The Crossroads Compass – Chapter 3

Asher

I arrive at the villa as the first rays of sunlight peek over the horizon. The cab driver, an older man with a bushy mustache, whistles appreciatively as we pull up to the gates.

“Nice place, friend,” he says in Greek. “Vacation?”

“Something like that,” I reply, handing him a generous tip. He beams, probably already planning how to spend his windfall.

As the cab disappears down the winding road, I turn to face my home for the foreseeable future. The villa is a vision of classic Greek architecture — all white walls and blue shutters, with a terracotta roof that glows warmly in the early morning light. It’s perched on a cliff, offering a panoramic view of the Aegean that would make even Zeus jealous.

I smile to myself, remembering the frantic phone call I made from the airport to an old friend — or rather, an old worshipper. A wealthy shipping magnate who still leaves offerings at my long-abandoned temples was more than happy to arrange this little hideaway for me. “Anything for you, Lord Hermes,” he’d said, his voice filled with awe even through the crackling connection. It’s nice to know some mortals still remember the old ways. There are so few I trust with the knowledge of my immortality, but he’s a keeper.

A welcoming committee of two — a personal chef and a housekeeper — greets me at the door. They’re all smiles and “Kalimera, kyrie”s, but I can see the questions in their eyes. Who is this man? Why is he here alone? Where’s all his luggage?

“Thank you, but I won’t be needing your services today,” I tell them, trying to soften the dismissal with a smile. “Please, take the day off. I’ll call if I need anything.”

They exchange a look but don’t argue. Smart. I wait until they’ve driven away before I let out a long breath, savoring the silence.

The quiet is a balm to my frayed nerves, a stark contrast to the constant noise of my life as Asher Maddocks. No screaming fans, no pushy paparazzi, no demanding record executives. Just me and the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below. It’s almost too quiet, making the thoughts I’ve been running from for centuries echo louder in my head.

Inside, I wander through the main rooms and head straight for the terrace. The view hits me like a punch to the gut. The Aegean stretches out before me, a sheet of liquid sapphire under the rising sun. The sky is a painter’s palette of pinks and golds, and the scent of sea salt fills my lungs.

For a moment, just a moment, I feel… peace.

This is what I came here for. This is what’s been missing from my life. For years. Decades. Lifetimes. I kept running away, when really, I should have been staying put.

I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the sun seep into my skin. How long has it been since I allowed myself to just… be? No personas to maintain, no expectations to meet, no messages to deliver. Just Hermes, stripped of all pretenses.

My mind wanders through the centuries, flicking through memories like a cosmic photo album. The glory days of Olympus, when mortals trembled at our names and built grand temples in our honor. The slow decline, as belief waned and our powers diminished. The endless cycle of reinvention, trying to find my place in a world that no longer needed gods.

I try to laze about on the couches, browse the impressive library of books (the owner seems to love romances), inspect the fridge and pantry, but restlessness soon creeps in, an itch under my skin that’s been my constant companion for millennia.

I head into the bedroom, stripping off my travel-worn clothes as I go. A quick rummage through the closet (bless the staff for keeping it stocked) produces a pair of swim trunks.

There’s a private path leading down to a hidden cove — one of the reasons I chose this particular villa. As I make my way down the rocky trail, memories start to surface. The last time I was in Greece… was it the ‘80s? ‘90s? Time blurs when you’ve lived as long as I have.

I remember a summer night in Mykonos, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and the sound of disco music. Dancing until dawn with a group of carefree tourists, pretending to be just another mortal looking for a good time.

Then there was that winter in a small mountain village, where I posed as a folklorist collecting local legends. The irony of mortals telling me, a god, stories about the gods wasn’t lost on me.

And how could I forget that spring in Athens, when I fell in love with a fiery artist who saw right through my disguise? She called me a liar and a trickster, not knowing how right she was. I left before she could unravel any more of my secrets.

The cove is just as I remember it — a perfect crescent of white sand embraced by rugged cliffs. The water is crystal clear, so blue it hardly seems real. I dive in without hesitation, the cool water a shock against my skin.

As I swim, letting the gentle waves rock me, more memories wash over me. Not just of Greece, but of all the lives I’ve lived, all the identities I’ve worn like costumes.

I see myself as a medieval troubadour, strumming a lute in a smoky tavern, singing tales of love and loss to wide-eyed peasants. I feel the weight of a paintbrush in my hand as I stand before an easel in a sun-drenched Renaissance studio, capturing the curves of a reclining nude. I smell the cigarette smoke and bootleg gin of a Jazz Age speakeasy as I hammer out stories on a battered typewriter.

Each life chosen for its anonymity, its ordinariness. Unlike this latest incarnation, with its stadiums full of screaming fans and faces plastered on billboards.