Hermes has no time to examine his lover, because he’s too busy straightening himself out—smooth the feathers, straighten the clothes, pull the plate towards himself and grab the wine goblet—
There are few people who would dare enter an Olympian’s quarters without knocking. But other Olympians will do it.
“Hermes?”
Athena says his name just before opening the door. Where Hermes’ aura is bright and uplifting, and Apollo’s is painfully radiant, Athena’s is stern and commanding. It’s not cold or unfeeling, but she carries dignity that seems inherent to her being.
Hermes, for his part, has already collected himself and he glances at her as he lifts his goblet to his mouth.
“You know, most people do this thing called knocking, sis,” he says dryly, sipping the wine as if that’s all he’s been doing.
“Do they now?” Athena says in the mild way of someone who knows what you’re saying and is choosing to ignore it. She frowns at the spread before Hermes, lips thinning. “Take care what you eat here, brother. They’ve served you pomegranates.”
“Sis, I work here. I’m suited to the food, I promise,” Hermes says, putting his wine aside and avoiding the question of whether pomegranates are actually a danger to surface dwellers as Persephone said. “Are you here for dinner company? I thought Zagreus was visiting you.”
Athena sighs through her nose. She moves to the chair across Hermes, but instead of sitting, she leans on the back of the chair. She’s restless, too restless to enjoy a meal.
“He was. And he asked some… difficult questions.”
Hermes sobers, leveling his sister with a serious (and sympathetic) look. “Which ones? There are so many he could ask.”
“He…” but then Athena remembers they’re not alone. She looks to Achilles, and she has the grace to look apologetic.
“Thank you for chaperoning my brother, Achilles, but we must have a private conversation. If you would…” but she trails off. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. She approaches Achilles not unlike a general inspecting her troops.
And then she plucks a glowing orange feather from Achilles’ curls.
She looks at it. Her lips thin. Hermes manages to keep his expression even, but his shoulders tense and his wings pin tight against his head.
“I wasn’t aware you started growing feathers, Achilles,” she says, voice cold.
no subject
There are few people who would dare enter an Olympian’s quarters without knocking. But other Olympians will do it.
“Hermes?”
Athena says his name just before opening the door. Where Hermes’ aura is bright and uplifting, and Apollo’s is painfully radiant, Athena’s is stern and commanding. It’s not cold or unfeeling, but she carries dignity that seems inherent to her being.
Hermes, for his part, has already collected himself and he glances at her as he lifts his goblet to his mouth.
“You know, most people do this thing called knocking, sis,” he says dryly, sipping the wine as if that’s all he’s been doing.
“Do they now?” Athena says in the mild way of someone who knows what you’re saying and is choosing to ignore it. She frowns at the spread before Hermes, lips thinning. “Take care what you eat here, brother. They’ve served you pomegranates.”
“Sis, I work here. I’m suited to the food, I promise,” Hermes says, putting his wine aside and avoiding the question of whether pomegranates are actually a danger to surface dwellers as Persephone said. “Are you here for dinner company? I thought Zagreus was visiting you.”
Athena sighs through her nose. She moves to the chair across Hermes, but instead of sitting, she leans on the back of the chair. She’s restless, too restless to enjoy a meal.
“He was. And he asked some… difficult questions.”
Hermes sobers, leveling his sister with a serious (and sympathetic) look. “Which ones? There are so many he could ask.”
“He…” but then Athena remembers they’re not alone. She looks to Achilles, and she has the grace to look apologetic.
“Thank you for chaperoning my brother, Achilles, but we must have a private conversation. If you would…” but she trails off. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. She approaches Achilles not unlike a general inspecting her troops.
And then she plucks a glowing orange feather from Achilles’ curls.
She looks at it. Her lips thin. Hermes manages to keep his expression even, but his shoulders tense and his wings pin tight against his head.
“I wasn’t aware you started growing feathers, Achilles,” she says, voice cold.