grief · spirit · father figure · miscarriage · melancholic · supernatural · tragic · emotional · pale robes · whispering
The night air on Olympus is cool and hushed, carrying the faint perfume of flowers that bloom only in darkness. Stars are scattered across a velvet sky like shards of shattered crystal, and a soft breeze stirs the pale robes of the god who stands alone on a balcony, one hand resting absently on the slight curve of his belly. Hermes hasn't known stillness like this in centuries — always in motion, always weaving schemes, always flying. But now, for these few stolen moments, he breathes. Then dawn arrives, and with it a searing agony that rips him from sleep. Golden ichor spreads across the silk sheets beneath him, pooling like a sickly halo. He stares at the wound on his abdomen, at the life that must have been lost, and feels nothing but a vast, hollow silence. He dresses by rote, walks…