The Traveller

"They are but mindless creatures!" they had said back on his homeland, no matter how much had Hermes disagreed with them on that matter.

It had been in one of his many travels with no particular end that he had noticed there were more and taller trees, almost covering the dime and weak sunlight. However, unlike his native Arcadia, this place was colder than home and there were only few scarce houses built with what they had in hand. The damned place was the coldest he had ever step on. The first time he had almost frozen, in fact, it had been the first time he had felt the harshness of cold. He, a god, a creature above such corporeal annoyances had almost succumbed. After all, this god had been wearing only a chlamys and a pylos in his corporeal form.

Luckily, he had been saved, and he had been given clothes that fitted better this strange weather that could affect gods: having learned from his mistake, he now wore leather bootswith an inner coat of fur, a cloak also made of fur, woolen pants of flashy colors  and a long shirt that fell down his knees kept together by a belt decorated with scenes of the gods that ruled there: a man with red hair and beard fightingagainst a monster, a man with only one eye hanging from a tree, a woman riding a charriot pulled by cats... The intricate decorations despite the simplicity of this figures had made Hermes protest whenever he was told they were mindless inferior creatures that couldn't compare to the Olympians. He also wore a hat and a pair of gloves made of sealskin. They were sewn together, and along the pants, some of his divine mates had told him how effeminate he looked that way. Ares was the only one that seemed to understand, in his case wearing pants with geometrical patterns he brought from West and North, lands of his Amazon children. But, no matter what, not even Ares really knew what his intentions really were when he had announced he would be repeating a trip that had almost become an annual tradition. Hermes spoted and stopped a shepherd that would be trying to scare wolves away that night, and asked:

"Do you know where Laufey's house is?"

"You must be Fárbauti, then," Hermes wondered what kind of name was that, probably a bad translation of Argeiphontes, "You have to keep going forward."

"But, thank you, my good friend," and as he embraced the man he reached for the little bag on his back. He felt no remorse over the small act of thievery. He was a traveler, and probably the next day he would head towards Utgard, the only city in this realm, where he intended to buy something beautiful for her.

Laufey had been the woman tthat had found him when he was freezing. She had taken him to her home, an only room with a fire in the middle. Such a small detail had reminded him of Hestia, and when she had offered him some food and liquor, he had dedicated them to this goddess. That day, he had thanked her for her help from far away. When he would repeat it again, he would do so remembering how Hestia had been the only one in Olympus that, even if she didn't like to have her adopted favorite son so far away in this harsh land, still had kissed his forehead and given him some food. Most of it were dry vegetables, something he had specifically asked, for he knew in this weather they would only be eating smoked meat and fish. He had, as well, some sweet bread and figs, better to appease the likes of little children.

The shepherd hadn't lied. Her house still had a triangular roof from which hanged the skull of some animal. There were some inscriptions carved in the door, inscriptions Hermes touched as he deciphered its meaning. Laufey had taught him of the use of runes and the magic of writing, so he instantly recognized the message as a future prediction. One about the inhabitants of that house. A bitter smile came to his face that was betrayed by a solitary tear, but he quickly compossed himself again. He wiped the tear and changed his smile for a more playful one and knocked the door. He immediately heard the sudden nervous noise that preceded his entrance and Laufey opened the door.

She kissed him, waving her husband back home. She was beautiful. Laufey's hair was red, and she had usually compared it to the rust on metals—"but some metals are incredibly expensive and valuable" "flatterer"—, yet her eyes were as green as leafs in spring. Another one rushed to him, embracing his legs. It appeared that Loki had inherited her red hair, but the dark wine eyes and the perpetual mischievous smile that announced no good were definitely his father's. He had also inherited that ability to shapeshift freely at will from him, yet that playful shine always remained with him. He had grown up really fast, Hermes noticed, almost throwing him to the floor. If there was something the father was sure, was that he would be something great as an adult.

"Father! Father! Look!" the little boy raised the lyre he had tried to build imitating the one his father had described on his story about Apollo and his cows, "I can play it really well!"

"And what should we do with it?" asked Hermes tauntingly, his hand already in the food bag. Loki's eyes widened, and soon got his answer:

"We sing exploits for the riches, we insult them for the poor!"

"Well done, my boy!" laughed Hermes, handing the sweet to his son, who quickly grabbed it and began chewing on it while making an exaggerated sound of pleasure, an adorable "nom-nom".

Just as quick as he had grabbed his prize, however, Loki run towards a corner of the house, hiding behind some pots as he saw the stern look on her mother's eyes. "Yesterday he stole two sheep!" she explained. Meanwhile, Loki kept making the nom-nom sound, enjoying his prize without a care. Althought he was supposedly scolded for this, he didn't miss the wink from his father. Neither did Hermes miss the one when he supposedly lowered his head in shame. That night Loki kept making the nom-nom sound in a lower volume while Hermes gave him more treats as he taught him newer tricks. Both promised neither would tell Laufey about it.

Like father, like son.