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Hestia’s laugh was soft and low in her throat. Something like that, she said, amusement curling gently through her words. Though I don’t think the real one ever had to chase down her own dinner. If only he knew how he'd hit the nail on the head. Would he have yawned and worshipped the very ground she walked upon had he learned just who she was? For some innate reason, she didn't think he would, let alone believe her. In some way, that was comforting.

Her eyes warmed when they met his again, the robin-blue catching what little light was left between the trees. I’ve been called worse things than my own name, so I’ll take it as a compliment. She paused a beat, her gaze flicking over his expression, the careful way he measured his words. She felt kind of bad pressuring him into accepting her help, but, well that was who she was. A Goddess of hearth and home. What would she be if she did not offer weary travelers a place to lay their heads and fill their bellies.

You don’t owe me anything, she said simply, her tone firm but not unkind. You’d be surprised how little I keep, and how much that still feels like enough. A meal shared isn’t a debt. She turned then, brushing past a low branch, her fur catching the fading gold of the last sunlight. Still, she added with a faint smile, if it makes you feel better, you can help me forage in the morning. I don’t turn down an honest hand.

She motioned for him to follow, pace unhurried as the leaves whispered under her steps. There’s a stream not far from here, she went on, glancing over her shoulder. Good water, clean air, and a bit of cover from the wind. It’s not much of a hearth, but it’ll do.

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