Chapter Text
"Explain to us also what sorrow makes you weep as you listen to the tragic story of the Argives and the fall of Troy. The gods were responsible for that, weaving catastrophe into men's lives to make a song for future generations."
Hermes is aware of the pain.
Funny enough, it’s something of a novel concept. As gods, they don’t really have an abundance of physical hurt, mostly because physicality is kind of a human construct that they don’t necessarily have to abide by. Especially with him, when he was constantly kind of in the in between, passing messages, guiding souls, that sort of thing. Between Olympus and the mortals and the Underworld, never settling. Never wanting to. The freedom to come and go where he pleased was part of the job! He likes that. A quick escape always brought a sort of peace, if that was the word, and sticking in one place too long has always made him uncomfortable. He is free in morals and permanency. He takes that boon very seriously, even though most of the time he goes out of his way to make it seem like he doesn’t.
But… pain. He knows of pain. He’s seen it, of course. Being a conductor of souls, there’s never any shortage. He’s the one who’s witness to those conversations between old friend Death, the begging, the pleading, the tears. The brokenness of those who were not ready to let go. Hermes recognizes all of that, but he doesn’t really understand it. The closest he’s ever gotten was maybe… maybe was Crocus, but he swears that’s different than this. That had hurt in his chest, not his bones.
Nothing has hurt like this.
And rightfully, he has no idea what’s happening. He’d been– in trouble, again, always, but Father had taken interest this time and– well, he hadn’t stopped to think twice about the meeting. For one, you didn’t ignore the summons. They had all seen what had happened to Athena when she had come on her own accord. But for two… Hermes is always in trouble. Usually it’s a mark of a job well done. He has always basked in the praise for his misdeeds, and now he is suffering for them instead.
His body is alight with fire, and electricity burns beneath his palms.
He thinks he screams, but no sound comes out.
From on high, he can make out the form of his father watching, expression unreadable. Almost bored, like this is the everyday. For him though, Hermes supposes it is. Hera stands next to him, head cocked, equally as uninterested. They haven’t been on good terms ever since he had taken a liking to Tiresias– she seemed to hold a grudge as tenuous as her husband, and their prophet smacking those snakes had evidently gone over so poorly–
Other faces he can’t make out. The blinding light blurs them all into giant points of heat and space, watching this pain be meted out without a chance of protest or concern. Hermes falls to his knees, if he has such a thing anymore, and tries to beg with a throat that makes no noise.
Eventually, the pain? subsides enough that he can exist again. He is more than light and static himself. He still feels like he’s floating, but it’s wrong, and not anything to do with the wings on his heels. Even more eventually, he can make out the words of Zeus shaking the heavens around him.
“For you to take the fate of that Greek into your own hands–” The Greek… “ – what gives you the right, trickster?” Wait… “– believing you are of my caliber to make such decisions of divine intervention?” Oh.
Odysseus.
Of course. He remembers now. The summons. Zeus’ anger. Talk of his actions on Aeaea. And then pain. Punishment. Divine retribution. It shakes him to his core, but… this was his great-grandson they were talking about. What else was he supposed to do? He would do it all again. He would… he would do it all again, to see that man home to his wife and child.
He now knows, by this time, of the showdown outside of Ithaca, and Poseidon’s defeat alongside it. All of Olympus knows. It had been a scandal, at the time. And don’t get him wrong, he’d thought it was fantastically funny, but it had been overtaken with the knowledge that Odysseus had made it home. His great-grandson, outsmarting a god. Defying the limits of what mortals could withstand. Hermes had nearly laughed himself sick, but oh, he had been quietly and fiercely proud of what his blood had done.
But he guesses all things come due, even for gods. Even for him.
The pain subsides. Hermes is very, acutely aware of the breath he draws in.
“If you’re so taken with the mortals, son, you can live as one yourself.” What…? “Perhaps you will learn distance as you witness their indifference towards us with your own eyes.” Wait… “You will know the suffering of no god coming to your aid.” Wait.
“What?” he rasps, levering himself up from the floor. His arms shake. His feet are bare. His helmet is gone, too, burned away by the heat of the charge, and his hair sticks limply to his temples. “What are you talking about…?” he manages, as he pushes himself to his unsteady and aching feet.
“Go below, child. You will return when I see fit.”
He’s– tired? Is that the word? He’s heard it thrown around so much with the mortals. He’s said it himself on busy days passing missives to and fro. But it feels different. It feels deeper. His chest aches. He takes another breath, and squints up at Zeus. “What is my mission?” he murmurs, a million years of instinct ingrained because this is his duty, this is his life.
“Repent,” Zeus says.
His voice is like thunder, and it explodes Hermes’ mind into a million more pieces. When he falls to his knees again, he keeps going, and doesn’t stop until he hits the earth below.