Hermes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
messageforyou) wrote2024-05-30 10:40 pm
messageforyou) wrote2024-05-30 10:40 pm
For refusetofight
Lyra is practically vibrating in excitement. It's her new favorite holiday! Anthesteria!!
"Do not get your hopes up that Lord Hermes will visit you," Mistress Medea had said to her as she tamed Lyra's golden curls and worked them into plaits. "The dead have few responsibilities, but Olympians have many."
"I think he'll visit," Lyra had chirped, kicking her legs over the edge of her seat. "I think they'll all visit."
Lyra doesn't have to administer the ceremonies meant to honor Hermes and Dionysus like the royal family does. She's allowed to stay behind at the palace stairs, bouncing on her heels in anticipation. She's already grown a half inch since she left home, and her hair has only grown shinier, her cheeks chubbier, her eyes brighter with regular food and education. Mistress Medea had insisted on her dressing in a pretty chiton and wearing a necklace of gold carved to look like wings to honor her divine father. A gold comb affixed with the symbol of the owl is slid in her plaits, signalling to the world that she's a guest of the Athenian king. A silent threat to the ill-intentioned, Mistress Medea had called it as she slid it into place.
So now she waits, dressed up and ready, straining to look across the crowd for her fathers, for Patroclus, for anyone she knows. Her wide eyes easily catch the difference between the dead and the living churning in the crowd.
Meanwhile, Hermes arrived to the Underworld as a personal escort to any who wanted to visit Lyra. He gives no sign of stress or strain, vibrant and charming as always as he delivers the dead. And when he arrives to Athens, he disappears his wings with a shake of his head, once more looking like nothing more than a particularly handsome young man.
"Do not get your hopes up that Lord Hermes will visit you," Mistress Medea had said to her as she tamed Lyra's golden curls and worked them into plaits. "The dead have few responsibilities, but Olympians have many."
"I think he'll visit," Lyra had chirped, kicking her legs over the edge of her seat. "I think they'll all visit."
Lyra doesn't have to administer the ceremonies meant to honor Hermes and Dionysus like the royal family does. She's allowed to stay behind at the palace stairs, bouncing on her heels in anticipation. She's already grown a half inch since she left home, and her hair has only grown shinier, her cheeks chubbier, her eyes brighter with regular food and education. Mistress Medea had insisted on her dressing in a pretty chiton and wearing a necklace of gold carved to look like wings to honor her divine father. A gold comb affixed with the symbol of the owl is slid in her plaits, signalling to the world that she's a guest of the Athenian king. A silent threat to the ill-intentioned, Mistress Medea had called it as she slid it into place.
So now she waits, dressed up and ready, straining to look across the crowd for her fathers, for Patroclus, for anyone she knows. Her wide eyes easily catch the difference between the dead and the living churning in the crowd.
Meanwhile, Hermes arrived to the Underworld as a personal escort to any who wanted to visit Lyra. He gives no sign of stress or strain, vibrant and charming as always as he delivers the dead. And when he arrives to Athens, he disappears his wings with a shake of his head, once more looking like nothing more than a particularly handsome young man.