Chapter Text
You never know how much something means to you until you no longer have it. Such is the case with the Olympians, fruitless heirs to a cursed legacy.
Just as Ouranos begat Kronos, Kronos begat his own downfall: six children to end his reign and inherit the universe. Ruling on high, these Olympians believed that they could birth civilization from the expanses of their power.
Kingship begat Wisdom, War, Creation, Inspiration, Hunting, Communication, Ecstasy, and countless other marvels; Zeus fathered Bright-Eyed Athena, Man-Slaying Ares, Industrious Hephaestus, Shining Apollo, Far-Shooting Artemis, Clever Hermes, Roaring Dionysus and more. From that golden ichor great heroes should have been born, and the undying flame of civilization should have sparked from the hearth.
But it was not to be. A curse was laid upon the deathless gods as retribution for killing their father. Every child conceived with ichor in their veins was destined to face endless suffering. Their godly children were born frailer than they should have, often fading before reaching true apotheosis. As for their mortal children? If their threads weren’t snapped before they were born, they roamed as accursed monsters, the arrows of Artemis destined to take the lives of her kin.
An immortal existence without any to share it with is a miserable one. God-king Zeus had the counsel of his beloved Olympian children, and Poseidon had his heir under the sea. And yet, lamented Hermes, the rest of the gods could not say the same. For all his power as a god, he was powerless against the dreams of children to nurture under his wings, the joy of fledglings running wild amongst the glory of the Hellas his family had built. But when he awoke, his temple at Olympus had nothing but an empty nest.
How could it be that he, Hermes Polytropos, cleverest of all the gods, could not find a way to outwit death? He had tried everything he could, but time after time, he was left with nothing but the still bodies of his newborn children. Worse still was the cries of his mortal-blooded children, born only to live cursed existences that met their end at his sister’s Hunt.
Perhaps, thought the God of Travellers, the problem was Hellas itself. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to seek out new lands, one where the hands of Fate held no power. And with no particular destination in mind, he set out, opening a doorway to a place no one had ever seen before.
Upon entering that shimmering expanse of light, Hermes found himself in a strange place. He was surrounded by huge, towering buildings of metal and glass, and the streets were clogged with hulking machines that rumbled and spewed the scent of burning gas. The people here dressed in strange garments, and spoke a language that he had never heard. Of course, he was the god of language, so he deciphered it flawlessly soon enough. But his understanding only brought new questions.
It seemed that wherever he was, mortals no longer worshipped the gods. They spoke of them as if they were relics of an ancient past, thoughtlessly uttering their names without any respect. And, most irritatingly of all, he could not punish them for their transgressions.
The mortals here were blinded from the divine by a heavy Mist, that was true, but even so he should have been able to influence them. But it seemed that in these strange new lands, he could not use his silver tongue on these witless mortals, could not test them in games of chance, could not guide the few he found amusing on safe roads. It was as though another had taken his place and robbed him of the power that was rightfully his.
It had made his already foul mood even worse. As he wandered down a series of dark alleys, he considered returning home. Even if he was destined to never cradle his children, he would at least reign as a glorious god. But then, he saw.
First: a boy, with swift feet and clever hands. Second: A girl, with the eyes of the sky and steps like thunder. Last, limping along: a grey-eyed child, eyes frantically glancing behind them as the trio fled a snarling hellhound.
In that instant, he knew these children were different somehow. Familiar, almost, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He tasted the air with a snake-like tongue and felt his heart almost stop. A child, his child, was afraid and exhausted, and when he dared to extend his senses he could feel his own aura coiled within that tiny body. His son was right in front of him, and he wasn’t safe in his arms.
It was unbearable, watching the children successfully fend off the monster. His quick-footed son managed to distract the beast, and the girl, definitely a fellow child of the sky-king, let loose sparks to stun it. The youngest, a daughter of his grey-eyed sister, nailed it in the forehead with her little hammer, and the three breathed a shaky sigh of relief as the hellhound disintegrated to dust.
He should have been able to smite their enemies. He should have taken them under his wings and whispered sweet nothings until they fell asleep. These little miracles should have been safe with their family, not scrounging for food in a dingy alley. No monster should have ever dared to harm them, for the full wrath of the Olympians should have shielded them from anything that could ever hurt them. But it seemed so long as he was here, he was powerless.
And while that was infuriating beyond compare, he had a solution. He was Hermes Poecilometes, not a thoughtless brute like Theritas. If he could not come to them here, they simply needed to go to a place where he could.
He thought back to his desire to leave and grinned when the same glowing doorway shimmered before him once more. Channeling more of his power to ensure it pulsed brighter than the Mist that enshrouded these lands, he chuckled lowly before stepping through. It was only a matter of time before they followed.
Hermes grinned as he took in the fresh, clean air. That horrendous land was truly no place for his child.
His child, he smiled. It seemed that Tyche truly did smile upon him, for he had become a father. His little miracle. Luke, he thought, although Loukas is surely what his fledgling niece had meant. Little Annabeth (what a peculiar name!) was a welcome surprise, a clever little owl just like her mother. And his newfound sister, Thalia, had been born in that strange new world as well, even though he knew his father had long since stopped having liaisons with mortals out of heartbreak.
These impossible, miraculous children should have been born here, spoiled under the aegis of the Olympian pantheon. They were stolen from them, from him. An unfathomable rage began to build in his chest, and the nearby trees began to creak and sag under the pressure as the nearby birds scattered. He felt poison well within his fangs and delighted in the idea of rending the flesh of those thieves to shreds, to suffer in agony as he had suffered, before thinking better of it. After all, the children would come through soon, and it would not do to scare them away. He was well aware that mortals found him unnerving, and while these children were godlings, it was likely that they were influenced by those mortal qualities. He retracted his fangs, folded his wings, and sat down upon a nearby stump.
Artemis’s chariot was high in the sky, but the shadows of the forest around him were a paltry welcome for his beloved son and adorable new family. He conjured a firepit and set some nearby logs ablaze, and beckoned the little rabbits who were still nearby to come near. Grinning as he slaughtered them, he set them to roast on the fire. The children would have only the finest ambrosia and nectar soon, but for now a snack to fill their hungry bellies would not be amiss.
The doorway pulsed a brilliant white, and cautiously, Luke stepped out, sword-first. His eyes, blue like Hermes’s own, scanned the treeline before meeting his gaze and coming to a halt. Annabeth and Thalia, close behind, ending up running into his back. Annabeth in particular startled cutely, wildly glancing around in shock before spotting him.
They were perfect. He wanted to spirit them away immediately.
He drank in Luke’s eyes and envisioned holding him in his arms, singing the lullabies his mother once sang for him. Never once leaving his son’s gaze, Hermes concentrated, trying to close the doorway behind them. But it refused his power. He needed to get them closer so they couldn’t flee. He needed Luke. He didn’t know what he’d do if he was bereft of him once more.
There was nothing for it, then. Hermes smiled, and leaned forward, the very image of a friendly traveller. With a gentle smile, he spoke:
“Hello children. Are you lost?”