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It was an odd thing for him to witness.
His eyes glanced at the crowd before him, taking notice of the faint red threads wrapping around each person he saw. The strings tangled and wove through the people around him, connecting them—some near, some far.
He had been able to see people's fates—their red strings of fate—allowing him to witness who was bound to whom. He wasn’t sure if this was a gift from the gods or just an amusement they had bestowed upon him. All he knew was that he had it and would have to face whatever consequences came with it.
Walking ahead, he purposely bumped into a man at his side, causing him to stumble and fall.
“H-Hey!” the man shouted in protest, but before he could curse, another voice interrupted.
“Are you alright?” A woman reached out to help him, a gentle smile on her face.
As Tiresias continued walking, he took a glance back and noticed a faint red thread wrapped around the woman’s finger, its length stretching out and connecting to the fallen man's own.
Unconsciously, he looked down at his hand. A red string glowed faintly, wrapped around his finger. His eyes followed it upward, watching as it extended—higher and higher—until it disappeared into the sky.
He wasn’t sure what to feel.
Had his soulmate already passed on?
Or… was his soulmate a god?
He didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.
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He was blind.
A simple truth, yet one that still felt strange to accept.
The world he once saw had faded into nothingness.
On the bright side—he joked to himself—at least he no longer had to see people's strings or fates. He could finally stop wondering who his soulmate was.
And yet, despite his supposed relief, he could still feel it.
The faint, persistent tug of his string—pulling from high above.
Maybe he's cursed.
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He starts to wonder how unfortunate he truly is. Even in death, he is not free.
Yes, he had accepted his fate as a prophet, knowing that such a role would follow him until the end. And yet, he had hoped—hoped that at the end of his life, he would at least find peace.
But here he was, a shade bound to linger in the underworld, forced to stay as others sought his ability to see the future. He had lost count of the souls who came to him, desperation seeping from them as they begged for his guidance, demanding to know what the Fates had in store for them.
He was beginning to believe that the gods above were playing tricks on him. Even in death, he remained tethered to his fate, bound to the underworld and cursed to give prophecies to those who wished for them.
And yet, even now, he could still feel it—the faint thread wrapped around his finger, tugging upward, stretching beyond the realm of the dead… beyond himself.
Toward something.
Or someone.
Maybe he is truly cursed.
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Today was a rare day, he supposed. It was surprisingly quiet for a place where, it was said, the agonized screams of the dead would never cease. But today, there was nothing. Only the sound of the river Styx lapping gently against its banks filled his ears as he stood, staring at something—or perhaps at nothing at all.
He has no sense of sight, after all.
And yet, despite his longing for peace, something about today felt different.
It was sudden like something had bloomed inside of him. A searing heat washed over him, tightening his grip on his staff. His legs trembled slightly.
What on earth…?
He stiffened, tilting his head, straining his ears, trying—desperately—to understand what was making him feel this way. His eyes were useless, but he could still feel. And something was pulling him, gently, carefully, toward… somewhere.
And it scared him.
He is blind, but that does not mean he does not miss his eyes.
" Oh, hello there. "
Tiresias flinched. His fingers twitched, his grip on his staff tightening. It was hardly a weapon, but it was all he had. "Who…" His voice wavered as he turned his head, lost in the swirl of confusion in his mind. He felt eyes on him, but he didn't even know where to look.
Perhaps noticing his distress, the voice chuckled, lighthearted but laced with a genuine sense of apology. "Did I surprise you? My apologies, it wasn’t my intention."
Tiresias should have been offended that he was being laughed at. Should have.
And yet… he wasn’t.
He wasn’t even bothered. He swallowed hard. "...Who are you?"
Silence followed, and Tiresias silently thanked the gods because, for the first time, he could finally feel it—the presence lingering near him. Close. Too close. It didn’t make sense. He had heard no footsteps, no approach, and yet this stranger had already been there before he had even spoken. His mind was chaos, spinning too fast for him to grasp hold of a single thought. And in his confusion, he failed to notice the faint tug on his heart—the one whispering, the one pleading… You are meeting them.
A hum, thoughtful. "Who am I?" A chuckle followed, an exhale of amusement. "That’s a first."
Tiresias' grip on his staff tightened. A dull pain throbbed in his fingers, but he barely noticed. There was something about this person. He didn't know what, but it unsettled him. And yet… it was not entirely unpleasant. It was warm. And familiar. Clearing his throat, he murmured, "You are not a soul or even a shade." His words were careful, restrained as if he were trying to hold back something, something that had been still when he was alive, something he had not expected to feel again. "You're not dead."
Something in the air shifted, but it did nothing to dull the warmth now resting inside him.
The presence near him moved, circling him. There were no footsteps, no sound at all, yet he knew the stranger was there. And for some reason, that thought made his heart burn.
"Perceptive as ever," the voice praised, its tone playful. "No, I’m not dead. I pass through sometimes, guide a soul here and there, but I don’t stay too often." A hum followed, thoughtful.
"Though, I suppose that should change."
A hint. A psychopomp. A name surfaced in his mind, and he tried, desperately, to steel himself against it. The tug on his hand was stronger now. Undeniable.
Tiresias took a deep breath, his grip on his staff slipping, unsteady. "Then why are you here?"
Are you here to toy with me? To mock me? A mortal, a prophet bound to the underworld, am I now bound to you as well? Or are you seeking something?
An unbearable silence followed his words. And yet, somehow, Tiresias knew, he felt, that the stranger was considering his question.
The thought unsettled him. Bracing himself, Tiresias waited for the words that would come next, for the answer that might fill his mind to the brim, until his soul, perhaps, vanished entirely.
" Because of you."
Tiresias felt his breath hitch. The way he said it, so easily, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and not something meant to rattle his heart. The words landed carefully, yet heavily, pressing against his chest. He wasn’t even sure what to feel at that moment. Except for the warmth. That persistent warmth inside him, growing, swelling, until, for the first time in a long, long while, Tiresias felt so... alive.
"I—" His voice faltered. Were there even words for this? Could there be? "I don't... understand."
A soft chuckle answered him, followed by the faintest step, the sound of sandals moving closer. "Perhaps," the voice murmured, airy and light, yet impossibly full, "there are things you don’t need to understand."
The warmth in Tiresias' chest only grew stronger.
He wanted to protest. To push him away. To demand answers, why he was here, why he spoke as though they were already bound. But, by the gods above, but, he could feel it. The thread around his finger.
That thread he had not sensed in so many years.
It pulsed. It warmed. Not just his finger but his entire being. It was too much.
He opened his mouth, to speak, to deny, to demand. But then—
A hand, warm and solid, took his own.
Tiresias froze. He swore he could feel himself tear up at the touch. It was careful and inviting. And when had he last felt such warmth in a touch? He let out a soft, shuddering gasp, filled with so much emotion it was beyond sense. "You," Tiresias whispered, disbelief laced through every syllable. He let the feeling settle, the way his thread pulsed, filling him to the brim, as though it had waited for this moment for lifetimes.
His soulmate.
The thought rose in his mind, no longer buried. No longer suppressed.
The stranger chuckled, soft, amused. Was it possible for a laugh to sound so fond? "Me."
And then—
His staff.
When had he dropped his staff?
The realization barely settled before his hand was guided, gently, and carefully.
By the gods, how could such an action feel so full of love?
Before he could steel himself—before he could even think—
His fingers brushed against something. Smooth skin. Tiresias tensed, breath catching. Soft laughter greeted his reaction. Amused. Delighted. Under his palm, he could feel it, smoothness, with small bumps here and there. Freckles? The warmth of his face beneath his palm, the way it stretched in a smile. Tiresias shuddered. His fingers curled slightly, hesitant, yet unable to pull away. The silence between them was thick. Too thick. Loud in a way, words couldn't match.
But then—
A chuckle. Soft. Teasing.
"You know," the voice murmured, grinning, "most people ask for a name before they start holding someone’s face." There was laughter in his tone, but happiness, too, as though he, too, felt what burned inside Tiresias now.
Tiresias jolted, realization crashing down on him. His free hand was trembling at his side, gripping his robes loosely, while the other, his traitorous other hand, was still resting against the stranger’s face. And clasped so tightly in the other’s grip.
Oh .
A thought lingers that wishes he could see him.
Huh ? What was happening to him? How was he even thinking this, right now?
He swallowed, fingers twitching, about to pull away, but the grip on his hand tightened.
Firm, but not forceful. Don’t let go. Is what it tells him
The warmth in his chest bloomed even further, so much, so overwhelming, it didn’t even hurt. "Perhaps... introductions are in order," he murmured, clearing his throat. Steady. Stay steady. "You may know me as the Prophet Tiresias." It felt strange, foreign, to say his own name aloud. He was so used to others calling out to him, introducing themselves first.
A hum. And then—
Tiresias could hear the smirk in his voice.
"Hermes."
Tiresias’ heart jumped.
The god of messengers?
The god of messengers, his soulmate?
His soulmate.
His grip faltered, his entire being trembling—not from fear, not from shock, but from the unbearable, blooming love surging through him. His fingers curled again, and he could feel the tug of his thread now, stretched out, connecting them.
He is here.
"Hermes?" Tiresias repeats the name softly, the word unfamiliar yet already settling into the hollow of his chest.
On a shuddered breath, he feels his other hand move on its own, raised, reaching, until his fingertips find the messenger god's face. His touch is cautious at first, tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the surprising softness of feathers resting just beneath the skin, and feathers below his eyes? The sensation startles him, but curiosity wins out. He follows the path of bone and warmth to the corner of Hermes' mouth, and there, he feels it.
The faint lift of the skin. A smile. A teasing one at that.
"You're memorizing me," Hermes observes, voice light and easy, though adoration lingers beneath the teasing.
Tiresias stills, his breath catching in his throat. He swallows hard. "Maybe," he admits, voice soft and unsure as his thumb brushes over a raised brow. "Is that... perhaps alright?"
The laugh that follows is warm and genuine.
"Isn't that a bit too late to ask?" Hermes muses, amusement dancing through every word.
Tiresias huffs softly at that, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. His hand twitches, instinctively drawing back, but Hermes catches it with ease. Warm fingers wrap around his wrist, not allowing him to retract.
"No, no," Hermes says, his voice quieter now, gentler. "Don’t stop. Not if you don’t want to." His voice sounds so kind and it urges him.
Tiresias hesitates. His undead heart might be even more dead by now if the god is letting him feel such things. Slowly, carefully, his fingers return to their exploration. From Hermes' brow to the slope of his nose, the slight bump at its bridge. He remembers it all, committing each detail to memory.
His fingers then drift lower, hesitating just at the edge of Hermes’ lips, feeling the warmth of his breath ghost over his fingertips. The moment lingers, charged and fragile, until—
"Ah, careful now," Hermes hums, and Tiresias can hear the smirk in his voice. "Any lower, and I might get ideas."
Tiresias lets out a sharp exhale, caught between exasperation and something far softer. His hand twitches, but he doesn't pull away, not entirely. "You truly can't go a moment without teasing, can you?" he asks, though the undeniable softness in his voice betrays the bite of his words.
"Would you have me any other way?" Hermes counters smoothly.
Tiresias parts his lips to retort, only to hesitate. Because the truth, the foolish, undeniable truth, is that no. He wouldn't. Not now, not when warmth has finally found him. Not when he feels so much of it that he could drown in it. Not when that cursed thread of fate has, at last, reached him.
His fingers tighten slightly against Hermes' cheek, grounding himself in that touch. "You're insufferable," he mutters, but his voice falters, too filled with growing affection to sound convincing.
Hermes laughs, delighted. "And yet, here you are, touching my face as if you're the one who sought me out."
Tiresias exhales sharply, tilting his head in mock contemplation. "Perhaps I should let go, then. You're the one who guided my hands, after all," he points out, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.
Hermes hums, leaning ever so slightly into his touch. "Oh, by all means," he drawls. "But if you do, don't be surprised if I guide them right back."
Tiresias laughs. He lets out a huff of laughter, and by the gods, when did he even laugh so freely? He could be surprised at the fact he could laugh so easily with the god. Letting him fill so many emotions at just this one moment.
If he can laugh so freely like this, what on earth will happen to him in the future?
His hand was still on the god's face, fingers lingering, tracing the faint curve of Hermes's smile once more, albeit teasing. "You're impossible," he muses, warmth laced in his voice, betraying his words.
"Ah ah," Hermes tuts, teasing, he feels his smile grow wider, perhaps a grin, "Don't say such things to your soulmate."
He didn't mean to not reply immediately, but truly, the thought of the two of them being soulmates has yet to properly settle in his mind. No matter how he could feel his heart hammering at that declaration that truly they are soulmates. But no doubts reached in his mind, as that faint tug on the thread wrapped around Tiresias's finger, reminding him, grounding him that it was all real.
"My... soulmate," he repeats it out with a shaky breath. He shifts and hesitates, and for a moment, he leans forward, pressing his forehead against Hermes'. He swears he could feel his face getting red in embarrassment at the thought of his actions, but he was met with a feeling that he could never expect to bloom even so much more.
Hermes shuffles a bit closer to him; he doesn't move away. Only the sound of breathing fills the air, and yet all he can ever feel is this overwhelming happiness. Then the faint rustle of feathers fills the quiet air, and Tiresias mildly jumps, startled as he feels something soft brush against his temple.
Though he doesn't need to pull away, already knowing what it is, as the delicate wings at Hermes' ears flutter softly, so close to him.
He exhales a breathless laugh, his voice trembling with an emotion too tender to name. "They're... softer than I imagined," he murmurs, his thumb absently grazing Hermes's cheek.
He wishes again to see his face, what is his expression like as they stay like this, basking in each other's presence, filled with tenderness for one another? So intimately close when they have just met.
Hermes hums, his voice low and amused. "They say it's not allowed to touch a god's wings, you know." He says it as if it was a warning, though Tiresias knows he doesn't mean it like that.
Tiresias huffs softly, unamused by his words, lips curling into a smile as his thumb brushes across Hermes's cheek once more. "And yet," he murmurs, "You're letting me. Such irony?"
The wings flutter against him once again, brushing with playful gentleness, replying to his response. Then, a soft laugh escapes from the winged god, and no words follow after that. Only the two of them, basking in such love for each other after what seems to be separation.
And for once, for the first time in his life, ever so frustrating life, Tiresias finds himself blessed.
Bonus:
But if the blind prophet could ever see, he could see tears coming out of the edges of the messenger god's eyes. A soft smile now placed, feeling so much as the Prophet, his whole being filled with such unexplained love for the other, that it was almost bleeding. All those times he had mindlessly searched for the one to whom he was bound were worth it, just to see the person he was fated to meet, to be so close, and to hold him with such care, even if it was their first meeting.
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edit!: truthfully I didn't even expect for this to actually blow up- and like as a way to celebrate I made a special art for 100+ kudos- this art had been done awhile I just forgot to post it here my bad asoidha
