Chapter 6
Hermes
“You ruined Christmas,” Hermes muttered mockingly as he trudged through Circe’s dense forest, nearly tripping over a nest of thick vines. He steadied himself and then took a moment to assess his surroundings.
He had been to this island long ago, when Odysseus made landfall, warning him about the cunning goddess’s propensity to turn men into pigs with her enchanted wine.
He’d picked an herb only the gods could harvest, a plant called moly, and given it to the hero to consume so that he would be immune to her power.
His interference had enraged the enchantress, but unlike Circe, Hermes was bound to the Fates and so he executed their will.
Though their will must have also included him incurring Circe’s wrath because that’s exactly what happened once she discovered what he’d done, threatening to turn him into one of her swine if he ever returned to her island.
Which was why he was on the hunt for the powerful drug.
Of course, he wouldn’t need it if Hecate had let him keep his powers.
“You promised,” he parodied in a high-pitched voice. “How was I supposed to know literal fucking gremlins were going to get into the Underworld? No one told me.”
Suddenly, he caught his foot on something and lost his balance, falling hard to the slimy ground.
“Ugh,” he said in disgust, fingers coated in smelly mud.
He turned to see a root vanish beneath the soft ground.
He probably should have moved on, but he couldn’t help himself.
He scrambled to his feet, flinging forest juice from his hands and whirling on the root. “You want to fight, motherfucker?”
The root popped out of the ground, as if to peek at him.
“Yeah, you!” he said, bouncing on his feet. “You want a piece of this?”
The root vanished again.
He crossed his arms over his chest in triumph. “That’s what I thought.”
A second later the root burst from the ground and slammed into Hermes, sending him flying backward into the trees.
They broke against his back in sharp succession until he landed on the ground, sliding to a stop in a muddy grove.
He lay there for a few moments, processing the pain wracking his body.
Gods, he hated being human.
What a horrible fucking existence. He wasn’t sure he’d last a week in a body like this, much less a lifetime.
How did mortals make it to old age feeling like this?
He considered begging Hades to take him now and not in the kinky way, but he was distracted from his suffering when something brushed his hair.
He looked up to see a hairy pink nose.
A high-pitch yelp escaped his mouth as he scrambled away on all fours to face a pig.
He was a plump, pink fellow with floppy ears that covered his eyes. He was grinding something between his teeth. Hermes leaned in for a closer look, noticing the gleaming gold of his own hair between those bulbous teeth.
His muscles felt weak as he smoothed a hand through his hair, feeling the unmistakable coarseness of broken ends.
He inhaled audibly, then bared his teeth, glaring at the pig.
“I’ll turn your hide into leather for that!”
Hermes was just about to launch himself at the pig when he noticed other animals in the clearing, not just pigs, but goats and sheep. A few of them seemed to be chewing a familiar plant, a white flower with blackened roots.
Moly, he realized.
“No, no, no,” he said aloud, racing into the herd, searching for the flower. From what he remembered, it grew in a sporadic pattern, marking the ground where the giant, Picolous’s, blood was spilled.
Relief flooded him when he spotted a single bloom near the base of a tree. He dove for it, yanking the herb out of the ground.
“Yes!” he said, clutching the plant, lifting his arms in the air. “Take that, Circe!”
Suddenly, it was snatched from his hand by a purple blur.
“No!”
Hermes spotted the thief as it landed in a nearby tree, the flower clutched between its pointed beak. It was a woodpecker with purple wings and a band of gold around its throat, the unusual markings a sign of the animal’s past human life.
Hermes knew the feathered menace. His name was Picus, a former king who had rejected Circe’s advances and found himself a victim of her magic.
“Picus!” Hermes hissed, and the bird’s beady eyes snapped to the god before he turned his head up and swallowed the milky-white flower, letting the black root fall to the ground.
“I thought we were on the same side!” Hermes groaned, dragging his hands over his face, knowing he was going to have to dig up Circe’s boneyard without the protection of the root.
He suspected there was no ideal time to begin, but it was probably best to wait for nightfall when Circe and her zoo slumbered.
Hermes trudged through the overgrown forest until he came to a high hill where he could get his bearings.
There, he discovered a tendril of white smoke rising from the canopy of deep green, and he knew that was where Circe lived.
His feet already ached at the thought of crossing the distance, another downside to being mortal.
He made his descent, chest tightening as he entered the woods again.
They were not easy to navigate. Parts were overgrown while others were barred by fallen branches and trees.
By the time he made it within sight of Circe’s marble palace, he’d thought of a million different ways she might improve her living situation.
Roads, for one.
A nice restaurant.
A spa.
Internet.
Literally any modern convenience—and yet, as he hid behind a tree and observed her, he realized she had never evolved beyond ancient times. She sat at her loom, weaving, glowing like the sun, hair fiery red, while tigers, lions, and jaguars lounged at her feet, her ever-present companions.
The witch-goddess looked up suddenly, golden eyes gleaming as she peered in his direction.
Hermes’s heart jumped in his throat, and he darted behind the tree. He waited a few minutes before peeking around the other side of the trunk to see Circe standing. She wore a white chiton, pinned at her shoulder. A gauzy blue shawl was draped over her slender, pale arms.
Hermes remained still, barely breathing as she stared out at her woods for what felt like forever. For the first time since he arrived, he was glad he did not have magic. It meant Circe could not sense him here.
Eventually the witch-goddess turned and her animals rose, following her inside her stately home.
Despite this, Hermes did not move, suspicious she was still watching.
He decided to wait and sunk to the ground, needing a little rest before he started this fucking archeological dig in Circe’s backyard.
His legs throbbed and his back ached. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d exerted himself this much, save for the few evenings he spent at Club Aphrodisia, but that was a pleasurable sort of pain with a satisfying end.
The only person getting off here was Hecate, and the only joy he could take from that was that he was, in some small way, responsible.
The haunting call of an owl startled Hermes awake.
He sat up, heart racing as he pressed close to the trunk of the tree, a pair of pale eyes staring down at him from above. This particular owl was unnaturally large and had two pointed tufts atop its head that looked like menacing horns.
Hermes was familiar with the species as he’d once turned a giant into the predatory animal as punishment for his cruelty.
“Oreios?” he questioned aloud as a trickle of unease skittered down his spine. Perhaps the punishment was not digging up bones but facing the ghosts of his past.
Hermes did not truly think the eagle-owl was the giant, but its appearance here did not bode well for him. It was a warning of something bad to come.
“You’re a little late. My whole holiday is fucked.” He glared. “Shoo!”
The owl bellowed in response as if sounding an alarm.
“Shut up!” Hermes hissed, getting to his feet, but the owl howled louder.
He searched the ground, finding a small rock. Just as he threw it, the bird took off into the night.
“Fucking owls,” he muttered, gazing at Circe’s home, finding it quiet. The only movement came from two blazing torches flanking the columns on either side of the steps.
Relieved, Hermes made his way around to the back of Circe’s sprawling home where a collection of marble stones marked several graves. Knowing the witch-goddess, she likely saw this as some kind of shrine, a mark of her power, not a memorial to her victims.
There were so many graves.
Hermes was not sure when Circe had begun turning her visitors into animals, but he could guess why she’d started. Zeus had seen the goddess as a threat due to her mastery of witchcraft. If Circe could manipulate reality with herbs and potions, then she might teach humans the same.
Of course, Zeus saw anything that could make mortals less dependent on the gods as a threat.
For many years, Prometheus was made the example.
Having defied Zeus by giving fire to mortals, he’d been bound to a rock so that an eagle could eat his liver for eternity.
Unlike the Titan, Circe had done nothing.
She’d merely existed, and still Zeus had ordered her to be exiled here, a blight to any wayward traveler.
In many ways, Hermes understood Circe’s vengeance. She had been accused, tried, and exiled by men, given no chance to defend herself.
It was a shitty deal.
A short stick, so they say, and while he could empathize with the goddess, he sure as fuck didn’t want to end up here for an eternity as a pig, so he got to work.
Except, he realized he didn’t have a shovel.
For a brief moment, he felt utterly despondent and contemplated walking right into Circe’s lair. It would certainly lead to his death. Her wild animals would tear him to shreds and she would likely feed what was left of him to the pigs.
He looked at his hands and his perfect nails.
“Forgive me,” he said before resilience took over.