Chapter Text
The only sound that rang throughout the empty temple was Tiresias' sobs.
They were quiet. Not wracking, but instead muffled gasps in between the shuddering and tears that rolled down his face. Each quiver set the chains clattering, echoing off the grandiose walls. He could feel his own form curl against him, his forearms and hands being the only parts of his body that weren't bound to corporeality to keep him chained. It was excessive, decoratively so in a way that made his soul ache with the knowledge that he was now stuck.
At least the staff gave him freedom, in its own twisted way. Its own way that made the benevolent gods who chained him here laugh. If Tiresias’ overwhelming remorse wasn’t enough to pay for his crimes against the gods he committed during his life, if it was barely adequate enough to scratch the surface of his wrongdoings to make 4 separate gods work together to bind him here in his own personal Tartarus… Then perhaps he deserved this. Perhaps that king was sent by one of the gods themselves. Perhaps they decided, after all this time of silence, that he did not even deserve that distorted freedom.
A brief flicker of instinct flashed through him, the impulse to confirm the thought for himself. But the moment he felt the familiar warming curl of prophecy crawl across his temples towards the corner of his eyes, it was snuffed out and forcefully pulled back. Persephone's favour, while enough to allow him to keep his gift, even if it was to be used as a means of control, wasn't enough to allow him to use it personally. “At the will of others or not at all,” was the phrase branded in his mind by Apollo as the queen of the Underworld had stood silent beside him.
Feather-light footsteps broke him out of his spiral, only to throw him straight down into another. Another mortal visitor… So soon? After that? He could already practically feel the words of prophecy crawling up his throat, visions and images assaulting his mind, as vivid as if he had his sight back, and was present in witnessing the events of the future. He shifted in the chains, a slight scowl adorning his lips as he prepared for the storm of a new prophecy… that never came. Instead, his mind was fuzzy where he felt the power curl along his temples, like even his gift, for as sublime as it was, couldn’t grasp the future of the individual now standing over him.
The shackles tightened for a moment, reminding the prophet of his place here in the presence of a… god. Tiresias may not have been able to recognise the steps as any of the gods that originally bound him here, but the fuzzy numbness that nipped along his temples told him that this was no doubt an individual of divine origin. One who was witnessing him trembling and sobbing like a child.
Tiresias barely had half a moment more to think about his situation before he felt a gentle touch against his jaw. He flinched at first, but upon realising that the hand was not malicious, he relaxed into the touch. The previous guilt and fear seemed to all but melt away as he realised who was holding him now. Hermes. The only god who not only frequently visited, but didn't treat him like… like a tool. The only god who thought he deserved more than what he did, and treated him so. The little comfort he ever got in his afterlife was here now, and all Tiresias could do was weep. The bandages that were wrapped around his unseeing eyes were completely soaked in his tears by now, creating an uncomfortable sensation against his shade's 'skin', but that was far from his main priority at the moment. Hope spread warmly through him as Hermes’ thumb traced along his cheekbone, smearing and wiping trails of tears away. Tiresias leaned into the touch as the warmth in his heart was replaced by shame. His beloved should not have to witness this.
But even thinking of Hermes leaving now… he wasn’t sure if he could handle such a thing. That sent a jolt of horror through him as Hermes’ hand pulled away, the warmth leaving him as quickly as it came. Though, the sound of feathers fluttering through air and sandals on stone told Tiresias that his god hadn’t left just yet. Not that it made him feel too much better. Was Hermes put off by the sight of him so much that not even he could bear to hold the disgraced prophet for more than a few moments? Tiresias’ mouth slowly opened, to protest or to plead for Hermes not to leave, he didn’t know.
Before he could speak, another spike of dread pierced his heart as the unmistakable clack of wood echoed. His staff. His broken, useless staff. Hermes had picked it up. Tiresias repressed a violent flinch, the tension in the forced corporeality of his soul causing the chains to clink together again. He knew Hermes would never… he hoped Hermes would never, with what little ambition he still held. Though, despite Tiresias' initial fear, he did not hear Hermes move closer, didn’t feel his hand grab his wrist to force the rest of his soul into material form, and didn’t feel the god shove the blessed wood into his open palm. The seconds of silence that followed allowed Tiresias’ rationality to form. The staff, there was very little chance it would still work. The divine energy infused into its grooves and grain most likely escaped when the wood was cracked.
“Darling, who did this?”
The god’s voice was strikingly even as he spoke. It was very unlike the trickster Tiresias knew, who always took the opportunity to tease and play. Though, beneath the confidence, Tiresias could hear the faint waver of composure. The prophet heard Hermes step one, two steps closer to where he was chained, but the dread only seemed to fade more and more the closer Hermes got, even with his staff in hand. Of course Hermes meant no harm. The prophet was as beloved to the god as the god was to the prophet… unfortunately for Tiresias, it felt less like a fact and more like he was trying to convince himself of it.
With his mouth already open, the words seemed to bubble out of his throat before he even realised he was speaking them. The shackles of the chains relaxed ever so slightly, recognising his obedience to the divine.
“A king.”
Tiresias choked the words out, though his voice resonated in an even tone. He never got to know the names of the mortals who sought his visions. Why would he? But if the man owned a palace, the prophet could at least assume he was of high status.
The idle flutter of Hermes’ wings had halted, and the silence turned deafening to the point it was suffocating. Tiresias waited for something, anything, with stock stillness. Even his hands and forearms, not dissimilar to smoke in their shade state, did not twine or twist with the longing for freedom. And even without the need for air, Tiresias’ soul still seemed to hold its breath.
“Odysseus.”
—--------------------------------------------- POV: Hermes
How DARE he?!
The god had been more than a little generous to the little king, allowing him to live another day and cling to the hope that he might get home, and this was what he did with the life Hermes saved?! If Hermes had known Circe was going to send that heathen down to the Underworld, he would not have been so quick to speed off back to his duties. No, he would have come down to the temple he knew so well and made sure, on his own name, that something like this never happened.
The optimistic god was practically seething.
But Hermes quickly snapped out of his racing thoughts and silent threats directed at the long gone Ithacan king when he heard a quiet splash of water hitting stone. No, not water. Tears.
Oh no, no, no. Revenge was quickly moved down and out of his priorities in the blink of an eye.
He broke the strain of silence as the staff he held dropped to the floor with a loud clatter that made Tiresias flinch. Hermes all but ran over, his sunglasses slipping down his nose and tumbling down to hit his chest, the cord around his neck prevented them from falling and shattering on the floor as he rushed to drop to his knees. Down on the prophet's level, the wings on each side of his head fluttered softly to gently let the blind shade know that he was close without spooking him more than he already was. And oh, looking at his face… Hermes’ eyes traced the lines around his nose that formed as the prophet scrunched his eyes to try, and failed, to stop the tears from rolling. With the bandages covering his eyes and Tiresias’ almost constant stoic expression, it was quite a task to figure out what he was thinking, but Hermes always somehow managed.
Slowly, Hermes lifted his hand to lightly cup Tiresias’ cheek. The deathly cold feel of the shade’s skin did not deter the god, especially not as Tiresias seemed to cease his scrunching and leaned into the touch, causing a lock of his brilliant white hair to fall over his face. The god brushed the hair back into its place and leaned up to place a tender kiss on his forehead, and he swore he felt Tiresias tremble for just a moment.
After holding him for a few minutes, waiting for his tears to dry before leaning back, Hermes still felt like he hadn’t held Tiresias for long enough. Never enough. But Hermes was always quick to move, and now was no different. He wanted something to be done about this, he didn’t want Tiresias in sorrow any longer. He’d rather pluck all his feathers than sit by as Tiresias suffered.
“I can fix it. I can fix everything, darling, just say the word and I’ll make it so.”
Hermes offered quickly after leaning back. With his initial shock and rage abated, there was no longer an underlying strain in his words. He knew exactly how to fix Tiresias’ staff, and he was more than sure he could convince Apollo to do so without any favours owed. All of this could be over with, Odysseus could be forgotten, perhaps smited if Hermes came across him soon enough again, and things could go back to normal. Tiresias wouldn’t be suffering.
But as Tiresias made no move to speak just yet, it left Hermes slightly stunned. He didn’t want freedom?
And as silence stretched and stretched, he was left baffled. With eyebrows furrowed, he lifted his other hand to rest against his lips with fingers curled inward, trying to contemplate what left Tiresias in abject silence. The god’s eyes were locked firmly on his face, watching for any twitch, movement, anything. He was grateful that his sunglasses had fallen, allowing him to gaze upon his darling clearly, allowing him to see the tension in his prophet's face. Oh, how he wished he could pull the prophet into his arms and hold him until the wounds of old were no more. But the chains, the infuriating chains that rattled with each movement his prophet made, prevented him from doing so. If only he could take them away-
…
The chains.
Hermes completely froze. As much as this staff gave Tiresias freedom, it kept him enslaved all the same. What would that do to help, if all Hermes did was fix it?? How could he possibly think a simple staff that only allowed him to do his job was freedom? On his name… he was so ignorant! How long had- he knew he disregarded it more than once. All his suffering, Hermes had been blind to it all. How could he think such- he did not deserve this poor prophet.
That felt like a stab to his very soul, and what solidified it in his mind. He was going to fix everything. Actually fix everything.
But unless the trickster convinced practically a third of Olympus to let him free, that could never be- …wait.
“Please.”
Tiresias’ voice cut through the quiet as Hermes’ thoughts slowed. The expression the prophet wore looked… almost pained, with his pointed ears downturned and his nose carrying faint lines again where he slightly scrunched his eyes in an effort to keep more tears from spilling. The god moved his hand to smooth over the lines, sighing before finally pulling back and rising from his knees to hover just above the ground. His wings straightened out as he fixed his sunglasses back over his eyes, and his usual self-assured smirk graced his lips, confidence expressed in all his features even if there was no one around to actually see.
“Don’t fret your pretty little head, darling! I have it all under control.”
The god of speed twirled in the air once around his prophet before zipping towards the towering pillars of the entrance of the temple, pausing once to gaze at Tiresias with softer eyes. The prophet, realising that he was leaving, curled ever so slightly into himself, hunched over with his smoky forearms curling around his midsection. The view alone broke Hermes’ heart for the hundredth time today, and he ached to return… but he had a job to do, one that was, for once, not related to his divine duties.
He was going to fix it, like he should have done so long ago.