Work Text:
There was a silent flutter of wings. Orange feathers fell to the ground methodically, their descent slowed by air resistance.
The crossroads had a guest. One whose visits had become increasing sparse over these long and grueling months.
There was the imprint of boats along the grass, markings etched deep into the mud. Cocytus flowed without a care, as if nothing was ever wrong in the first place.
Hermes stared at his face through the reflecting water. He dipped his hand into the current, clawing through the image of himself. The water rippled, quickly reforming.
Hermes removed his hand instantly, wiping any leftover droplets across his face. He sighed, sitting down. No matter how much he yearned to leave, to finish what he had started, Hermes could not help but be mesmerized by his own reflection.
He squeezed the bridge of his nose, desperate to rid himself of the migraine building behind his eyes. Everything ached. It shouldn’t have.
Hermes was built for simultaneously stamina and speed. He could run as swiftly as light and he could manage messages, souls, and dreams for days at a time without breaking a sweat.
And yet here he was. Losing his love for running.
Once he could not fathom that he would become exhausted. He adored the way his blood pumped into his legs, the way his muscles strained, the way he could focus on one thing and not have his thoughts drift elsewhere.
Despite running being all but essential to his work, he had believed he would never tire from it. He could witness the Aurora Borealis in a heartbeat, could stop to pick a few flowers without being late, could steal a few gemstones for Charon without anyone noticing. He could have done anything he wanted and still turn in his work on time.
He missed it. He missed running being his respite. Now it was his personal hell.
Hermes wanted to do nothing but collapse. Let Hypnos take him until this war was over. What he would give to be relieved of his duties even if for only a moment.
Everything was desolate now anyways, destroyed by eternal winter and war. There was nothing to be seen.
Hermes dipped his feet in the river, the cool water temporarily soothing his sore soles. The current pushed around his feathers. Most of the dirt and dust and dried ichor slowly but surely washed away. It wasn’t perfect, but Hermes lacked the time and patience to preen himself. He almost considered shoving his entire face into the water to give the wings on his head the same treatment.
He did not dare too.
Hermes pried his eyes away from his mirrored reflection. It was expected, he reasoned, that an individual be imperfect during war. He had seen first hand how exhausted Odysseus had looked on Aeaea. How his ribs showed, how his eyes were sunken, how his hair was unkept.
But Hermes was not a mortal. He should not look like one.
The other gods were fine! Sure, they were all fighting for their lives up in Mount Olympus while he was running through across every boundary in existence doing the dirty work, but how different could that possibly be?
Pops was as boisterous and arrogant as ever! Aphrodite still seemed to only care about herself! Demeter was stern and cold, just like always! So why did Hermes’ notorious smile fall the instant he was alone? Why was his eyes so dim? Why did he have eyebags?
Hermes tugged at his eye, as if trying to smother those cursed marks of Sleep away. As if it were just kohl that would smear against his fingers and vanish over time.
He grumbled under his breath, annoyed that nothing worked. Hermes reached behind him, sliding off his hair tie. He rolled it over his wrist like it was a bracelet.
Hermes’ jet black hair cascaded downwards. It reached his middle of his neck now, a mark of the passage of time. He kicked his feet every so slightly, his legs itching to move. Not to run, per say. Just to move. Hermes despised it terribly.
He cupped some water, pouring it onto his hair. The water dripped onto his chiton, sticking to him. It felt no different than the sweat that glistened against his skin. The wings on his head subconsciously moved out of the way to avoid being drenched.
Hermes ran his fingers through his hair. Maybe now it wouldn’t be as frazzled. His ends itched against his skin. Time shouldn’t have effected him! His hair shouldn’t have grown an inch unless he wanted it too.
Time should have no hold on him. Time did not know him. That was why he was chosen! To Time, he was perfect. Time had no idea he wasn’t. Was being around Time enough for he to become effected by his whims? Why did no one tell him this was a side effect of taking up this job?
Hermes lifted his feet out of the water, pressin his knees close to his chest. The wings on his head curled protectively around his cheeks, though they did nothing to cover his eyes from the horror of his terribly imperfect appearance.
He could distinctly feel every grain of rubble, every offput feather, every unopened pin feather, everything ready to fall the moment he let it.
There were uneven patches where some of his feathers had been ripped out by his own hand. They never impacted his ability to fly, so why would he need them? They always grew back with a day anyways. He just needed to removed the keratin that coated them.
He didn’t have the time too.
Hermes gripped his satchel tightly. His hair continued to curl around the nape of his neck, eternally bothering him. There was a dagger in his bag. Charon gifted it to him for self defense.
Hermes never needed to use it. Not against any enemies at least.
He could lift it to his hair. Could chop it off. No one would care. If someone asked he could say it was getting in the way of his face while he was running. He could say he was mourning all those they lost.
But that would mean believing they were dead. That they weren’t etting them back.
Hermes could never dare believe that. He promised Charon he wouldn’t.
They were gods! They would be fine! Melinoe was going the find them without a doubt! Nobody would rest until she did!
Hermes found himself holding the small dagger. He inspected its sheen for a moment. Then, without warning, he threw in into the water.
Hermes winced as the sharp blade hit the surface of the river with a splash. He didn’t know why he threw away such a prized possession. Hopefully Charon wouldn’t mind. It was just a dagger, after all.
Hermes sat up, sighing heavily. He stretched his arms, ignoring the fact that they hurt from the movement. A grin, aching and false, wormed its way onto his face. Those shrines weren’t going to stock themselves!
In a blink of an eye, Hermes was gone, the only trace that he was even here being that glint of metal in a flowing river.
He wasn’t going to visit the Crossroads again any time soon.