“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.
He chose a stick, the sharpest he could find, and began digging at the back of the graveyard where the markers were weather-worn and moldy. He’d rather not encounter anything fleshy. The thought made him want to vomit as he dragged his stick through the dirt to loosen it before using his hands to shovel it out of the hole.
He almost wept, feeling the dirt beneath his nails.
Hecate was going to pay for this.
“I’m going to pick all your mushrooms and sow your garden with salt, and after that, I’m going to mix up all your potions so you don’t know what you’re taking or giving….” As soon as he said that one aloud, he had second thoughts, especially because the goddess often gave various elixirs to Sephy and he didn’t want to hurt her. That was the one thing about this entire situation that made him feel horrible, the fact that he had been responsible for ruining his best friend’s hard work.
She was the only reason he had any motivation to keep going.
If he could do it all over again, he’d have let Hecate incinerate that bag of shoes.
“They weren’t that great anyway,” he muttered before giving an abrupt, high-pitched yelp. He quickly smothered the sound and instead let disgust shudder through him in quiet ripples.
He’d just touched a bone.
He retrieved his stick and poked around until he found the jaw, prying it from the ground. It took more effort than he expected, the thing had been there so long, it was basically glued into the earth.
He held it up and scrunched his nose.
Disgusting. No wonder the Kallikantzaros ran away from these things.
He tossed the jaw to the side and climbed out of the hole, wiping the sweat from his brow, suddenly realizing he did not know how many of these Hecate expected. He didn’t think one would suffice, but surely she didn’t expect him to supply one for every mortal household in New Greece. That was millions of people, millions of pigs!
There weren’t even a million pigs in this graveyard.
He would have negotiated the terms of his punishment, but Hades hadn’t given him the chance.
Moody bastard.
He might have blamed it on Persephone’s pregnancy and the fact that any day now, the god of the dead was due to be a father, but that was being kind. Hades was always grumpy.
Hermes moved on to the next grave.
He didn’t know how long he toiled or how many bones he’d gathered. He’d been digging for what felt like hours. His arms ached and he was covered in sweat. He had dirt everywhere, even in his mouth. He could feel it grinding between his teeth.
