CHAPTER 154: COUNTRY ROADS

The following day was a day off. Somner dragged Aphrodite along for his usual shopping activities. They invited the others too...

But Hermes has plans for the rest of the boys.

"What’s this again, Potentia?" Ymir muttered, sliding into the passenger seat of Hermes’ rented van with his arms folded.

Magni climbed in after him, holding a large Styrofoam cup of gas station slushie. "This vehicle is strange. Is it alive? It has many mouths."

"They’re called cup holders, Magni," Hermes said, deadpan, as he started the engine.

The van rumbled to life. Hermes grinned over the steering wheel, his eyes glinting. "Buckle up, boys. We’re going south."

Ymir gave him a look sharp enough to shatter the windshield. "If this is about Eirwyn—"

"It’s not."

Ymir’s brows lifted. "It’s not?"

"Nope." Hermes popped the "p" with infuriating smugness.

Magni slurped his drink loudly, watching them with rapt curiosity. "Where are we going then, Hermes Potentia?"

"Virginia." Hermes flicked the turn signal and merged onto the highway. "To Yorktown. Birthplace of the All-American farm boy himself. Raphael Mirasol aka Paragon."

Ymir’s jaw dropped. "You’re joking."

Hermes smirked. "Nope. We’re going on a field trip. Call it... character investigation."

Ymir pinched the bridge of his nose. "You kidnapped me for a goddamn road trip?"

"You’re welcome." Hermes cranked up the radio.

Banjo strums filled the van. The twang of a man wailing about trucks, whiskey, and heartbreak poured out the speakers.

Ymir recoiled. "No. Absolutely not. Turn it off."

Hermes grinned wider. "Oh no. It stays."

Magni clapped along, delighted. "This is marvelous! He sings of... his gun as if it was his wife! I have never heard human music like it."

"It’s called country music," Hermes said. "You should feel right at home, Ymir. Isn’t Tennessee your old stomping grounds?"

Ymir stiffened. "...Who told you that?"

Magni beamed. "You did! Long ago, when Hermes asked where I might bury the bones of my enemies, you said ’not in Tennessee, I never wanna go back.’"

Hermes laughed so hard he nearly swerved into the next lane. "I never noticed it. But there really was some twang in your accent, Ymir."

"There is no twang." Ymir snapped, voice sharp with indignation.

Hermes turned the music up louder. Ymir groaned and slumped against the window, muttering about how there’ll be reckonin’ for Hermes someday.

***

Three hours later, the van rolled into Yorktown. Quaint brick buildings lined the streets. Flags fluttered. Shops advertised colonial tours, homemade fudge, and "authentic Revolutionary War hats."

"This is it." Hermes said, pulling into a lot. "Small-town paradise."

Magni leaned against the window, wide-eyed. "It is so... themed. Are humans always reenacting past wars for fun?"

"Pretty much." Hermes said. "It’s like cosplay, but with muskets."

They piled out of the van.

First stop: the visitor’s center. Hermes grabbed brochures like they were evidence files.

"Battlefield tours, historical homes, even a museum. One of these has to know where the Mirasol family’s from."

They didn’t. But the elderly woman at the desk smiled warmly when asked about "the Mirasols."

"Hmm, can’t say I know the name. But if they’re farming folk, they’d be out past the town proper. Lots of families still own land outside Yorktown."

Hermes tucked the info away, but didn’t press. He had time.

For now, he let himself get dragged into tourist hell.

Magni wanted to try everything.

He put on a tricorn hat backwards and declared himself Admiral of Biscuits. He licked a musket ball display and complained it "tasted undercooked." He mistook a wax soldier for a "sleeping knight" and tried to wake him with a soda straw like a jousting lance.

Locals stared. Hermes nearly died laughing. Ymir nearly committed homicide.

"Put him on a leash." Ymir hissed at Hermes, dragging Magni away from a group of Boy Scouts.

"Oh come on! You can’t be mad that he wants to learn so much about our history." Hermes shot back.

"I’m mad he tried to eat the Declaration of Independence replica!"

Magni shrugged. "Paper is delicious in the Void."

***

Lunch was pulled pork sandwiches at a roadside shack. Hermes licked barbecue sauce from his fingers and leaned back in the rickety chair.

"So, Ymir. When’s the last time you were in the South?"

Ymir scowled over his sweet tea. "...High school."

"Did you wear cowboy boots?" Hermes teased.

"Shut up."

Magni beamed, oblivious. "Did you ride cows to school? Hermes says that is common here."

Hermes grinned wickedly. Ymir nearly choked on his sandwich and stomped on his foot.

"Don’t give him false information!"

Hermes chuckled. "Your Southern twang comes out when you’re mad."

"It does not!"

The afternoon passed in fits of sightseeing and questions to locals. Nobody knew much about the Mirasols, though a farmer on the edge of town mentioned a "Raphael kid" who used to help out at church events years ago.

"Oh.... Yes, yes. Paragon. He was a good boy." the farmer said. "Polite. Hard worker. Haven’t seen him in a while, though."

Hermes noticed some hesitation in the farmer’s words.

But he didn’t say anything yet. Not while Magni was busy climbing into a cannon yelling "I am the cannonball!" or while Ymir was suffering through Hermes’ relentless playlist of country hits.

It was almost easy. Easy enough to forget, for a few hours, the weight of Cyclopes and betrayals and familiar blood whispering in his head.

Until the horses.

Magni had insisted. "We must ride them! It is a human tradition here!"

So there they were, an hour later, trying horseback riding at a local stable.

Magni took off at a gallop immediately, whooping, his horse kicking up dirt as he vanished down the trail.

Hermes lasted about thirty seconds. His horse, sensing weakness, veered sideways, and Hermes tumbled off with all the grace of a falling sack of potatoes.

He groaned, spitting dirt. "Fuck..."

Ymir appeared above him, perched smugly on his own horse. "Hah! Bless your city boy heart, you can’t ride a horse to save your life."

"Shut up." Hermes sat up, brushing off his jacket. "I’m not a city boy. I lived in a village, remember? It’s just that riding horses wasn’t common there and this kind of thing takes a lot of practice."

Ymir sighed, then extended a hand. "Get up. You’re riding with me before you break your neck."

Hermes hesitated, then took it. Ymir hauled him up, settling him onto the saddle in front.

The horse shifted, steady beneath them. Hermes gripped the reins awkwardly while Ymir adjusted behind him, one arm braced around his waist, steady and unyielding.

"Don’t lean like an idiot," Ymir muttered. "Balance with the horse. It’s not that complicated."

Hermes laughed under his breath, talking in a terrible impression of a Southern accent. "Oh yeah? You gonna teach me, Tennessee?"

"I’ll freeze your darn mouth if you say another word."

The horse trotted forward. Hermes felt the press of Ymir’s hand against his side, firm, guiding. The wind tugged at them both as the trail opened ahead, golden light spilling across fields.

For a moment, Hermes forgot about Paragon, about the Cyclops, about the bitter taste of secrets.

It was just the two of them.

Riding together, steady in the rhythm of hooves here in the quiet South.