Time works differently when you are immortal.
Of course, for those born with an immunity to death, like the Olympic gods, time had always flown like this. Slowly, like honey dribbling from a tipped-over barrel. Each day was much like the previous one, with only small variations separating them. More often than not, weeks blended into each other. A cycle of work, feasts, resting, and starting over. On Mount Olympus, where the sun always shone and the nights were always well-peppered with stars, hardly anything every changed.
For mortals, it was a vastly different matter.
Each god interacted with them differently. Demeter taught them how to cultivate their field. Ares gave them the ferocity and strength needed for war. Aphrodite helped them either find their soul-mate or relieve themselves of a love story gone wrong.
But of all of the gods, Hermes interacted with mortals the most. He kept an eye on his disciples: thieves, merchants, herdsmen...anyone who lived off their wits. He whispered suggestions into their ears, nudged them when they risked brushing against danger, and guided their dearly departed souls to Hades. He was often out of Olympus for days at a time, especially during times of war and famines.
Hermes did his job smoothly, with no strings attached. He had done it for millenia, to the point that he hardly distinguished any of the mortals. Their lives were so quick, so fragile, compared to his and his family's. A flicker of a candle. A cherry blossom. This was how things were; no more, no less.
Two encounters, separated by a slender span of weeks, changed all of this.
It was a beautiful morning in Greece; for once, Hermes lacked obligations. Why turn away a golden opportunity like this?
Whooping and cheering the blue god glided through the clouds like an eagle, his golden helmet flashing. He spread his thin arms out, staff in one hand, feeling for once completely free. The tiny wings sprouting from his sandals fluttered furiously, aided by the strong warm winds. Viewing everything from his violent-tinted glasses, the god looked at the world below. Greece spread out like a great, green bedspread, lush with trees and edged with gray and gold. Mountains rose like great stony hands, offering him solace. Rivers ran through the land like sapphire veins. The odd settlement, Thebes being the largest, were bustling with everyday activity. Oily black smoke rose from the altars, where sacrifices were being roasted.
One particular scent, carried by the strong gusts of air, hit Hermes full in the face. He stopped, suspended in the air like a marionette. Breathed in more deeply. Mixed in with the sea's salt and the blooming flowers, there it was. Mutton! Hermes loved mutton. His offerings, while never scarce, were rarely anything to gloat about. Since his followers often lived off the land or on the streets, they could only afford the most meagre of tribute. A stale loaf of bread here, a cheap bracelet there. Hermes understood, never once complaining or punishing the people over it.
But this was a very pleasant surprise.
His mouth watering, Hermes swooped down towards the savory scent. It soon brought him to one of Thebe's smaller temples. Slightly run-down and chipped from standing against many a storm, the structure had seen better days. Hermes' nimble feet landed on the cracked marble. Cherry blossom petals were scattered across the surface. They all rolled out of his path as he fluttered towards the scent. He stuck to the shadows, well out of sight, lest he scare the people away. It was not every day one spotted a god.
Someone was kneeling before his statue (which, for the record, had rendered his pot belly too pronounced and his beaky nose too long), whispering softly over the hissing sounds of frying meat. Hermes was practically drooling as he edged closer, bolder now that he realized that this person was the only one in the temple. It was a woman, by the looks of it. Perhaps a couple of years older than good ol' Hercules. She wore a baggy cloak that had once been black but, with constant use, had become a battered dark gray. Her hair, the color of cinammon, was curly and wild. It reached down and tickled her waist as she knelt, speaking under her breath. With his acute hearing, accenuated by very poor eyesight, Hermes was finally able to decipher what she said:
"Great god Hermes,
Quick-witted and welcome to all worlds,
Fleet-footed messanger of Zeus, clever cattle thief.
Hermes, kind-hearted one, unpredictable one,
Impetuous, scheming, fortunate, wise,
Great god Hermes, I praise and honor you."
Hermes chuckled softly. Leaned against a pillar, arms folded. "Keep 'em comin', doll." He could not remember the last time someone had flattered him so much in a prayer. They often mentioned part of what this woman had - being clever, wise, and unpredictable - but never all together. Whatever she wanted, it must have meant the world to her. Why else would she be trying to appeal to him so desperately? He listened.
The woman was bowing so low that her forehead touched the cold marble.
"Messanger of the gods, I come here with a humble request. My family and I...we are nomads. We never remain in the same location for more than a few days. A week, at most. During that time, we scavange and take whatever may be of use to us: food, supplies, livestock, we shy away from little. But recently..." The woman, whose face Hermes had yet to see, swallowed. "We have been discovered, stripped of our belongings, and cast out. We were forced to kill what little livestock we had left for nourishment, yet our children grow thinner each day. We sold everything we could, but this cannot go on indefinitely." The woman paused, took a deep breath, and spoke again. "My father, the leader of our family...he has commanded me to loot the villa of the hero Hercules."
Hermes stopped. His mouth suddenly went dry.
"Hercules is wealthy, perhaps more so than the rest of the population put together." The woman sounded as though she were reciting a poem that she didn't like. "He will not starve if we take a few things. We never harm those we take from, and we only ever claim what we need to survive. Hercules will not miss what we take, he can easily replace it...but he is as strong as twenty men. That is why I pray to you, Hermes the quick, Hermes the admired, Hermes the great, please bless me with some of your bountiful luck. Please help ensure that this expedition will be fruitful." Her voice broke. "If it is not, I fear my family won't make it through the winter."
"I'm afraid I can't do that, babe."
The woman gasped, spinning around so quickly she slipped. Lying on her back, she stared with eyes the size of plates as Hermes stepped into the sunlight. Weilding his staff as one would a walking stick, he looked down at her. She was indeed very young, and clearly malnourished. Her cheeks were sunken, her eyes - a pretty hazelnut color - spoke of many sleepless night. Her sun-browned skin was flaky and dry from a poor diet and dehydration. Beneath the cloak she wore a faded chiton two sizes too large, further highlighting her emanciated form. Her feet, clad in sandals, had soles so dense with callus that it was a wonder she needed shoes at all.
She looked so terrified Hermes feared she may faint. Quickly smiling to assure her, he knelt down so that they were at an eye level. "What do you go by, pretty lady?" In this moment, she was hardly pretty. Perhaps if she was given access to new clothes and food, then maybe. But he hardly wanted to insult her, especially after she had so flattered him.
The woman, still breathing in little gasps, loosened slightly at his casual demeanor. After a moment of recollecting herself, she stammered out, "A-A-Anisia."
Hermes nodded. Anisia. 'She who fulfills her obligations'. "Anisia, honey, I'm sorry that your family's situation is slated for crashville. Really, I am. But I can't let ya rob Hercules. He's my boss's son. And yeah, he's mortal now and he's rich, but that doesn't let him off the hook." He shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry. Zeus would put me on sentry duty for a century if he found out."
Anisia's hazelnut eyes filled with tears. "But...but my family will starve!"
"Then switch jobs." Hermes advised calmly. "Instead of takin' what you need, try workin' for it. Like, go knocking on someone's door and say, 'hey, I'll take of your kids for a pound of lentils'. That sounds easier for everybody, don't it?" He did not miss the irony of the situation. He, the god of thieves, was advising against stealing. The rest of the family would have a good laugh once he told them.
Anisia shook her head. "N...I apologize, my lord Hermes, but my family has been living like this for generations. This is all we know. We cannot simply change occupation. That is like asking a falcon to cease preying on mice!"
"Then rob somebody else, then." Hermes rose. Brushed himself off. "Just as long as it ain't Herc." His eyes drifted to the mutton still sizzling at the altar. With a start he realized that this meat had probably come from the last of the livestock. All of a sudden, he was no longer hungry. He gestured towards the food. "Take that, in the meantime. Sounds like you need it a heck a lot more than me."
"Great god Hermes..." Anisia was kneeling before him now. Her head was bowed, both out of respect and to hide the tears flowing down her face. "Please. I beg you."
Her words tugged at Hermes. Yet he shook his head. "Sorry, doll, but I can't grant your wish." He hesitated. "But, if ya want, I can ask Apollo to send me some cattle just for old times' sake."
Anisia looked up, the desperation in her eyes slowly morphing into hope. "T-truly?"
"Truly." Hermes nodded, smiling again. "Yeah, the dude's got millions of 'em. A couple dozen won't change anything."
"Oh, bless you, my lord! Bless you!" Anisia dropped down as if to kiss his feet, but Hermes backed off.
"Whoa, hey!" Laughing, he said, "I'm flattered, darlin', but really, you don't have to." Anisia, flushing with shame, scrambled to her feet. She brushed herself off to the best of her ability. Flakes of dead skin floated from her arms and landed on her clothing, sticking there like stars in the night sky. Hermes tried not to look as he straightened. "So. Okay, where do you live?"
"In the cemetary." At Hermes' puzzled expression, Anisia explained. "For our safety. Few visit a cemetary at night."
Hermes scoffed playfully. "Man, it's a wonder Hades got any sleep lately. Okay, I'll send you the cattle tonight. Sound good?"
Anisia was silently weeping as she nodded frantically. "You will be in our prayers forever, Lord Hermes."
"Please." Hermes waved her words away. "'Lord' sits a little too stiff on me. Just call me Hermes. Everybody else does."
"As you command." Anisia bowed her head again. "I thank you again, O great and noble winged one."
"Oh, stop!" Hermes blushed furiously. "Go on, b'fore your chatter keeps us here until dark."
Hazelnut eyes widened. "Yes, right away!" Anisia bowed three or four more times before rushing off, raising the hood of her cloak over her head. Hermes watched her grow smaller and smaller, melting into the crowd, before vanishing completely. Then, he redirected his eyes to the mutton.
Licking his fingers, Hermes swam in the clouds. Cool and misty, they traced his glowing skin like a lover's caresses. His belly satisfied, the messanger of the gods, scanned the heavens. Searching carefully, he at last found his destination: a section of Olympus always facing east, towards the rising sun. Carved from laurel wood, the structure was simple but elegant.
He descended, going over his speech in his mind. Then, once his sandalled feet landed before the door, he rapped the door with his knuckles.
"Yes?" A musical, masculine voice called over the sounds of a lyre being played.
"Yo, A-Man!" Hermes called. "It's me. I gotta ask ya something!"
"Hermes?" Apollo sounded surprised. There was a moment's silence before the door swung open. There the god of music, truth, and prophecy stood before him. Dressed in a gold toga with a wreath of laurels in his curly hair, Apollo smiled down at the smaller god. "Hello, Hermes." The handsome god always sounded as though he were singing. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Heh." Hermes chuckled nervously. "This ain't a personal visit." He quickly explained what had happened, leading up to his promise. Apollo nodded occasionally, saying nothing until the god of travelers had finished his tale. When he did, Apollo said, "So, you expect me to give up some of my sacred cattle to a group of primitive vagabonds who had intended to rob the son of our lord?"
Hermes was quiet for a second. "...Basically."
Apollo shook his head gently, but firmly. "I am sorry, old friend. But I can't."
"But they're dying of hunger!" Hermes gestured towards the earth.
Apollo sighed. "Hermes, I know that they are among your followers, but they are only mortals. They will die soon anyway. What does it matter, when and how?"
"But, but..." Hermes looked down at the sea of clouds, imagining what lay beyond them. He envisioned Anisia, starving along with the rest of her family, desperately waiting for help that would not come.
A warm hand seized his shoulder, snapping his gaze upward. Apollo's expression was sympathetic, yet firm. It was the look an older brother wears when he cannot lend his younger sibling money. "Try not to fret," the god of truth said gently, "there will be many others."
Hermes gave a numb nod, then slowly slid out of Apollo's grip. He retreated to one of the higher clouds, where he lay down to rest. The soft fluffiness soothed his tired muscles. It was a pity that his brain couldn't be so easily quelled. Hermes closed his eyes as sleep began to arrive.
But not before he whispered, "I'm sorry."
Several weeks passed, and with them came a reprieve from guilt. Soon enough, Hermes forgot about the emanciated woman in the battered black cloak. He forgot about his promise, and his inability to uphold it. Day in and day out, he did as he always had: worked, relaxed when he could, and slept dreamlessly. As the woman's face began to blur around the edges in his mind's eye, Apollo's words took root.
They were but mortals. So easily defeated by hunger, pain, and exhaustion. They lived out their little lives, married, bore children,and thrived before old age returned them to the weeds. Once they died, more would take their place. No different than bees in a hive, truly.
Hermes slipped back into the mindset that he'd carried for time imemorial. Until one particular soul required guidance.
It called for him, like a beacon at night, from the cemetary. At first, Hermes assumed that it came from a recent burial. Perhaps a soul who hadn't yet realized that they were no longer made of flesh and blood, but of fireless smoke. It had happened before.
But when he reached Thebe's cemetary, someone else was waiting for him.
Tossed in a ditch was the emanciated body of Anisia, piled on top of her brothers, sisters, and parents. In the short amount of time since he'd last seen her, the woman's condition had spiralled further. Her face was hollow, and her hands and feet had become slightly swollen with retained water. Hermes recalled the fire burning in that woman's hazelnut eyes, a determination to save her family from starvation. And now here she was, thrown away like trash.
Hermes felt a deep heaviness settle in his chest, like melted iron. Twice he felt guilt's fist; the first for having failed to keep his promise, and the second for forgetting her. She who had sacrificed what little food she'd had left to bless her mission.
They hadn't robbed Hercules. It hit Hermes like a kick in the kidney. Because of his promise, they had refrained from stealing from the son of Zeus. Probably they had sustained themselves with petty theft...until it failed to suffice, if it ever had. He had made Anisia promise that they wouldn't, and they had upheld their part of the bargain.
A single tear ran down Hermes' smooth blue cheek. The first in ages.
That was when a whispery voice traced his ear. "The children are still alive, at least."
Hermes spun around. Froze.
Anisia was standing before him, looking down at the ditch with a distant, sorrowful look in her eye.
As with all ghosts, she'd regained the appearance of her true self. The self that exists beyond the conceptions of the flesh. Hermes saw that he'd been right; she had once been beautiful, as she was now. Of course, all color had left her form, leaving her a mass of gray vapor. She was smudged around the edges, almost blurry; there, but not truly. Other than that, she was stunning. A healthy, robust young woman with roses in her cheeks and a long, elegant neck. She wore the same clothes that she had in life: a battered old cloak and an ill-fitting chiton.
For a minute, Hermes feared the prospect of meeting her eyes. But when she turned to him, her expression was sad but familiar, as though they were two friends passing by a road accident.
Hermes at last found his voice. "I...I am so sorry." His eyes filled with tears, fogging up his glasses. He wanted to say more, but he feared that no words could fix past wrongs.
Anisia gave a wistful smile. The shake of her head made her curls bounce merrily. "It was our fault, too."
Hermes blinked, tears running down his face.
"You were right. We should have taken a different path. I told my father what you said. But he told me that we had been doing this line of work for generations, and we would continue to do so." Anisia blinked slowly, looking off into the distance. "That manner of thinking made him rob the temple of Nemesis, spirit of vengeance. He did not live to see the sunrise."
Hermes whistled, even now trying to lighten the moment. "Yeah, Nem holds a grudge. We never forget to invite her to parties, just in case."
Anisia chuckled softly. The sound was like the wind blowing through leafy branches. "Indeed. He should have known better." Her smile faded. "The children...we gave what little food we had to them. Then, when the last scrap of meat was gone, we sent them to one of the poor houses. At least there they will be fed, washed, and clothed." Anisia turned to fully face Hermes. He did the same. They were just at an arm's length of each other. So close, but so far.
Anisia looked him right in the eye as she spoke, leagues away from the woman who'd been ready to kiss his feet out of gratitude. "I want you to know, before I depart, that I do not blame you. I prayed to you out of hope, not expectation. But you, you are a god. Eternal. How could you be expected to care for the brief lives of mortals?" Her words harbored no ill will. No malice. No anger. Just acceptance. "Gods cannot always save mortals. Most times, we must rescue ourselves. My family and I had the chance. Had we given up our traditions to pursue alternatives, perhaps we may have lived. Perhaps not." Anisia shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't matter now." She gave a tiny smile. "I no longer feel hunger, or fear. I suppose that is something to cherish."
Hermes felt her words wash over him like a warm tide. Yet there was one question that kept bobbing up like a clump of seaweed. A question that he had never asked himself, or any of the souls he'd accompanied, before.
He swallowed, then let it fall from his lips. A heavy stone. "Does it hurt?"
Anisia tilted her head.
"D..." Hermes could hardly say it. "Dying?"
Anisia blinked, then gave a tiny simper. "It's just like falling asleep. You fall so deeply, you leave your pain and worries behind."
Hermes gulped. Nodded. Remembering his task all too well, he rested his staff on his shoulder. Offered her his hand. He had never done this before. "Ready?"
Anisia nodded. She took his hand. It was like sticking his hand over a pot of boiling water. Warmth pleasantly licked his hand, encased it, without burning it.
With a kick of his heels, Hermes rose into the sky with Anisia right behind him. The journey took forever. Or perhaps, it only took a moment.
When he returned to Olympus at the break of dawn, the messanger god carried a new fragment of knowledge. An epiphany.
Hermes was immortal. Powerful in his own right. But he could not always save a mortal. No god can. But he could listen. And from that night on, he did.