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Things don’t surprise him as much as they used to. Not anymore, and especially not now. Luke’s got nearly twenty years on his belt on shifts and otherworldly revelations—he expects the unexpected whilst everyone else focuses on the first. He knows that behind every mask is a performer, and most performers wear more than just one character’s face. Call it first hand experience—what with the whole deal with Kronos, his father, and half of the Olympian council.
Luke could fill an entire ledger on just the roles he’s played. The forgiving son to a messed up mother. The gentle caretaker of children just wanting to find their way. The brooding son of a mischief god. The hero to forgotten demigods, and a cursed villain to those who’ll be remembered by history.
Every story needed a villain, and he was fine with playing the role as one if it meant everything he did meant something in the end. Luke’s come to terms with that. He’s had a lot of time to think about it given the circumstances. What with Hermes’ sudden kidnapping of his soul, and the birdcage he calls home keeping him shielded from any other godly graces for the past year.
While it wasn’t the desired outcome—Luke was hoping for rebirth, if given the option—he adjusted relatively well for someone who was a glorified prisoner. If the opportunity arose, Luke would rewrite history to how it should’ve been, but unfortunately the Fates seemingly had a secret sense of humor. Always weaving a new story for everyone else to be paranoid about.
History repeats itself just as the sun sets and the moon rises. Whilst the year passes over yet again—it seems no one has learned to expect its return.
Luke has come to not ask questions to his father unless it was dire. In the beginning, Luke was rash, loud, and a demanding mess that wanted to know everything all at once. Hermes, still stunned with adrenaline Luke has never seen a god hold, had sputtered out any and all explanations he could. It had been a long night full of words to be regretted later on—only amplified by the tension that had swallowed them whole the moment they set foot inside this little getaway.
Now, in the present, Luke only asks for what he is positive he wants to know. He doesn’t need all the answers to every ‘how could you.’ He doubts Hermes had them all, anyway. Luke knows Hermes tried to be there—it was still a sore topic, and Luke still holds a grudge for it, but he knows that reasonably what more could Hermes do? Arguing against a father whose most notable form of punishment is to cast his children down to the worst fate imaginable—mortality.
It would set the world out of balance for Hermes to lose his position amongst the divine council. Who would deliver their messages? Who would guide the undead souls?
Luke swallows any past hurt and tries to look at it through the lenses of an outsider.
Anyway,
Hermes does his best. Luke’s come to the mature realization that he can’t just have his father around at his beck and whim—no matter how much his younger self would’ve killed to get the opportunity to merely witness him. Luke shudders. The saying is more effective when he takes into account how literal it had become.
The god couldn’t be here all the time, so Luke’s got the house for himself most days. He’s mapped out the entirety of the surrounding forest, and he’s already rearranged the house about four different times. All without even a glimpse of two snakes or a ‘woosh’ of feathers quickly flying by, followed by the barely noticeable graze of a hand on his shoulder. Even if Luke couldn’t see him, his father’s presence was always checking in on him one way or another.
It took some time to get used to it without feeling like it was disingenuous. Now, Luke awaits his father’s eventual return, or the disgustingly sweet pat on the back, or anything remotely close to normalcy as he could get.
He’d grown used to this routine. He’s even come to enjoy it. Though the life of a demigod—especially a prophecy child—could never be as simple as that.
When Luke wakes up that morning, he finds the curtains leading to the balcony have already been pulled open, and there’s a wafting scent of strawberries and honey lingering in the air. He frowns, staring at the flowing fabric like it personally offended him, because he makes sure to close them at night.
Originally, Hermes did it to ensure no one would see him. The idea was as creepy as it was terrifying for Luke—who at the time had just been saved from judgement in Hades, and still had the flightiness of duckling. A little counterintuitive having an open attraction in the room, but rather than fix it, Hermes did the equivalent of slapping a coat of paint on it.
However, it was open, and Luke was positive it hadn’t been him.
He’d quickly find out his suspicions to be correct, as he suddenly feels a slippery, scaly sensation crawl up his hand. He doesn’t even flinch as he glances down to meet the snakes’ beady, little eyes. Martha and George wrap around him in a slow trail up towards his shoulder. Luke blinks slowly, letting the grogginess escape him as reality sets in.
“Morning?” He croaks out. Martha flicks her tongue at him.
“Good morning, Luke.” Says a voice that was definitely not her nor George’s—Luke all but yells as he head twists to the cause. Hermes is all but in his personal space, practically hovering over him as he stands off to the side of his bed. Luke thrashes for a moment in the sheets before realizing that it was his father, and he eventually settles against the mattress—though now sporting a rather annoyed expression.
“What.”
“Isn’t that the custom? When someone says ‘good-morning’, you say it back?”
“Yes, but what do you want, Dad.” Luke says, biting through the title due to his grogginess.
Hermes frowns, “For my son to have a good morning.”
Luke twists onto his side, tugging the covers up and over him and the snakes. Martha and George hiss giddily beneath the blankets—enjoying the additional warmth.
“Mm’kay. Bye.” He murmurs into the sheets, eyes slipping shut automatically, and his breathing beginning to slow again to something remotely controlled. He had always been quick to sleep after being carted away by his father—maybe it had to do something with the exhaustion Kronos practically nailed into his veins. A cursed way for his body to regain its lost strength after housing a titan.
What was supposed to be a hint for Hermes to leave—which should’ve been easy for him, given his history of it and all—seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. George slithered towards his face, and Luke got a whiff of pure snake before he felt the small slap of a scaly tail hitting his cheek. Luke’s brows furrowed as he blew air towards George—who scurried away as fast as he could. Hissing along the way; no doubt spouting something in his own special forked tongue.
“Luke,” Hermes called as there was a sudden dip in the bed. Luke immediately felt like his only shield had just been shattered. He felt something blunt poke at his covered frame, nudging him until he threw the blankets back with the deadliest glare he could manage.
Which wasn’t as intimidating as he hoped for, but he’ll blame it on his drowsiness.
Hermes grinned as he met his eyes. All too bright and all too wide, like he had a plan scheming beneath the surface. Luke noted his caduceus sitting idly in his grasp—still just barely grazing Luke’s arm.
“It’s time to get up,” he said, as if he was trying to get a stubborn toddler to school on time. Luke snorted at the mental image of something so..domestic. He might’ve preferred it over being bothered by something that could very well snap him across the world if he wished. Not like Hermes would do that, Luke’s come to find, if anything—a proper punishment from him would be more like getting attached to his hip permanently.
That and or becoming a part of his staff like George and Martha. A bone chilling thought. Luke’s never really been one to sit still.
“Why…?” He drawled with something close to a childish whine. Not that he would ever admit it. Maybe he could pull at his father’s heartstrings for another hour of sleep. Puppy dog eyes still work even into adulthood, right? Probably.
Luke’s mind comes to a full stop at the next thing Hermes said, “I made you breakfast.”
It would’ve been silent had George not come back into Luke’s view—curling over to Martha as they intertwined in a familiar twist.
‘Sss’ no trick! Feasst! Feasst!’
‘With lotss of ratss.!’
“Shush it you two.” Hermes chastised.
“You made breakfast?” Luke asks, needing the second confirmation to make sure he hadn’t accidentally stumbled onto Morpheus’s radar for the odd, seemingly dream-like world he’s apparently woken up in.
However this was still very much his reality. He was still a wanted demigod. He was still a prisoner in a cushioned cage. He was still part human, and gods if the idea of food wasn’t the only thing beckoning him out of bed right now.
“Of course. You’re my son.” Hermes says, voice suspiciously controlled for a common trickster. He’s been saying that a lot recently, Luke noticed. As if it explained every little flare up of oddity.
Shrugging it off as a simple quirk of his father’s, Luke threw the blankets back, and in the process, smacked Hermes in the face. By proxy, tossing George and Martha right onto the god’s lap—whilst he planted his feet on the floor, mirroring his father’s seat on the other-side of the bed.
“Alright,” he says, watching as Hermes’ face breaks out into a proud, almost prideful grin. “I’m up.”
“Good. I hope you like waffles.”
Like was an understatement. Luke would rise another enemy of the gods if it meant getting to taste that crunchy, syrup-covered goodness on fresh tastebuds. Back at camp, most of their meals consisted of stuff that was either roasted over a fire or baked in an oven—oftentimes it being a furnace from Cabin Nine. Luke was never a picky kid. He never had the option to be picky.
But he remembers distinctly one night as he had stumbled out of the woods with Thalia and Annabeth—their bodies slumping from the weight of exhaustion of running from teeth barring monsters for the past week. The greenery had separated and they popped out near a highway—darkened, freezing, and old. They had stumbled into the nearest building with the lights still on.
Thank the Fates for Dennys.
It was the first warm meal they had—using what little mortal money they carried to pay for it. Luke savored the way that waffle had crunched in his mouth, filling it with an indescribable amount of flavor—he might’ve shed a few tears out of pure joy. Thalia had snorted, called him a dork for it, and then promptly inhaled her own french toast.
It had been one of the rare good memories that Luke believes is worth keeping in the forefront of his mind.
However, that had been what scrappy, homeless demigods could afford at the time. The cheapest thing on the menu that would still give them enough energy in case anything decided to challenge them. Luke had a good hand for it, because well..y’know.
But this? This wasn’t just one plate of food and free water. George wasn’t lying when he said it was a feast. By definition and by looks alone—Luke swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat as he stepped into the kitchen. A mixture of smells immediately overwhelmed his nose.
Along a long, dark wooden table sat an unreasonably large spread of what Luke could only define as something fit for a king. Though, it must’ve been an average meal to something of Hermes’ status. Raspberries and blackberries collected in a small dish. Sliced apricots and grapes neatly positioned on a sliver plate. There were a few too many selections of cheeses—Luke couldn’t even try to name them all, even if he tried. Further on down sat a collection of strawberry tarts alongside pecans sprinkled with sugar.
That must’ve been where he got his sweet tooth. Seeing as how everything was either dribbled with honey or sugar.
At the end of the table lies what Luke originally came out here for. Two perfectly stacked waffles covered in syrup and honey. Topped off with cream painted at the top. It looked a bit out of place with everything else, but Luke didn’t bat an eye at its ‘out of place’ nature.
“This is—“ The words were lost on his tongue. Luke lingered by the open archway as Hermes suddenly stepped in-front of him out of nowhere. “Perfect?”
“Too much.” Luke corrected, “I..I can’t eat all of that.”
Hermes’ brows furrowed as he crossed his arms. Fingers fiddling with the sleeve edges of his modernized mailman uniform. “But you have to, don’t you?”
“I mean..yes. We need to eat, but Hermes—“
“Dad.”
“Right. I appreciate the sentiment, but..you can’t expect me to finish all of this.”
Hermes gave him a look. Luke stared back in disbelief. While he was thankful for the care that must’ve gone into it—even if it was just snapped into existence, it was the thought that counted, or so Luke tries to tell himself—there was no way half of the spread wouldn’t go to waste. Luke dug his nails into the palm of his hand.
“Yes,” Hermes said, blinking furiously as if to jolt himself back into reality, “That’s fine. Just..eat what you can, then. This is your gift from me.”
Luke decided to not entertain that and rather made his way towards the end of the table. He pulled closer a nearby stool, and seated himself down in one continuous motion. He shifted it against the floor—making it squeak obnoxiously as he got comfortable. It was only when he looked back up did Luke realize Hermes had moved with him, now standing to his left in an obvious manner to attempt to avoid hovering.
Luke hadn’t expected scolding his father—messenger of the gods—to work so well. Hermes had finally gotten the hint of Luke’s preferences for personal space. Though on some occasions—like this morning—he seems to completely forget, or just doesn’t care enough to respect the boundary. Knowing the gods, Luke assumes the latter. At least to some degree.
“Yes?” Luke finds himself asking.
“Oh, ignore me.”
‘Kind of hard to when you’re staring right into my soul,’ Luke thought with a grimace. At that moment, George and Martha peaked their little heads back out of wherever they had hid on Hermes’ frame. They slithered onto the table as their tongues flicked out towards every new scent.
‘Deliciousss..’
‘Sssooo ssweet!’
Hermes made a ‘tsk’ing sound, snapping his fingers at them, “Ah, ah. Mouths off. You two already ate.”
‘But my Lord—!’
‘Pleassseee..’
Luke couldn’t help but be reminded of the Stoll brothers and their familiar antics. He softened internally at the sound of the snakes’ pleas, and turned to his father with a content shrug, “I don’t mind.”
“I do, Luke. You need your energy.” Hermes argued, “and these fiends get fed plenty.”
George and Martha made noises of protest—though their hisses fell on deaf ears as Hermes’ caduceus materialized with a wave of his hand, and was tapped on both of their heads. Like puppets on a string they wrapped themselves back around the staff, and were silenced back into statues of gold.
A more younger, argumentative Luke might’ve said something that would’ve invited an hour worth of yelling—because nothing called to a god of language than the art of mad speech—however, he kept his mouth shut on a fork of delicious, syrupy goodness.
“I’m sorry, Luke, they normally aren’t so..”
“Demanding?”
Hermes smiled, “I’m a bad influence, aren’t I?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” Luke retorted with a hint of amusement in his tone. He stabbed his waffle with his fork and ripped another part out, shoving it into his mouth with less grace than a demigod would’ve been written with. With the passage of time comes the modernization of the myths. He doubts heroes of the past had table manners, anyway.
“Is the attitude also genetic?”
“You’d like that.”
“You wound me, Luke!”
Luke rolled his eyes and let the flavor distract him from his father’s antics.
The mindless chatter lasted up until Luke finished a second plate of waffles with a few added berries—because the tangy sweetness of strawberries felt familiar in a way he would’ve hated, but has now come to appreciate. Hermes said whatever came to his mind—which was to be expected from his collection of domains, the gossip was never not scalding. Though Luke was never one for gossip. Sending spies back to camp didn’t count, either, those were simply strategic decisions.
And if one or two had been specifically sent out to check in on Cabin Eleven, then that was just for Luke’s own sense of peace.
The table’s collection of food didn’t even look like it had been dented. It stayed fresh with that welcoming brightness of ripeness. Luke was half inclined Hermes had asked one of the other gods to keep his stash as new as the day it was harvested. Simply out of curiosity because when there is a lack of entertainment and things to do, you start finding interest in even the most mundane of things.
A squeak interrupted Hermes’ talking as Luke suddenly stood from his seat. His gaze averted but tone honest, “Thanks, but, I think I’m done for now.”
“Are you sure? You haven’t even tried the scones!”
Luke was positive there hadn’t been any on the table, but when he turned to check, there’s a platter sitting right next to the tarts. Steam radiating from it like it had just pulled out of the oven. Still, Luke shakes his head away from the downright mouthwatering sight.
“I’m fine, dad.”
“Oh, come on, Luke. Didn’t my brother teach you children to always accept a gift from a god?”
Luke bites his tongue from arguing that Mr.D didn’t do much of anything at camp besides complain about being at camp. He shrugs it off as he steps to move around his dad. “Did you really just pull that card?”
“Luke,” Hermes says in a way that Luke’s all but become used to ignoring. There’s no real worry or offense in his tone, so Luke doesn’t flinch when the god steps in front of him.
“Dad. I’m fine.”
“Alright! How about we sit back down, anyway. We haven’t talked in a while. How’s that journal coming along?”
“Dad.”
“You should really practice with the talaria pair I gave you.”
“Dad!”
“Why don’t we do that now? It shouldn’t take too long!”
“Hermes!”
A hush finally was caught in the room. Making everything including the air stand still as Luke tried to ignore his sudden increase in frustration. He shook his head as he lowered his voice, staring at his father with all the genuineness he could muster.
“I’m going to go back to my room.”
Hermes was unnaturally still. His chest didn’t even move for mock breathing. Luke knows they don’t need to, but the absence of it made him shift uncomfortably on his feet.
“I..” Luke sighed, averting his eyes to stare at the floor—dragging his eyes over the grooves in the ground. “See you when I see you, dad.” He awkwardly spat out before moving around Hermes’ frozen form. Luke practically scurried off away from his father, not even waiting to hear a response—not that he expected one, either.
His father was strange. All of the gods were. Putting them in the group of something more humane was like trying to fit all four corner pieces of a puzzle together. There was so much more to them than just how they were perceived by mortals and demigods alike. Luke huffed; almost missing the simplicity of never expecting to interact with a god in a demigod’s short life.
The luck he had was far greater than those who came before him, and some who would follow. He tried to look at the positives as he shut himself back in his own personal birdcage. The silence of the house familiar, and yet all too suffocating.
Luke hadn’t done much for the next two hours. He counted the cracks in the corners of the stone walls—around fifty three. Two more than yesterday. He paced his room from the door to the balcony. Every step outside almost urging him to slip on his shoes and take a flight—though that would just be giving in, wouldn’t it? Luke was anything if not a stubborn son.
There were only so many cards you could play before the house fell.
His journal—always present, no matter what harm comes to it—was idly placed on his nightstand. His fingers itched towards it ever so often, but Luke was adamant in keeping it from ever being finished. If he wrote down everything he felt or wanted to say, it would’ve been full the first week he arrived here.
It wasn’t like Luke hated his father. If you were to ask him a year or so ago, he would’ve said it proudly without hesitation. It was a terrifying realization that came to him when he found himself not actively hating his father’s returning presence. A slow process to regain the lost trust and respect that comes with a demigod and the divine blood that created them. Luke couldn’t say when he stopped taking the easy route, and started trying to redeem himself as someone who his father could proudly call his son.
Prophecy child be damned when Luke cursed Hermes’ name and his remaining kin to nothing but a stereotype. ‘Who would be the next ‘Castellan?’’
They were trying. Luke knows that his father is trying. He knows that he himself is trying. However, it was hard to get over an almost decade worth of emotional baggage, when it was weighing them both down just out of reach of each other.
Sometimes Luke wishes Thalia was here to slap some sense into him. She always knew what to do, what to say, and somehow she was always right. She was almost as bad as Annabeth when it came to that. He wonders if their combined competitiveness had rubbed off on her.
To say he didn’t miss freedom would be an outright insult to Luke’s entire being, but it was either this, or be at the mercy of the hands of Hades’ judgement, or worse—the Council of Olympus themselves. Luke doubts whatever his father could say would sway their opinion.
It was life or death. Hermes’ wouldn’t dare allow him to die—not after all he’s done to keep him safe. His overbearing nature was a package deal that Luke unknowingly signed for.
Luke stands at the balcony again, hands outstretched on the stone railing. He traces the grooves and has memorized the texture in his head. Mapping it out in his head as a trail for his fingers to follow. The sky and forest around him is lit up by a free sun. There are no clouds in sight. The wind is a whisper against his skin. He doesn’t feel hot nor cold. The weather is what some would call perfect. Beckoning him out and into its inviting embrace.
Luke’s stopped trying to leave at the start of the new year. After months of arguing and yelling and crying—there was no outcome that would let him leave alive. And it hits him there—that vivid, painful memory—of standing in the cracked streets of New York. A feeling of relief etched on his face and in his nerves when he pierced his own body. Like floating on the surface of the water. Weightless and unbound.
Abruptly he pushes himself off the ledge. Taking a step back from the railing as he shoves his hands to his sides. Luke gives a heavy sigh full of unspoken ails that continue to haunt him—even within sanctuary. His head feels fogged and his side aches with the same force it did that day. He pushes a hand onto the cover scar—fisting the fabric of his shirt as his knuckles press onto the unfortunate reminder of every mistake he’s made.
Luke turns on his heel and leaves the light of day behind. He can hear the distinctive sound of rustling from another part of the house. He lets his feet guide him towards the scent of strawberries and honey.
A part of the house exits out into a small sunroom. Potted plants of varying degrees of life sit idly on the sides of the walls. Luke has found himself here many times before—he’d tried his hand at the gardening thing, and found again that it wasn't really his forte. Some things just don’t change. Luke stops at the entrance of the room, just barely lingering beyond the frame.
It’s where he finds his father—illuminated by the sun rays that pour in through the glass roof and walls. A few are stained with familiar stories decorated in color. Backwards hooves on cows. The fallen corpse of a hundred eyed man. Luke doesn’t let his gaze stick for long before he focuses his attention back on his father. Who stands with his back to him, head dropped to the ground as two snakes slither along the floor.
‘Thisss’ is humiliating!’
‘Ssoo cruel, Lord Hermes! Ssoo cruel!’
“Shush up you whiners. You freeload enough as it is. You can catch a rat, can’t you?”
‘Eat yesss…catch…no…’
‘Whatsss happened to Xenia!’
Martha’s snout bumps Luke’s foot. She reels back in surprise, before she’s coo’ing through her forked tongue, and curling up around his ankle. Hermes turns just in time to see Luke scoop her up onto his arm—she twirls around him as though he was her personal branch. George takes the opportunity to follow suit—all but scurrying away from Hermes’ and slithering up Luke’s leg. He tries to not let the tickling feeling distract him.
‘Our ssavior!’
‘Luke doesn’t make us hunt like savagesss..’
“You two are so spoiled.” He remarks before joining his silent father in the sun. Their similar shadows stretched out together somewhere on the floor.
There’s a moment where neither of them speak—merely staring at one another until Hermes gives an uncharacteristically awkward cough. He turns his head and gestures to the ground below haphazardly with his hands.
“Rat problem.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh yeah. Normally I’d just, y’know,” Hermes snaps his fingers, “But I thought why not let the little guys have some fun.”
‘Ssavages!’
‘Cruel!’
“Spoiled,” Hermes corrects.
Luke bites down a smirk. He can’t get distracted now. Otherwise he’ll have to deal with this next year, and Luke was never much of a patient man when it came down to it. Wars and battles? Sure. His own voice? He’s been told too many times how much he apparently loved to hear himself talk. He couldn’t have monologued that much, right?
Must be the ‘language’ part of his father showing up.
“Luke,” Hermes starts, gaze still adverted because even when he’s standing right there, a part of him is still never there. “I want to apologize—“
The god is quickly interrupted by Luke’s risen hand. His jaw clicks shut within the second. Another might’ve found the very action worthy of a smiting, but Luke knows that Hermes’ knows he wouldn’t lay a hand on him.
“Dad.”
“Luke.”
“What’s today’s date?”
Hermes’ shoulders tense. Genuinely caught off guard for seemingly the first time in over a century. Luke pockets the win to boast about to himself later.
“August 18th.”
Luke hums and then spits out exactly what Hermes’ needs to hear.
“I’m not dying, dad.”
There's a delay in Hermes’ speech as he’s processing what exactly was said. How ironic for him. Luke keeps his poker face on as his father snaps out of his little trance.
“What?” Hermes sputters, “Of course—I know that. Do you think I wouldn’t know that?”
“Thats why you’ve been weird. You think I’ll die—for real this time.”
“Will you stop saying it. What is it you kids say? Jinx?”
“Dad. Will you just look at me?”
Most couldn’t get the chance to make a god listen to them. For divine beings such as themselves, the only rulers they had were their own heads. Luke wasn’t most, though. He didn’t need a mirror to know he stands outside of the regular group of an already outcasted community. Demigods are lower than gods. They were only half of what they were.
But Hermes and him were equals now. No matter how much they both seem to forget that.
Hermes looks at him with all the sincerity a grieving father could hold. After the war, the Hermes’ cabin had never been so empty. Luke knows this just from how his father had acted the weeks following the final battle. An overstressed, overworked, helicopter of a parent. He had been all over Luke—checking him for injuries, watching him sleep, keeping him confined to his room just to be sure that he’ll be safe when he turns the other away.
To grieve someone who was standing right in front of you. Luke could relate far too much to that than he wished.
“I’m not dying,” he repeats, “Not now. Not tomorrow. I’m okay.”
Hermes swallows before an abrupt laugh suddenly escapes him. It was a bit of a jarring sight to see something like him act so..human. Though Luke has had plenty of time to get used to the weirdness that was his father. “You think I don’t know that? Son, I have Thanatos on speed dial.”
“Stop doing that,” Luke interrupted, “you’re doing it again. You’re running away, dad.”
“I’m right here, Luke.”
“No, you aren’t. You’re in New York. August 18th. Staring at me after I stabbed my Achilles heel—”
“Luke,” Hermes hisses.
“You’re thinking you won’t make it in time—that my soul will be carted off personally by the fates to ensure a proper punishment is in place.”
“Luke!”
“You think I’m dead, or..or about to die again. You think that you need to save me before it’s too late, again.”
“Luke, I’m not going to ask you again to drop this topic—“
“No!” Luke snaps. George and Martha freeze where they are curled around him. Cold like the statues they form when with his father’s staff. The air stills to let his voice echo against the glass walls. “We’re talking about this. No journals, no metaphors, no weird breakfasts—just talk to me, dad.”
A breath.
“I’m not leaving. So stop pretending like I will.”
Hermes is quiet for just a moment before speaking, “you don’t know that, Luke.”
“It’s my soul.”
“You don’t know what’s been happening—what I’ve—we’ve—been dealing with. I can’t risk almost loosing you again, Luke. I can’t do it.”
“Dad..”
“You all can be so fragile. What if I can’t protect you?”
“You don’t need too, I was perfectly fine on my own—“
“You shouldn’t have been alone in the first place! I disobey my father time and time again, and yet for you—“ Hermes trails off, averting his gaze as he runs a hand through his blonde waves of hair.
Across every myth, of every line etched into tablets, of splattered ink on the page, Luke has never seen the face his father is making described before in any of their history. It was new, unfamiliar, and..unnerving. How could a god allow themselves to be witnessed in such a manner? If not for their own ego and reputation, then for the sake of the witness?
To let them lose all faith and hope in someone who was supposed to have all the answers?
Luke had lost his faith a long time ago. Before he could even reach checkout counters. Before he could even comprehend the idea of monsters. Before he had left his mother alone in their house, promising to return when he could change it to become a home.
Standing here facing his father’s crumbling expression—far too youthful, far too pained, and far too familiar to his own reflection—Luke’s faith does not return. He does not falter where he stands, because Hermes has stopped being an idea. An untouchable figure that most could only read about in museums. Hermes was not the manifestation of ‘merchants, thievery, travelers,’ at the moment.
He was a grieving father. Remembering a memory that had never come to fruition.
“I was afraid.”
Reality slams Luke back into the present. Ripping him out of his own mind and into the path of Hermes’ gaze.
“And I’m afraid now. Afraid that when I leave..you won’t be here when I return.”
And finally, the words break through Hermes,’ as if tired of trying to deny themselves on his silver tongue, “And that I won’t even be allowed to walk your soul to Charon.” He gives a humorless laugh. “That my father will surrender you to an unfair trial, that you will suffer because of my selfishness.”
Luke stumbled for his words, silent in the midst of ignorance for what to say. His eyes drifted to the floor, watching the sun rays shift with the colors of the stained glass above. “I’m sorry,” he spits out, because what else could he say?
“Luke.”
Hermes hands—warm in the way a walk along a summer trail is, soft in the way a shepherd handles his sheep, grounding in the way you feel the dirt beneath your feet—clasp Luke’s own. His thumbs rubbing back and forth along the knuckles—a few of them scarred over, and with those, he lingers just a moment longer. As if wanting to heal the skin, but knowing his son well enough not to.
“Saving you is a choice I will never regret. Do not ever think for a moment that I would’ve let you go.”
Hermes' voice leaves no room for argument. His words said with such an earnestness that could have only come from the soul.
Luke feels his throat close up—words struggle to find him, all the while Hermes just stares at him. How dare he be so composed right now, how dare he flip the switch like this? Gods had never been ones to play fair, though, Luke supposes it was only natural. A trait he himself found himself holding—if only with a bit more restraint.
“You worry too much.” Luke replies, because gods forbid he accept the idea of someone taking the time to know him, and still decide he’s worth the care. He takes to counting the rows his father does on his hands, focused before one of those hands leaves to grasp his shoulder.
“What type of father would I be if I didn’t?”
And it was that, the most simplest of replies, coming so fluently as if it wasn’t even a question, that made Luke finally see his father. Peeling back the titles, the labels, all the walls put up to keep that divine, untouchable status strong. Looking beyond all of that to meet the eyes of indescribable emotion, stuck between the inevitable grief, and the joy of just seeing his boy.
Luke does not cry, because this was supposed to be his father’s moment of confession, and he’d rather jump off a cliff without his replica of talaria than let a single tear drop.
“Stop,” he demands, before dropping his head on his father’s shoulder—taking in the scent of strawberries and honey that radiate from his very being. A comforting bubble that smells like an orchard, with the feeling of a knitted blanket—lying over his form, surrounding his figure with the sensation of home. Hermes stills for a split moment, before he relaxes alongside Luke, his hand slipping up to lay against his son’s grown out blonde.
“I never want to see you like that again.”
A broken mess on the New York pavement. Bleeding onto the concert and leaving a permanent stain on history. A boy trapped behind the hateful, betrayed eyes of a man who had grown into his own monster.
A sight like that would petrify any parent. Shake them to their core with the realization that their hands helped craft that beast. All the blood shed by the claws were, by proxy, a grave dug by their creators.
“You won’t. I’m right here, dad,” Luke murmurs against his father’s shirt—breathing evened out. His skin tickles with the sensation of slithering as Martha and George join the pair—sliding around their shoulders, and around their necks. Hanging comfortably over them like decorative scarves.
“No tricks, no war, no sudden self sacrifices,” Hermes’ hand brushes back his hair, Luke, as much as he wants to pull away from it because of his domesticity, can’t help but lean further into the touch. “Just us, dad. Me and you.”
“Alive,” Hermes adds, and Luke knows it’s just for his own sanity, so he doesn’t comment, nor laugh at it. He just agrees.
“Yeah, dad. Alive.”
And one day, far in the future, Luke knows that this’ll change. He awaits the Fates barging into this ‘paradise,’ because you can never escape your destiny—only prolong your journey towards the end of the quest.
But that wasn’t today, and it won’t be tomorrow, but it’ll be someday.
And in the meantime, while he waits for that day, Luke will try to appreciate the time he has left with his father. Ease him through the process of letting go. Weird breakfasts, flying lessons, and even awkward conversations such as this. Luke will endure it all, and someday, come to enjoy it.
Because in the end, everything will have meant something to a god who has everyday of eternity to remember it.