Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A moment alone to breathe is a rarity when one is the god of so many disparate things. Even rarer when one’s personality doesn’t seem ever built to have rest on its radar, let alone its desires. But every so often, just occasionally, Hermes, god of rushing and doing and never-stopping, needs and wants a second to himself.

The clearing he chose was in a thick forest, the nearest road several miles away, the nearest mortal settlement even further. A waterfall rushes down a rocky outcrop, bringing the river from up high nearer its crisp mountain spring to spilling past the forest floor. It is secluded, shaded, and quiet. Not things you would ever think to associate with Hermes. But there he sometimes sits, and is there now, dipping his aching feet in the crystal water, Daedalus boots tossed forgotten beside him along with his messenger bag. His small tortoise Chelly wanders slowly from plant to plant, taking tentative munches of fresh growth. The leaves rustle, the water burbles, birds and insects chitter, and there he is. Leaning back on his palms, facing the sky, dappled sunlight pouring through the leaves to tickle bronze Olympian skin with Grecian midsummer heat. Content for a moment to be still and just breathe.

He wouldn’t be here long, he never was. There is lots to do, always more than he can seem to cram in under a turn of Apollo’s chariot, no matter how fast he ran or talked, much to the distaste of everyone he has to interact with. And he couldn’t win. He knew if they saw him now, in this blue moon moment of calm the backhanded comments would be too much to bear. He wrinkles his nose in distaste, almost able to hear them. "I don't think I've ever seen you so still!" "Nice to know you can slow down." "Why aren't you like this all the time, don't you know how exhausting you are to be around?"

There is only one person he might ever consider telling about his occasional slow moments. Someone also prone to the methodical, the steady and deliberate. Someone created separate from the panic and hurry of mortals that Hermes seems to have been plucked from, but rather moulded by the timeless and ancient.

Eyelashes flutter open to dispel the thoughts before their visage can be conjured in more detail. He doesn't want to sour this moment of quiet reflection with that. The relentless ache of unrequited feelings.

He watches a sparrow flutter from branch to branch before disappearing into the thickets of the forest. Time is getting on, he supposes, and is about to make a move to get up when he feels it. A slight chill descends upon the clearing, and a sudden unnatural quiet.

Gods can tell when something supernatural is near. It is palpable, an almost solid weight in the atmosphere. When nearing Olympus, the thin mountain air becomes thick and heavy with divinity, pouring out over every gilded surface, glinting in the sunlight. Hermes knows what power feels like unencumbered and free flowing. How it sparks out of the fingertips of heroes, and settles softly like dewdrops in the hair of nymphs.

This? This was different.

It was like being surrounded by a dam, thousands of feet high, with no way to know how much was being held back, the tsunami or the trickle. A strength obfuscated, disguised, but there; hidden under veils, yet unmistakable.

Hermes tenses as he looks around carefully.

The silence moves on like a wave, and he channels as much of Artemis’ behaviour to himself as he can to stay stock still as the sun seems to leak back into the clearing.

All seems well; the river burbles, Chelly tears a leaf from a stem.

He almost relaxes, but his ears pick up a rustling in the trees, a little too close for comfort. He eyes the treeline nearby, just a few feet back from him, which is the source of the disturbance. It could just be something small, of course, a few centaurs, perhaps a witch. Or it could be an irate, bloodthirsty Chimera, something hulking and furious, and Hermes, although caught in a moment of rare relaxation, was not about to become known as God of Waiting-Around-To-Find-Out.

His eyes flicker over the routes of egress from the clearing, confident of course that he could get away unscathed if needed from just about anything, mapping the best way to grab his bag, Chelly, and his caduceus and get out of there in less than the blink of an eye.

He holds his breath and readies his calves to spring up as the rustling leaves move more and more violently, a shadowy shape pushes through the foliage straight towards the clearing and the river. Whatever it was is drawing closer, the low thrum of that strange hidden power intensifies, Hermes flexes his fingers ready to fly, the darkness gets closer until finally the branches part and out steps…

A man.

Calling him just ‘a man’ though seems disingenuous, as Hermes is immediately struck by how this is the most beautiful man he has ever seen. Like a statue from the temples has come to life and stepped down before him, skin milky pale like marble and hair black as night that tumbles in long shining tresses down his shoulders to his broad, muscular chest. His cheekbones are high and defined, his face long with thin lips and a straight nose. And his eyes, such a pale yellowed brown that they glint like golden glass, and they are wide with surprise at seeing Hermes, dark eyebrows lifted high.

“Lord Hermes?” the man breathes, and Hermes fully shudders. His voice matches him perfectly, a tectonic bass, smooth as dark honey, sounding like he has harnessed the slow-turning molten core of the earth into the deepest, most alluring tones Hermes has ever heard.

Hermes leaps to his feet, suddenly hyper-aware of himself, stepping towards this man who has intruded so brazenly.

“Who are you?” Hermes demands, fluttering up to hover above the man, looking down directly into those gold eyes.

The man blinks up at him, long black eyelashes kissing his cheeks, eyes even wider as Hermes floats above him, haloed by the midsummer sun. He is letting his divinity show fully, put off and slightly embarrassed at being found this way, lazing in a clearing like a common tree nymph. The man blinks again, eyes wider as if suddenly remembering himself, and immediately falls to his knees, hands flat to the earth, head bowed in complete submission to Hermes’ godhood.

“My Lord, swift son of Zeus, pardon my interruption, I meant no disrespect,” the low voice rumbles, tone soothing and apologetic, “My name is Porthmeus. I have long sought you out, but truly never imagined I would find you.”

Oh, great, Hermes thinks, just another mortal desperate for blessing, albeit a gorgeous one.

“What is it you want, mortal,” he sighs irritably, landing before the kneeling man, “do you have missing cattle? A wife who cannot conceive? Or a message for another god?”

Porthmeus lifts his head to gaze up at him, and Hermes has to look away from the Adonis currently kneeling supplicant before him.

“No, my Lord. I sought you out for no blessing or boon.”

Hermes glances back to the man.

"What?"

Porthmeus' gaze is soft and adoring, "I desired just to see you, Lord Hermes. To lock eyes with you, speak with you, learn about you. If you would permit me, to know you."

Hermes falters, caught off guard.

"M-me? Well, um, look, I'm flattered, but I have places to be and things to do so unless it's something specific or urgent then I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you, mortal," Hermes turns and hurriedly flutters back to his boots, pulling them on before scooping up Chelly from her idle snacking.

Porthmeus’ perfectly symmetrical face falls slightly, but he recovers quickly.

"Will you come back this way again, ever, my Lord?" he asks, as Hermes grabs his bag and caduceus.

Hermes turns to survey the still kneeling man. Sunlight brushes against his black hair, causing it to glow almost blue, hands clasped in front of him in prayer, making his thick arm muscles tense. His unblemished perfection is magnetic to look at, hypnotic and enchanting, a strange dichotomy against what he wears, a simple dark brown chiton with a basic leather belt and worn leather sandals. Like Ambrosia presented in a plain wooden cup.

Despite himself, despite never admitting his movements to mortals (or even gods) ever before, Hermes finds himself answering truthfully, disarmed by golden eyes.

"Maybe," he shrugs, "I happen by here every once in a while. My tortoise likes the leaves."

Porthmeus stands with one hand over his heart and, even from afar and despite his Olympian heritage, Hermes knows with feet on the ground, this mortal would tower over him.

"I pray our paths cross again, my Lord. If only so I may look upon your majesty once more."

Hermes' face warms from the praise, looking at the man with puzzled furrowed brows. Porthmeus lacks the usual look of mortal worship in his eyes. He seems.. less frantic. More sincere. Regular worshippers have wide wild expressions, filled with a mixture of fear and disbelief, pleading with Hermes for his blessings or wisdom. This man's eyes are filled with an almost relieved look of affection. Something not borne of the usual reverence given to the gods, but softer. Patient and deep.

Hermes can’t bring himself to say goodbye to this creature of beauty, and instead speeds away into the forest, leaving golden trails of light in his wake.

Porthmeus remains on his mind much longer than any other mortal who had crossed his way in years. Humans rarely seek out the gods for anything other than their own benefit, the answer to their prayers, petitions to the higher powers for aid or advice, blessings and miracles. They never wanted to just.. Look at a god. Be near them. What was it Porthmeus had said? If he was permitted, to know Hermes. No mortal wants that. Even Aphrodite, when they would plead just to see her, they find looking is not enough, and they always want more. If Hermes is honest with himself, not even other gods seek each other out for unselfish purposes. To be immortal is to know you will have eternity to learn anything about your peers, it somehow keeps things surface-level.

Of all the praise and worship he has ever received, fervent intercessions and sacrifices, it has never been with a view to dive deep into his soul and learn, know, understand.

As he soars over the mountains, the man's face stays prominent in his thoughts. Handsome beyond fairness, almost Olympian in his stature and appeal. Pale skin, that long black hair, and those sparkling blown glass eyes. Like a paper thin shard of tigerseye catching a sunbeam. His arms and legs had been muscular and strong, his brown chiton that swept over one broad shoulder revealing the swell of a chiselled pectoral and a sharp prominent collarbone, then stopping midway down thick thighs. Neck slender, cheekbones sharp, hands large...

Hermes pauses on a treetop and rubs his face with severe annoyance. He knows he’ll end up going back much sooner than intended, and hates that he hopes to see this strange man again.

He has a spare few minutes, he supposes, filing away the latest messages to Zeus from the current King of Crete. It couldn't be long, but the inquisitive tickle in the back of his head hadn’t abated after his first meeting with the man in the clearing, days ago. Hermes sighs, eyes darting to the horizon.

Just for a second, he promises himself, just to check. He probably won’t even be there again at all.

He hates how as he approaches the clearing, it starts to soothe some strange curiosity in him, and as he arrives the sun is setting, painting every flower and leaf with an amber glow. He lands silently on a tree branch overlooking the clearing and glances around, checking the edges of the treeline for any sign of a person. He lets his eyes scan slowly (or slowly for him at least) over the ground. And then he nearly falls from his branch.

How he didn’t notice him before, Hermes doesn’t know. But there he is. Sunning himself in the fading golden light, lying back with his arms behind his head, eyes closed, expression serene.

Porthmeus’ black hair spills out around him onto the flat stone he lies on, like a mirror of pure night around his pale face.

Hermes had convinced himself his memory had fooled him. There was no way the man was really as beautiful as he had thought, telling himself that on their first meeting the day had been long, he had needed a rest, and his mind played tricks on him. Perhaps from thinking too often of a certain tall, silent companion.

But there he is. Every piece of him is as Hermes had seen it the first time, sculpted and perfect.

Hermes doesn’t realise he has been leaning closer to get a better look until the branch taking his weight makes a loud creaking noise, wrenching Porthmeus’ eyes open to look directly up where Hermes perches over him like a golden sunbird in the trees.

It almost hurts to watch how the man’s expression melts from shock to the same relieved adoration, as if his whole world sits in the tree with Hermes. It’s an expression Hermes has seen rarely in mortals, and only ever to each other. Wives, as their sea-faring husbands step safely from their vessel. Fathers, as their sons return from battle, weary but unharmed. Mothers, as their daughters first visit again after marriage, knowing somehow that they have been treated with kindness. The expression of a mortal heart tortured by waiting and worry falling back into the bliss of griefless love.

“Lord Hermes,” Porthmeus calls, sitting up onto his elbows, “I didn’t expect you again so soon. Will you join me?”

Porthmeus offers up a hand to where he sits high in the tree. Hermes cannot refuse.

He flutters down and goes to take the hand that is offered, letting himself be guided down to sit beside the man. As their fingertips brush, Hermes feels it again. The strange power that’s being disguised, kept at bay, fizzing through Porthmeus’ skin to his own, and with the greed of any Olympian, he lets his own power try and seek it out, tendrils of divinity trying to seep through the dam.. But he is stopped wholly and completely. Left simply holding a mortal’s work-worn, blood-warmed hand, as he sits beside him on the riverbank. The power had shut him out somehow, returning to a simple background hum, something easily overlooked. Had he not felt the strange disturbance before Porthmeus had stepped from the trees in their first meeting, he might not have even ever noticed it at all.

Hermes withdraws his hand, eyeing Porthmeus curiously, whose expression remains unchanged, caring and soft.

“What was your name again, mortal? I forget,” Hermes lies, feigning disinterest.

But Porthmeus takes it graciously, giving him a soft smile as he presses a hand to his own chest and bows his head, “I am Porthmeus, Lord Hermes, at your service.”

Hermes hums and drums his fingertips against the stone they rest on, “I remember now. The one who wanted nothing.”

Porthmeus laughs lightly. The sound matches the timbre of his voice perfectly, low and resonant, strangely soothing.

“Well, while you are here, let me ask nothing of you again,” he says, “Tell me, Lord Hermes. Are you well? How have you been since we met?”

Hermes almost chokes and sits up straighter, “P-presumptuous, aren’t you mortal! Speaking to a god like that. You’re lucky I’m not one of my siblings, they wouldn’t be so forgiving.”

Porthmeus tips his head slightly to the side, letting midnight tresses tumble past his shoulders. As the sun dies and catches the gold threads in his eyes, everything about him is arresting. The man says nothing and does not apologise for his overstep, gaze still trained on Hermes’ face. It's all so curious, and Hermes is intrigued, drawn to give in to this strange request.

“Well,” Hermes admits, “I have been well. Much to do, as always, some of it fun, some of it not so fun.”

Porthmeus smiles and lies back again, hands behind his head.

“Tell me everything,” he asks, looking up at Hermes with eyes that glitter with wonder.

Hermes does.

By the time Hermes leaves, the moon is high and bright in the night sky, full and flooding the clearing in silver. He has told Porthmeus of all his recent duties, the messages between the gods he has been rushing around, which princess has caught Zeus’ eye this time, he tells him of his great deeds and his smaller mischiefs, about his disparate callings and how they have needed him recently. A shepherd lost in the mountains returned safely home. A thief stepping lively through the crowd to disappear with a pouch of jewels. A woman, travelling wearily through the mountains, heavily pregnant with a child that he had blessed her and her husband with. An orator, calming relations between kingdoms with his mastery of two disparate tongues.

He pulls deep joyful laughter and quiet contemplative silences from his companion, who all the while watches him closely, basking in the very sight of the god as he flutters energetically around the clearing, never still, telling his stories while skimming stones, walking on his hands, flying in laps, climbing the trees, or sitting down just to leap to his feet again. The man never lets him out of his sight.

“And what did they think of that?” Porthmeus laughs, as Hermes imitates a vicious dawn duel he had interrupted, using his lies and quick wit to get the men to cease their quarreling, talking them in circles.

“Oh they were furious!” Hermes replies, still brandishing a stick like a sword, “They were so incensed by the end that they threw down their weapons to chase me back to the town, wanting to beat me senseless for wasting their time!”

“So did they catch you?” Porthmeus teases.

Hermes throws the stick aside and clutches his chest, “Sir, you wound me, am I not swiftest of the Heavens? Am I not the only god you know who could outrun anything, let alone two middle-aged mortals, so exhausted already by my own antics that a stiff breeze would have knocked them down?”

Porthmeus’ laugh is deep and infectious, and Hermes collapses to the ground, smiling widely as the man wipes a tear from his eye.

“My apologies, son of Zeus, how could I have forgotten one of your myriad domains,” he continues to tease, turning to lie on his side.

“You are forgiven, but only just,” Hermes replies, lying back in the grass.

As he has spent these hours here, various pleas and demands for his time and presence have prickled lightly at the back of his neck, as they always do. Now as the moon threatens to begin setting, they are distinctly uncomfortable.

“I should go,” Hermes admits, sitting up.

“Ah, I understand,” Porthmeus replies softly, “I have kept you from your duties far too long. Thank you, Lord Hermes, for indulging me this night. It has meant everything to me.”

Something in the man's tone, his sad smile and gentle words, are strangely final. It seems to Hermes like Porthmeus is saying goodbye, as in a serious goodbye, one of those mortal ‘and they never saw each other again’ goodbyes, and for some inexplicable reason his heart aches at the prospect. This has been the most fun he’s had in years, even if it is with a mortal. And so, he lets his heart control his tongue.

“Will you be here when I come by again?” he asks, quietly.

The man's face lights up, and Porthmeus’ sigh of such sincere delight makes his stomach lurch.

“Oh, my sweet Lord, I absolutely shall.”

"There you are, Lord Hermes, finally. I have need of your assistance," Athena rises from the desk in her grand chambers to approach him.

"Thought so, that's why I'm here!" he replies, flying up slightly to be in her eyeline.

"Take this," she presents him with an ornate scroll that he dutifully places in his bag, "A pious hero in a small village in the south of Messenia, I am sending him word of his calling. A monster bears down on the towns from-"

"From the foothills, a cyclops eating everyone's cattle, generally causing a ruckus, this is his first test among many, yep, I got it!" Hermes interrupts, grinning wildly.

Athena purses her lips.

"Thank you, Lord Hermes," she replies, tone clipped.

He's about to dash away when she frowns slightly and adds, "Have you been waylaid in the Underworld, these last few hours, brother? I was not able to sense you anywhere."

He pauses, wings fluttering, "No, nothing of the sort, actually."

Athena hums thoughtfully, surveying him closely, "Very well. You are dismissed."

Hermes mocks a good-natured salute and tears away in a streak of golden light.

How odd, he thinks, something was obscuring him from the eyes of Olympus? But what?

As he flies across the sky like a comet, his thoughts go even faster, rapidly approaching the conclusion that perhaps Porthmeus is not as mortal as he appears.

His next stop is one he both adores and dreads in equal measure.

The doors of the Temple of Styx loom large and intimidating. He knows what waits on the other side.

Pushing open the doors he dashes in. Best to get this over with, he thinks, despite the deep-seated desire to stay, chatter, and, as much as it pains him to admit nowadays, annoy.

"Hello my towering associate!" he calls, rushing over to the water's edge.

Charon looks up from his pouch and nods, groaning a polite welcome.

The firelight in his singular purple eye is still a magnetic draw to Hermes, loathe to look away as he begins prattling on about his day so far.

"Athena's chosen a new champion for the southern coast," he chatters, scooping out shades from his bag and pouring onto the dock, watching as the wispy threads grow back into shimmering human forms, all of them wearing the same confused, forlorn expression, "There's some big monster lurking in the sea, you know, so she's testing him with just small things at first, a cyclops here, a giant boar there, to see how he does. I don't think he's got it in him, just saw the lad, scrawny as anything and utterly terrified! Probably only about 13, but his devotion to Athena and concern for his fellow townsfolk caught her eye unfortunately. That's where they go wrong, I think, all these mortals clamouring for our attention, then being shocked and horrified when we give it! A true case of them not knowing what they're asking for, I think if I was a mortal I would keep a low profile, only pray a little, you know?"

Charon lets out a short hum, not even glancing at Hermes during all his talk, concentrating solely on the shades, taking their coin, leading them into his skiff. Hermes flutters around him uselessly, slightly closer than usual, even more desperate for a look, a glance, an acknowledgement of any kind as he barrels on about this or that.

But Charon remains committed to his task until the last shade is aboard.

Only then does he turn to Hermes, but just to tip his hat and rumble out a farewell.

"O-oh, yes of course, see you again soon," he replies, floating back from the docks to watch Charon board and begin paddling away.

He lets himself stay, hovering over the temple's ancient floor, waiting until the small boat is out of sight, the shadow of the Ferryman becoming lost in the darkness of the Styx.

Hermes lands and stares out into the dark maw of the Underworld. Charon hadn't even looked back. Sometimes he will, and Hermes will get a blessed little extra view of his glowing eye as he waves lightly or tips his hat again.

Those times are fewer and fewer recently.

Hermes had never meant for this to happen. When he was assigned the role of psychopomp alongside everything else he has, he thought it would be just another task, something that he delighted in rushing through, the thrill of another job complete.

Then he met Charon. Of all the things he had been warned about the Chthonic gods, dour, aloof, judgmental, single-minded, he hadn’t expected everything Charon turned out to be. Funny, quick-witted, gentle, and oh, so kind. And all these things while being so achingly, eternally alone.

Charon hadn't spoken to someone who had understood him fully in aeons. It had shown in how at first he would greet and bid farewell to Hermes with just a simple hum, while Hermes had chattered incessantly as always, asking questions of his looming associate even though he would never answer, avoidant even of his own deep grumblings. It had been a challenge for Hermes for years, making sure to craft questions that required only a single groan in response. A fascinating puzzle for the God of Languages, for whom no mortal tongue was unintelligible, eking out meaning until he could see through the purple smoke of each grunt to the intent hidden inside, content for a long time to give much talk without any answers in return.

And that had been all very well and lots of fun and all, opening the gateway to trying to make Charon laugh (first to see if Chthonic gods had a sense of humour, gods knew Hades must have had his surgically removed, and then just because he liked the sound) and getting some flashes of his personality out of him. Until.. Well it had all rather hit Hermes at once if he's honest.

It was the last shade out of his bag, he remembers. So many years ago now. He’d had to shake the bag to cajole the poor thing loose. Hermes took no joy in reaping her soul, the first time he remembered cursing Thanatos for claiming he wanted none of the violent ends. He had found her alone, killed by bandits on the roadside for the crime of seeing them steal her family's cattle. Dumped in a mountain ditch far away from town. Her family would never find her, he knew it just from seeing her. When her shade materialised from the bag she was flickering and blurry, and still so small.

Hermes had watched as she stumbled along at the back of the crowd, and when it came her turn to face Charon, he had to look away. She hadn't been buried. She had no coin on her eyes and tongue to pay for passage. Hermes knew what it meant. A hundred years’ stay on the shores of Erebus, wandering and alone.

He'd seen it before by that point. The poor and the hated, how they would panic and plead with Charon for crossing. Hermes knew better than to argue with rules more ancient than his whole family, and had always kept silent, a step back as Charon dealt with these frantic souls. Sometimes in desperation the shades would slip into the Styx to try and swim after the skiff, until they were pulled under into the waves, to become part of the roiling waterways, never to emerge again. Better to wait the hundred years, Hermes had decided.

But then Charon had made a quiet grumbling noise and Hermes had dared a look. The ferryman was kneeling by the shade, one huge hand on her spectral shimmering face. Giant grey fingers slipped from behind her ear and produced a single, shining, golden coin. Her ghostly giggles echoed in the temple as Charon handed her the coin which she promptly tried to chew on. Charon had then opened his big palm towards her and for the first time, his grumbles were words to Hermes’ ears.

To me, child. There is love and safety where I will take you.

She had handed him the coin, and was scooped up to be deposited gently on a seat in the boat, tiny legs kicking.

Charon had looked at Hermes, put a finger to his lips, and rowed away.

He stands on the same spot on the wooden slipway then as now, watching the place where Charon had been, smaller and smaller as the Styx bore him along. From that point it had all fallen into place. The strange mutual understanding between them, their first real secret, it broke through like the bow of a ship until the extent of the ancient god was revealed. Charon the quiet rule-breaker, his seamstress sisters be damned. Charon the shrewd merchant, trader of banned Olympian and surface wares to the shades who cling to their earthly comforts. Charon the bodyguard, beating back monsters from the bank of the Styx with a single effortless swing of his oar. Charon the brother, telling stories about raising his myriad siblings from success (Thanatos) to not so much success (Eris). Charon, the gossip, leaning close to hear the latest of Olympus’ schemes and the mortals inevitably swept away alongside it, and replying in kind with the rumours plaguing the House of Hades. Charon the hoarder, the gems and gold and silks of kings finding their way somehow to his steady grasp. Charon, smelling of incense rites and glittering like his riches. Charon, the companion who would listen, consider, reply, and indulge his chatty newcomer. Charon his associate. Charon his fast friend. Charon, friendly, funny, fastidious. Charon, beautiful and terrible, firstborn child of Night with the burning eye. Every facet of him. Until Hermes was, without a doubt, more in love than he ever thought one god could be.

He tears his gaze from the yawning dark and flies away.

Chapter Text

“So I’ve been thinking about it,” Hermes declares, landing gracefully beside where Porthmeus rests, eyes closed, with his back against a tree, long legs out straight with the ankles hooked, “I think I’ve figured out what you are.”

Porthmeus cracks open one eye and looks up at the flighty god from where he sits, raising one eyebrow and letting the slightest quirk of a smirk spread over his lips.

“Me? Why, Lord Hermes, I am honoured that I remain on your mind in between our meetings.”

Hermes’ face sparkles with a bright golden blush, “I don’t- I-!” he stutters before huffing, crossing his arms and pointedly looking away from the teasing look on his compatriot’s face.

When he looks back to Porthmeus, the beautiful man is chuckling lightly, resting his head on his hand, propped up by the tree.

“I jest with you, Lord of Swiftness. Come, tell me what you have learned, I wish to hear it.”

Hermes drops to sit cross-legged before him.

“You’re a demigod,” he declares proudly,  “The thing is I just can’t figure out whose. You’re not of Zeus, his spawn are insufferable, he reveals himself to them always far too early, making them cocksure and utterly dire company, I’ve never wanted to kick someone as much as I wanted to kick Heracles. You’re not of Poseidon, his ones have a certain bloodthirsty streak to them you wouldn’t expect, Theseus and Procrustes and the like. You’re not of Athena or Artemis, I can’t begin to imagine a mortal with enough metal in their blood to take one of them on in courtship. You’re not Ares’ you don’t look right for it, those scarlet peepers give it away rather. You’re not Dio’s, you’re relaxed, but it’s not the right kind. You could be Aphrodite’s because you’re so-” Hermes clamps his mouth shut, hot golden blush returning full force.

Porthmeus chuckles again, “So what, my Lord?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Hermes squeaks, “But you must be a demigod, I’m sure of it.”

Porthmeus’ eyebrows raise and his smirk breaks into a knowing smile, “You’re close, I suppose,” he replies, settling back against the tree.

“You won’t tell me who, will you?” Hermes wheedles, “Or even if I’m right?”

Porthmeus closes his eyes again as the warm sun brushes against his face with dappled light. Hermes stares, transfixed by the sight, eyes darting frantically around his face, drinking it all in without the embarrassment of being perceived in turn by those light gold eyes.

Porthmeus’ eyelashes are long, and his eyelids are thin, making them turn a light bluish purple from his blood underneath, like he’s wearing a thin powdering of dried nightshade. The cut of his cheekbones and nose could have been severe, but the soft smile Porthmeus always has makes him approachable, inviting, deeply handsome. Hermes lets his eyes flicker further, to his soft, shining hair as it flows down his chest, some of the long strands catching in the gentle breeze across to Hermes, sat close enough that they tickle his skin. The man’s shoulders are strong, seemingly from years of manual labour, betrayed also by the thickness of his arms, with red veins he can see weaving through pale skin down to his fingers. Hermes’ own fingertips twitch as he tamps down the stupid fleeting thought to reach out and take Porthmeus’ hand in his own.

“No, I don’t think I shall tell you,” Porthmeus speaks suddenly, interrupting Hermes’ internal conflict and causing the little god to look back at his eyes, which are now open and surveying him, “It is much more interesting to watch you try and figure it out.”

Hermes pouts, “Unfair! I can keep a secret, you know, in case you’re hiding from someone or something, if you don’t want your godly parent to find out where you’ve run off to. I can protect you.”

Porthmeus’ gaze and gentle smile claw at something deep in Hermes’ chest, “What a blessing,” his low tones soothe, “You honour me.”

Hermes picks at the grass beside them and shrugs, “It’s nothing, it’s my job, you know? Herald, messenger, traveller, keeper of secrets and stolen things.”

Porthmeus tilts his head slightly and speaks quieter, “Truly, you must have stolen many things in your time, sweet Lord.”

Hermes’ face warms again and he shuffles awkwardly, fiddling with the blades of grass between his fingers.

“Well, if I'm catching your drift correctly, then yes I suppose I've had some fans in my day, which of us Olympians hasn't?” he shrugs. 

When he looks up again, the expression on Porthmeus’ face is curious. Faraway. Forlorn. 

“You've changed the subject, though, my good man,” Hermes teases, desperate to bring cheer back to his face, “I can hold any secret you need, find you safe passage elsewhere. Wherever you live near this clearing won't protect you forever, the gods have eyes everywhere, you know!” 

Porthmeus smiles again and Hermes is soothed by the sight of it. 

“My origins are of no threat to me, my lord, they harm none and are not a puzzle to concern yourself with. I promise I am in no danger.”

Hermes is a curious god, much to many others’ distress, he so wants to keep picking and pushing for answers, but Porthmeus’ tone is final, kind but firm. As much as Hermes can tell that there is something strange going on when he catches a glimpse of it through their touch, maybe his demigod theory isn’t right? In a crowd of mortals, apart from his height, his build, and his beauty, Porthmeus would be completely at home, indistinguishable. His blood seems red, his fate string seems taught, and what’s more mortal than that? The flickers Hermes feels, the well of power the man seems to disguise, it could be anything. A strong blessing as a babe? A protection spell? The favour of another god? Hermes pointedly ignores the bitter twist of jealousy in his gut at the last one.

But Hermes can almost always tell a lie, and his insistence that he’s in no danger seems genuine. If Porthmeus won’t share the secret, Hermes will have to respect that, as infuriating as it is for him. He will be left knocking on the wall of the dam of hidden magic, listening for answers on the other side, until Porthmeus decides to let him in.

“For now, however,” the man sits up and turns fully to Hermes, eager eyes sparkling, “will the God of Orators be so good as to tell me more of his stories?”

Hermes enters a strange kind of routine from then on. Fulfilling his duties at record pace, he uses any free moment to return to the clearing, drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Sometimes, Porthmeus is there already, sitting beside the river, intently watching the fish or the sky. Sometimes he will arrive and after a moment the man will appear again from the edge of the forest, like the first time they met. Sometimes, Hermes will wait a while, yet remain alone, and he will speed away, desperately suppressing disappointment.

When they do meet, the ritual is the same. Porthmeus will bow deeply, they will sit together, and Hermes will talk (and talk and talk). He tells him about almost everything, the only thing he omits to speak of are his visits to the Underworld. He tells himself it's because it's uncouth to speak about death to those chained by mortality. If Hermes were honest with himself, it would be because this fair man is an antidote, a distraction to his state of mind after those visits below. Porthmeus is beautiful, obviously, but Hermes hasn't sought out company like that in a long time, the instances of it becoming less and less the more he realised what his heart was saying. The more time he can spend with Porthmeus not thinking about his misplaced affection for the grim boatman of the dead, the object of his true desires, the better for himself, he reasons.

Porthmeus still looks at him with the deep adoring reverence from the first time, though, listening intently to all Hermes has to say. It's an easy ego boost, a pleasant buzz against the chasm he feels leaving the Temple, bag light without shades, heart heavy with reality. 

Not to mention Charon has been less talkative recently. It used to be that upon his arrival, a bright burning eye would grumble greetings and request to pick up from last time on whatever tale Hermes had been weaving before, a minor miracle for any god to get a word in edgewise before Hermes took off into speaking, and hadn't that been wonderful? No one else made Hermes lightheaded with just the prospect of conversation like that.

He remembers one special evening, talking even longer than usual, Charon resting on his oar while the shades cowered in the boat, watching on in fascination as the Olympian fluttered around, followed by a fascinated purple gaze and plumes of soft lilac smoke, both trading laughs and stories. Eventually Charon had looked over his shoulder, as if receiving a call Hermes couldn't hear, and sighed a huge plume of purple smoke, annoyance palpable. 

I am being summoned, Charon had grumbled.

“Oh, yes, I see,” Hermes had landed and scuffed his feet on the marble, looking down, embarrassed, “Sorry to have kept you, associate, I best be off and get out of your hair.”

Then, a huge hand had rested on his shoulder. Cool and dense like metal, and looking up he met that eye, burning with mischief. 

No, the ancient god proclaimed, they can wait.

By the time Hermes left, they were both unforgivably late for their next task. He closed the doors of the Temple and leaned back on them with a great lovestruck sigh, resting his hand where Charon's had been on his shoulder, committing the feeling of the boatman's touch to memory, those thick fingers, clad in gold and rough with work, that deliciously heavy palm. The way it ignited the feelings in his chest, warming his face and setting his heart racing, every piece of him buzzing with childish delight and sweet longing.

But now? It feels more like it's back to the beginning, Hermes the Olympian upstart chattering Charon's ear off while the stoic being moved about his business, unperturbed by the noise. Hermes worries it’s because he knows somehow, about how he feels. Maybe it was obvious, the way he lingers to chatter, the extra unintentional fluttering of his wings and eyelashes, hovering close, watching Charon with rapt attention, drawn to the way he moves like a huge body of water. Black robes flowing, deliberate and unstoppable, leaving Hermes circling him like a kingfisher, eager to dive right in, spear his beloved’s heart like an arrow and claim it as his own. He doesn't hide affection well, he concludes, thinking of how he laughs too loudly at Charon's grumbled jokes, always fighting the urge to give a playful touch or flirtatious wink, doing a poor job of wrenching his eyes away when a glimpse of firm grey forearm or, gods forbid, sculpted bicep was on show, catching sight of the glint of gold of further jewellery the ancient being wore under his heavy robes, making Hermes’ mouth run dry.

This easing off, perhaps it's Charon's way of letting him down without having to say anything. A step back from their closeness so that the tiny god doesn't get the wrong idea. A forcible cooling off period until Charon doesn't feel Hermes’ longing gaze burning into him while he just tries to do his job.

It makes attention from elsewhere a tantalising balm. To talk and be listened to, to have his energetic flurries indulged by warm gold eyes that are caught in a captivated stare.

The situation with Charon seems to get even worse as he lands and pours out his next haul of souls. He is talking away until one particular shade emerges, and Hermes laughs, clasping the spectral being around its shoulders. 

“Ah, now this one, I demand an extra special treatment for!” he jokes, causing Charon to turn and look, “this is an altar boy from one of my very own temples, do give him the best seat in the house, won't you, associate?” he winks, but Charon is stuck staring at the shade, “I feel it's deserved for all the years of being loyal to me, working the temple with offerings and prayers and suchlike-”

Hermes stops suddenly, jumping slightly as Charon stoops down suddenly to stare into the eyes of the cowering shade. 

“Hey there, boss, you'll scare him,” Hermes tries, ignoring the ugly flare of jealousy that this shade is so interesting as to get the stoic boatman's full attention. 

Charon's bright purple eye surveys the shade, boring a hole into its very being, and the soul begins shivering in fear, turning to cower into Hermes’ arm where it still wraps around him, seeking refuge in the god it is so devoted to. 

Hermes can't puzzle out the look in Charon's eye, it's a fascination he's not seen before, like this shade has utility above others. His jealousy grows, alongside his Olympian nature to defend a true follower of his, and his jaw aches from holding back a comment, unsure if what would come out would be a haughty reprimand or an infatuated plea. It’s been so long since Charon’s let Hermes be this close to his face, backing up slightly every time he flutters forwards, and he’d almost forgotten how enticing that skeletal face was, shrouded by the wide brim of his hat, smoke catching on it and spilling upwards, thin grey skin pulled taught over the small amount of muscle on the bone, teeth all on display, cheekbones sharp as daggers…

Then, in an instant, the ferryman stands up straight again, returning to taking coin and ushering the souls onto the boat, but much faster now.

“Everything all ri-?” Hermes begins, letting go of his faithful shade who bows to him, but Charon, for the first time, cuts him off with a deep groan.

You may go.

The finality of his tone is like a punch in the gut. Hermes suddenly feels tiny and stupid. He's been dismissed, like he would be if he was a child.

No. Like he would be on Olympus.

“Right you are, boss,” he says bitterly, but Charon is already on the boat and rowing away. 

“Lord Hermes,” Porthmeus smiles up at him as he flies down into the clearing before bowing his head deeply as Hermes lands beside him. 

The smile warms Hermes in a way he didn't know he needed, still raw from his visit to the Temple a few days prior, closed eyes plagued by visions of a sharp face partially obscured by smoke that’s left the lingering smell of frankincense stuck deep in his nose. Immediately on landing, though, Hermes notices the man has something new, a small bag with him today. 

“What's all this?” he prompts, setting his own much larger bag down beside it, Chelly's head immediately popping out. 

As she emerges and beelines for a new patch of dandelions, Hermes considers how the fresh greens of this clearing have gone from an occasional treat for her to an almost constant bacchanalian feast.

“Ah this,” Porthmeus gestures to his tiny threadbare bag, it matches the impoverished quality of his chiton, “my Lord, it had occurred to me that I have failed in my proper duties and obligations to a son of Olympus.”

Hermes raises an eyebrow and drops to sit beside him as the man picks up the bag and opens it, holding it just so the contents remain hidden.

“I beg forgiveness, Lord, as truly I should have come prepared sooner, but these were hard to come by,” Porthmeus admits, carefully taking the items from the bag. 

He begins by revealing a small cloth, a piece of expertly woven silk, red with gold snakes embroidered around the edges. He lays it out flat on the sun warmed stone between them and produces the next item, a small ceramic jar of honey, engraved with bees. Next, another piece of cloth, which he unwraps to reveal a perfect loaf of fresh bread, placed beside the honey. Then a small bottle of red wine, and finally, an expertly carved wooden bowl, filled with bright wild strawberries that sparkle like rubies.

Hermes gapes at the spread, the quality of the food and wrappings is royal, worth its weight in gold he can tell. How did Porthmeus, clad in his plain, cheap clothes, come by any of this? 

Porthmeus misunderstands Hermes’  silence, taking it as a god unmoved by his tribute, and begins again, deep voice nervous.

“My Lord Hermes, are these not to your liking? Are these not the typical offerings of your worshippers? My apologies, I did not mean to offend.”

Hermes looks at the man, who is surveying the food with critical eyes and furrowed brows, considering what it could lack.

“Porthmeus,” he says, and the man looks up immediately, “these gifts are… luxurious. But this is too much, I can't accept it.”

Porthmeus looks crushed, and Hermes hurries to add, “They're just so expensive! And you,” he gestures to his clothes and Porthmeus looks down at his chiton with confusion as if noticing it for the first time, “Surely you're in need of that money? Listen, I'm honoured, hugely, but I could never take this, how will you afford to live?” 

“Ah,” Porthmeus nods in understanding, face breaking into a large smile, “my Lord has nothing to fear! I have eaten already this week,” he proclaims confidently. 

Hermes’ wings flutter in panic, eyes going wide, “This week?!” 

“Er…” Porthmeus starts, but is cut off. 

“You must be absolutely starving,” Hermes snatches up the bread, noting it is still warm, and begins tearing it into pieces. 

The crust cracks beautifully under his fingers, puffing off delicate clouds of flour as it reveals soft pale insides dotted with exotic seeds that steam lightly from its freshness. It's truly the finest loaf he has seen off Olympus. 

“Here. My good man, I insist,” Hermes announces, and he presents a large piece to his companion. 

“But my Lord, this offering was for you,” Porthmeus protests, leaning back from the brandished hunk of bread as if it will burn him. 

“You dare question the will of the gods?” Hermes teases. 

Porthmeus looks horrified for a moment and then catches Hermes’ smirk. 

“You win, God of Tricksters,” he laughs, taking the bread, “I shall indulge your Olympic whims.”

Hermes watches closely as Porthmeus surveys the piece for a moment, squeezing it lightly with his fingers and watching how the morsel gives under his grasp, turning it in the light. Then he takes a bite of the bread and the man's eyes grow wide with shock. 

“Blo- I mean, great heavens!” he stares at the piece with wonder, “This is.. I mean, I didn't..” 

Hermes laughs as he dips his own piece into the honey, “Bet you've never had anything so fancy in all your life, huh?” he winks before popping it into his mouth. 

Porthmeus blushes, first at the wink, and then deeper as Hermes fetches and holds out another piece of bread to him, this time dipped deep into the honey, leaving amber trails on Hermes’ fingertips. The man takes it cautiously and looks pointedly away as Hermes licks the honey from his fingers, giggling lightly.

Together they eat, and the spread is even more delectable than it looked. In addition to the delicious bread, the honey is sweet and so delicately floral it was like Hermes could still hear the bees working on it. The wine is strong and fruity, an expert blend with rich acidic notes and a long finish on his tongue. The strawberries are perfect, every single one firm and fresh, sweet with a twist of tartness. And in addition to all that, something that Hermes alone can taste in the food and drink that makes him almost dizzy. Devotion. 

Offerings are a source of great strength to gods, even in their domains with vast power at their fingertips, a tribute sharpens that power to a laser focus, full of deep magic that they can turn to aiding mortals in their distress. Hermes has gone by plenty of shrines and altars in his time, and the intention behind a tribute can be felt, seen, tasted. He's had many a pauper's morsel that taste rich and pure, imbued with the heart and soul of the believer. Stale rolls that rival a palace's fare, simply because he can taste their piety, the sincerity of the prayer, the depth of their belief. And equally, he's had rich and vain offerings, expensive meats and spiced wines that turn to ash in his mouth, given by the wealthy but with no faith. All selfish desire or offhand perfunctory ritual. No heart to it. 

This meal practically glows with reverence, every tiny piece of it is filled to bursting with the same look Porthmeus gives Hermes, that deep seated and pure desire to bathe in his company and his divinity, and not for any selfish reason. He can't taste anything in the food that would indicate Porthmeus wants anything from this for himself, no hidden prayer underneath for riches or blessing. It's the purest distillation of adoration Hermes has ever felt, and it sustains him in an equally pure and powerful way. The ichor in his veins thrums, head and heart full of warmth and life, it's such an intense feeling he's almost drunk on it, lightheaded and reeling, and as such Porthmeus, founder of the feast.. Well, Hermes can't keep his eyes off him. Even the mortal seems to sparkle slightly from the deep magic in this meal. 

As he watches him, Hermes has to hold back a laugh. Porthmeus indulges in every bite, eyes closed and humming with delight.

Hermes bites his lip as he watches Porthmeus sink his teeth into a strawberry, eyelashes fluttering and lips stained scarlet, making the god's mouth go dry. The poor man has clearly never been treated to such spoils before. Hermes swallows hard as a drip of the strawberry’s juice, red as blood, trickles down Porthmeus’ chin to the column of his throat. Maybe he should have been.

Later, when the offering-turned-picnic has been devoured, Hermes picks up the bowl which held the strawberries and inspects the engraving. It's of him, caduceus held high, one leg up mid-stride, leading a procession of both sheep and what seem to be shades, people-shaped wisps, towards a huge set of doors. 

“This is beautiful. May I keep it?” he asks. 

Porthmeus finishes swallowing his swig of wine from the bottle and nods fervently, “Of course, my Lord, all this was for you after all.”

“Thank you,” Hermes puts the bowl in his bag and then takes the wine bottle that Porthmeus is now holding out in offering, both smiling shyly as their fingers brush. The slight contact is electric, and Hermes feels it again, Porthmeus’ power, sending a single spark through before it is whisked away again.

He leans back and sips the wine, feeling pleasantly heavy and warm. Porthmeus shifts, turning to lie on his stomach with his arms folded in front of him, chin resting so that just the top half of his face is visible. His eyes are half closed, face flushed from the drink. 

“This has been wonderful,” Hermes admits, swilling the remaining wine around in the bottom of the bottle, “Best offering I've ever been left.”

He's not drunk but he's tipsy, from the meal. From the company. From the power. It makes him honest.

“Maybe the best day I've had in a long time, too,” he adds. 

Porthmeus’ eyebrows raise for a moment, before he blinks slowly, those black eyelashes fluttering. Hermes turns away to hide his blush, watching the water as it caresses and darkens the stones beside them.

“It's my pleasure,” comes the low, almost whispered reply. 

There's silence between them for a moment. Hermes dare not look back, he can still see those adoring, half closed eyes in his mind.

There's the sound of movement, and he feels the man get closer, but Hermes still doesn't look. He can’t. He shouldn’t.

“Lord Hermes,” Porthmeus says, voice still quiet, and it finally draws his reluctant gaze away from the river and up at the man.

Porthmeus is kneeling beside him, perfect in his stillness, stray midnight black hairs caught in the light breeze that moves through the clearing, fists clenched on his knees.

“Yes?” Hermes replies, softly.

Porthmeus’ eyes are searching his face, flickering across his features, taking them in with the same soft delight as always, making Hermes’ cheeks warm further. It’s strange but for a second, Porthmeus almost looks familiar.

“I am sorry, my Lord. To hear that this has been your best day in a while. I.. I hoped that your days were light, bright, busy with the burden of your works but equalled in mirth and feasting. Time with your worshippers. Your friends. Your lovers. To hear this isn't the case..” the man sighs, “I am sorry. Would that I could bring you more joy, sweet Lord of mine. Would that I could offer you more than a bite to eat and a sunny clearing. You deserve more.”

His gold eyes are gentle with sincerity and Hermes blinks, fighting the sudden lump in his throat. This beautiful mortal has surprised him at every turn, and now offers him this genuine plea. His eyes sting and he feels foolish. He, a god, with immortality and all the wealth and trappings of Olympus, with boundless power at his command, being soothed by a poor human, who dresses in plain clothes and goes without food. It's all wrong, upside down, Hermes should pity him, not the other way around.

But it's not pity, is it. Hermes can see it in his eyes. Has tasted it in the offering. Porthmeus just wants the best for him. He wants to pour out worship like a waterfall, sustain and surround Hermes like he's king of the gods, not their lowly messenger. Porthmeus wants what he'd said at the start. He just wants to see him. Know him. The third thing is unspoken, but clear.

He wants to love him. 

Hermes feels guilty as the man's gaze remains trained on him. Guilty for accepting all of this, letting himself be so spoiled by one man's infatuation with him, no matter how pure the intention. Guilty, then, that it's not what and who he really wants to be spending his time with. Like he's leading Porthmeus on, ignoring the ache in his chest to be somewhere dark and damp, listening to the steady pulse of an oar and rattling breaths. And finally, guilty that he will leave this clearing and resume flying to and from his duties, ever youthful, ever energetic, ever a god, while Porthmeus will return to wherever his home is, tied to the ground, in poverty, weighed down by his mortality and the short, brutal condition of human nature. Porthmeus is giving Hermes all he has. His precious, fleeting time.

Hermes wishes he could give something back.

Suddenly moved by an idea, Hermes reaches for the cloth that they had eaten from, shakes off the crumbs into the river, and bundles it up in his hands, pressing them together. 

“My Lord?”

Hermes just concentrates and presses tighter. The air around him begins glowing gold, sparking and glittering, and Porthmeus shades his eyes with his hand as the god’s pressed palms begin to emit beams of bright orange and yellow light, like Hermes has caught the sun itself.

When the light dies, Hermes opens his hand to reveal the red cloth, which now seems to shimmer with preternatural potential, eyes of the embroidered snakes strangely alive. 

“Take this,” Hermes declares, taking Porthmeus’ hand and pressing the cloth into it firmly, “This is the strongest of my blessings. You have shown your devotion, and this is the least I can do for your kindness, mortal. When you have this on you, some of my power is yours. You should find it easier to navigate your days with it, a quick rub and your luck will go in your favour, from haggling for food at the market, to running the odds in a dice game,” he winks.

“My Lord..” Porthmeus replies, breathless and blushing dark red, and Hermes realises he is still clasping his hand. He can't bring himself to let him go. 

“My Lord,” the man tries again, “Thank you. You honour me,” Porthmeus places his other hand atop Hermes’ and the god can feel the thrumming of distant power grow slightly clearer, like a shadow that steps closer as it drones low and out of sight.

For a moment. A beautiful, terrible moment, drunk on attention and affection, Hermes wants to kiss him. The shock of the thought makes him drop the man's hands like he's been burned, looking away and clearing his throat. 

Instead, he stands up and goes to pick up Chelly and his caduceus, desperate to escape his own foolishness.

“I'll see you again soon,” Hermes tells the man, who says nothing, sat completely still while he watches Hermes, face pink as he clutches the red cloth, “Be well. Stay safe.”

Porthmeus nods once, and Hermes takes off in a flash. 

It's apt that his next stop back on Olympus after his lunch meeting is a call from Demeter. He waits by her desk as she finishes a neatly written missive to one of her Priestesses. Young Kore, her daughter, lounges on a soft chair nearby, concentrating on a small plant in her hands that is slowly growing, budding pink and green in the evening light of Demeter's chambers. 

“Here,” Demeter hands over the note, tied with a blue ribbon, “quick as you can, messenger.”

Hermes files it away in his bag, “Of course, Lady Demeter, as always, you know me, I-!” he catches her pursed lips and single raised eyebrow and stops himself. 

He salutes and turns to leave, but his step stutters.

This could be a bad idea, but of all on Olympus, despite being harsh to the point of callousness, she could be his best bet. And asking the Goddess of the Seasons, it’s unlikely to start a wildfire of gossip, too.

“Speak, child” Demeter sighs, as he turns back to her again, face clearly doing a terrible job of concealing his query.

Hermes glances to Kore, then speaks, voice low, “If you please, good Lady. I had a question. About.. The lives of mortals. The love of mortals.”

Demeter furrows her brow and he worries for a moment she will ask him to leave.

“Kore,” she barks out, and the girl jumps slightly, “Play outside a while.”

Kore rolls her eyes, “Mother, I am-” 

“Now, Kore,” Demeter replies sharply, no room for argument. 

Kore throws down her plant where it withers away into dust on the marble floor, and flounces out. 

“Speak, Hermes,” she demands, when they are alone, and Hermes swallows hard. Maybe this wasn't the right plan. 

“I was wondering, if the good Lady would be so kind, about being in a relationship with mortals. How that.. How that usually goes?” his voice pitches high at the end and he winces, expecting her immediate anger at the question. 

Demeter looks away for a long moment, eyes low, and Hermes feels the chill descend, watching as his breath begins to appear before him in gentle white puffs while the temperature in the room plummets.

“One of them has caught your eye, then,” she says, and it's not a question, “They are so lovely, aren't they? Mortals? Some especially so.”

Porthmeus’ dark hair and gold eyes appear unbidden in his mind. His cheekbones and his smile.

He's pulled from his reverie by a freezing hand clutching his chin.

“Their worship is incredibly strong,” she says, eyeing him curiously as she tilts his head back and forth, “what did they bring you?” 

“A meal,” Hermes replies, muffled slightly from her massive fingers pushing at his cheeks.

“It was unwise of you to accept it,” she tells him, firmly, “you wear their praise like a cloak, Hermes, you are shining. It's obvious even here under the light of Olympus. I thought you had just been past one of your temples, but looking again..” she tilts his face more, glancing at his laurels and feathers which are giving off flakes of shine like golden moondust into the air, “This is much stronger than I’ve ever seen before,” she drops his face and folds her hands together.

She tuts as he blushes and rubs his face to try and warm it up again.

“Appreciate them, yes,” she continues, “Look upon them and their work, take joy in their joy, observe their rituals and their comings and goings, but Hermes,” her tone becomes icy, “You should never, ever begin a relationship with one.”

He knew this would be the answer, really. He doesn’t even know really why he asked. To be absolved of his sins by someone who has done the same? To be given a blessing to do what he always does anyway, act on instinct? But still, it tears at him, greedy and insistent. Must it always end that way?

“Never?” he presses, “Is it never worth it?”

“It's a fool's errand,” she spits, “They are here for the blink of an eye, and then what? You yourself, o psychopomp, steal them away to the Underworld and they never return, leaving a god’s heart broken and their bed cold. You love them for their lifetime, ruining them for other mortals, and in turn they ruin you. The strength of the adulation this one has shown you is especially dangerous, you would never find anything so strong anywhere else, it will be a fleeting addiction. Eternity is longer than you think, little god, to be without them, and the sustenance of their praise. It is a foolish and cruel thing to do.”

She stands and goes to the window, her colossal form casting deep shadows despite the encompassing aura of light that Olympus has. Hermes flutters closer and watches as she clutches the railing. She is staring out, gaze trained on Kore, who is walking down the edge of a fountain like a balance beam, slender arms outstretched, gold hair shining.

There’s a quiet crackling noise and he looks down. The railing is completely frozen, and Demeter’s grip is cracking the marble itself.

“Think of the day you realise you have mourned them longer than you knew them,” she continues, “then realise that will never end for you. Think of them aging, think of them dying. The conclusion fate draws is always the same. And though you fight with all your will and power, you will know. Know there is nothing you can do to stop it. Nothing!” she slams a hand down on the railing, making Hermes jump, and the marble crunch. 

His mind is full of visions, Porthmeus ill. Porthmeus aging. Porthmeus, dead. And worse, he himself whisking him to the Styx’s docks, handing him over to Charon. And for what? So he could avoid thinking about the Boatman in the first place? Paying the price of a mortal’s finite and precious days on his selfish whims. Then it would just be him and Charon again, together only through necessity of their shared task. Porthmeus would make no difference in the long run, not to him. But to the mortal, it would be everything he knew.

His face betrays him.

“Oh, little god,” she soothes, turning and placing a painfully cold hand on his shoulder, “I am sorry. Sorry for us both.”

Hermes looks out at Kore again, who is stood balancing on one foot. 

“I am not one for idle gossip,” Demeter continues, taking her hand away and returning to her chair, “but you have courted mortals before, have you not? What is different now?” 

Hermes cringes. She is right, there have been others but…

“None like this,” he admits, “Not ever.”

Demeter nods gravely.

“In that case, child, all the more reason to steer well clear. Consort with other immortals,” she suggests, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, “it's not like there aren't enough.”

“Thank you, Lady Demeter,” Hermes replies, desperately reigning in his crushed expression.

“And no more of their offerings,” she scolds, gesturing at him, “It's unbecoming of an Olympian to indulge thusly, let alone the danger of a fixation on such power. Understood?”

Hermes nods, sadly, feeling suitably chastised.

“Heed well my warning, messenger,” she adds as he lifts to take off, “or your fate is your own to face.”

He stops on the edge of Olympus, watching the clouds roll and tumble in the distance. His fingers rub over the rim of the wooden bowl in his bag, absent minded. He doesn't notice the way it makes his glow deepen, pink sunset light glittering over him like diamonds.

Hermes’ head is a mess for days. He knows he's been going to the clearing more because Charon is brushing him off. He knows the attention feels so good because he's being spurned elsewhere, but he can't help it. With each hello and goodbye at the Temple feeling shorter and shorter, it's like he visits Porthmeus just to spite Charon, which is stupid because the Chthonic god neither knows he goes there, nor would he care in the slightest that Hermes has a new mortal suitor.

And suitor surely is the word, the way he and Porthmeus flirt and dance around each other, with compliments, lingering looks while they think the other can't see, and occasional touches feeling like flashes of power that seem to arc the air between them like lightning. Demeter's words echo in his mind. Mortals are like candles to the suns that are the gods, their light is fleeting, and getting too attached is cruel, to them both. It robs a fragile mortal of having a meaningful love with someone of their own kind. It leaves a god with a grief they must carry forever. 

If he was a stronger god, a wiser one, he wouldn't return. He certainly wouldn't keep accepting Porthmeus’ many little gifts; things like a spectacularly vivid rooster feather, a river-smoothed pebble of marble with bright purple veins, and one special night, a gold armband, decorated with twisting snakes, inlaid with garnets. The gems had shone in the moonlight as Porthmeus had held his hand and slid the band slowly up his arm until it caught on the swell of his bicep. The trail of fingertips back down his arm as he pulled away made Hermes glow like dawn, flooding the clearing with gold, dispersing Selene's light and waking birds in the trees around them.

The pile of presents sits in the corner of his chambers on Olympus, hidden under a blanket, and in moments of weakness he will pull it back to lay his hands on them, just to feel the praise again, how it floods up his arms straight to his heart, making him shine so bright even his breath glitters as it exits his lungs, every atom spinning with prayer. It settles his heart, pushing Charon from his mind with the same ease the ferryman pushes from shore. 

But like the ferryman, the feelings always come back. Waiting on the shore of his mind with a glowing eye and a desire that burns sharper with each return. The distraction is just that, a momentary relief.

He is at a stalemate, swinging from sparkling highs to dull, aching lows.

Hermes thinks often of how the sweet attention on him perhaps means another mortal is going without, too. How Porthmeus could have any number of interested humans clamouring for him, someone he can build a life with and enjoy his days, not just a secretive rendezvous deep in the forest every so often. Maybe if there was someone else, he could do the right thing, cut off whatever this strange thing they have going on is, and lead him back to his town to pair up properly, fertility blessing and all. He tries not to think about the clearing returning to being somewhere he is always alone, about an eternity of watching Charon’s retreating back down the river, never looking back to him.

No matter which way he turns it’s all so unfair, and every outcome is a loss for him. Either way he will be alone in the end, it’s just about how much collateral damage he can stomach to take down with him in the process of choking his poor aching heart.

The sun is low with the clearing shrouded in dusk when Hermes gathers the courage to break the stalemate.

“Porthmeus,” he asks, “have you ever..” he clears his throat, awkwardly, “have you ever been in love?”

Porthmeus looks up from their card game (games of chance are something they can do together now Porthmeus’ blessed cloth levels the playing field rather) and blinks. 

“I have..” he says carefully, laying a card down, “Why do you ask, Lord?” 

Hermes hums noncommittally, “Just curious, I suppose. Another mortal?” he tries to come across as nonchalant, pretending to survey the laid out cards, not that he needs to, knowing he's won already. 

Porthmeus pauses, then nods. 

“Yes. Another mortal,” Hermes’ heart falls at the words, but the man continues, “They.. Did not reciprocate.”

“Tell me about it,” Hermes mutters without thinking, too busy trying to ignore the rebounding swell in his chest at the news that he had no competition for the man's affections.

Porthmeus blinks wide, “Surely you don't mean to say that you, of all beings, have been rejected, Lord Hermes?” he asks, disbelieving. 

Hermes winces, okay, he was doing this he supposes. 

“There is… Was. Someone very dear to me,” he begins, speaking slower than usual and choosing his words with surgical precision, “I don't think I have ever crossed their mind as a potential for anything more than what we already are.”

“I see.”

Porthmeus plays another card and stays quiet, giving Hermes space to continue if he wants. For once, he does not. 

“I understand, I think,” Porthmeus continues, “mine is similar. The lack of reciprocation, I feel that it makes sense. We are to each other what we are and my feelings could not change that. The circumstance we found each other in was similar, but no more.”

Hermes nods and lays down another card, “I get you. Just too different for it to really work out?”

“Too different for me to be a passing consideration, let alone a viable option. Even if they felt the same..” he trails off.

Hermes’ heart delights at the kinship they have on this, and lets himself be more honest.

“I understand. It can just… never be. No matter how much you want it. They’ll never see it, and if they did it wouldn’t work anyway.”

Porthmeus nods, “What a unique agony,” he says, “loving someone whose very nature is so at odds with your own.”

There's quiet again for a moment. 

“But you did tell them how you felt, right?” Hermes blurts out, suddenly. 

Porthmeus pauses in between moving cards in his hand. 

“No. I didn't,” his tone is slightly stiff.

“Well, how do you know it was really rejection then? How do you know they didn't feel the same, they were just hiding it, like you?” Hermes hopes his voice doesn't come across as hopeful as it seems to himself. 

Porthmeus looks sad. So very sad, as he rubs at the corner of one of the cards.

“I would simply embarrass myself, Lord, I'm truly sure of it.”

“But you don't know that,” Hermes continues, “You don't know unless you try, you never know, it could be mutual, and then you could be with them, be happy. You'd be better off that way, with them.”

Porthmeus meets his eyes. The unspoken ‘rather than me’ hangs in the air between them.

“You cannot square a circle,” the man replies, eyes sharp and voice cold, “You cannot mix oil and water. You cannot tear the weavings of the Fates. And they and I, we cannot be together.”

“But you never tried,” Hermes coaxes, “How can you be so sure?”

“And you, Lord?” Porthmeus asks, deflecting with grace Athena would admire, “did you tell them how you felt?” 

Hermes’ face warms and his stomach turns. He looks away. He thinks of curt goodbyes and the tip of a hat. The way it feels like his life is on two riverbanks, one where he flutters uselessly, reaching out for someone who spirits themselves away from him, the other where he greedily takes what he can get despite the impending doom. He thinks of breaking his silence. Ruining a professional association upon which the lives of all mortals, Porthmeus included, depends.

“Hypocrite,” Porthmeus teases, quietly, but there’s no bite to it.

The man is right. And as much as it sounds like an absolutely terrible idea, he feels the lightness of it. How knowing would mean healing. How knowing could mean he could return here with a clearer conscience.

Hermes watches carefully as Porthmeus lays down another card.

Knowing would be permission. To try something else instead, something other than hundreds of years of anxious longing.

To move on.

The man's expression changes, a sudden wide smile shining on his handsome face.

To love.

“I win,” Porthmeus declares, gesturing to the cards.

Hermes erupts into mock fury, cursing and demanding to see Porthmeus’ hand, accusing him of cheating. The man laughs loud and heartily at the little god's faux display, letting Hermes take his wrist and inspect his non-existent sleeves for extra cards. 

As Hermes watches the man's laughter he makes up his mind.

“Hermes, my man!” Dionysus greets him, upside down as he lies back with his head hanging off a chaise in one of the smaller feasting halls, surrounded by party goers “Looking good, brother, looking..” Dionysus looks him up and down, “Bright! To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

“Not staying long, Dio, just got a quick question if you don't mind?”

Dionysus sits up and grabs another kylix of wine, “Quick question? Man, I gotta ask, is everything always quick with you?” he winks exaggeratedly and nudges a Dryad sat with him, causing the group to titter and giggle and Hermes to blush gold. 

“Thanks for that one, little Bro,” he huffs, “Listen, how much for a bottle of Ambrosia? Your best.”

“Man, always straight to the chase with you,” Dionysus sighs, downing his drink, “All right, ladies, gents, others, do excuse me, my very industrious Brother needs a bottle of yours truly's finest and I am not one to disappoint!” 

Various satyrs and nymphs call out with dismay as the God of Wine untangles himself from them and leads Hermes over to an ornate cabinet. 

Hermes fights back the urge to tap his foot as his brother unlocks the cabinet and considers the contents at a decidedly leisurely pace. His insides are already fizzing with worry about what he needs to do, any delays won't help his state of mind at all. 

Dionysus picks up various bottles of bright amber liquid tied off with deep purple bows. He's testing them for things that Hermes doesn't understand, but he lets his brother continue despite his growing annoyance.

“This one,” Dionysus declares, raising the bottle currently in his left hand, “Best of the lot, I'd say.”

He puts the other back and turns to hand the bottle to Hermes who, by this point, is vibrating with equal parts excitement and fear. 

“Hey, man,” Dionysus soothes, placing the bottle in Hermes grasp and laying a hand on his shoulder, “whoever's got you so worked up and asking for this must be something special, huh! Well don't you worry, hey, you know what, this one's on the house.”

Hermes blinks, “Wow, Dio, are you sure? You said it's your best, I'm happy to pay fair price for it..”

Dionysus waves his words away and then grasps him around the shoulder, “No payment necessary on this one, little man, except I got dibs on the goss for how it all goes down, yeah? Try not to be too quick with them,” his brother gives him another exaggerated wink and Hermes makes a face, stowing the Ambrosia safely in his bag. 

“Thanks anyway, I appreciate it,” Hermes says, and Dionysus lets go of his shoulder. 

“Don't sweat it, now get outta here you little scamp!”

When he lands on the dew damp grass outside the temple of Styx, it seems to loom larger than ever before in the dawn light. He reaches for the door, then jumps back. He taps his foot. He paces. He pulls at his hair and groans. He paces some more. 

What is he even doing? This is stupid. The answer will be no. He knows it'll be no. He knows it like he knows which way dice will fall, like he knows which god needs him next, like he knows the best routes and shortcuts. Knows it like it's a part of him already. 

But he has to try. The situation is untenable. He's stringing along some poor innocent mortal because he can't have what he wants, it isn't right, it isn't fair. And despite it all, a stupid thread of his heart is still hopeful. He has to know. 

He pushes open the doors and strides inside. 

The temple is quiet.

Okay, not a great start, he thinks, but waiting he can do. This is important after all. He drops to a seat on the edge of the wooden slipway, legs dangling over the water, and waits.

Hours pass. 

Anxiety and anticipation turn to annoyance. Annoyance turns to worry. Worry turns back to anticipation. Back to worry. To anger. To shame. Then, finally, to despair.

Hermes leaves the temple in the dead of night, the Ambrosia like a lead weight in his bag. He has the answer. He knows where he's going instead. 

Porthmeus is there in the clearing, because of course he is, dark shape sat cross legged on the stone, watching the river as it sparkles in the moonlight. Hermes feels like the fates are laughing at him, but as he lands heavily in front of this beautiful man, he doesn't care. 

“I have something for you. For us,” Hermes begins, before Porthmeus can even open his mouth to greet him.

“My Lord, wha-” 

Hermes cuts him off by falling heavily to his knees on the stone in front of him and pulling out the Ambrosia. Without hesitation, ignoring the slight gasp he hears, he presses it firmly into the man's hands. Porthmeus goes pale. 

“My Lord! This is, this is Ambrosia! Drink of the Olympians! Sharing this with me.. I… you… ” Porthmeus stutters.

Hermes nods, “You know what it means, then?” 

Porthmeus looks deep into the god's eyes and nods slowly. 

Hermes takes a deep breath and steels himself, ready to hold his heartbreak underwater until it writhes and drowns.

“Porthmeus. You are beautiful. Kind. Sweet. Your conversation and your company have meant everything to me these last months. I think so often of your eyes, your smile, your voice. You have struck this God of Languages dumb,” Hermes confesses, squeezing Porthmeus’ hands that hold the bottle.

Porthmeus looks at him with deeper reverence than ever before, eyes shining and cheeks a blushed red. How the mortal feels about him is obvious, so painfully, desperately obvious. 

“However,” Hermes continues, and Porthmeus' face falls, knowing what's coming, “I have to be honest with you. My heart, in its entirety, belongs to another. They do not love me. I know it now,” he screws up his eyes to will away the stinging of tears that threaten to fall, “I cannot truly love you, Porthmeus. But I can be with you. The parts of me that are left, you can have them. If you want them. And then maybe someday, I can give you more.”

Hermes takes his hands away and balls them into fists on his knees, head hung low, eyes shut tight, breathing hard to calm his racing heart. 

His offering isn’t kind. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. All things equal, he would deserve a second rejection this day, Nemesis can have her pound of flesh.

But after a moment, a gentle hand touches his face, and he looks up at Porthmeus, black hair catching beams of moonlight. The tear tracks on his face shining like silver. In a deep, quiet voice, he speaks.

“You are the swift-footed starlit son of Maia, I could not presume to expect your heart. Lord Hermes, whatever you choose to give me will be an honour far greater than I could ever come to deserve.”

Hermes rests his head on the warm palm that holds him, a tear escapes and is swept away by the work-rough pad of a pale thumb. 

“You love me, don't you?” Hermes asks, quietly. 

Porthmeus leans close, and answers him with a kiss.