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Hermes had never been this far down before.
The air in the Temple of Styx was thick and quiet. It was damp, still, and humming with a feeling he couldn’t name. He’d flown along every corridor of Olympus a thousand times, run messages across the mortal realm in record time, but down here? Down here even he didn’t dare move too fast.
His winged boots skimmed lightly over the stone floor, slower than he thought he might have ever moved, and he kept glancing back at the cluster of souls trailing behind him. They drifted more than walked, flickering forms blinking as if the dim glow of the braziers were too sharp for their eyes.
“Stick close, everyone!” Hermes whispered, then immediately felt silly for whispering.
He’d heard… well, a lot about the Underworld. Most of it unnerving, to say the least. That the Temple of Styx was a labyrinth, and the caverns and caves and isles of the Underworld shifted. If he got lost here, would he ever be found? Or would he be left to live out his immortal life moving listlessly through the Underworld like the shades he was transporting?
He hadn’t gotten much information on the Ferryman, though. Certainly, he had tried. He knew his name was Charon, and that he had been ferrying the souls of the dead since before his father had ever ruled Olympus. He didn’t speak– or if he did, nobody could understand him.
Hermes swallowed. Meeting the Ferryman made him more nervous than he’d like to admit. He’d actually practiced a greeting on the way down, but now he was thinking it might be best to just drop them off and go. That would be rude though.
As he made his way down the massive hall, footsteps echoing off the tiled mural beneath his feet, he saw a path split off to what seemed like a dock of some sorts.. A cavernous space lit by cold blue flames that gave the shadows sharper teeth.
And there, in his skiff, stood Charon. Hermes froze.
Charon was… bigger than he’d imagined. Broader. A towering silhouette framed by the flicker of the flames, robes heavy and ancient, the shadow of his hat deep enough to swallow his face entirely. His skeletal face caught the light just enough to hint at features Hermes was immediately curious about.
The ferryman gestured his head slowly toward the new arrivals and Hermes nearly tripped in the air.
“Hi!” he blurted. “Hello. Sir. Ferryman. Uh– Charon. Can I call you Charon?” The souls clustered behind him, looking like they might scatter if someone so much as breathed wrong. Hermes felt only marginally braver than they did.
He straightened, cleared his throat, and held his caduceus like it might make him seem more godly and powerful rather than making him look like a teenager with a fancy walking stick. “I’m Hermes! New psychopomp. First official run bringing souls down from the surface. Thought it’d be nice to drop by, introduce myself, do everything correctly, all that.”
Charon stared– or Hermes assumed he stared. It was impossible to tell.
The silence stretched. And stretched. Hermes’ wings twitched at his ankles. By the gods, is this a test? Did I mess up already?
Finally, Charon emitted a low, gravelly rumble– a sound that vibrated through the air around them, not quite speech but unmistakably directed at him, and Hermes could feel it in his bones.
Hermes blinked. “Was that–? Oh! Right. Okay. Good. Nice to meet you too?”
Charon nodded once, and Hermes herded one of the souls forward gently. “These are, uh… for transfer. For you.”
Charon extended one massive hand and guided the first soul toward him with a surprising gentleness, collecting the obol passed to him in exchange.
Hermes’ shoulders loosened a fraction. “Right, well. I’ll uh, I’ll be off then! Lovely meeting you my fine associate- not that I think you’re fine or anything, I mean you’re fine at your job or rather, you’re more than fine at your job! I just meant-”
A low rumbling broke him out of his train of thought, cutting off his rambling abruptly as he looked in confusion at his new coworker- or was he Hermes’ boss? It took Hermes longer than he would like to admit to realize Charon was laughing, the dark, heavy smoke that seemed to drip like liquid off his shoulders and through his teeth now light and curling up into the air. The hat that had hung low in his face was now, thanks to Charon looking up at Hermes’ floating form, far back enough that Hermes could almost properly see his face, and though his bony expression hadn’t changed, Hermes would swear that he was smiling.
“Right,” He repeated, steadier this time with a soft smile spreading slowly across his lips. “I really do have to get going. Until next time, Ferryman.”
A soft clinking accompanied Hermes and his procession of shades through the labyrinthine halls of the Temple of Styx.
He’d gotten much better at understanding Charon’s particular brand of communication over time. Hermes wouldn’t dare call himself fluent in whatever language the ferryman spoke, but he could hold a respectable conversation now. Or at least recognize when Charon was answering him. Even so, Charon didn’t speak often.
It was during one of those long, quiet transfers that Charon had mentioned that he had never tasted mortal food and the comment had lodged itself firmly in Hermes’ mind.
He wasn’t entirely sure why honey was one of the more common offerings left in his name, but it was. For every offering he received though, he had thought of Charon, and eventually he gave in to his curiosity, so he had plucked from his altar the small jar of honey and the loaf of bread, placed them carefully in his bag, and gone on his way.
The sight of Charon standing in his skiff, looming and ancient, still sent a shiver down Hermes’ spine. He doubted that would ever change. Some things were allowed to remain awe-inspiring, and he was sure Charon would be eternally so. Hermes shook it off quickly, guiding the shades toward the dock where Charon waited, one massive hand gripping his oar, the other extended to receive the fares of the dead.
It wasn’t until the last few souls were boarding that Hermes realized how tightly wound he was.
His wings fluttered restlessly around his ankles and ears, lifting him inch by inch as his thoughts spiraled. He gnawed at his thumb, trying to figure out how to invite Charon to meet him afterward– not for work, for once– without sounding unbearably awkward.
He was so distracted he almost didn't notice the tap at his ankle.
Hermes flinched sharply, instinct screaming that a rat had crawled over his foot, before realizing two things in quick succession: one, his foot was at least ten feet off the ground, and two, Charon was tapping his oar against him to get his attention.
Heat rushed to Hermes’ ears as he lowered himself to something closer to eye level, wings buzzing softly.
Charon rumbled, head tipping just slightly– concern, if Hermes had learned anything.
“I’m quite alright, my dear associate,” Hermes said quickly, nodding as a smile broke through his nerves. He took a breath and pressed on before he could lose his confidence. “Better than alright, actually. See, boss, I happen to know that after this round of souls, you’ll be free for a short while. And I also happen to have a small surprise for you. If you’d… come back here afterward.”
He paused, wincing internally. “…Please. Will you please meet me here once you’re finished bringing them to their destination?”
Charon tilted his head, slow and curious. The motion was almost feline and Hermes bit back the urge to comment on it before the ferryman nodded once. Smoke curled around the brim of his hat in that subtle way Hermes had learned meant approval.
With an awkward little wave, Hermes watched Charon push off into the Styx. Only once the skiff vanished into the gloom did he exhale.
He moved quickly then, fluttering back to Charon’s alcove and digging through his bag. Bread, honey, and, after a moment’s hesitation, a bottle of wine joined them on the pedestal.
All that remained was to wait, so Hermes got comfortable.
When Charon returned, it was to the sound of a lyre being plucked idly– not quite music, but not not music either. He docked the skiff and stepped onto solid stone, the Styx itself holding the boat steady.
Hermes was sprawled across two pedestals, bag tucked beneath his head. One leg was bent, the other balanced atop it, toes tapping in the air as his wings fluttered in time with the lazy melody. His brows were drawn together in thought, teeth worrying his lower lip as the tune slipped free, soft, half-formed, like a bird testing its wings.
He stopped abruptly when he felt eyes on him.
“I’ve been told it’s not polite to spy, boss,” Hermes said, sitting up and shoving the lyre back into his bag. It absolutely should not have fit. It did anyway. “Welcome back!”
Charon rumbled, smoke curling with interest as he approached the small spread Hermes had arranged.
“You mentioned a while back you’d never tried mortal food,” Hermes said, suddenly nervous as he toyed with the edge of his scarf. “It’s no ambrosia, but– well. You really don’t know what you’re missing.”
He gestured to the empty space across from him. “Eat with me?”
The moment the words left his mouth, doubt flooded in. The image of Charon, ferryman of the dead, sitting cross-legged beside him, sharing a simple meal, felt every color of absurd. Hermes turned away, embarrassed.
Fabric shifted.
Hermes turned back just in time to see Charon lift himself onto the pedestal and fold his legs neatly beneath him.
Hermes’ hands stilled. Then fidgeted again. He smiled to himself as Charon adjusted his robes, and when the ferryman groaned softly, Hermes beamed like the summer sun.
“It’s not exactly the best the mortals have to offer,” he said, words tumbling out. “I don’t get extravagant offerings often unless something big’s happening topside, so this is usually what I have. And honestly? I kind of prefer it! It always tastes better when it’s earned. Warm bread, honey… oh! And wine. I brought wine.”
Smoke drifted lazily between them, curling around Charon’s hat and brushing the feathers at Hermes’ temples. Hermes twitched and ducked with a laugh. “Ticklish– sorry. Here.”
He tore off a piece of bread, still warm thanks to his bag, and made a mental note to thank his Heph again later. He held it out. “You should try it plain first.”
Charon accepted it slowly.
He studied it for a moment, turning the small piece between his fingers as if it were as valuable as the gold he coveted. Then he lifted it beneath the brim of his hat and took a careful bite.
Hermes held his breath.
The ferryman went still. Not rigid though, just… thoughtful. When he chewed, it was slow and deliberate, like he was listening to something rather than eating it. After a moment, a low, pleased rumble escaped him.
Hermes’ shoulders loosened. “That’s the part where you decide it’s good,” he said quietly, grin tugging at his mouth. “Right?”
Charon didn’t answer, but he took another bite, and Hermes smiled again.
Hermes nudged the honey closer. “Okay,” he said, softer now. “Now try it with this.”
Charon picked up the jar, paper-thin lips frowning faintly at the thickness of it. He dipped the edge of the bread in, cautious. When he lifted the piece to his mouth, honey slid over the crust and onto his long fingers.
Hermes noticed before he meant to.
The ferryman paused, staring at the sticky gold coating his hands. After a brief hesitation, he brought his hand beneath the shadow of his hat and licked the honey away.
The sound was barely anything. Just the soft, wet sound of tongue on skin.
Hermes swallowed dryly.
Not because of anything improper– no, it was just… curiosity. The way Charon tasted the world so carefully. The way sweetness seemed to surprise him. Hermes flexed his own fingers without realizing it, then stilled them in his lap.
Charon rumbled again, deeper this time, and dipped the bread back into the jar, more carefully this time, and Hermes let out a soft, unguarded sigh.
He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been wound until the sound slipped free of him, the breath warm against the cool, damp air of the Temple. His shoulders dropped, wings settling at his ankles instead of fluttering uselessly.
“Okay,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Good. I’m glad. I was a little worried you’d hate it. Or that it’d be, I don’t know, underwhelming? Which would’ve been terrible, because I’ve been thinking about this for a while, actually, and if it had gone wrong I probably would’ve pretended I meant it as a joke or something which, let’s be honest, might be even more embarrassing for the both of us–”
He stopped himself with a quiet laugh and shook his head.
“I don’t even know why I was so nervous,” he went on, words tumbling out now that they’d started. “I mean, you ferry souls across a cursed river every day. Bread shouldn’t be the scariest thing either of us deals with.”
Charon simply sat there, solid and unhurried, one hand resting near the honey jar, head angled toward Hermes just enough to show he was listening. Smoke curled lazily from beneath his hat, slow and content.
Hermes glanced at him, then looked away again, smiling to himself. “Anyway. I figured– well. If you liked this, maybe next time I could bring something else. I think you would enjoy cheese. Mortals are very good at cheese. Or fruit. Some of it’s incredible, honestly! Terrible shelf life, though.”
Another breath left him, softer than the last. Charon rumbled low in his chest.
Hermes leaned back against the pedestal, letting the quiet settle around them. For once, he didn’t feel the need to fill it completely. His rambling slowed, drifting into small observations and half-formed thoughts, and Charon listened to all of it like it mattered.
Hermes could pinpoint the moment he fell in love. Or maybe the moment he realized he was in love.
Ares’ war was raging across the mortal lands, and in a burning village, Hermes had collected the soul of a small girl. It wasn’t the first child he had brought to Charon, but as Hermes approached the small, locked cellar, his heart rose in his throat. She had hid in here, crawled her way down, if the trail of blood was anything to go by, and died alone and scared. She had no one to place a coin under her tongue.
Hermes knelt beside her. She was small and curled in on herself like she’d hoped the darkness would hide her, protect her. The cellar smelled of smoke and damp stone and rot. Hermes swallowed past the ache in his chest and gently gathered her soul into his arms. It flickered, dim and trembling, more instinct than awareness, and not fully corporeal.
“It’s alright,” he whispered, even as he knew she couldn’t hear him, not really. “I’ve got you.”
By the time Hermes completed his rounds and reached the Temple of Styx, his hands were shaking. Charon waited at the dock as he always did—silent, unmoving, oar planted against the stone. Hermes gently sat the child down, taking her hand as the rest of the shades each placed their coin in the Ferryman’s hands and boarded his boat.
His fingers slipped into the pouch on his belt, fiddling with a coin as the last of the souls boarded and Charon turned to face him.
“I–” Hermes’ voice caught. He cleared his throat and tried again, holding the coin out toward Charon. “She didn’t have one. I can pay. I have plenty, I can–”
Charon didn’t take it. He looked from the coin to Hermes, then down to the shade clinging to Hermes’ arm. Smoke stirred beneath his hat, uneasy, uncertain. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed Hermes’ hand back toward his chest with a groan.
Hermes blinked. “No? What do you mean ‘no’?”
Hermes knew what that meant for her, one hundred years on the shores of the Styx, wandering aimlessly until her sentence was over. He’d seen it before, and it was fine, so why was it affecting him so much now?
Before he could begin panicking, or worse– arguing– Charon crouched before him. An enormous figure lowering himself to the child’s level. He extended his hand, palm open. Hermes thought, for a second, that it was ridiculous to be asking her for a coin when he just said she didn’t have one. At least, until the girl detached herself from Hermes and gingerly placed her hand in the boatman’s, letting him guide her gently into the skiff.
No payment asked. No weight measured.
Just passage.
Hermes stood frozen as the boat pulled away, heart pounding painfully against his ribs. He didn’t leave when the skiff vanished into the fog. He didn’t even realize he was still standing there until Charon returned.
He hadn’t moved from where he stood at the edge of the stone, wings drooping uselessly around his ankles like they’d forgotten what they were for. His hands were empty now, but his fingers were curled tight, nails biting into his palms as if he were afraid that if he relaxed even a little, something inside him might spill out. His eyes were bright in a way Charon was unused to.
Charon took it in at a glance.
He tilted his head, the motion slow and thoughtful, smoke pouring violet from his teeth. The dock was quiet. The Styx lapped softly against the stone, patient and endless.
A long moment passed, then Charon stepped aside.
He planted his oar against the dock and gestured toward the skiff. An invitation.
Hermes blinked, startled out of his spiraling thoughts. “You… want me to–?” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, swallowing. “To come with you?”
Charon nodded once and something in Hermes’ aching chest gave way. He didn’t trust himself to speak again, so he simply nodded back and stepped onto the boat, the sound of his boots hollow against the wood. The skiff dipped slightly under his weight, then steadied, as if the river itself had made room for him.
They drifted away from the dock without Charon lifting the oar.
The Styx carried them, smooth and soundless, its dark surface unbroken by ripple or wake. Hermes sat near the bow, hunched forward with his scarf wound tight around his hands, staring down into the water as though it might offer answers if he looked long enough. A hand waved at him and he waved limply back.
“She shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, breaking the tentative silence.
Charon didn’t respond. He just moved to sit opposite Hermes, solid and present, his attention fixed entirely on him.
“She should’ve had scraped knees,” Hermes continued, voice rough. “Dirt under her nails. She should’ve been afraid of thunder and loved sweets and hated being told to go to bed.” He swallowed, breath hitching, then forced himself to keep going. “She should’ve grown up thinking she was invincible. They all do, for a little while.”
His hands tightened in his scarf.
“Mortals burn so bright,” he said, the words tumbling faster now, tangled and earnest. “They live like they know they don’t have much time. They argue and laugh and fall in love quickly and mess everything up and then do it all again anyway, because it’s worth it to them. Not like us gods.”
He shook his head, a humorless huff of breath escaping him. “I’ve met farmers who sing to their fields like the crops can hear them. Kids who still challenge me to a foot race even though they know they’ll lose. People who spend their last coin on flowers just to see their lover smile.”
His voice dropped, quieter, reverent. “Their lives are short, yes, but gods, they know how to fill them.”
The river carried them onward. The darkness around them felt less oppressive now, softened by the sound of Hermes’ voice and the weight of what he shared.
He swallowed hard. “A child shouldn’t die before she even gets to try.”
Charon remained silent. But he leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, his posture open in a way Hermes had never seen before. The oar lay forgotten, propped up against the stern.
Somewhere along the river, the boat turned on its own. Hermes didn’t notice. He was too busy breathing through the ache in his chest, talking until the words ran out and there was nothing left but the steady thrum of the Styx beneath them.
When the silence finally settled and he could say nothing else, Hermes lifted his head.
Charon was closer than he had ever been before.
Not looming and distant like he does over the shades who get near him. Just… there. The space between them small enough to feel intentional.
For the first time, there was nothing between. No shadows obscuring him. The brim of Charon’s hat no longer hid his face from view, no oar placed purposefully between them.
Hermes looked and promptly forgot to breathe.
Not a monster. Not a warden. Not the horrible Ferryman of the Styx everyone seemed to so fear. But something ancient and solemn and achingly present. A face marked by centuries of witness, eyes deep with a patience that had endured millennia of grief– and still, impossibly, made room for one more. Hermes had seen him before, in glimpses and shadow and smoke, but never this close. Never this unguarded. He was absolutely enthralling to look at.
Hermes’ breath caught in his chest.
He didn’t know when it happened. Only that somewhere between a child given passage without anything in return and a god who listened without interruption, something inside him had shifted, quietly and irrevocably.
And Hermes knew with a clarity that left him trembling that he had never been more certain of anything in his long, strange life.