⭐️💫 pfp by hollowsatellite

The afternoon sun hung low over the quiet hills of Thebes, casting long golden shadows across the wild thyme and poppies that dotted the earth. Beneath a weathered olive tree, Tiresias sat alone, his small frame trembling, hands cupped over his face.

Silent tears slipped between his fingers.

The weight of vision—not sight, but knowing—was heavy today. He had seen too much: kings falling, sons betrayed, mothers weeping over unburied sons. The gods gave him knowledge, but they did not give him peace.

A breeze stirred the branches above him. Leaves rustled like whispers.

Hermes had arrived.

The god moved without sound, as he often did, his winged sandals brushing the earth like feathers. He did not announce himself, only stood a few paces behind Tiresias, his bright eyes softened with something rare—concern.

Tiresias, lost in his sorrow, didn’t sense him. His sobs were quiet but raw, pulled from the core of someone who had held grief too long without letting it go.

Hermes watched for a moment longer. He could leave, unseen, and let the prophet grieve in solitude. But he did not. He stepped closer, gently, and knelt.

Still, Tiresias did not notice.

So Hermes, god of travelers, of messages, of the in-between, reached forward—not to speak, not to console, but simply to rest a hand on the old seer’s trembling shoulder.

And at that touch, Tiresias finally paused.