A/N: A/N: Hi guys. I know I've not been around for a while, but listening to EPIC really sparked my interest in Greek Mythology again and I found myself dragged back to my roots. My first ever fanfic was PJO and it feels good to be back. This is loosely based around characterisations from the series, but I'm only following cannon loosely until HoH. I hope you enjoy it!

As the Messenger of Olympus, Herald of the gods themselves, Hermes was well used to the tugging in the back of his mind that came with a prayer. Most passed through him in some way or another, and it was an excellent way to gather gossip before he sent them on their way, but there was a special kick to those aimed specifically to him. They would ring like tiny silver bells in his ears, the accompanying offering as sweet as honey on his tongue. If a normal prayer was a soft chime however, this one was a full on crash that was enough to make his head spin. Impossible to ignore.

Hermes had been enjoying one of his (increasingly rare of late) free days, lounging in one of the hidden gardens of Olympus as he listened to Apollo flirting playfully with his Muses when it happened. One second he had been half dozing, cradled in a tree branch, when the prayer had hit him with the force of an arrow, sending him tumbling from his perch. There hadn't even been words, just an echoing scream of sheer terror, fueled by an unrestrained power that could never have come from a mortal.

For a second, he felt the ichor freeze in his veins before he flung out his consciousness, searching desperately for the voice. Oh Khaos, it had sounded like a child; a young child!

Fast as a thought, he flicked through the various mortal kingdoms trying to find any trace, but it seemed as though the presence had pulled back, curled around itself in a form of protection that made it difficult to pinpoint. He was racing across the Aegean sea when a sharp slap brought him back to his primary body, leaving him blinking up into the concerned, blue eyes of his older brother.

Despite his deep love for the sibling who had raised him, who had been his best friend and confidant ever since, Hermes could not help but hate his brother in that moment. It did not last long before it was consumed by the return of that overwhelming fear.

"Hermes, what happened? You're bleeding!"

Still shaken, the young god became aware of a strange warmth pooling above his lip. Lifting a trembling hand to swipe at it, he found himself staring at gold streaked fingertips. His nose was bleeding.

"Brother, look at me! What happened?"

Warm hands cupped his face and he felt Apollo's divine energy run through him in a way that would have been disquieting from any other god, but with him, Hermes found himself clinging to the inherent comfort in the action.

Between one breath and the next, the bleeding stopped and his thoughts were clearer, though no less frantic. His heart was racing and his wings twitched with the need to just move, but instead he found himself curling into the strong chest before him in a way that he hadn't done in centuries.

Looking for a way to ground himself from this new wave of panic that crashed over him, he twisted his fingers into the golden silk of his brother's chiton; a move that seemed to concern Apollo further, if that was even possible at this point.

"Baby Bird?"

It was an old epithet, one usually reserved for his mother, but the softness coating each word was enough for him to glance up and try to fight past the emotions that were not his own.

"It's not… not me. Not my fear."

Apollo's head snapped up like a hunting dog and he pulled the younger god in closer, eyes flashing to burning gold with his rage. Sharp as the wolves he so favoured, the hunter scanned the garden, searching out the threat that wasn't actually there. Hermes should have sought a better way to explain, should have put his famed silver tongue to use in a way that would sooth his brother's mounting fury. And he would have… had he not been fighting the urge to scream.

Still, he didn't want Apollo to leave (nor face the punishment a rampage would bring)… and the archer was beginning to look homicidal, enough so that even the Muses had shrunk back to a safer distance lest they be blamed. Hermes had to say something.

"I'm fine, truly! It's just-"

"HERMES!"

The second prayer was enough to turn his words to ash as he bolted upright in the iron shelter of his brother's arms. Styx! That had been Styx's voice, crying out with a level of emotion he had never heard from the stoic goddess before.

Consequences be damned, he would not leave his friend to suffer whatever had scared her so!

Heedless of Apollo's startled yell, Hermes felt his wings flare before he was racing off on the fastest path to the Underworld. As he flew, his mind raced with memories made all the more consuming by the foreign desperation that still haunted him.

Through his role as a psychopomp, Hermes had spent a lot of time in the Underworld over the years. For those who lived in the eternal summer of Olympus, it was often difficult for them to understand how the bright and mischievous son of Zeus could handle visiting such a morbid place so often, but Hermes loved his uncle's realm.

On Olympus, he always had to be Hermes the Olympian: bastard son of Zeus and Herald of the gods. Every move was scrutinised, every word, even if he ever dared to stop smiling at the wrong time, was judged and always (always) found wanting. In the pantheon of the sky, he always had his part to play. And it was exhausting.

When he was in the Underworld all that pressure fell away and he was able to just… be.

Hades had little time (and even less desire) to deal with petty gossip or drama in his court. This meant that the Chthonic gods were far less cut throat than their Hellenic counterparts. The irony of that had always amused him to no end but it didn't stop him from taking up his uncles' offer of sanctuary (if only temporarily) whenever the pressure of Olympus became too much to bear.

In the Underworld, he was only Hermes Psychopompus: favoured nephew of the King and a playful trickster spirit.

The freedom of such a position was addictive when compared to the stifling control on the mountain and, if it hadn't been for the tantrum his father was sure to throw (and the untold devastation it would bring with it) Hermes might have been tempted to stay. All he would have to do after all, was emulate his older sister and bind himself through the cursed fruits of her garden.

Hades had offered once, having found a much younger Hermes curled up on the banks of the Lethe and attempting to control the spasming of his limbs brought on by Father's latest 'lesson'. The messenger couldn't even remember what it was that had earned him Zeus' ire that time, but he could clearly remember the look of concern (not pity, never pity) in his uncles' eyes as he held out a glistening pomegranate half. An offer of acceptance and willingness to shoulder all the blame…

Turning down that promise had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do, but he had remembered Apollo's warnings: of how his golden brother had sought his own escape amongst the Oceanic gods. How he had fled to their other uncle and the war that had almost started amongst the Kronotides before Apollo had accepted his fate and returned to Olympus.

The ever present light had faded from his brother's eyes as he had recounted the story of the resulting punishment. Hermes, young as he was and still swept up in the hero worship he held for his kindest sibling, could only stare in horror, running his fingers over the trail of scars that even the god of healing could not remove, merely hiding them with illusions.

"The fates are cruel, Baby Bird." He had remarked in a distant voice, running his fingers through Hermes' wings looking for loose or broken feathers. "And while the mortals may bemoan being puppets in their grand play, they forget that we immortals are simply the base material. While we can be cut, twisted or even sewn, we have precious little agency. We can fight our fate with all our power and it will never be enough. Sometimes it is simply easier not to try at all."

He had finished the lesson with a kiss to Hermes' brow before declaring his wings clean and sending him to fly around Delos to burn off his nervous energy. No matter how fast or far he flew however, Hermes had never been able to out fly those words. They had followed him even to the banks of the Lethe that day, and every day since.

He may not have been able to stay for good but from that day on the Underworld had become a haven to the young god. He had spent as much time as he could afford in its dark embrace and amongst the stern, yet gentle gods therein. Of course, being the 'irrational ball of fluff and impulsivity' that Athena had dismissed him as on their first meeting, Hermes had not been content to haunt the halls of his uncle's palace for long and soon he had explored every inch of this new domain. Every area… except for one.

Hermes had heard many gods speak of the river Styx with both awe and intense fear over the years. This had been enough for him to avoid both it and its goddess for a little while, but there had been something about the dark waters that had called to him; drawing him in like a siren's call. He hadn't even realised how close he had drawn to the water until a pale hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him back.

"Don't get too close, godling, my river hates to let anything leave once it enters."

It was like a veil had suddenly been lifted from his mind and he found that his own hand had been inches away from the dark water before he had been interrupted. Under the grasp of the goddess, the tempting call had faded, though it was still there, tugging instantly at his awareness.

"I don't… it's calling to me. Why is it calling?"

"It's the mortals my dear. They leave their regrets in my river when they die, and you would be amazed how many of them regret the words left unsaid. You're a messenger and so, those undelivered messages cry out to you."

That sounded… quite sad actually and, as he looked back at the churning river he could now make out a chorus of unhappy voices seeking to snare him with their despair. Even though he understood its origin, the spell was not easy to resist.

"Don't listen to it dear. They are only remnants now, far beyond our power to help."

The goddess' voice hand changed, still flat and low in a way that should have been unnerving, but for some reason, Hermes was sure that there was a trace of sadness in those words. In every rumour he had ever heard of Styx, it had spoken about her ruthlessness and unfeeling dedication to her duties. It was an interesting disconnect that such an uncaring figure should so easily give an impression of, well, caring. It had been enough to overcome his initial concerns and he had sent the older deity a crooked grin.

"It sounds like you're experienced in blocking out meaningless calls and broken oaths. You'd do well on Olympus."

It was meant to be a joke. He had intended it to be nothing more than a light hearted poking at himself and his family, but Styx hadn't laughed. Instead, her hand had moved to cup his cheek, forcing him to look into her night dark eyes that saw too much, even in the split second before he was able to duck away.

"If you hate it so much up there, then why return? Our King favours you, he would be delighted to have you stay.

There was much he could have said to that, more that he should say, but the lies lay like lead on his tongue, unwilling to fall. Right here, by the banks of the sacred river, it felt almost sacrilegious to speak anything but the truth. Instead, the god of lies found himself struck silent. Thankfully, it seemed that his companion didn't need an answer from him.

"I see. But remember, little eyas, there are some storms that cannot be weathered. There is no shame in looking for shelter or rest."

She had released him then and Hermes, coward that he was, had fled from the caring goddess with the eyes that saw too much.

He had not been able to stay away for long however, and had soon found himself following the call of the dead back to the river bank where he simply sat and stared into the black waters. Styx had arrived at some point, or perhaps she had always been there, but she didn't say anything. Instead she had simply ascertained that he wouldn't be pitching himself into the depths before settling beside him silently.

Time after time, whenever the rush of his thoughts, or his life, became too much and Hermes found himself craving peace, he would return to the river and its goddess. Sometimes they would speak. Sometimes they would not.

And then came Orion. The cursed hunter had made his mother leave, made her run somewhere that even her winged son could not reach and Hermes had been left alone.

Hermes did not fare well on his own.

Apollo had tried to help. Khaos, even Artemis had tried in her own, awkward manner, but it hadn't been enough to soothe the deep-set ache in his chest. Instead he had returned to the river. Returned to her.

Just as he raced to her now!

There were many routes to the Underworld, and Hermes knew them well enough that it was only a few, terrifying, heartbeats before the world grew darker and cooler. A beat more and their normal meeting point came into view. He didn't even need to land to know she wasn't there.

He barely spared a glance for the chaotic mess that was once pristine sand, instead he reached out with a flicker of divinity to find any sort of trace… there!

With a thought, he was moving once again, darting through the familiar landscape in a direction that soon sent a chill through his being. Around him the landscape grew even darker, the air becoming an sinister weight as the faint whispers of spirits fell away. Still he raced forwards, even as every instinct he had tried to force him back.

Every breath formed shimmering clouds in his wake and limbs began to ache. Mortals could die from exposure to the cold, it was something that he knew well, yet he had never imagined that he could also feel that threat.

He was heading steadily downwards and it was getting harder and harder to make his wings beat. He knew where he was heading, but his mind shied away from that knowledge. As such, it was both a surprise and not to see a large rent come into view.

The entrance to the pit. The gaping maw of Tartarus… and his friend was standing right at the precipice where her waters tumbled into darkness.

Forcing more energy into his wings did nothing but keep his speed consistent as he felt as though he was moving through honey. The very air around him seemed to take hold and squeeze while malevolent laughter echoed in his mind but Hermes fought through it. He was an Olympian, not a child to be scared of shadows in the night.

It was still a relief to feel the solid weight of Styx in his arms as he all but crashed into her however.

"Styx, come on darling, away from the edge now."

The words held a hysterical edge to them that would normally have earned his friend's full attention, but now she did nothing but stare over the edge, unblinking eyes a dark reflection of the river below. She didn't respond, didn't even seem to recognise his presence or attempts to gently pull her backwards. He was stronger than her, stronger physically than most gods were, yet something stopped him from forcefully pulling her back. He was about to call to her again when the omnipresent feeling of fear spiked once again, this time accompanied by an ear piercing scream.

Almost afraid of what he would see, the messenger allowed himself to turn and follow the line of Styx's gaze.

There, clinging to a ledge about 10 feet down and just out of the spray, was the figure of a child. With his dark curls and delicate features, there was no mistaking the boy's relation to the goddess in his arms and yet… his chest froze.

Small and battered though they were, there was no denying that the dark shapes on the child's back were wings. Wings with a familiar arched peak that was just beginning to show through the fluff of down feathers. Without thinking, he released his friend and threw himself down to lie by the edge, arm outstretched.

"Hey. Hey little one. Look up here. Look at me."

He could barely speak above a whisper, but the choked words had the desired effect. Now, silhouetted against the unrelenting darkness of the pit, two green eyes, as bright as gems and glistening with unshed tears, were fixed on him.

A ball of emotions knocked the wind from him as he remembered those eyes in a different face, but he forced them down. He would have to deal with them later, but now was not the time to lose himself.

"There you are, there you go. Now, I need you to do something for me alright?"

He worked to keep the words steady, trying to project a sense of calm that he did not feel himself, and his efforts were rewarded by the smallest of nods. Steeling himself, he pushed his arm down further, biting down a hiss as the river spray caused his skin to blister and burn on contact. Ignoring the pain, he forced himself to smile.

"That's good. Do you see my hand?" He could feel his fingers crack and the ichor start to drip down them but he wiggled the digits playfully all the same. Those green, green eyes followed the movement so he continued. "I need you to try and grab it."

It was risky, yes. Gods usually took forms slightly larger than that of humans, but even with his added height, there was still a 2 foot gap between his hand and the child's and the boy was just so small. He should fly. He knew he should fly down and grab him, but the pressure of the pit was so intense that he dared not risk it. If he flew down, there was no guarantee that he would be able to make it up again.

It seemed that the boy shared his reservations. Bright eyes flickered several times between Hermes' outstretched hand and the bare stretch of wall between them. After a moment however, the boy's gaze hardened and his lips formed a grim pout.

Hermes felt his muscles tense as he forced himself to stillness, wanting to provide an unmoving target and still be ready to lunge forward should the boy miss.

There was the sound of a soft gasp as the boy readied himself. A rapid clatter of disturbed stones as he shifted his grip. The rustle of young feathers then…

A small hand latched on to Hermes' own with enough strength to force a muffled scream from the god but he refused to let go. Aside from the pain, a shot of warmth had rushed through his very core as his divine essence had recognised a connection to the child, his first child. A son. He had a son!

A son who was still relying on him to pull him to safety.

Unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry, the messenger shifted his weight backwards, using his free hand to push himself up so he could draw the child into his arms properly. Once he was there, Hermes wasn't sure if he would ever be able to let him go again, but that was a problem for later. For now he just needed to pull the slight weight back over the edge.

He barely managed to move a foot or so before he was forced back down to the ground. Blue eyes met green as the child quietly began to sob.

He tried again, but this time he could barely move, the weight at the end of his arm feeling equal to that which imprisoned Atlas. Another glance was enough to confirm his fears; a dark tendril had wrapped itself around the boy's ankle and sought to drag him down even as Hermes tried to pull him up. And it was winning.

Hermes' arm burned, the constant barrage of the river water sending sparks of agony through his being with every heartbeat while the drip of ichor was making his hands slick. There was only one way for this tug of war to end as the child's grip began to slip.

"No!"

His torment doubled as he forced his other hand down in an attempt to snatch the falling child but it was too late. All he could see were those green eyes, his mother's eyes, widened in terror before the boy was falling.

"Dad!"

No. He had only just found his son. He was not going to lose him, not now. Not like this.

Hermes pitched himself into Tartarus.