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Charon couldn’t recall the last occasion he spent more than a few brief moments in Hermes’s company. The god of swiftness had been swift indeed of late, barely pausing for a greeting when he delivered his latest batch of souls before disappearing again in a buzz of sound and a flash of sunset-colored wings.
It was unusual enough to give Charon pause. Hermes was always in a rush, always worried for his schedule, always three steps ahead in his quick-witted mind. But also, with Charon, he’d always somehow found time to spare for at least a short conversation.
When they were first introduced, Charon didn’t know how to respond to the unexpected flood of bright, brisk chatter. What would he, ferryman of the Underworld, have to say to a resident of Olympus? What could this odd, shiny little god possibly have to say to him?
On the whole, Charon was rarely sought after for his company. The reasons mattered little, whether the sight of his ghastly face was to blame, or the grate of his groaning speech, or simply because, after Death himself, he was what mortals most feared, the specter that ferried their souls to their final place of rest—or of torment—from which there was no return.
Of course, this was presuming they could pay the fare. If not, he left their souls to restlessly wander the banks of the Styx for a hundred years as penance.
Let it never be said Charon was an uncharitable god. A hundred years was but the blink of an eye.
Hermes, however, was not one to be cowed, not by his frightful visage nor by his intimidating reputation.
“We’re professional associates now, boss,” he’d said. “We may as well learn to be civil, don’t you think?”
Civility was another thing very few expected from Charon, if only because that would require them to interact with Charon in the first place.
Not that he minded any of this. Charon loved solitude and silence as much as he loved obols. Before Hermes, the only company he’d welcomed was that of his brothers, and more rarely, Mother Night. The only sounds he’d appreciated were the gentle lapping of waves against the sides of his boat and the clinks of coins striking his rings as they fell into his palm.
That promptly changed the day he heard Hermes say his name. And again, the first time Hermes barked out a sharp laugh at one of Charon’s dry jokes at the expense of his Olympian relatives. Most others didn’t believe Charon had a sense of humor at all, let alone attempt to understand him. They didn’t bother listening closely enough to realize the noises he made had actual meanings.
Hermes did. And suddenly, his voice, his laugh, became Charon’s most favored sounds in all the realms.
Still, money was the language Charon spoke most fluently. So, then, it stood to reason the god of wealth and commerce would be the first to penetrate the haze of vapor clouding his thoughts and make Charon start paying attention.
These days, the title of “professional associates” wasn’t quite accurate anymore. Somewhere along the way, those words grew fonder, and then fonder still.
Kisses weren’t something Charon contemplated before Hermes either. But now he missed them, craved the sensation of those plump, soft lips against his gaunt cheek. The lick of a tongue over his dark teeth. Hermes’s breath, sweet as nectar, blending with his own.
It had been too long since they took a break together, and this yearning was both unwelcome and unfamiliar. Charon wasn’t accustomed to wanting. Prior to Hermes, it had been nothing more than a nebulous concept.
From Hermes, he’d learned what it meant to long for someone. The feeling wasn’t dissimilar to what drove him to hoard his gold. He felt, at times, the impulse to hide Hermes away as he did coin, to maintain careful inventory of Hermes’s comings and goings in the same manner he tracked every obol that passed in and out of his hands, lock him in a vault in Erebus to prevent anyone from taking him.
But that would be a cruel punishment for a god such as Hermes, and while Charon might be unbending about certain rules, he was not, by nature, cruel.
That did not prevent the impulse from sometimes rearing its head. Charon sensed it again, when he docked at the Temple of Styx upon returning from his latest trip to Tartarus and found Hermes waiting for him, looking altogether worse for wear.
Wrinkles creased Hermes’s sweat-damp chiton. His hair was a snarl of tangles, his wings mussed and drooping. Half-moon bruises darkened the delicate skin below his eyes, and tension bracketed his wide mouth.
Overall, he appeared… dimmer, somehow.
Gone was the vibrant, mischievous being Charon had come to know. In his place stood a creature who was literally standing for once, instead of hovering above the ground as he normally did, whose brilliant smile had been replaced by a wan shadow.
In all their eons of friendship, Charon had never seen Hermes so exhausted. The divine messenger, tired? Until this moment, Charon would have scoffed at the mere suggestion. He himself had no need for sleep or rest. But then, he did not move at Hermes’s speed, flitting from one realm to the other, day or night, never stopping for long. As irrepressible as Hermes seemed, Charon was forcibly reminded that gods were not, in fact, unbreakable. They, too, could be worn down to the bone, over time, and in the right circumstances.
Apparently, not even his divinity could spare Hermes this fatigue.
Charon left his oar behind, moving toward him. “Hrohhh?” he asked in concern, purple vapor misting from his mouth.
Hermes huffed a laugh. “Oh, I do look a bit of a fright, I imagine, but surely it’s not as bad as all that, boss?”
Charon groaned and reached to touch a bedraggled wing. “Mrrraggghhh.” Disapproval radiated from the sound, but he couldn’t help the censure. This was not a sight he ever expected to see, and he did not like it. Hermes had worked himself into a state of utter exhaustion, so badly his entire countenance had dulled. He’d lost his shine, and that was a consequence of overwork Charon could never abide. Not for Hermes.
“I hear you,” Hermes said, sighing. “But haven’t you heard, boss? There’s a war on. Several, in fact. Ares has been on a right tear lately. You ask me, it has something to do with your brother, but Ares isn’t the sort to talk out his feelings when he has something to work through. He’s the type to incite insurrections. And so, here we are.”
Charon grumbled, gently readjusting an orange-and-gold feather that had somehow been knocked askew.
A hard shudder went through Hermes in response, and a moan, half-stifled, drifted from his parted lips.
“Oh,” he said, eyelids fluttering. “I’ve been run so ragged I haven’t thought to preen my wings. Most times they just… right themselves, but that’s when I have time to stop for more than a moment or two. I shouldn’t even be here now, but I had a last-minute delivery for the big boss downstairs. You’ll take it to him for me, won’t you?”
Charon nodded, but when Hermes started to reach into his messenger bag, Charon stayed his hand.
He shook his head. “Hraahhh.”
“See, this is why I call you a gentleman,” Hermes said, fond, dark eyes gleaming up at Charon, a hint of their usual playfulness shining through. “But I really can’t stay. I’ll make it up to you, later, once things settle down, all right?”
Charon shook his head again, more firmly.
“But, boss—”
He placed a long, bony finger to Hermes’s mouth, shushing him, and Hermes’s shoulders slumped.
Charon used the opportunity to divest him of the bag, carefully setting it aside so that none of the contents spilled. After, he gestured for Hermes to follow him, and Hermes, seemingly resigned, shuffled along behind him, yawning, to the corner where Charon stored his wares. A large chaise sat there—a recent gift from Zagreus—mostly collecting dust, as Charon had no need for such comforts. He kept the long, upholstered chair only so the prince would see it on the occasions he stopped by on his way to face his father, but for once, the furniture would prove useful.
Charon settled on the chaise and patted his lap. It spoke of Hermes’s exhaustion that he didn’t protest again, simply sighed as he arranged himself between Charon’s legs and rested his head against his chest.
“There are quite a few folk who’ll be sore at me for taking a break,” he said, slow and drowsy.
Charon gave a rumbling groan, displeased at the thought that anyone would dare berate Hermes for stopping to rest when he resembled a candle only seconds from flickering out.
“Easy there, my big boatman.” Amusement laced the words. “It won’t be this way forever. These are extenuating circumstances. Such things happen when multiple countries are at war, and, well, since my family can never keep from meddling in mortal affairs, the gods are feuding right alongside them.”
Charon grumbled again. He touched the bend of one of Hermes’s unkempt wings, and it flexed under his touch. Hermes shivered and moaned, a tiny hitching breath.
“Hrrnnnn?” Charon asked.
“They’re sensitive. I haven’t had to preen them in quite a long time. I forgot.”
Charon made another inquisitive sound.
Hermes tilted his head to look at him, lips curved in a soft smile. “Well, of course you can see.” He extended one wing. “Mostly it’s about removing the dust, straightening the feathers. They all have an ideal position for flight, just like any bird on the surface.” Hermes sighed once more. “They’re in a state, I’m sure. I’ve been a bit slower lately because I haven’t stopped to take care of them, but I’ve just been so busy.”
“Hrooohhh?”
Hermes blinked at him. “You’d do that?”
Charon grunted, almost affronted by the implication he wouldn’t take care of Hermes’s wings. What were they, if not partners? And partners did these sorts of things. Or so Charon assumed. He didn’t have many examples to observe, here in the Underworld, but Hermes constantly did things for him—brought him gifts from the surface, told him stories, listened on the rare occasions Charon felt inclined to tell tales of his own.
“All right, all right, no need to be insulted, boss.” Hermes patted his chest. “Have at it, then.”
Charon took one wing in a long-fingered hand. It felt frail in his grasp, as if the fragile bones would snap under the slightest pressure, but somehow, sturdy, too. These were the wings that carried a god, and they served him well.
He’d observed Hermes enough to have memorized the way his wings normally looked. Perhaps he couldn’t do the job Hermes himself would, but Charon felt fairly confident he could smooth them down into some semblance of order while offering Hermes a much deserved respite, a short but precious reprieve.
With a puff of purple vapor, Charon began. He started at the place where the wing connected to Hermes’s skull, sinking his fingers into the downy soft feathers there, so different from the texture of the rest of his dark hair. He massaged the joint, gentle but firm.
Hermes’s eyes slid half closed, and he gave a pleased little hum. “That feels lovely.”
“Haaahhh.” Charon moved on from there, to the shorter upper feathers, straightening the ones that had twisted or bent from their proper place. Then lower, to the longer feathers at the bottom of the wing, where they flowed from bright gold to fiery orange and red.
When he finished, Hermes leaned forward to press a kiss to his chin, and then turned his head, presenting the wing on the other side.
Charon repeated the process, once again starting at the joint between skull and wing. Then, halfway through the longest feathers, a single plume came free.
Hermes only shivered, but Charon held the feather up, a wounded noise grating in his throat. He’d meant to soothe, not hurt.
“It’s fine, boss,” Hermes said sleepily. “It isn’t painful. Feels a bit odd, is all. Please, go on.”
Dubious, Charon set the feather on the seat beside them, and returned to his task. If Hermes claimed it didn’t hurt, he’d believe him, but Charon took even greater care from that point forward.
Soon, that wing lay as flat and smooth as the other. Hermes folded it back into its resting position, and Charon ran his open palm from the bend at the top to the curling feathers at the base.
Hermes pressed into his hand, humming contentedly, and tried to snuggle in closer, but Charon groaned and gestured to his legs. The wings at his ankles needed tending also. Charon wouldn’t leave a job half done.
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
Charon rumbled a growl of displeasure, dense purple vapor pouring from the corners of his mouth.
Hermes laughed and held out placating hands. “Okay, boss. Okay.” He offered Charon a wry smile and fluttered out of his lap to let him stand.
Charon got to his feet and pressed on Hermes’s shoulder until he settled down once more, seated on the edge of the chaise.
“Charon,” Hermes whispered as he sank to the stone floor between those strong, supple thighs.
“Hahhhhh.” Charon took a booted foot in hand, kneeling before the only god he’d ever knelt for. Would ever kneel for. Charon couldn’t think of a better reason to be there than tending to Hermes in whatever way he most needed at that moment.
This was love stripped down to its barest essentials. That feeling, which had been as much of a foreign concept, as incomprehensible as longing, before Hermes entered his universe. Now, Charon understood. The need to see Hermes happy, rested, protected, restored to his usual quick-moving vibrancy, the lightness Hermes evoked in his chest—no other word existed to encompass all those feelings but one.
Charon lifted Hermes’s boot and bent to press his teeth to the wing at his ankle, breathing purple smoke over the quivering feathers.
“Charon,” Hermes said, voice tremulous and thick. “Oh… Well, if I hadn’t lost my heart to you already, I would have just now, wouldn’t I, boss?” He pushed Charon’s wide-brimmed hat back, away from his face.
Charon peered up at him as Hermes cupped his cheek, warm fingers stroking thin skin. The wings on his head fluttered, stirring the air around them.
“Thank you,” Hermes said.
“Hrrnnnn.” Charon turned his head, streamed amethyst vapor against his palm.
Hermes pulled his hand away, closed his fingers as if he wanted to capture the smoke. With his other hand, he grabbed the lone shed feather from where it lay on the chaise and tucked the bright plume into the chain around Charon’s shoulders, near the tie on his collar. “You, sir, are the best of the gods. I give you my favor, for luck.”
Charon groaned a laugh. No one but Hermes had ever referred to him as the best of anything, but that was fine. No other opinion mattered to him at all.
He leaned back, rested Hermes’s booted heel on his upper thigh. As much as he’d enjoy lingering over Hermes, lavishing diligent attention upon him, Charon knew Hermes needed to return to his work, and he respected Hermes enough not to keep him from his responsibilities for longer than it took to give him a brief reprieve and ensure he’d be able to attend to his duties safely.
There would be time enough for more, later. These wars could not last forever. Ares allowed periods of peace and prosperity because without them, the mortals would have nothing to fight for.
All Charon had to do was wait, and patience was a virtue he had in droves. After all, what were months, years, to an entity from time immemorial? But first, he had a shiny, sweet little bird of a god to look after.
Gently as ever, Charon took hold of a feather and returned to preening Hermes’s wings.