The first time doubt washed over him had been when he was young, at least by immortal standards—fresh-faced and eager to prove himself worthy. Hermes knew he had talent, but applying it was trickier than expected, even for a god of tricksters and thieves. The world was harsh, soon to be harsher, and he wondered how anyone, mortal or divine, could survive long enough to live in a place where storms raged across the land unchecked and food could be nearly impossible to find.
His mind was a storm of what-ifs and questions, but Hermes tried to ignore it as best he could. If he never tried, he'd never get anywhere, and Hermes had cultivated his reputation for travel long before the mortals had taken notice of the man in the tailored suit that seemed to be wherever they ended up.
This would be one more road to walk, one more mountain to climb, and if he couldn't walk it he'd cheat and fly there. Confidence, he told himself. That was what was needed here, more than anything; Persephone had taught him that even when you were nervous, it was best to act like you weren't.
And so Hermes, still edgy despite his efforts, walked the long road to the Underworld and asked Hades himself for a job.
The job was easy on the surface: Conduct the train, deliver souls to the Underworld, and if you worked fast enough you might get a break in between shifts. If there's one thing Hermes knew from his days of drifting it was that mortals died alarmingly quickly, with or without inclement weather aiding their passing. Hades was quick to tell him of the necessity of death and a speedy transfer; it wouldn't do to have wayward ghosts wandering the surface, and a world with no death at all would be crushed under its own weight.
Hermes knew that, and learned and listened well. Sometimes the job wore at him, particularly when he had to call in those too young to understand what had happened, or separate loved ones that had been parted too soon. But Hades was quick to reassure him it was all the natural way—and soon he made another offer, one that would change Hermes' life.
"Mr. Hermes," he began, "your service to our Underworld has been immeasurable in these troubled times. You've seen the perils the mortals face firsthand, and I'm sure you've encountered souls eager to board the train."
That was true; it seemed more and more souls clambered aboard every year, ready for a life free of worry and stress. (If the afterlife was no longer like that, if it had begun to change for the worse, was that really Hermes' problem? He wasn't the one running the place.)
"I have a proposition for you," Hades continued, and he blinked back to attention. "My wife and I have several new projects planned in the coming decades, projects to change the scope and future of the Underworld. No longer will it be dull and empty—it will be a city to rival Olympus itself, shining and bright, a welcoming place for the restful dead."
Hermes thought it sounded nice, if ambitious, and wondered what he had to do with the idea. And then Hades continued.
"However, what we have in mind requires much manpower, more than the shades here can offer. Therefore—if you're willing—I would appreciate if you would, on your downtime, entice mortal souls who…haven't quite punched their tickets to come. That would ease the burden on the workers and ensure the projects get built on time. You'll be compensated handsomely, of course."
Looking back, Hermes would feel ashamed that his first reaction was to laugh, as it was well-known Hades was a master at keeping deadlines no matter the cost. He wondered what the God of the Dead would have done if he'd refused the offer; perhaps Hadestown would never have been built, or perhaps it would have expanded slowly enough, carefully enough, that the cracks in Hades and Persephone's marriage would never have formed.
He wondered what would have happened to all those souls he'd sent down, the desperate ones who craved a way out but still lived until the moment he brought them aboard, tickets in hand.
But at the time he'd only wondered if he could fit it into his already busy schedule, and whether saying no would anger Hades. So he'd quashed his conscience, quashed his doubt, and shook the god's hand, and it felt like one world was ending to make way for another.
Hermes had been compensated handsomely, as promised. He'd earned enough money to buy a small bar and maintain it on the regular, and listened as patrons told their life stories over bottles of whiskey. He wasn't one for politics, never had been, but even Hermes could tell something in the world above had changed, just as things below had, and times were only getting harder.
Persephone, it seemed, had grown disillusioned with her husband's city of steel and wire. When springtime came she stopped by his bar before the regulars, knocking at ungodly hours for his finest drinks, and he was willing to let her in. Over a bottle of vodka and supplemented with whatever was in her silver flask, the goddess of spring and Queen of the Underworld shared her story like the rest.
Hades, she'd complained, was unreasonable, working those poor dead to what would surely be their graves if they weren't already dead, and that was part of the problem, wasn't it? The Queen could rule over souls same as her husband, but the contracts were the King's, and for the life of her she couldn't think what to do to help.
"Maybe they need something down there you can only get up here," Hermes said, and she caught on to his meaning. Come next spring, while still irritated, she was more cheerful, excitedly telling him of what she'd built herself—a bar, like his, for the poor weary souls to get some respite from endless work.
Hermes had half a thought to tell Hades of her insubordination, but let it slide. He had grown disillusioned too, not only at the tales she told but also at the sheer rate of souls wanting a ticket. Even when he'd raised the prices, it seemed there were far too many people ready and willing to sign their lives away.
Hermes briefly considered joining Persephone in her bar to pass the drinks around, considered taking a day off for a change, considered warning eager mortals about how Hadestown had changed for the worse, and perhaps they'd get through this rough patch in time if they just kept at it.
But he doubted it would make any difference, so he did nothing.
It was Orpheus that changed everything, both for the world below and up top. Against all reason he'd taken the boy in, raised him as his own, and while Hermes doubted his parenting skills near-constantly, the boy seemed to turn out alright, if a bit naïve. He remembered an incident fairly early on, when Orpheus had asked about the train and where it went. Hermes had indulged him and let him blow the whistle, but warned him sternly to never get on.
Hadestown was no place for children, and when Orpheus had asked why, Hermes realized just how complicit he'd been in the town's sorry state. Every year, Persephone reported, the working hours got longer, the wages smaller, the labor more backbreaking. And who'd helped it get that way? Why, Mr. Hermes, who Orpheus looked up to as a father.
Hermes' guilt was palpable, but his mind was screaming at him to let it be. This was how things were; this was how they would always be. But Hermes remembered it had not always been this way, and if it was too late to stop the wheels from spinning out of control, he could at least slow them down. The dead needed transport, but the living? They deserved a chance.
So he approached Mr. Hades one night and told him he was quitting his side job. He'd still conduct souls down below, but the shady business was over on his end, and if anyone wanted a ticket on, Hermes would be sure to warn them beforehand what they were getting into. If Hades wanted new workers so badly, he'd have to get them himself.
Hades had protested at first, but Hermes stood firm despite the fear roiling in his mind that things could, somehow, turn out worse for his efforts to make a stand. The king accepted his resignation with a sigh, and shook his hand on the way out the door.
Hermes went back to the bar with mixed relief and anxiety in his steps, feeling pride in making a stand and guilt for letting it go on this long. But when Orpheus had squeezed his hand and smiled at him before running off to play an old, weathered guitar a patron had donated, the messenger god's doubt melted away.
The young boy sang of spring following winter, of appreciating the world for what it was and working to make it better. As he listened, Hermes felt, for an instant, that things might just get better before they got worse as they walked this lonesome road.
He could only hope.