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Summary
Throughout his life, Joe Hills had always been ‘other.’ When the Hermits summarised their rag-tag group, they mentioned their hybrids first, then the humans, the eternals — many of whom could be more accurately catagorised as gods — and then, tacked onto the end, Joe Hills. He had, or rather, as the Hermits tended to put it, was his own category. It was… an interesting position to be in. To hear the Hermits ask: “Where did he come from,” “How could he do all the supposedly impossible things that made up his average Tuesday?,” “What was he, really?” Questions he had no answer for. He tried not to let it bother him. Tried to let the questions roll off him like raindrops down a mountain. Except — here was the thing: Raindrops hitting a mountain weren’t exactly inconsequential. Over decades or centuries, they made their impact. Carved their lines into the cliff faces, collecting into raging rivers at the mountain's base. Slowly chipped away at the peaks until eventually there was nothing left. Of course, this wasn’t happening to Joe! No, not at all! He was just being dramatic — breaking into prose at random was just a consequence of being a poet, as Cleo liked to say.
Or: The Hermits get into trouble. Joe has to fix it.
Series
- Part 11 of M's Season 10 Hermitcraft Fics
- Part 1 of Sundown AU