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Hermes had always been good at leaving.
It was practically his entire purpose. Arrive, deliver the message, flash a grin, disappear before anyone could ask too many questions.
Mortals especially were easy. They laughed at his stories, marveled at his wings, fell for his charm—and eventually, time did what time always did.
But this was different.
Because Hermes had been standing outside your door for nearly a minute.
A full minute.
For a god who could cross impossible distances in the blink of an eye, it was an embarrassing amount of hesitation.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself. “This is ridiculous. I have faced monsters, tricked kings, bargained with gods, and yet I’m afraid of a bedroom door.”
He knocked anyway.
No answer.
The smile faded slightly.
“Darling?” he called, quieter this time. “It’s me.”
Usually, you would have answered with some teasing comment about him announcing himself like he owned the place. Usually, you’d tell him he was being dramatic.
Usually, you would have been awake.
Hermes opened the door carefully.
And for once in his very long existence, the messenger god had no clever thing to say.
Hermes had seen mortals at their weakest before.
He had watched soldiers return from battle. He had carried messages of grief to kings and warnings to heroes. He knew the look of exhaustion, of pain, of fear.
But none of those faces had ever been yours.
The room was too quiet.
That was the first thing he noticed.
Usually, even when you slept, there was some small sign that you were still there—the shift of blankets, the sound of your breathing, some little complaint when he inevitably arrived at an inconvenient hour.
This time, there was only silence.
“Princess?”
The nickname came out softer than he intended.
He crossed the room quickly and knelt beside you, reaching out to brush a hand against your shoulder.
“Come now,” he murmured, trying for his usual playful tone. “You cannot simply ignore the messenger of the gods. It’s terribly rude.”
Nothing.
The humor disappeared.
“Hey.”
His voice changed.
Not Hermes the trickster. Not Hermes the charming god who always had a clever answer.
Just Hermes.
He gently shook your shoulder again.
“Open your eyes for me.”
For the first time in a very long time, Hermes felt something he hated.
Helplessness.
For a moment, Hermes forgot every clever thing he had ever said.
Every joke. Every trick. Every charming little remark that had gotten him out of trouble with gods and kings alike.
None of it mattered when you wouldn’t open your eyes.
Then—
A small sound.
A quiet, tired breath.
Hermes froze.
Your fingers shifted slightly beneath the blankets.
“…Hermes?”
The relief that crossed his face was almost impossible to hide.
“There you are.”
His voice came out far too quickly, far too honestly.
You blinked up at him, still dazed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you just watched the entire world nearly end.”
Hermes stared at you for a moment before looking away, trying to recover some of his usual confidence.
“I’ll have you know I am a very composed god.”
You gave him a weak little smile. “You look terrified.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
He sighed, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.
“You mortals are terribly inconvenient,” he said quietly.
You frowned. “Inconvenient?”
“Yes. You get sick. You worry everyone. You insist on being fragile and temporary.”
The teasing faded from his expression.
“And somehow you expect me not to care.”
You watched him carefully for a moment, taking in the unusual sight of Hermes looking genuinely unsettled.
The messenger of the gods.
The one who could cross seas and mountains as easily as walking across a room.
Worried about a fever.
“Hey,” you murmured.
His eyes immediately snapped back to you.
“I’m alright.”
Hermes gave you a look that clearly said he did not believe you.
“You have a strange definition of alright, princess.”
You managed a small smile.
“The doctors said it’s only a fever. Nothing more. They said it will pass.”
“Pass,” Hermes repeated, as if the word itself offended him.
“In a week or two.”
“A week or two?”
You sighed softly. “Hermes.”
“What?”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend you aren’t worried while very obviously being worried.”
His expression softened. “I have seen mortals convince themselves they have more time than they do.”
The words were quieter now. “I have carried too many messages that began with hope and ended with grief.”
Your expression softened too.
“But this isn’t one of those messages.”
“No,” he admitted.
His hand found yours carefully.
“It isn’t.”
After a few moments of silence, Hermes seemed to remember himself. The worry in his expression softened, replaced by the faintest hint of his usual smile.
“Actually…” he said, reaching for something hidden beside him. “I brought you something.”
That caught your attention. “You did?”
Hermes pulled out a small lantern and carefully lit the candle inside.
You looked at it for a moment before smiling weakly. “Wow. The most impressive candle in a box I’ve ever seen.”
“Patience,” he said, a little too proudly. “Just wait.”
He placed the lantern in the center of the room and turned the small handle on its side. Slowly, the box began to spin, and the candlelight shifted through the carved openings, scattering tiny stars across the walls and ceiling.
Your room looked like it held its own little piece of the night sky.
You stared at the walls as tiny points of golden light danced across them, turning your room into a small imitation of the night sky.
For a moment, you forgot how heavy your body felt.
“Hermes…”
He immediately looked over.
Not at the lantern.
At you.
“Do you like it?”
The question was so sincere that you almost smiled before you answered.
“You made me a little piece of the sky.”
Hermes shrugged, though the small smile gave him away.
“Well. Technically, I brought you a little piece of a very good craftsman’s work and improved it slightly.”
“You improved it?”
“Obviously.”
You looked back at the stars on the walls.
“It’s beautiful.”
And there it was.
That tiny expression he tried so hard to hide.
Pride. Relief. Happiness.
The same look he got when he pulled off some impossible feat—but somehow softer.
“I thought you might like it,” he admitted.
“You thought?”
“Alright,” he said, sitting beside you. “I knew you would like it. I am Hermes, after all.”
You laughed quietly, and even that seemed to make him relax.
“There’s my princess.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Your princess?”
He paused.
Hermes looked like he had accidentally said something he hadn’t meant to reveal.
“…My favorite princess.”
The lantern continued to cast little stars across the walls, slowly turning the room into something softer.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
You simply watched the lights move, letting yourself forget how miserable you had felt only moments before.
Then you shivered slightly.
It was small.
Barely noticeable.
But Hermes noticed.
Of course he did.
“Cold?” he asked immediately.
You opened your mouth to argue, but the look he gave you stopped you.
The same look he’d had when you woke up—the one that said he was already worried and wasn’t going to be convinced otherwise.
“Only a little,” you admitted.
Hermes sighed, as though you had personally offended him.
“You see? This is exactly what I mean. Mortals are terribly inconvenient.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
“You say that like you don’t enjoy taking care of me.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You brought me a magic lantern.”
Hermes paused.
“That doesn’t mean I like taking care of you.”
You laughed quietly, and he looked far too pleased that he had managed to make you do so.
After a moment, he carefully moved closer, resting beside you over the blankets.
“Just until you fall asleep,” he said.
You smiled and let your eyes close.
Within minutes, your breathing had evened out.
Hermes remained perfectly still, one arm resting around you beneath the blankets. Every now and then another shiver would run through you, and he would instinctively hold you just a little closer.
“…Mortals,” he muttered under his breath.
Carefully, so carefully you didn’t stir, he lifted a hand to your forehead.
The moment his fingers brushed your skin, his expression fell.
“You’ve got to be kidding me…”
You weren’t just warm.
You were burning.
Yet tucked against his side, you trembled with another small shiver, instinctively seeking whatever warmth you could find.
Hermes frowned.
“How are you freezing?” he whispered. “You’re burning up.”
You only made a sleepy little sound, nuzzling a bit closer without waking.
The movement made his heart ache.
For all his years, for all his travels, for all the things he’d witnessed…
He had no idea what to do.
He could carry souls to the Underworld.
He could cross the world in moments.
He could outwit kings and bargain with monsters.
But he couldn’t make a fever leave.
So instead, he did the only thing he could.
For once, Hermes stayed.