Chapter Text
Maybe it won't be so bad.
He was the god of thieves, this should be easy. This was his domain, his job, his thing. Just get in, pluck one little flower, and get out. It's just one plant, and he only needed a bit of root. No one would miss it anyways, right? Besides, this was for a mission. A direct order from the king of gods. Who would dare stop him?
Turns out, a certain witch was very serious about the existence of men on her island.
Hermes wasn't there to do any harm, he swears! He was only there for the moly, nothing else. They say it would give even a mortal the ability to match a god in a fight, albeit only for a few hours or less. If it could do such things for a human, what would it do for an immortal such as himself? With its effects, he could probably kill Argus. (Then his father might actually be proud for once, but that's beside the point —) So really, there wasn't a need for acts of magical violence.
Really.
Yes, okay, he was an Olympian. Circe was TECHNICALLY a lesser deity. He could have momentarily turned her into a chicken or teleported her into oblivion or something. He also could've disappeared in a flash of light or made himself invisible. But when he heard her yell his name in rage, he had only one thought in his mind: Run.
Maybe it was dumb and cowardly and he could've done a million other things at the moment, but you probably would've ran too if you heard an angry witch scream for your capture. Especially if you were known for causing mischief. Especially if you were known for causing mischief and were currently trespassing on her property.
He was much faster than the average god, speed being one of his domains, so he was pretty sure he would be fine.
That is, until he heard her call: “OPEN FIRE!”
The god of cunning wasn't quite sure what she meant. Knowing her, he wouldn't be surprised if it involved actual fire. After all, Circe and her nymphs weren't like his half-sister's hunters. They weren't known for wielding bows and arrows, but for magic. So he kept running.
That is, until he felt something lodge into his ankle with a thwack.
~•○●○•~
He awoke with a sharp gasp.
The light of Selene’s chariot gleamed through a window.
Gods… how long was he out for?
He needed to get back to work.
The messenger’s eyes darted around the room, trying to figure out where he was, and more importantly, an escape route. The ropes tying him up shouldn't have lasted long. Any attempts to bind him were always mere suggestions, mildly cumbersome if anything.
So why was this any different?
No matter what he tried, his restraints didn't budge — and he TRIED. He couldn't teleport away. He couldn't shift into any other forms. The very air of the room seemed to sap his magic dry, almost strangling his divinity.
Not mortal. Not quite. But powerless.
Every struggle, every movement, every twitch only served to make the cord tighter.
He was supposed to be stronger than this. He was supposed to be off this island hours ago. He was supposed to get out of this easily — getting out of trouble was his thing! He was supposed to be untouchable, invulnerable, invincible. He was a god.
So why did he feel so weak?
Hermes was stuck — but he COULDN'T be stuck, right? He can't be. He'll find some clever solution or- or pull off some cheap trick. There has to be SOMETHING. There always is. He couldn't ACTUALLY be stuck here… right?
… Right?...
He's just overreacting. It's not that bad. Really. He's just… temporarily restrained. In the palace of a witch. A witch known to turn visitors into barnyard animals.
Maybe eventually Circe will come here, and he can explain everything, then she'll set him free — or maybe she won't, and he'll be left here. Forever. Then maybe someone might find him — Apollo, or Dionysus, or perhaps Athena.
A part of him was still clinging to the fantasy that maybe Zeus would care enough to notice, that maybe his father might come looking, but a more rational part of his brain knew the king might barely realize he was gone.
Whoever it is, they might succeed — or they won't, and they'll be captured too. Another loved one would be hurt, and it would all be his fault.
Again.
So he sat in solitude, the only light being the moon's dim glow. Darkness had never been a problem for him, despite it being the fear of many — Yet loneliness was. After so many centuries of serving among the masses of Olympus, a moment alone to his thoughts felt almost oppressive.
He sat in stillness, so uncharacteristically listless for a god usually so jovial and active — almost hyperactive, even. Under normal circumstances, there never would've been a moment where he stayed unmoving — Yet he did. After so many centuries of tireless, hectic, unending movement, a moment without activity felt almost wrong.
He sat, waiting.
Waiting for a chance, for an opportunity, for anyone. Waiting for anything that could get him out of here, anything that could liberate him from this prison of anxiety, anything that could get him out of the ropes that dug into his skin like claws.
He hated this.
He hated being alone.
He hated being stationary.
He hated being helpless.
Above all, he hated being trapped.
But what was there to do?
•○●◇◇◇●○•