Blessings from Khaos

|You Are Nothing Short Of My Everything|

"Where are you going?" Athḗnē asked as Hermês lifted from the ground to go back to his search. "Father has ordered you specifically to not leave the mountain."

"What? Why?"

"Were you even listening in there?"

"Scarcely."

His sister sighed, and with a voice filled with disappointment, she said: "Háidēs reported that Thánatos has gone missing. With Boréas' words yesterday of the dead not being confined to the Underworld, it was rightly assumed that he has been taken hostage. As the psychopompós and one of the Twelve Reigning Olympioi, if this is really her..." His sister walked closer to him, yanked him into a hug. He was thankful that she was not dressed in armor. "Do be careful, Kyllenius. Our youngest born."

"Fine," Hermês grumbled, stomping back to his home upon Olympos. He looked around not seeing Peithō anywhere around. Truthfully, he couldn't remember the last time he saw his wife. At least with Laranda, he knew that he could find her within New Roma, but Peithō had been a mystery to him. They certainly didn't have a good talk from the last conversation that he could remember. Not when he mockingly and cruelly threw her words back in her face. When he looked her in the eyes and remarked of how his Lea did not die and was not going to die anytime soon and so Peithō had no other choice but to see them both together for thrice the years Kalypsô kept Odysseús imprisoned on her isle.

She had stormed away angrily, returning to backflowing Ōkeanós, from whom the gods are sprung.

He tuned into watching the trio on the quest to save his stepmother, watched as Hḗphaistos' boy singlehandedly took down a trio of kýklōpes.

And he raged within his mind, feeling the raw grief and anger clawing at his throat. His form shifting into Mercurius as the overwhelming need to tear into the world, to venture down to the home of the Moirai and rip apart their precious tapestry for taking his son... his boy, his little David Pitts; they took him. And he wanted to strangle them with their own threads. He wanted.... he wanted....

Apóllōn came to drag him out of his temple, forcing him back into the throne room where his children had turned into a new business endeavor. They were selling food and drinks and places to rest with promises of better seats working in conjunction with Hḗphaistos, Hebe, and Ganymēdēs for the best results.

His mind snaps to attention when they get to Chicago and even though they are miles away, separated by time and space, he could still taste death on his tongue as they drew closer to whoever this person maybe. But it wasn't exactly "whoever" they may be when he knew. He was no Apóllōn or Athḗnē, but Hermês was not unintelligent. He was a cunning god, a trickster at heart. He was crafty with ideals inside of ideas and it was trivial to see where one plan started and the other ended. But it was one thing to think about... the Boreádai, a child of Aphrodítē, a champion of Hḗrē that was named Jason... oh, if it were not the daughter of Aeëtes, then he would eat his foot. Heck, they even have a dragon.

And it was her.

Mēdeia.

She wore her faux skin like a costume, but he could see her for what she really was. A princess of a time long lost, bitterness clouding her soul as her own blessing, platonic at its creation but manipulated into romantic, left her for another. He could see the anger and hatred that had carved gouges into her soul and taking residence in where her heart would be as years and years passed and her story changed into her being the monster instead of the victim that she was.

He watched as she and Drew traded barb words and he watched as Drew looked her over, accounting for the best way to take her down. Apóllōn's training was thorough after all, and Hermês sat in plenty of session as his brother gave her an in-depth lesson on anatomical science of the human body and all the ways to dismantle it in a fight. Hermês knew that Drew rarely ever let loose, but the few times in battle whether it was arrows or a gun or that one time with a bazooka, her hits were designed for either instant kills or ones that prolonged suffering belied the truth of what she could do.