A young boy hid within the trunk of a tree, staring out a crack at the glimmering form of the goddess as she hunted through the forest. He could feel her anger, her rage, and it was all directed at him. He didn't understand what he had done wrong, and the question burned inside of him. But he didn't dare ask it. The goddess would hear him, and he didn't want to think of what she would do once she found him.

The beautiful goddess studied a tree then reared back and slapped its trunk. A feminine cry sounded out, and the tree morphed into a slight woman. She was more beautiful than any mortal woman ever could hope to be. The goddess glared at Daphne, a dryad that the boy was very fond of. Before he could cry out, slim hands covered his mouth and the tree's hard interior morphed into the soft form of another nymph.

Tears bloomed in the child's eyes as Daphne stood gracefully. The goddess scowled at her.

"Where is that whore and the child?"

Daphne stared with large, angry eyes but said nothing as the goddess towered over her. Outrage twisted what would usually be a gorgeous face into a mask of horror that the boy would never forget. He watched as Daphne stood unafraid, chin up and face defiant. The goddess raised her glowing hand, and the boy turned to bury his face in the bosom of the nymph that held him. The crack sounded like a thousand earthquakes, like a thunderstorm that raged in unbridled fury, and the scream of pain tore at the little boy's heart.

'She's a monster,' he thought as tears ran down his face. 'A thoughtless monster.'

In a flash of light, the goddess disappeared, her scream of rage echoing throughout the evening. After a few moments, soft sobs were the only sounds to be heard. One by one, the other nymphs morphed. The naiads pulled their forms together from the rushing stream while the dryads shed their leaves and branches. Each female was lithe and beautiful, faces soft and varied with the natural beauty of Mother Earth.

The boy didn't want to see the damage that the goddess did to his friend. But the dryad that held him guided him forward.

"No, Mother," he whispered, dragging his feet. "No. I don't want to see it."

"What have I told you, child?" the dryad asked. "We must be kind. And what does Daphne need?"

"A loving touch," the boy answered automatically.

"Yes, my son. We must comfort her."

The sobs cut into his heart, but he finally looked up at his friend. She sat with her hands over her face. Yellowish-green blood stained her beautiful gown, and the boy took a deep breath and knelt down. With great tenderness, he stroked her arms, her hair, every piece of skin he could touch.

"Let us see, Daphne," the boy's mother said, her voice full of compassion.

The dryad looked up. A gash tore across her left cheek, and blood oozed from the wound. It was a miracle that the goddess had missed her eye. The nymphs gasped, and Daphne sobbed, trying to hide her face again. The boy caught her gently in his small, blue hands, ignoring the slick blood. He pressed his lips to her cheek.

The boy's mother spread her hands out and everybody looked at her.

"We must seal the wound," she announced. "Find the herbs, mix the paste. We must be swift."

The nymphs dashed off into the forest, leaving the boy with the injured dryad. He stared at her marred face, tears slipping from his silver eyes. Daphne's sobs were mere gasps now, and she was trying to stop the blood flow before she passed out. The boy reached down to his tunic and with a twitch of his wrist, he tore a strip away and tenderly folded it over and pressed it to her cut. She flinched, but the boy insisted, and she cupped his small hands with her dainty green ones.

"You didn't give me away," he whispered, blinking quickly. He used his arm to wipe his thin cheeks, and he sniffled. "She did this to you because you wouldn't give me away."

Daphne smiled, her lips trembling as pain spiked at the movement. She took his face into her delicate hands, brushing back his dark blue hair. The boy's big eyes stared at her, tears still flowing freely. She pressed her lips to his forehead, smearing a bit of yellowish blood on his glowing skin. When Daphne spoke, her voice was soft and loving.

"Little god," she whispered, wiping away the tears. "You are worth saving."

The boy blushed in delight, and he flashed his teeth, his smile brighter than snow under moonlight. She brushed her lithe fingers across his cheek, setting his nerves tingling from her magic. Touch grounded him, helped to let him know that he was loved. He was a half-nymph, and touch meant the world to him. It was comfort, love, affection, and so much more, and the same was true for Daphne, so he reciprocated, tracing her thin, fair face. Her lips quirked and she pulled him close to kiss him again. He giggled, sitting back on his heels. A cool hand pressed against his shoulder, and he started, looking up to see a slight, blue nymph.

"Move, little god," she bubbled, pushing the child aside and leaving a damp imprint on his toga sleeve.

The naiad pulled a bubble of water out of the stream, gently tugging the bloodstained cloth from Daphne's face. With great care, she washed the wound, revealing a terribly deep slash, but before the bleeding could begin again, a thin, purple past was smeared into the wound. Immediately, the bleeding stopped, and the naiad wiped her hands.

"Althaia?" the boy asked, looking up into eyes as blue as sapphires. "Will Daphne be alright?"

The naiad pressed her lips into a thin line. "I'm not sure, little god. It was a wound given by a goddess. It is a terrible wound, but we shall do our best."

"Can I help?"

"No, dear. You may watch and learn, but you do not know enough yet."

As other nymphs hurried over with flowers, herbs, and leaves, the boy moved back to leave them room to work. He listed off every plant they used, asking soft questions about things he didn't understand. The nymphs answered briskly, busy with their work. They did not snap but answered every question quickly and accurately. Their job was to help the little god learn all he could about their world before he was sent away, and now was the perfect learning opportunity for healing pastes, potions, and leaves.

The boy sat and watched them work, washing the drying blood off of his hands into the cool stream. His silver eyes took in everything. From the nymphs' distressed expressions, growing darker as Apollo drew his chariot across the sky to the day's completion, to the tension and pain on Daphne's fair face as they tended to her. The boy's mother, who was seen as a person of authority, finally stood, and everybody paused, looking up to hear what she had to say.

"I'm sorry, Daphne," she said solemnly.

"Maia?" Daphne asked, her bottom lip trembling and tears filling her shining pink eyes.

"The wound is cursed," Maia replied. "It will scar. Permanently."

Daphne's green skin turned a sickly white, and horror flashed across her face. She reached up to feel the damage. Though it was healed as far as it could be, a long scar tore across her cheek, and it would forever mar her springly beauty. Scrambling to the water, she looked upon her new face. After a long moment, she stood up, clutched at her face, and wailed. Her misery was greater than anything the boy had ever witnessed before. When Daphne turned and fled into the forest, her screams echoing through the glens and forests, the boy stood and began to give chase, wanting, needing to make her feel better, but his mother snatched his wrist, halting him.

"Mother!" the boy gasped, straining against her gentle grip. "I must go to her!".

The pale pink nymph tugged him back, pulling him to her bosom. "No, child," she whispered. "She must mourn her loss by herself. Let her be for now."

Reluctantly, the boy followed his mother toward the fires where dinner was being prepared. He wasn't hungry, and his mother didn't tell him to help cook the fish and goat, so he wandered across the glade, feeling the crisp spring grass tickle the bottoms of his bare feet. With grace, he climbed into the branches of a great tree, and he looked up at the mountain that rose in the distance. That was where the goddess lived, and that was to be his home soon. His mother told him so. But at that moment, the little god didn't want to go and live there.

It wasn't just because of the goddess that he didn't want to live on Olympus. There was also his father. His father had made his mother do something, and that something caused him to be born. She hadn't explained what the god had done, but she promised he would know soon enough, that he was too young for such things. He was afraid of the answer. It caused his mother such pain to think of the god who had hurt her so. She often wept about it, and the boy would hold her and stroke her, comforting her the best he knew how. But he knew that she loved him, despite whatever had happened. It was not his fault, she told him again and again, and she loved him just the same. And he believed her.

Daphne's cries of misery echoed through the still night air. The boy sat in the boughs of the enormous tree, staring up at the stars, his gaze returning again and again to Mount Olympus. Winter still had a grip on the night, and the chill made him shiver, but he didn't go and get his cloak. He needed to know he could feel, and the sharp bite of the receding winter let him know that he was still alive, still there.

But more than that, he felt that he needed to punish himself for causing such pain. Why had the goddess hit Daphne? Fair, kind, tenderhearted Daphne, older than mortals yet still fresh as a young tree in spring. How could anybody cause such pain? And what had he done to cause the wrathful strike? And as he stared up at Orion, the little boy felt the stirring of something blacker than a starless night. It resembled the icy grip of winter coated in tar, and he gritted his teeth. Tears sprang to his eyes as a particularly mournful wail interrupted the peace of the night.

"I will never be like her. I will never do such a thing," he hissed between his teeth. He paused then pressed a hand to his heart. "I swear, I will never be like the gods. Never, ever, ever."

"Hermes," Maia called. "Come and partake. Dinner is ready, and you must eat before bed."

Hermes gritted his teeth, and he clambered down the tree, landing with nimble grace on the fresh grass. As the moon shone down on them, Morpheus's outline drew the blanket of sleep across Greece. It was late, and he yawned automatically. When Maia called for him again, he glanced at Mount Olympus then purposefully turned his back on the place where he was going to have to live all too soon. The forms of his beloved family, the nymphs, stood around a table, a warm fire silhouetting their lithe, beautiful form.

As Daphne's mournful voice reached him again, interrupting the peace of the night, Hermes, son of Zeus and Maia, future messenger of the gods, clenched his fists and swore yet another oath, one that he meant with all of his young heart.

"I will never forgive her."