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Chapter Text

These are my arrows. You stung me, and I let fly in my anger, like a marksman aiming for your heart. And I never miss. You cannot outrun that pain. 

                                                                                                                                Tiresias to King Creon of Thebes, Sophocles’ Antigone

Whenever it is the golden lyre of Apollo strums faintly and softly the knell of the dead; 

Whenever it is the Muses sing of that poor and damned place, it is in a hushed and mournful tone for the forlorn and shadowed ones. 

For every tale that has ever been told is one that is misery and cold for the still-lipped wanderers of the House of Hades. 

It is said that this stillness of the Underworld is what evokes its pure beauty. The landscape never tumbles nor falters, and is always pristine in its appearance: a world caught in the absence of time. The winds never blow and the hills never roll and the black sky is never changing. And for all the rivers that cut through, the moment they touch the gates of the Land do their rushing waters still and do their brooks quiet. Even the very shades that wandered its domain do not speak unless invoked by the living. 

A quiet existence suspended in a nothingness akin to peaceable Khaos is what the Fields of Asphodel hold, with their never ending spirals that house the billions who have passed in its never ending fields of ashen bloom. The lofty Styx cuts through, ferrying the eternal shades to their final homes.

And it is across the still Styx that there is any movement at all, that Ferry of the Damned, oriented by the bright Son of darkness and night: Kharon. And aboard the boat was no shade, but a god. 

A god who was losing horribly at a game of knucklebones. 

“You slimy bastard,” Hermes groans, pushing the knobs away as cold Kharon smiles. “This is why I don’t play with you, you lousy cheat.” 

Kharon tilts his head, silently and gutturally letting out an unintelligible noise of glee. 

“Shut up! Shut up,” Hermes says, pointing a finger. But his smile betrays his anger. “I will have no such slander.”

Another happy noise sends Hermes, the wings that line his scalp twitching in frustration.

“No, you dry welt! I wasn’t cheating. I did not lose while cheating. I was playing a sensible man’s game.” 

Hermes’ gaze quickly darts to the ashen, poppy-laced fields along the river and he shushes the Ferryman before he can say anything more. 

“Well gosh darn! This is my stop. Gotta go. Important psychopomp duties, and all,” he says swiftly, standing and not even allowing the ferry to still before he’s hopping on the shore. 

The ferryman simply huffs out a wheeze of a laugh and waves the god goodbye. 

“Shut up!” the loud god sends behind him as he is speeding away across the meadows. 

It may have been that the Mourning Fields were vastly infinite, but it was an easy task to traverse for the swift feet of Hermes. The Asphodel blooms and the shades that wander across them barely register the sudden swift movement that disturbs their stillness. 

However, his feet still and quiet to mix with the silence of the Land as he finds his destination. 

In the furthest corner of what one could call infinite, where the Styx first opens into the Underworld, is a cave. And in that cave, is a monster. 

Or, what one would assume a monster, the way the other shades seem to naturally part around it. For all the loneliness of the Underworld, this place was the loneliest, cast in the most shadow of these shadowed lands and visited scarcely by anyone. 

Hermes was averted by no such image as his footsteps echoed across the walls of the cavern. And amongst its dark walls, his eyes easily train on a single shadow that swirls across its interior. 

The faceless shade does not move as it regards the gods’ forward steps. And when Hermes produces a long dagger, a brilliant xiphos from his side arm, it glides from the lightless surfaces toward him. 

Hermes lightly pricks the edge of his finger, letting the golden ichor drizzle out of it. For the undead to speak, an offering of blood would be offered. The blood of a calf or ewe would offer them just fine the ability to speak. But to drink from the life of the divine granted a corporeality that almost mimics life itself. 

The shade’s fingers gently close around Hermes’ arms and where a face and mouth would be, it gently dips its head, consuming the liquid that now runs down the god’s palm. 

And the former memories of its living past circulate through its form, creating once again the form of man. 

First was the brilliant and beautiful form of a woman, crushed between her toes: twin snakes; 

Next, the swirling image of a goddess in furious, blinding rage;

Then, that of a haggard and desperate king, piercing his eyes as he screams at his crimes, the looming image of the riddles of a winged lioness hunched over his shoulders; 

And finally, the form of a lustrous, aging man, the tip of a sunlit arrow piercing his neck. 

Thus did the form of Tiresias, the blind prophet of Thebes, take form. His dry lips still cling to the god’s finger as he stares up at him with those glassy, reflective eyes. 

By the will of the lady of wisdom not even a pupil rests in them. They are carved as if a beautiful glass from still water itself. But Hermes can still feel from behind that divine curse how attentively the prophet regards him. 

Tiresias’ lips leave his finger, the wound having already closed. His hands remain, though, feeling the rough contours and edges of his palms. 

“I told you to stop cutting yourself,” Tiresas speaks with faint annoyance, his fingers tracing along the now healed cut. “Animal’s blood does just as fine.”

Hermes gives a small, but annoyed, laugh at the prophet.

“And I told you that the blood of a beast would not give you the corporeality that I need.”

“Lord Hermes, the grand Psychopompos,” Tiresias says with a cold cordiality, ending the discourse. “A pleasure as always.” 

Hermes can’t help the smile widening on his face as his grip encloses the prophet’s cold one. 

“First off,” he says pointedly, a laugh in his voice. “How many times have I told you not to use those damned titles?” 

Tiresias simply gives him a contemplative smile, his eyes scrunching lightly at the corners.

“To know a god’s name is to simply have heard of him,” Tiresias retorts. “To know his titles and deeds is to revere and honor him--”

“Second,” Hermes continues, cutting off the dead. Lifting one hand, he trails his thumb across Tiresias’ lip with a wordless question. And as the prophet nods, he gently presses his lips across them. 

They are cold, and dry, and coarse, a stark difference to the god’s, which are warm and lovely. There is not a second does Hermes regret the act.

As their lips part, that instantly dissolves the stoic facade of Tiresias’ face as he cracks a small grin, clearly pleased. 

And Hermes’ smile is soft and dumbstruck.

“The pleasure is truly all mine, my dear heart.” 

“You smell,” Tiresias says quietly, and Hermes can’t help but make a face.

“And you are blunt.” 

After their meeting, Tiresias and the god had settled into a faint, intimate embrace. Hermes had always been short, a quality unbefitting of a god but something that felt simply right as he was sat in the lap of the prophet. The god had taken off his petasos, allowing the wings of his scalp to stretch and expand. The delicate, cold fingers of the prophet gently rake through them, never once disturbing the divine feathers with their gentle, rhythmic motion. 

“You smell of ozone. And regret,” he says, a knowing tone to his voice. 

And Hermes does not doubt that he knows exactly. 

“It is nothing, my dear heart,” Hermes says, though he knows it does not convince the prophet. 

He can feel Tiresias’ cold fingers trail from the wings, gently taking one of Hermes’ gloved hands. He peels the glove off, his fingers lingering for a moment as he waits in silence permission. Tiresias is the only one that the god have ever allowed to do so. And once he gets that permission, his fingers begin to lightly trace soothing motions across the lightning scarred hand of the god.

“Is it hurting you?” the prophet asks quietly, and when Hermes shakes his head. His fingers lovingly caress the skin. Though the chronic pain that still reverberates through the old scars never fade, the presence of another touching them draws his mind from it for that moment. And it crafts a peace.

That is before Tiresias speaks again, not fully waiting for an answer.

“It is one thing to lie to me; but, it is another thing to lie when you know I have already divined the answer. I have pulled at the thread of that mighty King of Ithaka already, Hermes, and in its frays I saw how it was wrapped across Olympus like a noose.” 

The dark fire of the prophet’s voice stirs a thumping feel in Hermes’ chest as he is quick to divert from it, not wanting to discuss it.

“I brought you something from the living,” Hermes says suddenly and quietly in distraction.

Tiresias hums lightly, allowing Hermes his peace. And so, Hermes produces a single, perfect rose from the linen of his bag. He pokes the wrist of the prophet with it gently, and his hands cease their gentle caress to take it. 

The thorns do not pierce his skin no matter how corporeal Tiresias is as he gently feels the stem, the soft petals, less feeling the texture and more the warmth of the sunlight that touches the living. Though as it sits in the hands of the dead it is quick to be snuffed, crumpling to the same ash as the floor. 

Neither Tiresias nor Hermes seem to despair at this, though, the prophet soaking in the traces of warmth that still cling to his fingertips, and the god relishing in the other’s soft happiness. 

After a long moment of content silence, Tiresias speaks again.

“I wish I could shower you with gifts as much as you do me.”

Hermes barks out a laugh as he brings a hand behind him to touch at Tiresias’ face, turning his gaze to where he can see the other man. 

“You must trust that you shower me with plenty.” 

Tiresias hums again, but a smile is now laced on his face and he allows Hermes to distract him some more from the trouble. 

An unknown time passes before Hermes pulls himself from his dear heart’s arms, knowing that he must leave. His domain and his duties push him forward, but his heart clings to the chilling cold of the other man. 

“You must go,” Tiresias says astutely and simply. Though, Hermes has gotten to understand the quiet stoicism of the other and can see the sadness in his face. 

“I must. But, I will return.” 

He presses another, gentle kiss to the prophet’s lips, letting the warmth linger as a promise. However, when they part, there is a disturbed look to Tiresias’ face now, something bothering him. 

“Why?” he asks faintly. “Why is it that you return?”

Hermes raises an eyebrow, and he can sense the brooding begin to overtake the prophet’s mind. A lifetime spent divining the fortunes of others, never allowing true, purposeful love to reach him through the whole of his mortal life. 

“Why is it that the bee returns to the flower?” Hermes asks quietly. 

“Necessity.”

“And for its beauty,” he retorts. “The beauty of its bloom is what attracts them so swiftly.” 

“There is no use for a flower that is dead,” Tiresias says, tilting his head to the side.

“Would you say that a bouquet is a graveyard? Does the flower smell any less sweet if plucked and given to a loving sweetheart?” 

“It still fades with time.”

“And the memory of it will linger in beauty forever. For it is not how a flower wilts that the lyrics of love are written.” 

Tiresias runs his fingers down Hermes’ side, gently allowing his finger to flow through the fabric of his clothes. There is a quiet silence that starts to make Hermes cling to worry.

“Is that what this is?” Tiresias finally asks. “Is this love?”

Hermes offers a soft smile, his hand closing around Tiresias where it now lays on the god’s hip. 

“I do love you,” he says quietly, the words revealing far less emotion than the god would have liked to have expressed.  Though, no amount of feeling could truly give it justice. 

Tiresias does not let the silence linger. 

“I love you too,” he says in a quiet, hushed tone. 

And when a final embrace and longing kiss is exchanged, Hermes departs from the cave, and once the light of the god fades, so to does the form of Tiresias as he retreats back to the quiet shadows. 

The shade knows that something wrong and powerful stirs across the walls of the cave.

There is no concept of time for the shadows of the Underworld, but it had been quite a long one since the two lovers had departed. And now, what walks with the shade is the resolute form of another immortal. 

The moment his foot crosses the threshold, the form of Tiresias manifests from the shadows. As there is no offering needed when it is your Lord who wishes conversation. 

Hades is cold. Such coldness hangs from his form and his shadow cast is one that clings to even the dark form of the prophet. The bident that acts as his scepter is a rippling weapon, swirling with the essence of Erebus, Tartarus, Elysium and Asphodel. The very essence of the Underworld’s framework. 

“You are the prophet of Thebes,” the Lord states simply and with a chill, his voice more an echo across the surface of the walls. 

It is in an instant Tiresias is to his knees, slinging an arm in reverence over his chest. 

“The very same, my Lord Hades,” he says in solemn quiet. “What is it that I have done to garner your attention, my Lord?”

The cold facade of Hades now houses a smile as he approaches more closely, allowing the shadows of his cloak and form engulf the whole of the cave. 

“You are a bold one, prophet of Thebes,” he says, holding none of the warmth that other gods in the past have used. 

Tiresias cannot will himself to speak, not allowing another slip to escape his lips before he is addressed with a command or question. An act that seems to please Hades.

“It is not often I seek personally the audience of a shade. You are right to hold questions, as am I. So, I will answer them swift and easily.”

Hades cocks his head, looking at the glassy, empty surface of the prophet’s eyes. 

“Is it true that you are currently held in an affair with my Olympian nephew, Hermes?” 

It may have been phrased as a question, but Tiresias only heard a clear statement. So he nodded, and before he can speak, Hades is once more. 

“Is it that I must remind you and my nephew that you are of my domain, shaded prophet? Love and affairs are not of the dead.”

The words are cold and icy, betraying the smile that still sits on the lips of the Lord. 

“I understand this, my Lord,” Tiresias says in reverence.

“And so you must understand that the affair must end.”

Tiresias can feel the beatless heart that rests in his chest somehow grow colder. He does not speak, prompting Hades to stamp the bident’s end into the floor, drawing his attention once more.

“Do you understand this?” 

Tiresias can sense the annoyance in his Lord’s tone, so he quietly nods. 

“I do.” 

Hades hums, lifting the bident, leaving its imprint in the cool stone. He turns, starting his way to the cave’s entrance once more.

“My Lord--”

And Hades stops, staring at the insolence of his subject.

“Please… Please do not leave it at that,” Tiresias whispers quietly. “I beg at your heels with the whole of my essence - that which you still allow to exist - not to leave me with this.”

Hades face remains resolute and firm, the bident gripped tightly in his arms.

“It was your and my nephew’s fault for entertaining the concept at all. I am merely the one who does what is required,” Hades speaks lowly, almost surprised that he is stooping low enough to even think of the pleas. 

“You chose this affair, and you cannot outrun that pain.”

Of all that has happened, Tiresias did not expect the ghost of his own words to haunt him so. If blood still pumped through him his face would have paled and his knuckles would have turned white.

“Know that it is a mercy I have informed you of this at all. My wife, ever the romantic, had insisted that her nephew’s interest did not be left dry in the quiet. And partially it was to ensure my nephew had not tried anything.”

Tiresias no longer fully registers what the Lord says as he can feel the grip on his identity and form start to fade back into the shadows. 

“I hope whatever you had with Hermes had made its peace, as now you return to the quiet of your eternity.” 

When the form of the Lord of the Dead lingers no longer, the shade is returned to its silence. 

All it can think is how the warmth no longer lingers across its fingertips, nor its face. 

And how lonely something that should be familiar all feels. 

Chapter Text

What now do you want, you unlucky man? Why would you ever leave the sunlight, and come to this joyless place just to see the shadows of the dead? What could you desire?

                                                                                      Tiresias to King Odysseus of Ithaka, The Odyssey

Endless shadows cling to the remnants of the cavern hung low and lonely in the furthest corner of Asphodel. Where not even the poppies grow; nor the shades tend to roam. Where the song of the muses die and the flow of the river is silent. 

For most it was a gentle and caring peace. For the single shade that made that lonely shadow its home, it shattered existence. 

Last it was left was the Prophet of Thebes, once profound and wise in life, was left speechless and alone. The Agesilaos - the great leader of All - had demanded his eternal loneliness. And whatever it was that commanded the will of Hades was deemed right and just. 

And right and just it must have been for Tiresias to be thrown from his love and cast into a shade once more. 

The gloom of the caves was somehow duller without that spark that once blossomed. The most brilliant bloom of Asphodel was taken. The shade’s eyes cling to a single bloom of the Asphodel Poppy that manages in the cracks of the stone left behind by Hades’ stave. It had long since bloomed, letting a damp ashen pollen across the other cracks. And soon enough, there would be a bouquet of his own grown. 

If only there was one to share it with. 

How madness must have been a pity; how the waves of the Lethe looked less a burden. 

For all the gifts the Prophet had been granted, the greatest curse was his memory. Past and future running free in his grip, never to escape it. He was cursed to have been given that bliss of drinking from the white waters of the Lethe, the cleansing drink of the dead. It was that all were equal in death once the deed of life was stripped away; but for some, the remnants of phantom memories were a hell. 

The memories of cool grass against his fingertips.

The memories of the bright sun on his face.

The memory of a tender kiss to his lips, soft and warming his lifeless bones.

Memories.

Only memories.

All he was constructed of was static memory. 

Fields of wheat grew countless and endless across the browning horizon of the Theban countryside. The great breadbasket stretched for endless miles under the harshness of the sun. It twinkled and shone with an intensity, baking the cracking earth beneath it. Despite the heart of autumn beyond them, the lady of the harvest shone the brightest of the sun’s rays this day. 

Barely a wind blew that day, Tiresias remembers well.

He was of his fourth decade now, nearing his fifth. His bones ached and his skin was the coarse texture of leather. His face was smooth, the edges of a beard cleanly shaven. Long, twisting, braided hair trails down either side, an entirely silver grey. He wrapped a thinning cloak around him that jostled with his every move. In one gnarled hand of his was a staff. Coiled across it was the visage of two winged snakes - a gift from the God King alongside his gift of the Sight. 

Tiresias’ blind gaze trains harshly across the landscape, as if searching for something, and then it returns to his companion. 

The man was easily only twenty years of age, his hair curly and his face young. He had a jump to his step and a mischief to his smile that only came with youth and naivety. He was clearly a shepherd of some kind, most likely from the neighboring field since Tiresias did not recognize him. He had a slick crook that he balanced on his shoulder, a bundle of wool across his form despite the hotness of the day. 

“Soooo--” the man draws out, looking the Prophet up and down. “This is where I saw your cattle get stolen. I didn’t get a  good look at the man who did it though.”

Tiresias rubs the edges of his bare chin, his other hand feeling the edges of the barley that grow along the dirt trail they follow. 

“Tell me boy,” Tiresias says quietly, his voice hold a purposefully lofty air to it. The mischief in his own tone is well hidden, hidden enough to fool the young man, who stares at him with newfound interest. 

“What birds do you see?”

The man looks at him, puzzled.

“What birds I-- What do you mean?”

Tiresias smiles, warm and cool at the same time. His hand raises to the sky, gently feeling the sparse wind that fills it. 

“Just humor me. Be my eyes but a moment. Tell me of the birds you see.”

The man looks around, spinning a full circle as his gaze is trained high into the air. Suddenly, the flap of sharp wings is heard overhead and the low caw of a crow fills the air. 

“A crow!” the man shouts with a smile, pointing to it with a smile. “Come to make a snack of some mice most likely.”

Tiresias simply smiles, though, allowing the twirled top of his stave to extend a bit higher into the air. And with a thick thump, the black bird lands atop it. It coos and caws into the air a moment and Tiresias bends his ear, as if to listen to it. The man stares in wonder as the Prophet works, and a few moments later, the crow takes off once more.

Tiresias smiles brightly. 

“I have learned how I will find my cattle,” he says simply, turning to the man. 

“Wait, really? How?” the man asks, a real air of interest to his voice. 

“By asking you of course,” Tiresias says nonchalantly, swiping up one of the black feathers the crow left behind off his shoulder. “Thief.” 

The man stares at him in momentary shock before a bright, wide smile spreads on his face and from the edges of his hairline, bright wings spread out across them. 

Hermes lets out a cackle and swipes the edge of the tousled hairs out of his face. 

“Oh, Ares is gonna owe me so much money!” the god cackles, and Tiresias only smiles.

A chance meeting between a little thief trying to prove the mettle of a supposed prophet; and said prophet, who had found interest in the next godling that found him. 

The memory crashes through the mind of the shade and it slumps against the wall. Black ooze stretches from the shadows, the only mimic of tears that it can manage. The bright warmth of the day leaves it instantly, leaving the void once again unfilled. 

The shade knew it was stupid. That its devastation was false; its feeling fleeting and scarce. That it was nothing more akin to a schoolboy’s fascination, or an aesthetic pleasure of the divine. That there was no real place for a man and a god together, purposefully and wholesomely. That the whims of the gods often leave mortals in a broken state and that was just the nature of life.

But the heart that once beat, and still yet remains, in the shade’s form tells it that its rationale was wrong. That it was not superficial, nor small, nor nothing. That its love would never fade, no matter how much this Hell, or its Lord, or Olympus, or even its own damned self wanted it to leave. 

“I cannot accept your gifts Lord Hermes,” Tiresias says smoothly. “I have no use of them.”

It had been at least two years since the god and the prophet had made friends. The messenger of the divine often pestered him across his day, always finding a reason to bug him; always finding something to tell him. It stirred something in his old soul, stirred something deep in his heart. 

And so, nestled in his home, Tiresias had found a special place for an altar to the messenger god, leaving him little foods and trinkets and devoting some of his time to the god in reverence and worship. 

Now, they are both sat in a small grove. The laces of trees above provide ample shade. The sound of a noisy and smooth brook acts as their ambience.

“Come onnnnn--” Hermes nearly whines, a grin plastered on his face. He is insistently nudging a slim-wrapped gift against the Prophet’s shoulder. “I think you’ll really like it.” 

Tiresias quirks and eyebrow, gently taking one of the gods’ gloved hands to ease the persistence.

“You would think I the god and you the mortal, the way you are so insistent on gifting me offerings,” Tiresias says, rubbing a thumb over the god’s palm. “You know I have no real need for objects beyond necessity.”

“That’s just stupid talk for ‘I don’t let myself have nice things’. How about this: as a god, I demand you accept my gift!”

He nudges him again, a little more playfully, and Tiresias cannot help himself scoffing lightly. But then a sudden shift occurs, a quietness and meekness to the god’s voice that suddenly gets Tiresias attention. An emotion he’d never heard in the god’s voice before. 

“I really think you’d like it…”

Tiresias sighs, gently taking the wrapped offering from Hermes. The prophet lets his hands linger for a short moment against the god’s hand, feeling the cool texture of the gloves; and of course, thankfully in the divine’s favor, not able to see the deep flush that spread to the god’s face at the touch. 

He gently unfolds the wrapping, revealing in it a second feel of fabric: a beautifully woven scarf. The edges of budding flowers were woven straight into the wool of the garment, intricate patterns woven around the small blooms. 

Tiresias’ hands slowly rake across it, carefully not to nudge the flowers - were they little roses? - out of place. The texture was nice, soft and warm, under the prophet’s touch. Hermes watches his reaction with a more intense interest, his gaze boring into the prophet’s feeling fingers. 

“Athena helped me to weave it. She’s got a real, uh, knack to it,” Hermes says idly, trying to fill the silence. “I figured that a gift for you would need to be something tactile, a nice texture-- Ahh, not to be taken as an insult.”

Tiresias tilts his head, his chin in the air as he wraps the garment around his neck smoothly and slowly. He runs a finger through it one single more time before he fills the edges of his cloak around it. The fabric presses straight against his chest. Against his heart. 

“Thank you, my lord,” Tiresias says finally. “It is rare that I ever receive a gift; and though I can’t say you are the first god to gift me one, this is the first I have ever received that has been so personally unique.”

A moment of content silence fills the air, replacing the more tense one. 

“Did you imply that you made this yourself?”

Hermes cracks a smile, laughing a little under his breath as he rubs his neck. 

“Uh, yeah, I--”

“Why?”

He asks the question so suddenly, and Hermes’ lips purse lightly. Unsure of truly how to answer that question, the god shifts a little closer. 

“I thought you could use something nice is all.”

Tiresias hums for a quiet moment. Hermes would almost describe it as displeased for only a fraction of a second before the prophet is scooting closer to him, where they are sat on the grass. Gently, Tiresias rests his head against the god’s shoulder, his silver hair splayed across Hermes’ shoulder. 

A peaceful silence sat for what seemed an eternity after. 

The shade slams its fist into the darkened wall. It nearly cracks with the effort, a tumble of rubble crashing to the floor in its anger. 

Its fingers cling to its amorphous form, trying to grasp at the remnant of its neck. It can barely feel the soft wool of the scarf that still sat at its crook. It lets out a shattered sob.

It tries to press its face into the fabric as it remembers. It remembers the first time. 

The first time pressing its face into the nook of its lover’s neck, taking in the smell and the taste.

Remembers the first time it tasted the other lip’s, sweet and tender and loving. 

Remembers, remembers, remembers, the first-- the first--

The stars outside twinkle and burst across the black canvas, illuminating to an almost pale blue. The moon hangs in the sky, a half-crescent, barely a sliver as the new month begins to turn. The small shack that the Prophet of Thebes calls his home, far separated from the rest of the bustle of the city metropolis and nestled into one of the furthest corners of its province, is still and quiet. 

Tiresias is lain peacefully on the making of his bed. A glass decanter of amber wine is on the nightstand. The prophet’s pale cheeks are now flushed a bright pink as a small smile plays on his lips. Hermes is sprawled next to him, chugging another glass of the liquid, his wings spread fully across the wool blankets as he sits propped up next to the prophet.

“Come onnnnn~” the god says in almost a song, a smile permanently plastered on his face. “You can’t actually be serious right now. Not even a little bit?” 

Tiresias tilts his head, showing  teeth as he smiles.

“I must say. This is the strangest solicitation for sex I’ve ever gotten.” 

“It’s not a solicitation! I just asked if you ever, you know, did it.”

“And then when you got your answer you asked if I wanted to.” 

Hermes groans, smacking his forehead into Tiresias’ shoulder with a light thump. It causes a laugh to escape the prophet’s lips as he presses a gentle kiss to the god’s temple. 

There is a moment of quiet. 

“Okay, but like, have you never at least once been curious about it?”

“Curiosity does not equal desire, Hermes,” Tiresias says with a light hum. “I’m curious what one finds at the bottom of a cliff and yet have no desire to jump off it.”

“So sex is like… Killing yourself?” 

Tiresias baps him on the head.

“Poor choice of metaphor,” he says quietly. “I have always been curious, but I’ve never truly had the desire to do. In theory it seems nice and fulfilling; I have never found one I’ve had an interest like that before now, however.” 

Hermes cracks a grin, lifting one of Tiresias’ hands to lay a chaste and prim kiss across the knuckles.

“Before now?”

Tiresias tilts his head with an almost playful report. 

“Did I say that?”

“You did.”

“You must have misheard.”

“I misheard shit.” 

Tiresias’ smile widens, and he tilts his head, dragging his fingers across the edge of his neck in invitation. And Hermes gladly accepts it, bringing his lips to the flesh, gently kissing the Prophet’s throat. 

“You know, with someone as old as I am, people might think you were some kind of gold digger.” Tiresias says, his fingers dancing into the god’s curly hair. 

“Tiresias, my young lad, if we’re comparing ages, I’d be a cradle snatcher twenty times over.” 

“I’m telling you to be careful with my old bones, as you know us mortals are rather weak.” 

The prophet slips the edges of the chiton off his shoulders, revealing the pale of his upper abdomen, the jutting bone of his collarbone and chest. Hermes is far too quick to stare, his gaze bright. 

“And you know,” Hermes says quietly, gently gliding his fingers through the silver lengths of hair. “That if there is ever a point you don’t feel comfortable with what is happening, it stops with no question.” 

Tiresias tilts his head with playful confusion, still lightly carding his hands through the god’s hair.

“An Olympian asking for consent? Oh stop, or I might get an inflated ego over how special I must be.” 

Hermes pushes him, sending the prophet down onto the bed with a laugh. 

“Shut up. I’m trying to be serious.” 

Tiresias hums, a smile pressed to his face as Hermes stares at him, lain off to the side. 

“It is noted Hermes. Thank you.” 

With that, clothes and garments are quickly discarded, thrown lazily across the floor. The small house that was silent is filled with the deep and rich noises of pleasure and exhilarated lust and love. 

Pressed against the head of the bed, Tiresias’ hands map every contour of the god’s form, memorizing it with scrutiny and detail almost as much as the pleasure the god fills him with. With every shift and noise and laugh, Hermes is filled with a new thought, a new concept of the word he was so used to seeing gods - himself sometimes included - thrown so freely. Love. 

Memories. 

Memories.

Memories.

That was all there was left.

That was all there would ever be again.

Memories are nothing.

They feel like NOTHING.

They sound like NOTHING.

They look like NOTHING.

They are NOTHING. 

Tiresias lays on the edge of the dirt and grass of the forest floor. The ground around him is charred in a ring, like a contained fire that stemmed straight from his body. He writhes there, his blood never spilling as the wound he holds cauterized instantly. 

All he can feel is the pain. It sinks so far and  deep into his bones, like a molting flame. Across the edge of his clavicle, where the collarbone and neck sits, a crystal arrow pierces his skin. An arrow slung by the very sun itself. A ray that burns through every fiber of his skin. 

The moment the arrow hit him he felt his body slow and stop, crashing to the ground. His stave, what he has started to call his own caduceus, sits abandoned next to him. His eyes start to fade, blur and dim and shadow. He clutches his throat and before he can even sob, he blinks, and he is staring into an endlessly dark abyss. 

It takes a long moment for the prophet to realize he is staring straight into the pools of a massive river. The long, flowing rivers of black with a ghost illumination to its edges. He nearly slips as his mind finally centers and he becomes disoriented, the feeling of flying and moving and having been moved all hitting him at once. He stares down at his form and he is a blackened shade the texture of smoke and ash. 

He is dead. 

Before he can even register it, warmth rockets through his arms as he feels something grapple them. In the dreary light of Hades, the messenger god almost glows, golden and spectral. A sad smile is tugged on his lips and for a brief moment the prophet forgets who the god really is, had forgotten that who he was, was divine and powerful and so beautiful. 

Hermes simply watches, and he holds him gently as Tiresias collapses into his arms, the weight and pain and exhaustion of a lifetime suddenly gone. 

“You won’t get rid of me, even in death, my dear heart,” Hermes whispers quietly into his ear. 

“I will always be here.”

“Always.” 

Before the shade can once more slam its fist into the wall, almost ready to start slamming its head to expel the memory straight from it, something grapples to its spectral arms. There is nothing that should be able to touch the shades of the Underworld save for the gods themselves, And yet, there is a sudden and brief shock as the shade shutters, and the shade realizes it is being pulled straight from the wall and fully into physical existence once more.

Tiresias can feel something faintly warm and moving pull him into their arms. He scrambles, trying to catch his footing as he is suddenly propelling forward. It was a speed he had never fully experienced, a sensation of something akin to flight that whips across his face as he can no longer smell the dank cave around him, no longer smell the poppy that eternally hung from the caverns. 

He grips onto something in his flailing, tightly holding the man’s arm and the stave that rests in it. 

“Her-- Hermes--?” the prophet manages to say against the wind, but the god does not respond. He simply holds the prophet tighter against him, his grip never faltering.

What must have only been minutes feels like long hours, but before Tiresias can fully fathom it, something warm hits him. Something so incredibly warm that spreads across the whole of his body. It feels like whatever lasting warmth Hermes would bring with him down into Hades below. Soft and gentle. It takes far too long to realize that for the first time in decades, perhaps centuries, Tiresias is feeling the sun against his spectral skin. 

They are still moving, though, and with a sudden force there is sound . The silence of the Underworld is gone. Tiresias can hear the wind whip through his hair and clothes; the crashing of leaves and grass across it; the voices of the birds around them. Somewhere there is the distinct crashing of waves. The ocean. 

Finally, the two of them stop. Hermes clatters to the ground, taking Tiresias with him, now almost cradling the prophet in his arms. He is breathing heavily, Tiresias can feel the rise and fall of his chest where he is pressed.

They are long and quiet for a few moments.

“Hermes.”

The god hums, unable to make words, unable to form anything with that silver tongue. 

“Hermes. What did-- What did you do ?”

Tiresias shifts in his arms, taking the god’s face in his hands. He looks blindly into his eyes, grip tightening. 

“What did you do?!”

“My uncle,” Hermes starts, trying to match the intensity of Tiresias’ voice and face. “Told me that I could no longer see you. That our affair was to end, so he said.”

Tiresias nods, trying to follow the logic. 

“So I took you from him,” Hermes says, gently resting his hands against the ones that grip his face.

“Right,’ Tiresias says in disbelief. “Right. Right, God of Thieves. You have stolen… Me from death.” 

Hermes cracks a smile, but it falters as he sees the expression on Tiresias’ face.

“You are… Not happy.”

“Hermes, you stole a shade from Hades,” Tiresias says lowly, an almost incredulous anger in his voice. “You stole from the dead. This isn’t like some cattle, Hermes. You-- This? This is dangerous. This is incredibly foolish. How did you think this would--? Why did you--?”

Hermes gently peels Tiresias’ hands where they rest on the god’s face, and slowly cradles them in his hands. 

“You forget that I am a god, my dearest heart,” Hermes says quietly, kissing Tiresias’ pale knuckles gently. “Hades will either forget, or care little for a single shade missing.” 

“No, no--” Tiresias says. Hermes can see the light catch the prophet’s eyes and he knows what it means, he understands. The chatter of the birds seems to envelope them fully.

“You have changed fate, I can’t-- I cannot see what will--” 

Hermes gently cradles the prophet’s head now, and Tiresias screws his eyes shut. He tries for a long moment to collect the thoughts and strands of fate that were now untethering and collapsing in his mind. He fails, and he is left shuttering into Hermes’ chest, his whole body shivering. 

“We are going to get punished.”

“What? No, that’s not--” Hermes starts to say, but Tiresias cuts him off by pressing a hand to his mouth.

“Orpheus tried to take the dead and he was eaten by cannibals. Pirithous tried to steal love from the dead and was mauled by the Erinyes. You cannot-- This will not--”

Hermes is quiet and slowly begins to rub his fingers across Tiresias’ scalp. For an irrational and pointedly unnecessary reason, Tiresias notes, it starts to sooth his thoughts. His eyes finally open once more, the blank and glassy gaze edged by apprehension. 

“You are-- So stupid,” Tiresias huffs. “You didn’t think about this at all. You thought about nothing of this.”

“I thought about you.”

Tiresias lifts his head, to be met gently by Hermes cupping one side of his cheek. The prophet feels the god’s fingers across his lips and Tiresias nods, relenting as the god kisses him gently and fully. 

“You thought about me,” Tiresias says between the press of their lips. “And I thought of you so, so-- Much.” 

Hermes cracks a grin against the prophet’s lips, shifting so that they are now more properly sat in the shade of the tree. Tiresias’ nose crinkles and he shifts to lay the most of his body in the sun, letting the warmth soak into him fully after so long. 

“Watch it, Prophet of Thebes,” Hermes says with a cracked grin. “One would get the impression you might have fallen in love truly.”

Tiresias narrows his eyes, bringing his hand up to lightly pinch Hermes’ cheek, earning a coy and cheeky smile. 

“Yes. Yes I might have. Was there ever any doubt?”

Hermes' smile brightens.

"Never once."