter, and curses his weak constitution or whatever this is over and over again.

Thanatos does not come for him, unsurprisingly. The seas calm and they’re at port before the end of the night and Hermes practically falls off the ship to put two feet on solid ground in Ithaca once again.

It isn’t until he’s heading through town that it occurs to him that… he has no idea what he’s going to say. Showing up to the king’s palace, not as a god but as a human, it’s just gauche, isn’t it? He wants to visit, he does, but… it’s more tricky than he had thought through. Odysseus will recognize him, and immediately see through the change. And that’s– hm. Hermes doesn’t know. It makes his guts clench in a way entirely different to the sickness on the sea (thank the gods.) There’s nothing for it, but… maybe after food and sleep, he decides, and steals through town with his hood up, seeking sanctity in his secrecy once again. There’s no need to make himself known right away. He has all the time in the world to waste, after all.

He catches up on lost sleep, and then takes it upon himself to walk the streets. Seeing Ithaca from this view really is different. (Don’t get him wrong, he’s seen better. But–) He can understand why Odysseus had been in such a fluster to get back to it. Not to forget about his wife, of course, because of course you couldn’t forget about the wife. In any event, it’s nice, and he spends a couple days getting his bearings back before venturing anywhere near the palace. Mostly to scope it out, or maybe to catch Odysseus out and about on his own. He doesn’t see him, which probably isn’t a surprise, but he does stumble upon his great-great-grandson passing through the streets. Chatting with people, delivering things? Hermes can’t pretend to know about the hierarchy and whatever they did on a daily basis. He follows him for a while, just watching. He’s reminded again and again how much the kid is just like his father. That apple did not fall far from the tree. For better or worse.

He is just pondering this, eyes still following the path of the prince, when Telemachus turns the corner and Athena is there. Hermes nearly falls out of the tree he’s sitting in. There’s no missing her, even though most of the populace does. He knows the prince is being mentored by her, and thus can see her form, but no one else pays a passing glance. He wonders what she looks like to them. He wonders if they see her at all. He can, he supposes, because of the lineage. Gods recognizing gods and all, even if he’s not one of those right now.

Athena pauses in whatever conversation she is having with the prince. She looks up, and then cocks her head in his direction.

For the second time, Hermes nearly falls out of the tree in his haste to duck away before she can spot him. He jumps down and hurries away, pulling his hood up over his hair. There’s shame, he realizes, in seeing his sister, who is here on her own accord and doing very well at her own thing. She’d fought for Odysseus and is still a goddess. She’d suffered, too, of course, he knows, but her powers remain true to her status as a deity. And look at him. Skulking away from family with tangles in his hair and blisters on his feet.

He knows that conversation is going to come due eventually, but right now, he can pretend otherwise, so he does. And he does, going about his own business for a couple more days until he catches word that the king is visiting the harbor. That seems to be a bigger event than he thinks it should be for a king surveying his island, but who is he to say? He goes trotting for the water himself, hoping to catch a glimpse of his old friend.

Odysseus hasn’t changed, not really. His hair, longer and scraggly after Ogygia, has been cut to just above his shoulders. The beard is neater. He is clothed in the usual chiton, but with a vibrant purple chlamys draped over the shoulder. There’s a healthier color to his skin, and more weight on his frame. Nothing drastic, but all in all, returning home seemed to have done good for the man. Well, Hermes is glad. It would have been dreadful if all of that had been for nothing, wouldn’t have it?

Odysseus greets the townsfolk. He paces the harbor and takes in whatever business he’s currently attending, evidently, and doesn’t falter in that just like he hasn’t faltered in anything else. But there’s… something, Hermes realizes. Discomfort? He squints, and leans forward to try and discern. He’s still so bad at reading human emotion. It was just so complicated. But he watches as Odysseus glances at the water and seems to get lost in it, only for a moment, and– ah. That showdown with Poseidon is not as far away for him as it could be, either, it seems. Once Hermes realizes it, he doesn’t know how the rest of the people don’t. Odysseus is clearly uncomfortable, fidgeting with the thick braid of red cording tied snug around a wrist. He does not look back at the sea as he speaks, but the tension is there in his stance. 

Really, were these people so blind? Or do you just know him better than they do? his inner voice asks. If that’s the case, that’s… honestly a bit sad. Quiet observation aside, he barely knows his great-grandson in great detail. Aeaea had been the first time they had spoken face to face. He likes him a lot, don’t get him wrong. He cares for his fate, obviously. But for him to be the only one to notice Odysseus’ nerves is baffling to him.

For a moment, he forgets that he is not invisible to the rest of the populace. He has been careful to keep to himself, but as he ducks around some commerce happening, it puts him in Odysseus’ line of sight. The recognition is instantaneous.

Odysseus freezes, minutely, as he locks eyes with Hermes across the way. His lips part in surprise, and Hermes can’t hear from this distance, but he can distinctly tell the shape of his name coming out of other people’s mouths, and he grins and waves in greeting. A few people look his way, too. Oh– right. Odysseus says something to them, excuses himself, and strides to clear the distance between them.

“Hermes,” he breathes, greeting him. And then the look on his face changes; it turns to one of confusion, taking in Hermes’ loose hair and no helmet, no winged apparatuses to speak of, and the attention around them. Maybe the lack of flying, too! Probably the lack of flying. He would have never had a reason to see him in a human form, so it’s probably a little surprising. But the confusion turns darker, mistrust tinged with the nerves he had recognized on him looking out across the water. The hand that had been reaching for him hesitates. “Why are you here?”

“Why the long face, darling?” Hermes teases. “I’m here of my own accord this time, I promise. No messages from the gods. No divine intervention or retribution to speak of here. Just me.”  

“I’m…” Odysseus shakes his head, and happiness touches his eyes again. “Forgive me, friend, you’ve surprised me again.” He grins, the last of the tension falling from his shoulders. “Athena didn’t mention you were coming.”

“Ah.” He clasps his hands behind his back and rocks on his heels. “Well, I’d be surprised if she did. I think most of the pantheon would have a hard time tracing me right now.” There’s nothing for it. He knows there isn’t hiding it for long, and at least he controls the narrative this way. He can spin it into something fun and not entirely life altering.

“Ah?”

“I may have gotten into a spot of trouble.”

“Trouble?” Odysseus repeats. “More than the usual?”

He laughs. “Oh, yes.”

Odysseus frowns, and angles closer, putting himself a half step closer to him. It’s funny, and endearing, his loyalty. He is instantly more serious, even though Hermes is not. He rests his hand on his arm. “What’s happened?”

“I… may have gotten into my own divine retribution. Turns out, sometimes the gods aren’t quite so nice.”

Odysseus’ face hardens again. “I know,” he says, an agreement half under his breath– ah? Hermes arches an eyebrow, understanding full well why his great-grandson would be resentful of the gods now– but shakes his head, and looks closer at Hermes. “Does this have something to do with this form?”

“No forms this time,” Hermes says. “I am exactly as you see. Our god king didn’t like the way I used my powers. So, he took them away instead!”

Odysseus blinks. Whatever he’d been about to say is lost on his tongue, because his lips part and no sound comes out. He closes his mouth. There’s a moment where he simply stares at Hermes, trying to parse through the riddle, and then he opens his mouth again and says, blankly, “... what?”

Hermes giggles. It is like the first time all over again.

Odysseus, looking haggard, the tattered remains of himself and his crew beached on the shore. Hands clenched as Eurylochus paced and gasped and told his tale. Anxiety and exhaustion overtaking the best of them.

“– we are weak to a power like this.”

 Odysseus leaned forward, his fingers instinctively grazing the dagger at his belt. “What was it?”

“A woman.”

His hand paused, and then fell. “… what?”

Well, not a woman right now, which considering Hera had been standing vigil to his punishment, is probably kind of a minor miracle in itself. Not that it would change much of anything, but– Odysseus’ stunned expression gives him something to laugh about for real. He’s really throwing a lot at him, but he always has every time they’ve spoken. It’s on par, in some ways. Drastically different in others.

He grabs Odysseus’ hand, and pulls it in to press against his chest. “I’m mortal!”

He’s about to laugh like it’s some grandiose joke– and honestly, it kind of is– when he notices a flurry of movement from the two men who had been standing nearest Odysseus. Oh. He supposes– he is a stranger, laying hands on their king. He had sort of forgotten about things like royal guards, and not being unseen to the rest of the population. But Odysseus throws out his free hand to stop them, and they do, immediately, heeding their king’s orders. Odysseus doesn’t even look at them. He’s staring at his hand on Hermes’ chest.

The heartbeat is strange. He still hasn’t gotten completely used to it. It sounds so loud in his own ears sometimes. But it is irrefutable proof that he’s human, because it had definitely never been there like this before.

“Divine retribution,” he explains. “Living amongst mortals, as a mortal, until I’ve been suitably punished, I suppose.”

Odysseus looks like he’s in shock. Then, the color starts to drain from his face, and he looks at Hermes. “… was this because of me?” he asks quietly, expression stricken again.

Smart man. Hermes cocks his head. “Technically, it was because of Zeus,” he drawls, because it’s true.

“Was this because of what happened with me?” Odysseus repeats. His hand clutches at Hermes’ chiton. “Was this because of what you did for me? Moly, and the wind bag.”

“Is it easier for you if I say that it wasn’t?”

Odysseus’ hand tightens. For a moment, Hermes briefly wonders if he’s about to be punched, for some odd reason, but Odysseus relaxes a little again. “Hermes,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and takes one of his hands between both of his own.

“Oh, well, don’t lose sleep over it, darling. I’m pretty sure it’s only temporary.”

“‘Pretty sure?’”

“Things tend to resolve themselves when you’re originally of a godly persuasion. Or affected by a godly persuasion.” 

“Do they?” Odysseus asks quietly, and Hermes shrugs, just a little.

“I hope they do, anyway. Because I can’t get near Olympus and the Underworld won’t accept me, so if it doesn’t resolve itself, I’m kind of between a rock and a hard place. No offense,” he adds, tipping his head. “Ithaca is lovely, as always, but it isn’t exactly my domain, if you will.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Here? About five days. But this ‘part’ of the world? Altogether now, I think… about three weeks?” He taps his cheek. “I think. It muddles.”

“Three weeks,” Odysseus murmurs.

“Knowing my father, I’m sure I’ll be around a lot longer.”

“Maybe…” Odysseus’ frown deepens, and he starts to let go of Hermes’ hand. But something draws his attention before he can, and before Hermes even recognizes what’s happening, Odysseus goes still. His hand pauses at Hermes’. And then he turns over his palm to expose his wrist, and–

“Ah,” Hermes says aloud, as Odysseus’ eyes linger on that scar. He’d forgotten. The bracers had been traded before travel for some pretty armbands, two glittering gold bangles on his forearms and a delicate little snake wound along his upper arm. It had reminded him of his staff, so he had ended up with all three. He’d forgotten that the bangles are far enough up past his wrist to expose his scars, not that he’s made any effort to hide them. They never inspire much thought. Curiously, he feels struck dumb right now as Odysseus notices, though.

Something on his face tells Hermes he understands what those injuries are. And there’s– shame, again, strangely, like he’s been exposed in ways he still hasn’t experienced in his life. His mouth is dry. The pad of Odysseus’ thumb brushes the scar, and he can’t hold back the shiver that goes directly from head to toe. No, that’s too much introspection for the day, thank you.

He flexes his fingers, and angles his wrist more prominently. “It wasn’t what it looks like, darling.” Odysseus looks up, so Hermes continues. “I needed to go down. I figured it was the easiest way.”

“Down…?”

“The Underworld.”

“Oh.”

“It didn’t help, of course.” Gently, he pulls away from Odysseus. “Hades was entirely unwilling to get into my mess, and since I am technically a god, he couldn’t govern my soul. So it was all very moot, this.” He gestures with his wrist, and drops his hands. “It was a silly idea. But I’m here now! Come to check up on you once again.”

He’s made Odysseus.. is uncomfortable the word, he wonders? It doesn’t quite seem like that, but it doesn’t really not seem like that, either. Worried, maybe. Probably. Sad? But that’s just silly. He would have done anything to get back to his home, too. He had, in fact. Hermes taking drastic measures should ring true.

Just as he’s pondering that, though, Odysseus lifts his chin and seems to steel himself. Maybe he thinks Hermes doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he just thinks it’s polite to move past it. Well, Hermes is more than happy to. He gestures down the street, and Hermes happily follows him. “How did you get back? A gateway?”

“Evidently I’m still the one in charge of escorting the queen of the underground. So, yes! Technically. Just a special one.”

Odysseus makes a knowing noise. “Persephone is back, then?”

“In the flesh!”

“We’d thought– the winds have changed. Warmer,” Odysseus explains. 

“Mhm. Her mother is happy to see her.” He clasps his hands behind his back again. “Less to see me with her. I’ve heard Zeus has told them all to avoid me. Probably to avoid other divine intervention or whatnot. Part of the lesson. I’m not sure which, honestly.”

“Athena hadn’t said…”

He tilts his head. “Has she been home since your return?”

“I… I’m not sure, actually.”

“I doubt it. She was on his bad side, too. Her laying low is probably best for her as much as it is the whole family still.”

“I did hear a little about that.”

“Oh? I’m surprised she said.” She always had been so prideful. To sit and tell a mortal– even this mortal– of her downfall surprises him a little.

“There wasn’t much hiding it. She’s… changed a lot,” Odysseus says delicately.

He knows what he means. She’d been a mess after the game. Ares had asked if she was dead, for heaven’s sake. Artemis had had to hold her brother back from rushing to check on her, too. It hadn’t been pretty. Honestly, it had been pretty terrifying, thinking back on it now. He’d had things to do immediately after that, so he hadn’t been able to linger, but… whew.

“We have been leaving home and returning with scars, haven’t we?” Hermes muses. He leans behind Odysseus, looking at the spot on his back where he knows that lightning scar is. “But you know all about that, eh?” The fractals, the mutiny wound, old injuries from war. Nevermind all the ones Hermes can’t even see on him.

“I do.”

“The journey shapes us and all.”

“It does.” Odysseus sighs softly, and then turns his full attention on him once again. “Are you staying in Ithaca long? I’m sure Athena would love to see you. And,” he adds, a little breathlessly, “Penelope. You should meet her. After everything you did for me. Everything you’re suffering for me. You should meet my wife and son, at the very least.”

“It took me ages to get here, darling, so I’m not leaving again so soon, that’s for certain.”

His eyes light up. “Come to my palace,” he says. “We’ll be happy to have you. I’ll have accommodations made ready. You can stay as long as you like.”

Privately, he had been hoping for this. He won’t lie. He doesn’t mind striking out on his own, but he misses familiarity of people he knows now more than ever. And royal accommodations will help, too. “Will your wife really be so happy to have an unannounced guest? Isn’t that gauche for you humans?”

“You saved my life,” Odysseus says simply. “She has been wanting to give her gratitude to you with something more than a prayer.”

He doesn’t mention he definitely has not heard those prayers. (There are just always so many.) “Well,” he says, and nods, “it would be my honor to meet this wife and son of yours.” He also does not mention he had watched them both from afar, while Odysseus was gone. “King of Ithaca.”

Odysseus grins at him, and eagerly leads him towards his home.

Chapter Text

Penelope is as charming as Odysseus had made her out to be, of course. She’s beautiful and kind, and clearly twenty years had not made her love for her husband wane; she looks at him with more love in her eyes than he has seen in much younger pairings, and it’s the same for Odysseus as well. They’re sickeningly sweet, in a way that he thinks could honestly make Aphrodite blush. And really? He’s proud of them himself, in a strange way. But in either case, Penelope is lovely, and he kisses her hand when he’s introduced to her, and she startles him by kissing his cheek in gratitude for his help during Odysseus’ journey. He just knows she’s full of surprises. He likes her a lot for that.

Their son is, unsurprisingly, exactly like Odysseus. He still has the passions of youth that Odysseus probably left behind somewhere in Troy, and still seems to hang onto every word his father says even after these months since he’d returned home. He is enthusiastic and studious, and asks more questions than Hermes wants to or necessarily should answer to another mortal. When he asks about his newfound humanity, Odysseus shushes and reprimands and apologizes to Hermes for the invasiveness of the question, but Hermes winks at Telemachus over his shoulder to let the boy know he’s not put out by the curiosity. That endless enthusiasm probably gets him into a lot of trouble, too. He is– undoubtedly– Odysseus’ son.

Hermes feasts on food that he hasn’t had his hands on since he’d fallen from Olympus, and drinks wine that puts cheap taverna swill to shame. And by the end of the evening, he– he has a headache, for more reasons than one. Entertaining– and being entertained, truly– is draining after being on his own. He’s used to it in short bursts, anyway, a cryptic word here and there and flittering away to the next thing. And after Telemachus is sent away for the night, the conversations turn serious, which is a state of being he prefers in even shorter bursts. 

They talk of Olympus and Zeus’ wrath. Odysseus sits across from him, so close to Penelope that their thighs are pressed flush, but his eyes are tight and his face drawn with guilt. He clutches his knees and apologizes again, but Hermes waves it away as much as any other time.

“I don’t blame you,” he says airily.

“You should.”

He shrugs, as Penelope takes her husband’s hand and rubs against the back of his knuckles. “I’m not usually of the mind of doing what I should do, darling. Case in point.”

They talk of Poseidon, and Ithaca, and it’s good, really, to see Odysseus enthusiastic about something other than consuming guilt or outrageous desperation, because he deserved to have something nice after all of this, but the headache lingers and throbs beneath his temples. He still doesn’t really notice he’s dragging– and Odysseus definitely does not notice he’s dragging– until Penelope takes her husband’s hand, and says gently, “we’re talking his ear off, love.”

Odysseus looks between the two of them, just as Hermes makes an effort to unslouch himself from the chaise. “Oh,” Odysseus says suddenly, and sits up, too. “Hermes–”

“Don’t mind me,” he dismisses, waving a hand. “I’m endlessly intrigued by all of the things.”

“You’re tired,” Odysseus says. “You should have said.”

“I…” He thinks about lying, but he doesn’t really want to. He’s glad to be here. It feels… it feels like something he can’t quite place. He’s happy to see Odysseus, and pleased that he’s happy to see him, too. But he is tired. And honestly maybe a little more inebriated than he should be. “… am,” he admits, “but I couldn’t bear to stop you. Contentment looks too good on you,” he says, teasing but honest. It does.

Odysseus frets, while Penelope laughs and agrees and kisses Hermes’ cheek again in good night. He’s led to a room that he’s assured is his as long as he wants it. Odysseus leaves him at the door, but clasps his hand on his shoulder before he can go.

“Really, Hermes… it’s good to see you. Not, well, there’s not many gods I’d be happy to see, these days,” he says, a little awkwardly. “But I owe you my life, and more.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Yes. Everything you did–”

“Anyone else could have done it,” Hermes interrupts. Because if anything about being banished from Olympus is revealing, it’s that someone must be able to pick up his slack. That would make him bitter, but he’s had too much wine for that.

“But you did,” Odysseus says simply. “So, I’ve said it before, but… thank you.”

Hermes looks at him, really looks. Takes in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the exhaustion still hidden deep in his features. He’s lost so much. Suffered so much. But the sincerity in his eyes has always rung true, each of the times he’s looked at him and thanked him. Hermes wonders if he really deserves that, but maybe it’s easier to just say he does. “You’re welcome, darling,” he says, just as simply. Then, with a tired grin, “I hope you don’t make me have to do it again.”

Odysseus laughs softly. He retreats to clutch his arms around himself. (He’s kind of been doing that, Hermes has noticed. But he’d kind of been doing that on Ogygia, too. Holding himself together. There’s healing there, but the hurt still goes deep.) “You and me both. Get some sleep, Hermes.”

He taps two fingers to his temple in a salute, bids Odysseus goodnight, and is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

He sleeps the best he has since leaving the Underworld, and– for a moment– when he wakes up, he forgets he’s not at home.

It is an early morning training session overseeing the young prince’s regime with the spear when Hermes allows himself to be seen by her. Or, well, he doesn’t make an effort to scurry away into the shadows. Athena will have heard of his presence one way or the other, either through Odysseus or Telemachus himself. There’s no avoiding the conversation forever, even though he wants to. Kind of wants to. Honestly, he kind of wants to talk to her at the same time? Familiar faces and all. 

He hadn’t been looking for her, or the prince, just exploring the palace (which looks better than before, but still honestly needs more work) but they’re there and she’s there and he’s here, so he lets himself be spotted.

And she does, seeing him immediately as he ambles up, and it seems to surprise her so much that she stops where she is to look at him. It leaves an opening for Telemachus, and Hermes grins, and waves in an excitable fashion, and it allows the prince to– gently, mind– tap the flat of the spear against her arm.

It wasn’t everyday you got the chance to one up on the goddess of war strategy. Hermes is more than happy to help give the prince the win.

“Got you,” he hears Telemachus boast, as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand and beams up at her.

Hermes giggles and moves in, only overhearing the latter part of their conversation.

“– like a brother to you, yeah?”

“Half,” Athena murmurs. Her eyes are on him again as he sidles up.

“Technicalities?” he asks. “Are you pushing technicalities, my dear?” Hermes smiles encouragingly at Telemachus, and tilts his head at his technically half sister. “Has so much really changed?”

It has. But that’s the joke.

Her hair is longer, again. Growing back faster than a human’s. Her scars haven’t faded, though. Hermes wants to reach out and soothe the one below her eye, lament over their father’s wrath because now he knows first hand, but he doesn’t. Partially because Athena doesn’t like all of that. Partially because he couldn’t if he’d wanted, because she absolutely dwarfs him. She always has, but he’s always been able to fly and outreach her, but now the top of his head barely comes to her breast and it’s really just completely unfair!

“A lot has changed,” Athena says softly, as her eyes sweep over his form and she takes him in in his full mortal self. “Hermes.”

He just smiles, because it has.

“You two should talk,” Telemachus says. They both look at him. “Dad said it’s been a while, right? You should catch up. Don’t miss out on things.”

“As wise as your father!” Hermes says, and Telemachus beams at him.

“Do you think so?”

“Absolutely, darling.”

“I…” Athena hesitates, and then nods. “I’d like that.” She looks at Telemachus. “Don’t think you’re off the hook for later, prince.”

“Oh.” Telemachus grins, leaning against the spear. “Never, my lady.” 

Just like his father.

Hermes laughs, and even Athena turns her head to hide a smile. The two of them leave Telemachus in the courtyard, and Hermes follows her wherever she happens to be leading him in this place more familiar to her.

“I’m surprised to see you, Hermes.”

“Good surprised, or bad surprised?”

She shrugs lightly. “Just surprised. I hadn’t even heard until recently.”

“You did know!”

“Artemis sent a star.”

“Ahh.” He nods, and loops his fingers into his belt. “You didn’t tell Odysseus, though.”

“I… I didn’t want to worry him.”

He intentionally bumps into her side. “Softie,” he teases, not unaware of the fact that she could spike him like the ball in a game of particularly violent episkyros.

She does not shove back, although she does give him a deeply unamused glance before looking back ahead. “He’s suffered enough from Zeus’ interference.”

“True.”

“Nevermind how we’ve had to suffer, too.” She looks at him again, although her gaze is much softer. “How did it happen, Hermes?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t really remember? Lots of pain. I thought it was just, you know, punishment for divine intervention and all, so I thought I would just deal with it and get out of Olympus like you for a while. I didn’t realize the enormity of what he’d been saying until I was out of Olympus. And then, of course, I couldn’t get back. Can’t get back.”

Athena sighs. She’s reliving her own punishment, he just knows it. At least he hadn’t insulted Zeus’ love life to his face, so he at least has that one up on her, but, really, it’s been a time up top lately, too. One of the worst things about humans getting too close to the gods: someone always ended up testy, one way or the other.

“I’m sorry, Hermes,” she says, and rests her hand on top of his head. She tousles his curls, gently, but he grumbles and grouses and tries to duck out of the way.

“Really, darling, you don’t have to patronize me.”

She’d been just removing her hand, but it pauses instead. And then pushes down on top of his head instead of ruffling his hair, forcing him to buckle under the pressure of the shove. He squawks in indignation and makes a more vested effort in escaping.

“Athena, really!” He could really do with the flying right now. “Stop! Mercy!”

Athena laughs and that’s… wow. He fixes his hair when she relents and just kind of looks up at her. She’s changed in ways beyond the scars. And he’s known that, of course, because you didn’t go through what Zeus did to her and not be changed after, but it’s… different. She’s softer, he thinks, which is such a strange concept for the goddess of war. It suits her, don’t get him wrong. But it’s such a big change.

Vaguely, he wonders if he’s going to be changed like that, after all of this. But it doesn’t really bear dwelling on right now. Too many unknowns. Too much time still yet to pass.

“You said you didn’t want patronized,” Athena says lightly, fixing her armor. 

“No, but I don’t need punished, either!” He huffs, but can’t help but grin up at her. The change is drastic, but he thinks the change is good. She seems… happier. Moreso than the last time he’d seen her, anyway.

“No,” she agrees idly, and gestures him ahead into the palace proper. He’s grateful for the shade. Persephone’s return, only a fortnight on, is really pushing warmer air around, and he’s never noticed how humid it got before. “Telemachus didn’t say how long you’d been here?”

“Oh, around a week in Ithaca. I’ve been back here in general about a fortnight, though. It just took some time to get here after leaving Persephone.”

She looks at him sharply. “You escorted her?”

He nods. 

“How did you even get to the Underworld without your travel?”

“Thanatos took me.”

“… ah.” Athena hums, and does not ask any other questions. Than only had one job, after all. “That was dangerous.”

“The best things are. Besides,” he adds, “I don’t get to have lectures from you. Sacrificing yourself to save a friend, too.”

“I know.”

“Not that I blame you, really.”

“For…”

“Doing what you did for him.” He shrugs, when she looks down at him. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Having someone stick up for you. I don’t know a single soul who’d do it for me!”

Athena gives him a spectacularly stunning side-eye. He nearly trips over his own feet.

“What?”

She scoffs, and probably by the grace of someone does not raise her eyes heavenward. “I can think of someone who cares enough to do anything for you.”

He blinks, staring up at her. He’s trying to think, but is honestly coming up blank. “You don’t mean Odysseus, surely.”

“No.”

“Because I adore the man, but if the past eight years or so have taught anything, it’s that he can’t really do much on his own, let alone trying to help us.”

“Your prophet,” Athena says in exasperation, and– 

“Ah!” Hm. Maybe!

It isn’t that he isn’t fond of Tiresias, because he is. Immensely fond. There would have been no one else he wanted to stay with in the Underworld. And he trusts him, which is more than he can say for most of his kin up above. He might spin truths in his prophecies, but they’re usually always honest. It’s his duty. And he never wants to get directly involved in anyone else’s drama (not that that’s ever stopped Hermes telling him all of the gossip of familiar faces around the world.) And he’d still come, when he’d foresaw Hermes on his way down. He’d been waiting at the dock. He’d kept him in his home. He’d stood sentinel outside of the House of Hades. Even for the past however many decades, he mostly respected Hermes’ preference of the unknown, and kept personal prophecies to himself. He semi-regularly invited Hermes into his bed. Even more often, he’s sat studious while Hermes chattered on and played with his hair.

He’s a patient man. Loyal. More than any of them deserve. Athena might be onto something there.

“Maybe!” he says, out loud. “But you forget he’s more limited in his abilities. I don’t think he could leave the Underworld, even if he really wanted to.”

“You never know.” She glances at him. “Odysseus did.”

“Last I checked, Odysseus isn’t dead, darling.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Hermes hums, and he just… can’t really argue with that. Look at him! Look at them. Look what they’ve experienced. Anything really is possible, probably. They’re gods, after all. But it isn’t important. He’s here, and his friend is still below, and he isn’t currently in need of another assist. Hopefully, he does not need any more assists before he’s allowed to go home.

Stranger things really have happened. They were happening still.

He changes the subject, and picks up his pace to keep up with his old friend.

Chapter Text

He is five days into his stay with Odysseus when it goes– odd. He’s gotten used to most of the more strange sensations he’d never experienced when he wasn’t human, but this one knocks him on his ass in more ways than one.

It starts simple, he thinks: fatigue. It’s tedious, but he’s gotten used to it. He likes the evening, especially in the city, but it never had been his association and he’s content to leave the night to Nyx. For a couple days, as they catch up, he spends late night with Odysseus, sharing stories of their lives in the time in between. 

(“You went through the Underworld, you said?”

“Yes… Not very friendly when you’re not a god, I might add!”

“Trust me… I know.”

“You see things. I never realized the things you see.”

“Souls departed.”

“Old friends,” Hermes had said softly, and Odysseus had agreed with a far away look in his eyes.)

But the man is a workaholic. He’s up late, usually later than Hermes, working on whatever kings did. And if he wasn’t sitting hunched over papers and books and scrolls, he was stealing away to his room with his wife as if they were being at all subtle about the thing. Not that Hermes blames him, of course.

The point is, Hermes does like sleep, and he crawls into bed on the regular like a good human would, but five days on, he’s dragging before the sun goes down. He drowses in a patch of spring sunshine and sends his regards with Athena before trudging back to his room. He practically topples into the bed, feeling physically exhausted, and sleeps.

It’s a messy thing, though, twisting and turning in the linens. He can’t get comfortable, and his body aches. Sometime, around the dawn, he thinks he feels cold, which can’t be right because Persephone is back, and he’d just been sleeping outside with no blankets and no problem. But he pulls his cloak around him all the same before he drifts back off to outsleep the sun.

It does not get better.

He sleeps, still uncomfortable, and wakes up feeling– even more uncomfortable. The pain is deep in his body, and he shivers beneath the bedding. His head is throbbing when he can’t stay asleep. He feels… miserable in a way he’s had yet to experience. He hates it. He wants to bury himself in the blankets and suffocate in the darkness until he passes out and can get relief from all of this. He does doze in and out, but it doesn’t last nearly long enough to avoid the misery.

He knows of human sickness. He has seen it all before. But gods were not fussed with such things, and– and– he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

He starts to put in a good effort at hacking up his own lungs a couple hours later, a dry, rattling cough that shakes his body to the core. His throat hurts. His ribs hurt. He curls around one pillow and wheezes into another, shaking from exertion and dripping in sweat.

He borrows a human term for this human thing, and mutters “fuck” into his things as he tries to breathe and not die. Or scream. Or cry. He’s never felt so discombobulated before, not even after being sent down to earth as a mortal.

He dreams of… strange things. He can’t get a hold on them and he can’t remember them when he wakes up, but he always wakes up feeling weak and wary and wrong, like they had been so uncomfortable his mind is trying to protect him from them. Or something. He wakes up once with tears on his cheeks and he’s so worn out he can’t be bothered to wipe them away or try to remember the nightmare.

At some point, he thinks his coughing must alert someone. It feels like the whole of Ithaca should be able to hear it. Or maybe it’s just his lack of presence. Or maybe it’s just seeking him out like usual. Or… something. He feels the presence of someone in his room, but he doesn’t dare to face the day or them or this. He dozes again, and after what feels like no time at all and entirely too long at the same time, someone is back and there’s a hand on his forehead that makes him shudder from the heat of it.

“Athena said you were ill.” Odysseus’ voice. “Why didn’t you say, Hermes? You could have told someone. We would have sent someone.”

Oh. Had that been Athena earlier? Hermes wonders, and forces himself to crack his eyes open. It is Odysseus now, staring down at him with worry on his face. His hand is still on Hermes’ face. He feels so warm, and Hermes is so, so cold. His breath wheezes. His throat burns as he rasps “what human plague is this…?”

“Give us a moment.” Odysseus tucks his sweaty hair out of his face, and pulls away. As an aside, Hermes hears him say “get me my wife. And fetch the doctor. Telemachus–”

“I’ll get some water.”

“Good.” And then louder, closer, directed to him again, “what did you get yourself into this time, Hermes?”

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, but he really wishes he wouldn’t have had.

Yes, he’s heard of human illness. He’s seen it spread and take out both young and old, and entire towns to boot. He knows the thing can get bad, but he’d never thought it was this bad. His body shakes, and Odysseus smooths his hand against his brow. “Nevermind,” he murmurs. “We’ll have my physician look you over. Don’t worry.”

That ship has sailed, darling. He can’t bring himself to speak, as his teeth chatter and he hacks into the blankets again.

“… is this sudden?” he hears Athena ask. Her voice seems far away, but sounds as uncertain as Hermes feels.

“Not necessarily,” Odysseus murmurs. “Sickness can hit hard, fast. That’s why it’s such a danger. But reports in the city have been scattered, at best… nothing big since I’ve been back…”

Athena says something else that he cannot make out over his own pulse rushing in his ears. Odysseus replies, equally muffled, as he continues to stroke Hermes’ hair. It’s… comforting, maybe. It reminds him of Tiresias, maybe, but that isn’t a comparison he needs to make when his mind is so unstable. What can he say if he might have had a slight crush on the man…? He was loud and determined and had been a rugged sort of attractive when he had stalked across Aeaea to face Circe with Moly in his veins. How could you not look twice? So what if he had? Or even three times, or four– it had never meant anything, of course, because those things never did.

“Odysseus? Are you…” The voice at the doorway trails off. Hermes takes a long minute to place it. “Oh dear,” Penelope murmurs.

“Pen.” Odysseus’ voice pitches in relief. “He’s… this isn’t my strong suit,” he says, a little sheepishly. “After everything, I haven’t really, well…” 

“Let me.”

“Thank you.”

Smaller hands replace Odysseus’. Still calloused, but slightly more of a gentle touch. She touches his forehead, and sweeps his hair back again. “Hermes,” Penelope says softly. “We’ve sent for the doctor, so he’ll be here soon. Can you open your eyes and look at me?”

He doesn’t want to. But she’s asked so nicely. They’ve been so accommodating to him, it feels rude not to try. He cracks his eyes open a slit, staring blearily out of the blankets towards her.

“There you are.” She smiles, and plucks the blankets away from his face a bit. “Can you tell us how you feel? What’s hurting you?” she clarifies, before he can even think of trying to come up with a witty retort about how he feels.

Talking. He licks his chapped lips, and tries. “Head. Throat,” he rasps, touching at his neck. And then, allowing his hand to fall a few inches lower, as his eyelids droop again, to tap a finger against his chest. He tries to use the word, but his lips feel heavy and his mouth feels muddled. Everything, he wants to say, because it does. 

“Thank you,” Penelope praises. She takes his hand from his chest, and squeezes gently. He can see again why Odysseus likes her so much. “Rest for a moment while we wait. We’ll have some water for you when the physician arrives.”

Hermes is already dozing even as the words filter in. 

The next time he wakes, he is being poked and prodded in places he has absolutely not given consent to be touched– everywhere, anywhere, when his skin prickles as bad as it does. He peels his eyes open, giving his best glare at this disruption.

“The doctor’s just looking you over.” Odysseus’ voice, to his left. “Bear with him a little while longer.”

Ah… the physician. He squirms as the man places his ear against his chest, and his body forces out a cough as though in retort. This doctor doesn’t even flinch, just pulls back at a leisurely pace and continues on with the examination. It feels a little violating, in the way that he is once again reminded he much prefers the upper hand when invading people’s space. But he feels as weak as a newborn kitten. He’s got no chance at having the upper hand at anything at all right now.

The doctor continues his examination. Hermes coughs and shivers and scrubs the heel of his hand against his pounding forehead. If nothing else, the poking and prodding has woken him up more than anything else so far. He doesn’t know if that’s necessarily preferable, but… but he’s awake, now. For now.

There is no conversation to be had as the examination continues. Eventually, the man leaves Hermes’ side and gestures to Odysseus, who squeezes Hermes’ shoulder and follows after him. He wonders if he looks bad enough that the physician thinks he needs to tell someone more conscious. Or maybe, when you were summoned by the king, you only reported to the king. 

Hermes doesn’t care. Unless the man is about to pull nectar from his bag, he’s probably going to be good for nothing at all to him.

He slides his hand down to rub at his eyes, and leaves it there to block out the meager amount of light spilling about the chamber. He– unabashedly– feels like shit.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning to check in on him,” the doctor says, addressing the room at large. “Keep his body as cool and dry as possible. Removing some of the bedding would be preferable.” Hermes gapes at the insinuation of removing the things that are remotely warming him, and peeks through his fingers. “Give him plenty of water. The tincture will help with pain.” Well, that sounded helpful, at least. “I recommend sitting up while sleeping, to help with the fluid in the lungs.” Fluid in his lungs? How– “Call for me if anything changes.”

“We will. Thank you, doctor.”

“Of course, my King.”

The door opens and closes. There’s a moment of silence where he can only hear his pulse pounding.

“What else did he say?” Penelope asks, and Hermes jumps a little, and drops his hand to look for her. She’s been so quiet, he hadn’t known she was still there.

“It doesn’t seem much different than the typical illness that strikes when the seasons change. Usually the ones later in the year, but… spring sickness isn’t unheard of.” Odysseus considers him, eyes tight. “This is your first time on earth as a human, which we couldn’t just exactly tell the physician, but… your body might be more susceptible to these ills…”

“Lovely,” he rasps. 

“Well,” Penelope says. She stands. “We’ll do what we can, as we would for anyone else. Can you help me get him out of his chiton?”

Hermes blinks slowly.

Odysseus stammers. “Penelope! You can’t–”

She raises an eyebrow. “If anything has been proven these past few months, husband, it is that I am still able to divest a man of his clothing.”

Odysseus flounders, turning away.

Hermes laughs a rasping laugh that burns all the way down. He stops laughing, and tries to massage his chest instead.

“And it’s easier for him if we both assist.” She looks at Hermes, softer, gentler, less coy. “Unless you prefer me to step outside, of course.”

He dismisses the offer with a wave of his hand. He doesn’t really care. Even if he did, his face already feels hot enough that embarrassment surely couldn’t do him any worse.

It isn’t until she is bundling the linens that he realizes the enormity of the conversation. What this means. Getting naked and losing his blankets. He stubbornly seizes at the linens, holding them tight from being snatched away. “It’s cold,” he whispers. The nudity is fine. The cold isn’t. He tries to put into his tone just how cold it is, but he thinks it really just comes out sounding pathetic instead.

“I know,” Penelope says soothingly. “I’m not going to withhold them all from you, Hermes. Just for a moment, while you get settled.”

He isn’t sure he trusts this. He isn’t sure he trusts her sweet face, all of a sudden.

“She’s right.” Odysseus steps back to his side. His face is a dustier shade of red, but he is, of course, taking her side. His hand smooths over the one Hermes is clutching the linens with, and he might be ill and aching and a little struck dumb by it all, but he still notices Odysseus coaxing his fingers away from it. “I know it sounds terrible. But you’ll feel worse if you stay wrapped up like that.”

“Why?”

“You’re burning up,” Odysseus says simply. “You only ever feel that kind of cold if your body’s really burning too high. So staying under the blankets traps the heat and makes it worse.”

It sounds stupid. But one thing’s for sure: he hasn’t felt cold like this before. Maybe they’re onto something. He knows they’re probably onto something, because they’ve probably been through it all before. Humans.

He makes a pitiful noise, and lets go of the blankets. It’s too much to argue. It’s too much to think about. It is just too much.

Getting out of his chiton is nice, though. He hadn’t noticed how sticky and damp it was sticking to his skin until it’s gone, and he has to shiver harder when the air in the room hits his body, but it– maybe, feels nicer. Odysseus takes a cloth from the little bedside table and swipes away the rest of the sweat.

“I could do that, you know,” Hermes murmurs, but his head half lolls on the pillow, and he isn’t sure he would have bothered.

“After everything you did for me, I’m ready to help wherever I can.”

Hermes hums, and gives up the conversation. Penelope tucks some of the linen back around him– not enough, not near enough– and makes sure he swallows a few mouthfuls of water before he dozes off. There’s scattered talk about the tincture, but he’s fading fast into sleep again. There’s something cold and wet against his forehead, but even that doesn’t rouse him enough for now.

He sleeps, with the same fitful dreams somewhat quieter than they had been before.

But the hours do not pass easier.

The doctor comes and goes. He knows that time is passing based on the man’s arrival and departure, but it’s lost between sleep and fever. When he’s lucid enough, he notes the displeased look on the man’s face as he skulks around.

There is always a wet cloth on his forehead, or neck, or arms. Someone is continually wiping his skin clean and cool, although he loses track which hands belong to who. More than once, he tries to dislodge the thing because of the cold, but it’s always replaced quickly enough he gives up on the fight soon thereafter.

The tincture– helps, maybe? and he’s given something that helps him sleep, too, but– it’s terrible. It’s the worst thing he’s ever put in his mouth in his entire existence, and he splutters and chokes as Odysseus apologizes and mutters empathy and understanding of the disgust aloud. He allows it to be spoon fed to him, though, because he’s terrified of how he’ll feel if he doesn’t keep on top of it.

Despite all, the cough gets worse. He’s sleeping sitting propped up on pillows in a position that makes his back and neck hurt more than the fever aches, and he still coughs and coughs and coughs. He curls around a pillow as his ribs strain under the pressure, and hacks up some truly disgusting, thick mucus that leaves him retching from disgust. Penelope wipes his mouth and offers him an herbal tea that tingles on his tongue to chase away the taste.

In another moment of lucidity, when he knows night has fallen outside of the palace, he drags his eyes open and finds Odysseus asleep there. He is slumped in one of the little chairs next to the bed, arms on the linens with his head pillowed on top. His lips are slightly parted. His hair is in his face. There are bags under his eyes, and his beard looks scruffier than before. He looks… worn out, he guesses, in a way that reminds him of how he’d looked on the journey. Hermes cannot imagine why.

A couple of days on– he thinks– he is curled up as tight as possible and choking through another coughing spell when he hears the physician’s anxiety given voice.

“At this rate, I’d suggest isolation. I’ve done what I can, but his symptoms are not abating. Because of this, I’m recommending– for your safety–”

“I’m not leaving him like this,” Odysseus interrupts. 

“My king, you and your lady wife are taking a risk with this unknown. Further, to risk the spread of it to the populace…”

Hermes makes an effort to stop trying to expel his insides so he can listen. Isolation. Spread. Is he really going to now be responsible for the spread of a plague across his great-grandson’s city? And barring that, how much more does he need to suffer? It’s been enough, surely… surely…

“We can isolate just as well as he can,” Odysseus says. “That aside, I’ve been with him most days since he arrived. If anything, I’m the one who has been exposed the most. If this is passing, the likelihood I avoid it is slim to none.”

Hermes clutches a fistful of blankets, trying to ignore a sharp stab of guilt.

“I’m not worried about that right now,” Odysseus continues. “I’ll stay with him. Penelope–”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says.

There’s a silence, deep and wary and communicative in ways Hermes cannot see. Odysseus does not argue, and the physician leaves him to their care.

The guilt swells unpleasantly. He wheezes into the blankets.

At one point, he catches sight of Telemachus sitting vigil outside of his room. He has since been barred from entering, he thinks, since he has not seen him since that first evening, but when medicine is delivered or water replenished, Hermes catches a glimpse of him outside in the hall. It’s… charming, in its way. The boy doesn’t know him. But there he sits all the same.

“I’m worrying your son,” he mumbles, in between Odysseus tending his fever or telling him of happenings since his return. He angles his head towards the door, because he doesn’t have the strength or energy to lift his arm to point.

“Ah.” Odysseus nods. “You are. But you’re worrying a lot of people.”

“Mm?”

“Me.” He picks up the cold compress. “My wife. My son. His mentor.” He quirks a smile, and presses the rag against Hermes’ bare wrist.

Has Athena been around? He hasn’t noticed. Making her worry? He must be dying. (Some part of him stirs uneasily at that thought, which feels silly considering he’s already faced death once before. But it makes his stomach clench all the same.) “‘m sorry,” he mumbles.

Odysseus pauses, and then continues, “don’t be.” He swipes the rag a little more firmly along Hermes’ arm. “Worrying for people we care about isn’t a burden, it’s a blessing. It always has been.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he complains, but the fever is taking him to dream again. He doesn’t hear Odysseus’ reply, and is only vaguely aware of the cold on his skin.

“What have you gotten yourself into now, Hermes?”

His head hurts. His thoughts are drifting. That doesn’t sound like Odysseus’ voice. It definitely isn’t his wife’s. His eyelids feel like lead and there’s a sour taste on his tongue. He wants to respond, but can’t manage anything past a muffled “mmpgh.”

“He isn’t improving.” Still not Odysseus. Still not Penelope. Not even that atrocious doctor.

“How long has he been like this?”

“Too long. Their healer was worried days ago. They were worried it might spread.”

“It’s not a plague,” the voice murmurs. “It’s stuck to him thick as tar, though. How did he get like this?”

“I thought maybe you’d know.”

A shifting of fabric. Movement. “I haven’t heard anything. It’s been… too quiet, on most things lately. You know how much I hate the quiet.”

“What about from you?”

“No. Ithaca has been flourishing and kind. No need for that. No need for this.” A hand brushes his arm, fingers curling around his shoulder. “It’s… jarring,” it admits. “Seeing him like this.”

“It’s not right.”

The hand hesitates. It doesn’t pull away.

“You know it’s not.”

“I never had much opinion about it, to be honest. It was background noise. Until you. Until him. Now we’re dealing with all of the fallout.” There’s a sigh, deep and uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t even be here. I’m not supposed to be.”

“But you came.”

“As soon as I could,” the voice murmurs softly. “I couldn’t ignore your message.”

“Can you help him?”

“Can I? Of course I can. It’s what I’m made for.”

“But will you?” the other voice counters.

“I… it’s what I’m made for,” it repeats gently. “As much for music as medicine. And I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t.” The plucking of strings, and a wavering tune that makes Hermes’ heart swell.

“Apollo?” he croaks, and tries to open his eyes again. What is his brother doing here, associating with him, of all people? It’s forbidden. He’s– he’s anathema, now. So, surely…

“Hush,” Apollo murmurs. The tune grows consistent, warmth seeping into his bones. It’s so quiet that he knows no one else will hear. But he does. He’s missed it a lot, he realizes. “Save your strength, Hermes. You’ll need it.”

He doesn’t disagree, naturally, but he’s still– mystified. He wonders if he’s dreaming. It would make more sense than Apollo visiting from Olympus.

The lyre goes quiet. Hermes makes a quiet noise in disappointment, because it would have been nice to fall back asleep to that, even if it was just a figment of his imagination.

But then there is the press of lips on his forehead, real and there and– gods, it really is Apollo. But why– how– Apollo leans over him, pressing his forehead flat against Hermes’. “Rest, brother,” he says softly, gently– warm and careful, like being wrapped in a cocoon of safety. The warmth of it trickles from his forehead to expand his whole face, slipping down to soothe the pain in his throat.

Hermes forces his eyes open in time to see Apollo’s bronze skin and unruly hair, and the glow of the ephemeral arrows in the quiver beyond his shoulder, before he pulls away. And then his eyelids are drooping again before he can even see the expression on his face.

“That’s… that’s all I dare to do, Athena. If I heal him instantly, it’s going to draw attention.”

“I know.”

“He’ll know.”

“I’m not asking that of you,” Athena murmurs. “I know.”

“This should help.” There’s still stress in Apollo’s voice. “But it’s… it’s all I can do. I’m sorry.”

“You came,” Athena interrupts. “You helped.”

“He’s still suffering–”

“And now you’re sharing in it.” Apollo goes silent, and Athena continues, softer, “even taking away a sliver of the pain helps, Apollo. Don’t let the guilt go to your head.”

“I’m an empath, Athena. My heart rules my head, always.” He sighs. “But I hope you’re right. Send the little one if anything changes. I’ll come back.”

“I will.”

“Just… keep me updated…? Please.”

“I will,” Athena promises.

Despite their conversation continuing to rudely disrupt the silence, Hermes has no trouble falling asleep once again.

Chapter Text

He wakes up with everything dreadfully damp, the blankets wrapped around him too tight with their wet. For a second, he wonders if another part of this body has failed on him when he has been drinking so little– but the clammy blankets are from head to toe, and his skin is slick with sweat. Everything is cold and unpleasant. He wants to kick off the linens, but his body still hurts, and he’s nervous to move in case the worst comes back.

He’s just trying to figure the next move when the door opens. There’s Odysseus, basin and rag in hand. He stops upon realizing Hermes is awake, but the worry cloying his expression lifts after only a short moment. “Your fever is breaking,” he says, closing the door behind him. “Hermes, that’s– that’s the best news we’ve had all week.”

A week? Has it been a week? Hermes wonders, but his head still hurts and he’s too soggy to be comfortable. “That’s good, darling?” he asks, squirming to get content.

“Hold on, let me.” Water slops over the side of the bowl in Odysseus’ haste to help him clear off the blankets. “Your– yes. Sweating like this is usually a sign the illness is improving. Not to say it can’t come and go in waves, but… this is good. I was– we were getting worried.” He dampens the rag with cool water, and starts to mop up the sweat again. Hermes lets him, relishing in the cool air against his bare skin and for not feeling freezing, for once. “No change isn’t necessarily a good thing. And it’s not as if we could really ask the gods to help.”

His mind drifts back to Apollo, his charming music and his head against his hair. It still feels like it had been a dream, but… if he’s healing… this is the most lucid he’s felt since the headache had started however many days ago.

“Hermes?”

He glances back. “Sorry, darling.” He coughs, but the pain in his throat is lessened. “I’m still not sure I’m all here yet, if I’m being honest.”

“I’d be surprised if you were.” Odysseus smiles, and it still looks worn and weary, but genuinely… relieved. Hermes still can’t get used to the unswerving kindness from the man, even now. “Are you still in pain?”

“Too much.”

“There’s enough of the tincture for maybe two days yet, if you want.”

He doesn’t, but the stabbing sensation around his ribs when he moves more than an inch says otherwise. He sighs, and squirms. “I think I’d better.”

He manages two swigs of the tripe, and chases it down with water that is cool and refreshing on his parched tongue. He drinks until he chokes over it, and spirals into another coughing fit. Odysseus’ hands hover uncertainly over his shoulders and against his back, and he still feels ill when he drops back into the pillows, wheezing for air.

Improving, hm. It’s a start, he guesses.

“It takes time to clear,” Odysseus assures him, taking his seat in the little chair again. “Sometimes like you wouldn’t believe. Eurylochus was sick for weeks on the sea, when we were trying to come back… I thought I’d lose him.”

Hermes rubs his chest, and does not point out that he had, after all.

“But you’ll bounce back,” Odysseus continues shortly. 

“Yes.”

“I can’t imagine much that would keep you down.” Odysseus grins.

“No,” he agrees, because not much usually does when you have wings. But extenuating circumstances.

“It’s good to have you talking, though. Everything else has been fever mumblings.”

He opens an eye from where he’s closed them both. “What’ve I been saying?” he asks, because he genuinely does not remember.

“Just rambling from the fever dreams.” Odysseus shrugs. “You’ve mentioned the pantheon. Family.”

The fever dreams… he vaguely remembers those. He doesn’t remember details, but just the… discomfort that had come with them. It isn’t a surprise if it had been about Zeus, after everything his father has gotten him into right now.

“Friends, I’d assume. And something about gardening plants, Pen mentioned, but I’m not sure if she heard you right.”

“Crocus,” Hermes breathes without thinking, a true mark that he’s absolutely, definitely still addled. Even this far from it, the Underworld had really left a mark.

Odysseus makes a noise of recognition. “That was it. Great Lord Hermes has a favorite plant?” he asks, teasingly. “I didn’t know that was in your domain.”

… it is, his favorite flower, that is. How could it ever not be? But no one knows its origins. They don’t know the man behind the meaning. “He was my favorite, yes,” he says, still unable to stop himself. His head throbs. His chest aches.

The teasing vanishes. Odysseus sits up slightly. “… ah,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

Hermes looks at him again, tilting his head on the pillow. “What for?”

Odysseus looks at him for a moment that is… once again too revealing. But the man has a keen mind, so maybe being read by him isn’t such a surprise. “I recognize what loss looks like,” he says shortly. “I know that pain too well. And I know the scars it leaves behind. So, I’m sorry.”

… asides from Apollo, Hermes is very aware that’s the first time anyone has said that to him about his old love. Strange. His throat does still hurt, after all.

“You didn’t know him,” he mutters.

“I don’t have to. He was your friend.”

Hermes laughs, once. “‘Friend’ is such an underwhelming term. He was… well, I can’t say he was my everything, he wasn’t because I’m a god. But ‘friend’ is… deeply inadequate, darling.”

“Ah,” Odysseus repeats. He can see the recognition on his face. But he knows all about the allure of having a love, too. Even though such asinine words weren’t something Hermes had ever used to describe him and Crocus.

No response is immediately forthcoming. Odysseus does not ask. Which is just as well, because Hermes has no desire to tell. But he’s surprised the question does not come. “Has your wild curiosity been tamed since I last saw you?” he asks, pushing because– because he doesn’t know. “Your son would have asked by now.”

But Odysseus shakes his head. “I’ve seen enough nightmares, Hermes. I wouldn’t ask of you to relive yours.”

“Oh.” He sighs, and looks back at the ceiling. “I must still be sick. Even Tiresias doesn’t get me this sentimental when I’m wrapped up in his bed.”

There’s a clatter as Odysseus nearly upends the bowl of water. “I– Tiresias,” he repeats. “You– you’re friends with that prophet?”

“Still inadequate,” he remarks. “But of course I am.”

“Ah– I– he, he didn’t mention.”

“I’d be surprised if he did. He’s a private creature when it comes to his own life, Tiresias.”

“I’m… well, I don’t remember my time with him fondly,” Odysseus admits. “He set me on a path that I– well, a path that wasn’t good.”

“You were already on a path,” Hermes interrupts. His throat is still aching. He’s getting tired again. All this serious business is making him exhausted and he hasn’t moved anything besides his mouth. “He just told you what was coming.”

“I don’t mean to offend–”

“You aren’t offending me, darling, I loathe the prophecies, too. But don’t blame the rain for being wet, I suppose.”

“No.”

“We all have our parts to play.”

“I know.”

“And trust me,” he says softly, but with a little more amusement, “he’d be happy to be less involved, if it were up to him. But it isn’t.”

“No…”

“It never is,” Hermes says with resignation, and shares a look of understanding with his great-grandson again.

It takes three more days before the sickness recedes enough for him to be convinced he’s on the mend. That first day, he sleeps long enough– and deep enough– he wonders if he’s missed out on a visit from Hypnos in his unconsciousness. He remembers chatting with Odysseus, and then Penelope later on, but he sleeps a lot. The second, he feels more of himself enough to try and be out of the bed he’s been confined to, but he’s still impossibly weak and his body shakes if he’s active longer than ten minutes. On the third day, after a little more food and the last of the pain dampener, he manages to trundle outside to get some air. The sunshine feels blissful on his skin. The air smells wonderful. Ithaca is beautiful. Life is improving once again.

He’s only being a little melodramatic, honest.

“I’m not actually going anywhere, darling,” he says over his shoulder. “You don’t actually have to supervise me, you know.”

Athena smiles ruefully, stepping out from behind the tree opposite him. “How long have you known I was there?”

“You can’t hide from me. We’re cut from the same cloth.” He plucks a grape from the little tray of food Telemachus had scrounged up for him when he’d seen him up and about. “Remember?” He pops it in his mouth, leaning back against the tree trunk.

“I remember.” She crosses her arms and looks down at him. “You look better.”

“Yes,” he drawls, selecting a block of cheese. The honey is sticky on his fingers. He looks back at her. “I have you to thank for that, though, don’t I?”

She tilts her head.

Hermes laughs. “You brought Apollo. I saw. I remember that much, at least.”

“I didn’t bring Apollo,” Athena retorts. “I just… sent an owl. I thought he might know more than Odysseus could. The fact that he was willing to help was an added bonus.”

“You knew he would help.” He licks his fingers. “You knew he wouldn’t be able to look at one of us so sick and not help. He’s Apollo.”

Her lips twitch as if she’s fighting a smile, and, of course, she knows all about tactics and strategy, after all. But she doesn’t smile all the same. “Ordinarily… yes. Lately, everything’s up in the air.”

“Everything except me,” he sighs. Then, looking up and past her, to the city beyond, “thank you, though. It was miserable. I was miserable. I’m not one for owing a favor, but I will repay this situation. Somehow. You have my word.”

“I don’t need it, Hermes.”

“All the same.”

“Save it for Apollo. He’s the one who risked it all to visit you.”

“I’m saving his for later,” he agrees. “When I get the chance. Did you tell him his miracle did the trick?”

“I sent the owl.”

“He’s gone back, then?”

“As soon as he left, I’d imagine.”

Hermes nods. “Well, if you talk to him again, tell him I said ‘thank you.’ You’ll probably be in touch sooner than I will, which is honestly just disappointing for the god of messages.” He tilts his head towards the clouds, even though Olympus is days away now. “I’ll tell him when I get back, too, whenever that is.”

“Have you…” Athena hesitates, and he looks back at her curiously. “Well. Have you tried appealing to Father about it?”

“Am I still sick? Is this still a dream?” He snorts, fixing her with a stare. “Who are you and what have you done with Athena?” She rolls her eyes, and he settles in more comfortably against the tree. “Please, darling, I don’t beg for anything.”

“I said that once, too,” she points out.

“That’s different. You were fighting for something. Someone. This is just–” He gestures vaguely at himself.

“Would you fight for your immortality?” She tips her head. “Would you beg, if that would get you back to above?”

“I…” Well, putting it like that… “I don’t know. I wouldn’t be keen on it. And he’d have to come to me. I wouldn’t go to him like you did. I’m not confrontational like all that. But if– when– he summons me… I don’t know.” He shrugs. He doesn’t want to think about it, because it would be stupid to. It’s too soon. And he’s spent almost more time in the Underworld than he has in the living realm still, so he’s pretty sure half of it hasn’t even counted. And… it scares him, a little, the idea that his father might turn him away again. But he isn’t going to focus on that right now, either. “Besides, isn’t all of that selfish? Begging for something for myself?”

“You are selfish, Hermes,” Athena says bluntly, looking supremely unimpressed, and Hermes’ laugh echoes around the trees, and grass, and winds.

A bird delivers a message the next evening, a quick, fluttering thing that soars across the sky and makes a beeline straight for Hermes. He’s wary at first, although he doesn’t duck like the others do. It isn’t an owl or a crow, two associations he knows best, but he holds out his arm all the same. If it’s something important, he can’t avoid it forever. At least, he can’t avoid a determined bird forever.

But he recognizes the scrawl on the scroll attached to the bird’s leg with a happy heart. The parchment still smells faintly of damp and brimstone. He unfurls it as the bird plucks at his hair, and happily scans Tiresias’ one sentence message.

Glad to see you’re feeling better.

“No, you don’t, darling,” he says with a grin, the age old joke and genuine amusement in his veins. It’s been so long since he’s gotten a proper letter from Tiresias. He almost has to wrack his brain to remember the scrawlings, but it’s a simple message. At the end of the day, it’s not terribly convenient for either of them, but he is gently amused to be able to have the fallback available just for now.

“What?” Telemachus asks, peering over his shoulder. “Is it from my father?”

“Begging your pardon, darling,” Hermes retorts. “Didn’t they teach you not to look at people’s correspondences?” He doesn’t mind, not really. How could he, when the boy has been treating him as family since he’s arrived? Maybe a little too much like family, interested in his private things… but he applauds the curiosity and the mild penchant for being nosy, really. He reminds him a little of himself at his young age, even if only a little.

“It’s just scribbles.”

Hermes laughs, stroking a knuckle against the bird’s head. “His penmanship might suffer, but it’s not that bad, all things considered. It’s from a friend in the Underworld. He was blinded,” he explains. Look at this. A teachable moment! He brandishes the note. “So when he writes, if he writes, which is really quite rare, anyway, he uses simple symbols instead of words. He taught me to read it a long time ago.”

“Like a cipher?” Telemachus asks, squinting at the lines.

“Yes! Like a cipher,” he agrees, and tucks the note away because he will not be teaching this method of communication. “Obviously it doesn’t help if someone wants to be in touch with him, but, I think there’s a bit of etchings? That he can feel.” He waves his fingers. “Usually if I’m the one getting the message, I can just pop right over and we can have a face to face conversation. Which, of course, I can’t right now. But he knows that, too, so I’m sure he doesn’t expect a response from me.”

“Huh.” Telemachus retreats, clasping his hands behind his back. “That must be rough.”

“Well, not for me, darling, I’m not the one who’s blind.”

“No, that’s– I just mean–” Telemachus blusters, and Hermes laughs.

“He’s really able to fend for himself. For instance, he’s very skilled with birds.” He smiles at the little creature on his shoulder now. “Their song. But of course he has prophecies all the time, birds or no birds, so he can’t see see, but can still,” he wiggles his fingers, “see.”

“Prophecies…” Telemachus echoes, and then looks at him sharply. “Is this the prophet from the Underworld? The one my dad met?”

“Don’t tell me he’s been spreading horror stories.”

“No,” Telemachus says quickly.

“Because there are far worse things down there, believe you me.”

“No, he just– he just mentioned. He hasn’t– he hasn’t gone into much detail with a lot of things,” Telemachus admits. “About him being gone. Mom says I need to be patient, because he’s been through a lot, so we don’t press unless he wants to share. But he mentioned trying to get help from the prophet. That’s all.”

“I think your father, bless him, is under the impression Tiresias didn’t help him. But I’m pretty sure he told Odysseus what he needed to hear. He came back. Clearly whatever he told him worked.” He shrugs. “It’s not any of our faults if our tasks are grim. We don’t actually want to make people hate us. It’s just not good for anyone.” And, contrary to popular belief, he thinks there is a way to kill a god: stop worshipping them. He’s not worried about it, for himself, or anyone he knows, really, but he has wondered about it before. Dreadful thoughts.

“My dad doesn’t hate you.”

“Of course not!”

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate your friend, either.”

“We are both pretty difficult to hate,” Hermes agrees. “I’m fun and Tiresias is maybe the most caring person I know. Hating either of us would be silly, but both of us would be a travesty.”

Telemachus laughs a little. Then he smiles, a gentle thing that looks so much like both his mother and father at the same time. “He– Tiresias– sounds like a good person. You talk about him like my dad talks about my mom.”

“Do I?” He tips his head. This keeps coming up, doesn’t it? He’d never thought about it at all before being made human. Then again, emotions have been an entirely different beast ever since he’d been sent here, so maybe it’s to be expected. “I don’t think anyone can match Odysseus for devotion, but… he’s…” He struggles, for a suspended moment. ‘Friend’ was inadequate, like he’d said before. ‘Partner’ seemed to imply a working relationship. ‘Lover’ felt entirely too obscene, even though they are quite good at occasionally handling that particular way of passing the time.

Come to think of it, he’d never had a word for Crocus, either. Nothing ever seemed to fit. So nothing has changed in that regard.

“I wouldn’t be without him,” he settles on, pathetically. “I wouldn’t know how, anymore. Which is honestly just sad.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Telemachus says, and Hermes feels himself– blush, maybe? Gods. “To love openly is a luxury. I think I’m a little jealous.”

Consider his curiosity piqued. He leans in. “Something to say, young prince?”

“No.” Telemachus huffs. “I just– my– I am the prince,” he blurts. “My future is already sealed. I’m proud of that,” he says fiercely. “I’m honored to walk in my father’s footsteps. But there’s– expectations. Proper ways of doing things.”

“Ahh.” Hermes nods, and pulls back. “The downside of royalty.” He hums, pleased to see Telemachus seems more pink in the cheeks himself now. At least he’s not the only one. “No time for fun.”

“Well, I make do.”

“I think the upside of royalty is no one will bat an eye at who you choose to pass time with.”

“That’s not true,” Telemachus mutters. “It just means they’re quieter about it.”

“Oh, fair enough.”

“And I– I want love like my parents have,” he murmurs, even softer, hunching his shoulders. “I– I want that. I can’t have someone ‘on the side.’ It would just feel… wrong, to have my attention divided when I could only openly be with she who would become my queen. It would be unfair.”

“Telemachus.” Hermes tips his head, grinning. “Do you like a boy?”

“No!” he protests, and he’s so very definitely red now. Strange. It’s not as though it’s at all unheard of. He has seen all sorts from the mortals, and his fellow gods. “I’m not– it’s not– that,” Telemachus stammers. 

Methinks the prince doth protest too much, Hermes thinks, more amused than anything else. But he takes pity on him and doesn’t say anything. Maybe this was what it was like to be young, too. He barely remembers.

“But the fact stands it couldn’t be even if it was. That’s all,” Telemachus finishes. 

“I think you might find maybe it could.”

“Not for me. Not with this family.”

“I think–” But he stops, laughing to himself. Look at them. Look at him. He wonders if every god that steps foot in Ithaca is doomed to take a mentoring role. He likes this kid a lot, but it really isn’t for him. “Have you talked to your mom and dad about this? Or Odysseus in specific, I guess. Man to man, and all that.”

“I couldn’t bother him.”

“Prince. Your father fought hells and high water to get back to you and your mother. Literally! Nothing you have to share with him could bother him, be it worries or desires or the pressure of all of this.” He gestures wildly to Ithaca. The little bird on his shoulder twitters and flies off towards the trees. They both watch it go, and then Hermes looks back at Telemachus. “Nothing you have to say would inconvenience Odysseus, or your mother. It doesn’t have to be your aspirations for love. But in general. He’s been through so much. But he would take joy in anything you need to share. I know that much.”

“I…” Telemachus looks slightly stymied, like he’s never thought of it. Surely he knows. Surely. After everything Odysseus had done. But, well… Hermes guesses the king isn’t the only one living with twenty years of trauma.

What a complicated mess this family was. 

He’s not upset about it. He’s kind of pleased to see it keeps running in the family and all that, really. 

“… you think so?” Telemachus asks softly, looking at him hopefully. Like a kid who’d grown twenty years seeking reassurance and who was only able to receive it from one parent. Yeah. Messy.

“I know so, darling,” he promises, completely certain in his answer.

Chapter Text

Tiresias is, unsurprisingly, right about one thing: time moves quickly once he’s settled in. 

Demeter’s springtime morphs into the heat of a sweltering summer on the sea far too quickly for Hermes’ tastes; he trades his clothing for lighter linens, and spends a lot of time languishing with Penelope in what relative cool there is. Sometimes it is on the beach. More often, it’s just at their home. His constitution, as it turns out, is good for absolutely nothing at all and the heat is no exception. One of the very first days he can see the heat haze rising from the cobblestone is the day he nearly swoons down a flight of stairs, and he tucks himself in the shade with chilled water and wine and again curses humanity for being so frail. Somehow, Telemachus and Athena still train everyday, and Odysseus spends an alarming amount of his time in physical work with his chest exposed or nearly bare in general. He pretends he does not mirror the look on Penelope’s face when the man passes by. He also pretends he does not see the smug look she gives in return.

He had expected, around this time, to feel the familiar itch of wanderlust again. He had not been necessarily ready for that, yet, as leaving Ithaca would involve willingly stepping back upon a ship, but when the summer heat rolls in, he finds any desire to physically move more than strictly necessary is sapped like the strength that the warmth wicks away. He’s lucky to leave the palace, nevermind the island.

But it’s funny. Even with the hot weather draining his good sense, he hasn’t really… felt like leaving. Which is funny, because he’s in the middle of a city, living in the lap of the kingdom, surrounded by people on all sides, and he’s always considered himself someone who valued his own privacy. He’s always thought he’s been a bit of a solitary creature, so long as he had the ability to visit friends when necessary. But take away that ability to travel at will, and… well, Ithaca is not home, but being with Odysseus and his family makes it feel like a good approximation of one, almost. He doesn’t want to leave these familiar faces behind. The idea is… unpalatable, to say the least.

As with family, he’s sure he’ll get sick of them eventually! You always needed a break from family at some point, trust him. He knows. But for now… Hermes is surprised to find he’s– happy, even this far away from Olympus.

It’s a strange concept. He doesn’t bother thinking about it too much.

No big news comes from home either way. More than once, Hermes gets a cool breeze in the most still of hot summer days and he can almost feel the brush of Aeolus’ little minions floating past his hair. Athena is in touch with Artemis and Hephaestus more often, so he usually gets any pressing information that way. He does see Iris on more than one occasion, apparently making good on Persephone’s musing on messages. She doesn’t acknowledge him when he waves enthusiastically from across the road, but the glance he gets as she parts is icy cold.

One day, Athena informs him that Demeter has seen her daughter back to Hades’ chariot, and Hermes startles to find that the season is changing again. It is still as humid and sticky as ever, so hearing that the trip back to the Underworld had taken place comes as a surprise. But harvest begins all the same. There are lavish celebrations as the season starts to turn. During one of them, Dionysus himself blends into the crowd. Hermes had been delighted. They had passed the festival night with fresh wine and the general raucousness that came with any harvest festival here in the mortal realm. He wakes up, somehow back in his room at the palace, with grape vines tangled in his own hair and a hangover to rival Zeus’ wrath itself.

It’s when the nights start to get cooler– as far as that goes– that he’s finally struck with the first real urge to travel. Less sticky days mean a mite more energy, and Odysseus had been telling him of pretty places beyond the sea that he realizes he’s never had reason to visit on his work. It’s an idea that he is genuinely considering braving the ship for… and then the rain comes. He knows it isn’t a personal slight, this time, as the rain always comes this time of year. He’s flown in it! He hates it! Uncomfortably damp ranging to full blown dripping buckets by the time he’d get where he was going! He knows this is a normal part of the seasons, but of course it’s because of Zeus. 

He says some choice words after a week of this. He isn’t the only one, either; rain was well and good, yes, but there was a time and place and a limit to the messiness. After a week, people’s anxious energy to get back to very non-rain related things is nigh palpable. And then the tension changes altogether again.

Late season illness moves in.

Hermes had already had his bout, of course, and he’s not happy to hear of it sweeping the city. But it’s… different. The anxiety of it ramps high as the coughing increases on the street. He sees less of Odysseus in the following weeks, and he’s usually always looking drawn and stressed when he does. There’s deaths, because there always are. Hermes shares a long glance with Thanatos when he passes him in the street. He doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t want answers to.

It’s never the right time to spring his departure on Odysseus when the man already has so much on his plate. Part of him thinks about slipping away into the night and just going, because he isn’t bound to this island or his great-grandson, but something roots him to Ithaca for the time being. Until all of this blows over, he tells himself.

Telemachus collapses two days before he’s due to set sail on a brief diplomatic venture himself. Hermes is the one who runs to get Odysseus, a lifetime of the ingrained urge to deliver messages, and he bursts out of council with him by his side heedless of the looks everyone else gives the two of them. This time, Hermes finds himself lingering outside of the prince’s sick room, hands twisting into his heavy cloak, and scuffing his shoes over the deep, hacking coughs from inside. Athena is there even more than he is. He never sees her venture further than the hall when she gives the family privacy, looking drawn and worn down herself. They trade on vigils, just so Hermes can persuade her to get some rest. 

Odysseus and Penelope, too. Unsurprisingly, he knows neither sleep, either. Even more unsurprisingly, the queen falls ill not long after her son.

Hermes is pretty sure Odysseus doesn’t sleep at all, after that. The nagging cough he rasps into his own arm seems to go entirely unnoticed as he tends to his family.

Hermes continues to catch glimpses of Than here and there. He still doesn’t dare to stop him to broach the question he doesn’t want to ask. But the worry is straining his patience on the matter, and he worries about what he’ll do if the answer isn’t one that he wants.

Yes, Odysseus and his family are just more mortals. He has seen lifetimes come and go. But it’s different now. 

He’s just like Athena. He’s turned soft, too. 

He’s sitting outside the sick room when there’s a clatter and thump from within. He’s barely on his feet when Athena throws the door open, looks at him, and says “get the doctor.” He catches glimpse of Odysseus’ prone body on the floor, and he runs.

(He’s good at that. Now that he’s used to things like ‘general walking’ and ‘not being able to fly,’ he’s actually still good at getting from Point A to Point B quickly. He’s lithe and he’s small, so it’s already more simple to dart through the throngs of pedestrians, but he wonders if part of his affinity hasn’t stayed all the same. It is very useful, in moments of crisis like these.)

The doctor tells a woozy Odysseus that he’d collapsed more from overexerting himself than the illness; he had taken ill, make no mistake, but it seemed to be a much more mild strain than his wife and son. Maybe that’s not a surprise after twenty years of experiencing everything under the sun. He’d proven time and time again he was made of tougher stuff than anyone could imagine.

This time is no exception.

The family recovers. It’s a slow process, even slower than Hermes had experienced. Then again, Apollo hadn’t shown up to help. He always means to ask Athena if she’d been in touch, but it always slips his mind, and then when the dust settles, the three are on the mend.

Hermes is ever so glad. He drinks a lot of wine the night they get the all clear. The devil drumming in his head come morning is altogether entirely worth it.

And then, from there… he knows spring will be wanting to be on its way. Between the rain and the sickness and the general day to day in Ithaca life, almost a year has gone by. It’s funny… he still remembers Father telling him that he’d learn to see how much the mortals didn’t mind for their gods. How selfish and hurtful they could be. And he knows, has known that, but… honestly, after being here a whole year… he thinks he appreciates them now more than ever.

So, he’s young. Maybe he’s naïve. But it really hasn’t been nearly as bad as he’d expected.

Make no mistake, he’d still really like to go home. But… it hasn’t been terrible, here.

He eventually promises Odysseus that he will be back to visit once duty and leisure wear him down. He is promised hospitality and this home until he no longer needs it. And then he sets out for Taenarum, taking in the sights along the way. The cape is further, but it gives him a chance to explore on his own two feet. And it’s familiar to him, multiple times over. And if he can do something to not have to cross the river again as this self, he will gladly weather seasickness and rain and physical pain, or whatever else comes his way.

He arrives in the Underworld exactly on time– because there is no being late, when you were the one heralding the spring itself– and Persephone greets him at the gate. She kisses his cheeks and is still happy to see him, even after a year like this.

“Herald.”

“My lady.” He bows, and winks. “Unfortunately, as a lowly mortal, I require sustenance and rest before we set out again. My blisters have blisters!”

She links her arm with his. “Is this just an excuse to have time to seek a certain other someone out?”

“Darling, I have no idea what you mean.” He laughs, but when she ushers him off towards the familiar cave, he does not pretend he goes without excitement. 

Time has flown, but it’s still been a long year.

Unlike last time, Tiresias is not waiting for him, and that’s just fine. Hermes wouldn’t expect him to be. So he finds his way into his home with little fanfare, winding into the living quarters without waiting for an invitation. He is delighted to find him home, and can barely restrain himself from yelling across the cavern. He manages… more or less.

“Tiresias!”

He visibly flinches, dropping what briefly looks like a clay amphora before it shatters on the ground. Hermes feels a little bad, but– but then Tiresias is whipping around, head angled in his direction. “Hermes?”

“Did I startle you?” He peers at the mess beneath Tiresias’ feet. “Did I really surprise you? Didn’t you know I was coming??”

“I– I did.” He steps delicately away from the broken jar. “But I didn’t know the exact timing. I didn’t know it was today.” He cocks his head, and takes another cautious step. “So, then, I suppose you did surprise me, in that regard.”

Hermes laughs in delight, grabs Tiresias’ hand, kisses the back of it, and spins him around. “Will wonders never cease!” he crows, as Tiresias stumbles to get his footing, clutching at Hermes’ wrist. He looks pleasantly swept along for the ride, and he is smiling as settles in front of him.

“You seem happy.”

“Of course, darling! I get to see you! Why wouldn’t I be happy?”

Tiresias laughs softly. “It’s good to see you, too, my friend.”

“No, you don’t see,” he teases, pressing his fingertip between Tiresias’ brows.

“Hermes,” he chastises, but takes his hand to pull it away. Then, he surprises him by pulling him in for a– for a hug, something so novel and unheard of, really– he can’t remember the last time someone had hugged him besides his family in Ithaca, and much less Tiresias, always more notably reserved and keeping to himself–

He wonders, really, how much Tiresias had seen through him last year. He had enjoyed his stay in the Underworld immensely, but he had been rationalizing the change, and trying to put up a good front about it more than usual. He had thought he’d been faking well, but… well…

“Ah.” Surprise aside, he’s quick to throw his arms around him, too, because it’s warm and charming and he’s missed him. He stifles a laugh against his neck. “You have missed me!”

“I have missed you,” Tiresias agrees simply. The hand splayed at the middle of his back brushes at his hair. He makes another vaguely startled noise. “Your hair is longer.”

“It is!” He agrees, as Tiresias’ fingers follow the length. It’s just below his shoulder blades now, which is maybe the longest he’s ever had it. Honestly, he hasn’t thought about cutting it, just because it hasn’t been whipping in his face with flight. “I’m giving you a run for your money!” He isn’t, not really, because Tiresias’ is down past his hips, but the point is he could if he wanted to.

“Give it another year,” Tiresias agrees, and pulls back. “And then we’ll talk.”

“I’m sure we will,” Hermes says, warmly, because if nothing else is certain in these uncertain times, he knows that much at least is true.

The escort from the Underworld goes smoothly. He does not necessarily have time to stay, so it’s two nights of rest before he and Persephone set out. She tells him of all of the happenings in the past year– nothing too drastic, as per the usual– and he tells her all about Ithaca because she had been the one to tell him to go in the first place. She acknowledges the lost souls from the winter sickness, and teases him about Odysseus’ state of undress in the summer.

“You are hopelessly enamored by that man, aren’t you?” she wheedles.

“I’m really certain I don’t know what you mean!”

“We saw him,” she says, “when he was here. Hades knew, of course, but we didn’t deem it necessary to be involved.” She side eyes him. “He is very attractive.”

He gives up the charade. He is hopelessly bad at biting his tongue. “He is,” he agrees, thunking his head on her shoulder. “I mean, it was never serious, you know, but I didn’t stand a chance when he turned down Circe. And Calypso. The man’s too devoted to his wife!”

“Such a shame,” Persephone teases, petting his hair.

“Tell me about it!” he laments, but grins at her as he pulls away.

Honestly, after the past year with the family, he’s learned perfectly well why Ody’s loyalty is as strong as it is. Penelope is a sweetheart, after all.

He does not venture close to Olympus as they part ways. Demeter does not come to greet them, so he sees Persephone off on his own and does not stay after she goes. He does not make for Ithaca, but for an adventure instead.

He might not be a god right now, but travel calls him back all the same.

He visits cities he’s never stopped to look twice at before. He tries various finger foods and wine and overindulges in the gluttonous part of being human more than he knows he rightfully should. He seeks out sites of importance– whether for beauty, or divine presence– that the mortals point him to. He leaves offerings at the temples of his kin. 

He’s surprised to meet Apollo at one of his sanctuaries on one such trip.

“You’re here!”

Apollo blinks, wide eyed at him. “Hermes??” And then rushes over, tucking his lyre beneath his arm. “What are you doing here? Are you well?”

“Very much, after that assist in Ithaca the past summer. Thank you, by the way. That was miserable.” He tips his head, and looks at the great pillars. “Just paying my respects.”

“We all miss you.”

“Do they?”

“I do,” Apollo repeats, sounding stubborn. “Most of us do, I think. It’s just… difficult. You know?”

Hermes grants him a weak smile. “I know, Apollo.”

He clasps his arms and presses his forehead to his like they always have to show affection, and they pass some time in the sanctuary even though Hermes is very aware his brother is probably still risking his grace in Zeus’ standing by being here with him at all.

He wanders across the country as the temperatures heat up again. It’s mostly sightseeing, which he appreciates a lot more than he’d thought he would. But more often, he starts to encourage mischief in every place he visits, because it’s fun, and familiar, and it fuels him in ways he hasn’t felt in some time.

There are parts of himself that he can still reach. Causing trouble around these patches of the mortal realm helps more than anything else has, he thinks, to make him feel a little bit more like himself. He thinks he hadn’t really let himself focus on how much he’d really been missing, outside of the obvious.

When his meandering inevitably takes him close to the sea, he is shocked to find Poseidon lurking beneath the water. Like, clearly it’s where he’s meant to be, but the fact Hermes happens upon him is wild coincidence.

Or maybe not, considering they’re a considerably safe distance from Ithaca.

“How does it feel to be spurned by our god king?”

Hermes laughs, weighing the heft of the stone in his hand. “Darling, you are not one to talk,” he remarks, and tries to send the stone skipping across the water.

Poseidon scowls, sinking lower in the waves.

“At least I was spurned by our god king. You were outsmarted by a human one.”

“Insufferable Greek.”

Hermes drops the remaining stones with a thunk and splashing of water that drenches him to his knees. He fixes Poseidon with a stare. “Leave Odysseus be, no?”

Poseidon sinks even lower, only his scowl and endless waves of shifting hair visible above the surface of the sea. “I can’t meddle any longer even if I wanted to.”

“Oh? Did Zeus come for you, too? Did you get a talking to??”

Poseidon mutters, which is about answer enough. But Hermes can’t help poking the bear. It’s so much fun, especially after everything.

“Or are you just scared of my great-grandson?” he goads, leaning closer.

The wave of salty tide that crashes over him knocks him clean into the ocean himself. He laughs, even as he chokes and struggles his way back to shore, because he knows– without a doubt– he absolutely deserved the swim.

Honestly, he’s kind of surprised how many of his godkin he meets just traveling. Because travel is not a new thing to him, and he’s always been out and about since nearly his conception. But then maybe he’s always just been moving too fast. Now he can spot his fellow deities in the wild, doing their own things… and here he’d been thinking some of them didn’t do anything at all. (Jokes! Mostly.) 

He spots the beginnings of Ares’ influence in a ramshackle town on the verge of collapse, and the god of battle and bloodshed lingering watching at the bar. More than once, Aeolus’ little creatures appear to him from the wind itself, even though his friend does not pay a visit in person. They rarely like to leave the sky, Hermes knows, and doesn’t blame them at all. Hecate’s magic weaves through cities in the darkest of nights; he tries to steer clear of her gazes, but he’s always caught in one or three all at the same time. Nike oversees the most raucous of victorious celebrations. Eros is always watching with his chin on his hand and the most satiated expression on his face when those parties turn to nights of bodily passions. One night, he shares conversation in a dream with Morpheus, a happy little thing where he can fly again and look down at the mortals from on high in Olympus. He does miss the view. He thanks Morpheus for being able to relive the moment in his dreams.

And then, when he gets tired of traveling– and he does, weirdly, in a way he’s never experienced, a heavy, nagging thing that drags his feet and bruises his heart and bones and soul– there’s Ithaca. It’s never on a schedule. It’s always when he needs to rest, when he misses– not home, because it isn’t home, but familiarity. Conversation and meals. Friendship, and the daydreams of what could have been. Human things, but then… he is human, for now. He lets himself miss it, and he drags himself back to Odysseus’ kingdom.

Odysseus greets him with open arms, excited and happy to see him back. It’s funny, really, that the enthusiasm never wanes. Even Penelope and Telemachus always seem happy to have him. And Athena– when she’s on the island the same time he is– well, she’s Athena, and he loves her dearly, and he’s always happy to see her when he can.

And one day, their father will be tired of this little game, punishment, whatever you wanted to call it, and he’ll be summoned back to Olympus and all will be put right. He doesn’t have a doubt. But that day is not today. If it takes longer than he’d necessarily thought… he’s coming to peace with it. A little slowly, but all the same.

One thing’s for sure, though: if this little trip down was meant to discourage him from using his divine power for humans… it isn’t really teaching a very good lesson in that regard. If anything, being around them so much has only endeared them more to him. He will not be sharing that little morsel to his father whenever the time comes, because he likes this place but he still very much values Olympus and would very much like to have his divine abilities back, and then he can go back to playing with both sides at once with no one the wiser again.

After all, he thinks, thunking his head on his pillow, he is still a master of cunning and mischief.

A road will lead him home again. He’s sure of it. 

Until then, he’s in a luxurious bed with the finest linens, surrounded by a pretty city filled with gorgeous people and endless opportunities. He hasn’t gotten bored yet, and there are plenty more paths to travel until then.

Hermes yawns, rolls over, and settles in again.