Once he had cleaned up the mess the Kallikantzaroi had made of her home, she’d instructed him to continue digging up graves for pig jaws. She’d wanted them for her house, to keep the Kallikantzaroi away.
“But I already hung garlic and left things for them to count on your porch!” he’d argued.
Circe just stared. It was her giant cats that pushed him outside.
Like Hecate, she hadn’t specified how many he needed, so he’d worked until he physically couldn’t, falling asleep in one of the many holes he’d dug which was where he’d woken up this morning.
He was surprised Circe had let him sleep. He expected her to appear at any moment and order him back to the graveyard.
He moaned aloud just thinking about it. As soon as he made the sound, there was movement across the river. Hermes looked up as a bird flew from the branch of a stunning pine.
If Persephone were here, she’d have chosen it for the foyer of the Underworld, he thought.
His chest ached. He wondered how she was doing and if she had the babies yet. He hoped Hecate would retrieve him before then. It had been a while since he’d had a niece or nephew. Maybe he could make up for not being a very good friend by being a very good uncle.
“A funcle,” he said aloud. “Get it? A fun uncle?”
It was the title he had given himself the moment he learned Persephone was pregnant and she’d agreed it fit him well.
He sighed and rubbed at his chest. He missed his friends, the festivities, the most wonderful time of year. The magic of winter and the holidays did not reach Circe’s isolated island. He wasn’t surprised. The witch-goddess was not part of the modern world. She had no understanding of Christmas and why it had come about. She probably thought they were all still celebrating Dionysia.
Hermes snorted and was surprised by the feeling of guilt burrowing in belly. It wasn’t Circe’s fault that she had been isolated at a young age or that she knew nothing about the modern world. The only thing anyone ever brought her was trouble. That was true, even for him.
Suddenly, he had an idea. He returned to Circe’s house to retrieve an ax. His arms were sore from all the digging, and he felt the pain keenly as he lifted it, weaker than he ever had been in his life. Still, he was determined, fueled by excitement. If he couldn’t be in the Underworld for Christmas, he would bring Christmas to Aeaea.
Hermes waded across the river, approaching the perfect pine. He made a loop to assess it and determined it was, in fact, perfect. He decided he wanted the tree to land to the side, as that was the clearest part of the wood and then he started chopping. It took a few good blows before it fell, landing on the ground with a quiet rustle, cushioned by its fluffy branches.
He started to pick it up when he realized he would have to cross the river with the tree which was highly inconvenient. He tested the weight and decided he would hold it over his head. It wasn’t his best idea. His arms shook as he carried it, and the branches were itchy and poked him in the eyes, nose, and mouth.
Once he was on the other side of the river, he figured he might as well carry it the rest of the way. He hadn’t done all this work just to drag a dirty tree into Circe’s home.
As he approached, he heard a chorus of growls. The witch-goddess’s glorified house cats were on guard.
“It’s just me!” Hermes said, poking his head out from the branches before they could pounce.
Their eyes and jowls relaxed, though their muscles were still tense, suspicious of his intentions. Still, they let him pass. He set the tree down, leaning it against the wall, and assessed the living room, trying to decide where it should go when he realized he had nothing to keep it upright.
“Fuck,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
After a moment, he had an idea. He retrieved the ax from across the river and went in search of a large, fallen tree he could split. As he trekked through the forest, he made a note of other things too, berries he could use for garland, pinecones he could use for ornaments, fruit he could arrange in colorful spreads.
Finally, he came to a fallen trunk, and chopped a piece wide enough to hold his tree. when he returned to Circe’s, he chiseled out a round hole with one of her many daggers.
With the tree upright, he returned to the forest, retracing his steps to collect a variety of items to use as decor. By the time Circe returned from whatever she did during the day—probably poisoning people—Hermes was drying oranges and figs over the fire in the hearth and threading red berries onto string.
He was also singing, which was why he didn’t hear Circe when she entered.
"FA, LA, LA, LA, LA, LA, OH—” He abruptly slammed his mouth shut.
“What are you doing?” Circe asked, brow arched in suspicion.
“I am decorating for the holidays,” he said, nodding toward the tree which had one strand of berries on it. “Can’t you tell?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Christmas is approaching and then we will have the New Year. In New Greece, everyone decorates. Usually there are lights and lots of garland and tinsel.”
Circe was quiet and then asked, “Why?”
