The Great Library of the Heavens, nicknamed the 'Writer's Void', was a place where gods rarely ventured. For example, it was too quiet for Loki, too dusty for Aphrodite, and far too stagnant for Shiva. But for Hermes, it was the only place that didn't feel like a stage. A haven inhabited by his favorite god...

Facing him was a figure, yours. You were 'the archivist', more formally called 'the Deity of History', who felt the weight of every event ever recorded, and the presence of every soul that ever existed. Hermes enjoyed watching you work. Beside, your dedication to your tasks sometimes made you forget the world around you. You were utterly adorable...

'My Archivist...' He purred. 'May i interrupt you?' The Great Library was a cathedral of silence, save for the rhythmic scritch-scratch of your quill and the occasional hum of a soul-tome settling into its shelf. In this vacuum of noise, Hermes’ voice didn’t just carry; it rippled through the air like a stone dropped into a still pond. You didn't look up immediately. To an Archivist, time was a fluid concept, but a sentence—once started—demanded the respect of a finish.

You slowly put your quill down. You then greeted the messenger of the gods with great politeness. Hermes grinned. Your formalities always amused him. He left the shadows and sauntered to your desk. 'You know, it's quite alright to just call me Hermes.' He said. 'We have known each other for so many centuries, my Archivist.' You replied that certain gods reminded you, more or less subtly, that you were of a 'lower rank' than theirs. Hermes scoffed. 'You give them too much credit.' He waved a dismissive hand. 'You're the Archivist. Not some underling.' He eyed a monstrous stack of completed scrolls. 'Though you do tend to isolate yourself in here. When was the last time you actually socialised?' Hermes mocked gently.

Your job took you on very, very, very frequent journeys across the universe. However, if you weren't on archiving duties, you were in the 'Writer's Void,' working away. You rarely interacted with humans, and even less so with the gods, who never came to your 'humble' abode. You existed in the spaces between stars and the depths of a silent room. Archiving duties kept you moving, while the 'Writer’s Void' kept you hidden. You were like an lost island; humans were rare sightings, and the gods never deigned to cross the threshold of your modest world, unless they have various services to request from you. You were the helpful kind!

You told Hermes that Poseidon had recently visited you. Hermes rolled his eyes. 'Poseidon doesn't count.' He said. 'He only visits to borrow your books or ask you where he left his trident.' Hermes started playing with your quill.