The sun was bleeding into the sea, casting long, trembling shadows across the coast. The waves rolled in, soft and slow, like they too were tired from waiting. Cicadas sang their final notes in the olive groves behind, while the salty breeze toyed with the boy, The brown-haired boy.

And there he was — Telemachus — kneeling in the sand, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of prayers too heavy for someone so young. Alone, except for the sea, the wind… and now, a god.

Hermes arrived quietly.

No lightning. No thunder. Just a shift in the air, like a page turning in a book long thought forgotten. He stepped onto the shore with the ease of something not quite bound by gravity, his winged sandals brushing the earth like a whisper.

White hair tousled by the breeze, caduceus spinning idly between his fingers, Hermes watched the boy with unreadable eyes. His cloak billowed behind him, catching the last golden breath of day as the first stars pricked through the sky.

He stood still for a moment — just observing.

A mortal on his knees. Not for glory. Not for war. But for a father.

"Hmph..." The god let out a breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

"So this is what love looks like when it forgets pride."

He began to pace slowly along the edge of the tide, letting his words rise and fall with the rhythm of the waves.

"You call to the gods with cracked voices and trembling hands... as if we are compasses. As if we are kind." He glanced back at the boy — unmoving, devoted.

"But you? You do not beg like a soldier. You kneel like a son."

Hermes’ voice softened, barely above the wind now, but edged with something older — something deep.

"And that, little flame, is harder to ignore."