Hate
It would be easy, Hermes thought, to hate the Fates. They sang in the back of everyone's minds, they wove the story to its end, and logically they were the ones to blame for the tragedy. But to mortals and gods alike the sisters were esoteric and impenetrable, and hating what you couldn't understand, well, he knew better than that. Maybe they had their reasons, whatever those were.
From watching them over the various attempts he'd learned more about them, as much as he could. And Hermes had slowly realized something—the Fates voiced everyone's thoughts, at their lowest times.
When Orpheus doubted and turned, they sang with him, but it was half the Fates and half Orpheus himself. It was the same with Eurydice's anguish over leaving and Hades' dilemma about what to do with the couple, and while he couldn't confirm it, Hermes was sure Persephone heard them too.
The Fates gave voice to everyone's darkest mind. So when Hermes felt that familiar pulse of anger, fear and disgust, he knew he couldn't hate the Fates, as much as he might want to.
If he did, he'd only hate the others and himself.