Bonus Content - Hermes POV

Hey everyone!

The poll came out in favor of a scene between Hermes and the PC before the events of the game, so I went all the way back to a potential first meeting. This can certainly be canon if you feel so inclined, but if you imagined this event a different way, by all means consider this unofficial. :)

Featuring Hermes, Dionysus, and Hestia. 

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Hermes heaves a heavy sigh, scuffing his sandals against the ground more than was strictly necessary to carry himself forward. He’d thought dad would be proud of him. Sure, it wasn’t much, but his magic is really coming along, and the fact that he’d managed actual sparks was… well, even Apollo couldn’t do that. Shouldn’t it be really impressive?

He could take off, he knows. ‘Fly it out,’ like he has with so many other things. He thinks it’s called a coping mechanism, or something. Aph would know the word.

But he just doesn’t feel like it right now, and if there’s one thing numerous attempts have taught him, it’s that in order to make the flying really work, he has to feel it. The sense of unrestricted freedom, of being as much of the wind as pushed by it. This component is as necessary as the wings on his back. Maybe more. There were people who flew without wings, after all.

So instead, he trudges his way over to the one place on Olympus he can always count on a warm reception.

Hestia’s residence is modest by the standards of a major goddess. He’d sort of expected the deity of hearth and home to have, well, a huge home. But it’s a single story, more of a cottage than anything, carved out of what seems to be a whole block of pale stone—Hermes doesn’t know rocks, but he does know it isn’t marble or anything—and the roof is tiled in neat little red things like the scales on a big fish.

There’s a gentle curl of smoke coming out of the roof, and he swears he can smell something delicious on the breeze. Picking up his feet, Hermes jogs the rest of the way, reaching the front door and only barely remembering to knock.

It’s just that he can already picture it: Hestia will give him something delicious to eat, and ask what’s got him so down. And he’ll tell her, because even when he doesn’t want to, he ends up telling her things, and the only other person who makes him feel that way is his Uncle but the Underworld is so far away and he can’t fly right now and he just needs something—someone to be even a little bit proud of him for something.

When Hestia calls out for him to enter, he does—and abruptly stops short. There’s someone else here.

Hermes has never met Dionysus before, but he knows vaguely that Hestia is an aunt, and has a nephew not too different in age from Hermes himself. He knows that lots of people were talking about it, back then, and to some degree they still do now. That Dionysus is a demigod, that the famously-cold Demeter actually had a love affair, or about how no one knows who the father is. None of that has ever particularly concerned him, and yet it’s what immediately comes to mind when he sees the youth seated at Hestia’s table, eating bread and cheese with his legs swinging back and forth under the chair, not yet quite able to reach the ground.

Not that Hermes’s do, either.

Dionysus feels different, he decides. Different than how gods feel, and different than how humans feel. Not exactly just a combination, either. But he doesn’t think about it for too long; Hestia draws his attention and smiles.

“Hello there, Hermes. Come have a seat.”

There’s no ‘what are you doing here?’ nor even ‘I wasn’t expecting you today,’ nor ‘my, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?’ like his mother might say, plucking at the strings of his guilt in a way that makes him feel uncomfortable. Only a welcome, and an invitation.

So he shuffles to one of the empty spots on the benches at either side of the table, feeling a bit self-conscious now that there’s someone else here. On a normal day, Hermes is pretty good at meeting people, helping them have fun and being polite, but today he just isn’t prepared for it, and it makes him feel… awkward, he thinks is the word.

But the boy at the table pushes the board of bread and cheese and fruit he’s eating from partway between them, smiling at him in the same kind of way Hestia does. Only with a missing tooth one off from front and center, which somehow makes it different. “I’m Dionysus,” he says, tripping a little over his own name. “You can call me Dion.”

Hermes hums, picking up part of a fig and popping it in his mouth. Probably a little rude to do that before he’s returned the introduction, but no one says anything about it, not even when he talks through the last little bit of it. “I’m Hermes. You can call me Hermes.”

Dion giggles, and nods.

Hestia takes one of the two remaining chairs, setting down glasses of water for each of them and a small basket of baked sweets, which Dion immediately goes for, pulling a warm, fluffy pastry free and taking a large bite.

“How are you today, Hermes?” she asks, looking at him with that same characteristic warmth.

He contemplates it. Telling her about the things his father said, about how he can’t fly right now and how much it bothers him. About how much he misses his uncle even if the Underworld is kind of scary. About how people whisper about him, about all the time he spends there, about how he might become bad like everyone there. Even if he doesn’t understand what’s bad about it at all.

But the words get stuck on his tongue. He doesn’t know how to say all those big feelings, or what they even mean. All he knows is that that stuff happens, and it feels bad in a way he can’t quite get his head around.

So instead he says: “I made sparks yesterday, when I was practicing magic.”

And he watches as Hestia’s face lights up, her smile growing, warm and sweet, like a flower opening in the sun. “That’s amazing Hermes; congratulations! I’m so proud of you.”

It’s everything his heart needs, for now.

Dion, swallowing another large bite of pastry, blinks at him with obvious interest. “You can do magic already?” he asks, and the wonder in his tone maybe puffs Hermes up a bit more than it should, but he doesn’t care. It feels good to be the experienced one for a change, to know things someone else doesn’t know.

“Yeah, of course,” he replies, reaching for a pastry with as close to dignity as he can muster laying halfway across the table. “People say I’m pretty good at it.”

He doesn’t mention that ‘people’ is mostly his uncle and their friend Hekate, because that feels like something he shouldn’t say to people on Olympus, just in case.

The way Dion’s eyes round makes him think it’s the right choice, and he soaks it in when the other boy grins.

“That’s really neat! I have magic power, too, but I’m not very good at it yet. Mother says I’ll get there eventually, but it’s kind of hard.”

This piques Hermes’s interest, and he finds time between mouthfuls of deliciousness to inquire. “What kind of magic do you do?”

“Uh, well, stuff like mother mostly I think? Like I said, it’s not very good yet.”

Hermes doesn’t even notice when Hestia gets up later to tidy after their eating, too absorbed in the conversation with Dion. It certainly won’t be the last time, but he doesn’t think of it in those terms for many years.

All he knows today is that, when he leaves, refreshed by the kindness and esteem of both Hestia and her nephew, he flies home without trouble.