One warm dusk on Aeaea, Hermes lounged lazily in Circe’s perfumed garden, sipping nectar and plucking figs while Circe ground herbs into glowing paste. The gods weren’t often idle, but gossip was sacred in its own way—especially among immortals.
“So where’s that clever mortal of yours going next?” Hermes asked, chewing with mischief in his eyes. “Odysseus, was it? Survived your potions, dodged your charms, somehow?”
Circe smirked. “Don’t be jealous, wing-feet. He’s bound for the Underworld.”
Hermes raised a brow. “Really? What for? Can’t imagine the view is worth it.”
“He seeks a prophet,” Circe said, wiping her hands. “Tiresias. He’ll speak to him among the dead.”
“Tiresias?” Hermes blinked. “Who’s that?”
Circe leaned forward, her voice becoming more dramatic. “Blonde long hair. Clean-shaven. Wears a white blindfold. Always in black—a cloak, long sleeves, a skirt that sweeps the ground.”
Hermes furrowed his brow. “Bit theatrical, isn’t he?”
Circe shrugged. “He’s a prophet. They tend to dress for effect.”
Hermes waved her off. “I’m not looking for love, you know. I’ve got errands to run.” He stood, the wings on his sandals twitching. “Anyway, souls to deliver.”
At the gates of Hades, the air turned cool and heavy. Hermes stepped into the shadows with a few wandering souls trailing behind him.
Hades greeted him with a grunt. “Not for me,” the god of the dead said. “Give them to Tiresias. He’ll sort them.”
“Tiresias, Tiresias,” Hermes muttered, scanning the dark.
He spotted him. The prophet stood still among the gloom, his white blindfold glowing faintly in the underworld’s twilight. The description hadn’t done him justice. The man’s golden hair flowed down his back in soft waves, and his face—young, smooth, unlined—was as still as a statue but warm like spring light.
Hermes paused.
That’s…not what an old prophet should look like. No beard. No stoop. No frown lines. He was—
Pretty.
The souls Hermes had been guiding wandered off toward Tiresias, but Hermes stayed rooted. Tiresias tilted his head.
“Do you need something, messenger?”
Hermes blinked fast. “No! No. I mean, I was just—uh—delivering.” His voice cracked. Then he dashed off—vanished in a streak of gold and wind before Tiresias could say another word.
Back on Aeaea, Circe was laying out dried bay leaves when Hermes landed in a flurry of feathers and excitement.
“Circe. Circe. That prophet. Tiresias.”
She looked up. “Yes? What of him?”
Hermes hovered just above the ground, cheeks glowing. “He’s not handsome. He’s—he’s pretty. Like…so, so pretty. His hair is like sunlit honey. His skin—smooth as moonlight. And the way he wears that blindfold? Effortlessly tragic.”
Circe recoiled. “Oh, gods, stop.”
“No, no, you don’t understand. His voice? Soft. Still. Like a river that knows everything.”
Circe gagged. “Hermes, please.”
“I didn’t even know I had a type,” Hermes whispered dramatically, hand over heart. “But apparently, I do.”
Circe tossed a fig at his head. “I liked you better when you were annoying.”
Hermes caught it mid-air, grinning. “Too bad. I’m in a crisis now.”
And somewhere deep in the underworld, Tiresias tilted his head again, sensing…something ridiculous coming his way.