When the sun Wept

Legends rarely died. They unraveled.

With every retelling, another thread of truth was lost. Names changed, details were forgotten, and stories became distorted until no one could remember where history ended and myth began. Mortals had always been good at turning things they did not understand into legends, and the gods were no different. Even Olympus had its forgotten stories, buried beneath centuries of silence and protected by those who remembered why they had been hidden.

Hermes remembered one of them.

High among the silver branches of an ancient olive tree, the messenger god watched the village below awaken. His dark wings were folded against his body, and from the ground he would have appeared to be nothing more than a black bird perched quietly among the leaves. It was a disguise he had worn many times before, and one that suited him well.

The eastern horizon was beginning to brighten as dawn spread across the valley. The last stars were fading from the sky, disappearing beneath the growing light one after another. Hermes watched them with an expression only a god could recognize as sorrow.

There had once been another.

His gaze settled on a particular place in the heavens where no star remained. He had known its absence for centuries. The story connected to it was one Zeus had once entrusted to him, though calling it a story hardly seemed appropriate. It was a secret that had been deliberately stripped from history. No bard was permitted to sing it, no temple was permitted to preserve it, and no mortal scholar would ever find its name written among the records of Olympus.

Long before Zeus claimed the throne of the gods, Aether, the Primordial of the Upper Sky, had possessed something unlike anything else in existence. The surviving fragments of the ancient tale disagreed about what it had been. Some called it a celestial light, others a star, and a few claimed it had been a daughter. Hermes knew which version was true.

The child had been born from the light of Aether himself, and the Primordial had loved her more deeply than anything else in the endless heavens. But the Moirai had seen her future, and what they discovered had frightened even those who believed themselves masters of fate. Their prophecy had warned that she would one day divide Heaven and split prophecy itself. If she remained among the gods, Olympus would eventually turn against itself.

No one had been willing to discover whether the prophecy was true.

So the child was hidden.

Her name was removed from the records. Her existence was erased from the memories of those who knew her, and the story of her disappearance was transformed into a distant myth about a star that had simply ceased to shine. Aether had mourned the loss, and his grief had become anger. Storms had crossed the heavens, darkness had lingered where there should have been light, and for a time he had blamed Nyx for stealing what he believed belonged to him. Eventually, even that story faded.

The gods stopped speaking of the child, and mortals forgot that she had ever existed. Hermes had not forgotten. His attention shifted from the empty sky to the village below. A wooden door opened at the rear of an old manor near the edge of town. A young servant stepped into the courtyard carrying two wooden buckets. She was small enough that the weight of them forced her to walk carefully, but she carried them with the practiced determination of someone who had performed the same task countless times.

Her name was Aeria.

She was dressed simply, wearing a faded dress that had been repaired so many times that the original fabric was difficult to distinguish from the patches. Her dark hair had been loosely tied back, and several strands had fallen around her face. There was flour near one sleeve and a faint streak of soot along her cheek. Nothing about her appearance suggested anything extraordinary.

She was simply a servant.

Aeria crossed the courtyard and followed the narrow path toward the village well. She kept her eyes lowered as she passed the few people already awake, offering quiet greetings when necessary but never lingering long enough to attract attention. At the well, she lowered the first bucket and pulled it back up, then repeated the process with the second. From his place among the olive branches, Hermes watched every movement.

He had been watching her for years.

Zeus had ordered him to do so.

He was never to approach her, never to reveal himself, and never to allow anyone else to discover why he kept such close watch over an insignificant servant girl. If anything unusual happened, Hermes was to return to Olympus immediately and report it. He had followed those orders faithfully.

At first, he had found the task almost amusing. Hermes had carried messages between kings and gods, crossed battlefields, witnessed the rise and fall of cities, and interfered in the affairs of mortals more times than he could count. Watching one tiny servant girl seemed hardly worthy of his attention. Over the years, however, that changed. He began to notice how Aeria always rose before everyone else. She worked until her hands were rough and her knees ached, yet she rarely complained for someone as young as her at the time.... She prepared food for others while eating whatever scraps were left behind. When someone spoke harshly to her, she lowered her head and continued working rather than answering.

There was nothing remarkable about her life, yet something about the way she endured it had always unsettled him. Perhaps it was because she never seemed to question the circumstances surrounding her.

She did not ask where she had come from.

She did not wonder why she had no family.

She did not seem particularly interested in the world beyond the village.

As far as Aeria knew, she was simply an orphan who had grown up in service to a household that had never bothered to tell her anything more about herself.

Hermes knew that was not the whole truth.

He also knew that he was not permitted to tell her.

Aeria lifted the buckets and began walking back toward the manor. The sun was rising quickly now, and the valley was filling with golden light.

Halfway across the courtyard, she stopped.

Hermes straightened.

Aeria looked toward the hills as though she had heard something. Her expression changed slightly, becoming distant and uncertain. She glanced upward at the sky, but there was nothing there except the pale blue of morning. Then she pressed a hand against her chest.

For a moment, Hermes felt something he had not felt in centuries.

A faint pulse moved through the air.

It was so subtle that a mortal would never have noticed it. Even another god might have dismissed it as nothing more than a passing disturbance in the morning breeze.

Hermes knew better.

The leaves around Aeria trembled despite the stillness of the surrounding trees. A soft shimmer appeared briefly along the edge of her skin, almost like sunlight reflected from water, and then it disappeared.

Aeria looked down at her hands.

Nothing remained. She seemed confused but eventually shook her head and continued toward the manor.

Hermes did not take his eyes off her until the door closed behind her.

The village continued as it always had. Servants carried baskets through the streets, merchants opened their stalls, and smoke rose from the chimneys as the morning grew warmer. Yet Hermes remained in the olive tree.

He looked toward the sky again.

The stars had vanished completely beneath the daylight, but he could still remember the one that had disappeared long ago. For centuries, he had believed the silence surrounding the old prophecy meant that the danger had passed. Perhaps the gods had been right to bury the truth. Perhaps the child would remain hidden forever.

Now he was no longer certain. Whatever had happened in that courtyard had been small, but it was enough.

Something had changed.

Hermes looked toward the manor where Aeria had disappeared and felt an uneasiness he could not shake. He had spent centuries watching the girl without understanding why Zeus feared her existence so deeply. He had obeyed because questioning the king of Olympus was rarely wise, but for the first time, he wondered whether Zeus had truly understood what he had hidden.

The prophecy had never said when the danger would begin.

It had only warned that one day, something would change.

Hermes remained silent for several moments before finally spreading his wings.

His eyes lingered on the manor.

Then he looked once more toward the empty place in the morning sky.

"See you tomorrow little one." he whispered.

No one below heard him.

Aeria certainly did not.

She was already inside, carrying the water toward the kitchens, completely unaware that somewhere above her, an ancient secret had begun to stir. And for the first time in centuries, Hermes was afraid of what might happen when the girl finally discovered why the gods had spent so long trying to make the world forget her.

~

Years passed, and the village changed with them. Seasons came and vanished beneath Helios's chariot, bringing summer heat, autumn winds, winter frost, and spring rains, yet Aeria's life remained much the same. The servant child gradually became a young woman, and the little hands that had once struggled beneath the weight of wooden buckets grew steady and strong from years of labor. She still rose before the first rooster called, swept the stone floors of the manor, kneaded coarse bread for the household, hauled water from the river, and spent long hours washing endless piles of linen. There was always another task waiting when the previous one was finished, and there was rarely anyone who thanked her for completing it.

Over time, she had become so much a part of the household that people barely seemed to notice when she entered a room. Her name was remembered when someone needed something from her and forgotten almost immediately afterward. Perhaps that was easier. Aeria had never known anything else.

From his place among the branches of the ancient olive tree, Hermes continued his silent watch. Every sunrise found him somewhere near the village, though never close enough for Aeria to notice him. He watched through the changing seasons and followed the same quiet routine year after year, obeying the command Zeus had given him long ago. He was not to interfere. He was not to speak to her. He was not to reveal himself. Most importantly, he was never to tell anyone why he had been ordered to watch an ordinary servant girl.

Hermes had accepted those instructions when they were first given, but the passing years had made obedience increasingly difficult. He had seen Aeria grow from a frightened child into a quiet young woman without ever understanding whether the danger Zeus feared had disappeared or was simply waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. There were mornings when Hermes convinced himself that nothing would ever happen, that Aeria would live and die without ever learning that someone had been watching over her. Then there were mornings when he felt the strange stirring of something ancient beneath the surface of the world, and he wondered whether the waiting had finally come to an end.

Far from the village, where the river curved around a grove of ancient willow trees, stood a forgotten shrine half-consumed by moss and ivy.

The place had once been visited by mortals who came to leave offerings and pray beside the water, but generations had passed since anyone bothered to maintain it. The gods, however, remembered old places long after mortals abandoned them. The river nymphs still danced among the reeds, and an ancient laurel tree grew beside the shrine, its roots twisting through stones that had been laid there before most of the nearby villages existed.

Apollo often visited the place when Olympus became too loud. There were days when the endless arguments of gods and the constant demands of immortals became tiresome, and he preferred the quiet of the mortal world.

That morning, he descended in a warm beam of sunlight, his sandals touching the earth with barely a sound. A golden laurel rested upon his brow, and his lyre hung comfortably over one shoulder. He walked toward the old tree and rested his hand against its weathered bark, remembering promises and songs that had long since disappeared from mortal memory. "I have not forgotten," he murmured. The leaves above him rustled in response.

Apollo smiled faintly, but the peaceful atmosphere did not last. Laughter suddenly carried across the river, high and bright and distinctly unkind. He turned toward the sound and saw three river nymphs gathered along the bank around a young woman kneeling beside the water. A large basket overflowing with soaked linen sat beside her, and the servant was patiently scrubbing one of the garments against the smooth stones. The nymphs were clearly amusing themselves at her expense, flicking water across the freshly washed cloth and laughing whenever she had to retrieve it.

"Oh, poor little servant," one of them teased.

"You missed a spot," another said.

The third leaned closer, listening to the girl's quiet humming before wrinkling her nose. "And what dreadful singing."

Aeria merely sighed and continued working. "I only wish to finish before sunset."

The nymphs laughed again. One snatched a clean sheet from the basket and tossed it into the shallows, where mud immediately stained the fabric. Another splashed water across the neatly folded linen waiting beside Aeria.

The young woman closed her eyes for a moment, as though reminding herself to remain patient, then reached into the water to retrieve the ruined sheet. Apollo's expression changed. River spirits were playful by nature, and he had known enough of them to understand that mischief was hardly unusual. But there was a difference between harmless teasing and cruelty, and he disliked the latter regardless of who was responsible. He had just begun to step toward the river when something black shot from the trees.

A bird swooped across the water with startling speed and dove directly toward the nearest nymph. Its wings beat furiously around her head before its beak caught her sleeve.

The nymph shrieked and stumbled backward. "Ow! What is wrong with that bird?"

"It bit me!"

"Go away!"

The bird seemed to take their outrage personally. It circled them again, swooping whenever one of the nymphs tried to approach Aeria. Within moments, the three had abandoned their game entirely, disappearing beneath the glittering surface of the river while complaining loudly about the attack. The black bird finally landed upon a smooth stone near the water.

Aeria stared at it.

The bird stared back.

For several seconds, neither moved. Then Aeria gave a small, uncertain smile. "Thank you?" The bird tilted its head but made no response. It remained there just long enough for Aeria to return her attention to the linen before suddenly taking flight and disappearing toward the distant hills.

Apollo watched it go.

He knew that bird.

"Hah.... Hermes," he murmured.

He had seen his brother use similar disguises countless times, although Hermes was rarely so obvious about where he had been. Apollo glanced toward the servant girl again. She seemed completely unaware that anything unusual had happened. She simply picked up the wet linen and returned to her work.

Apollo's curiosity stirred.

What was Hermes doing here?

More importantly, why had he cared enough to interfere?

He followed the bird.

By the time Apollo reached the lower slopes of Olympus, Hermes had already returned to his true form. The messenger god was walking toward the marble halls when Apollo caught up with him. "I don't believe I've ever seen you attack a group of nymphs before," Apollo said.

Hermes stopped but did not immediately turn around. "Then perhaps you haven't been paying attention."

Apollo smiled. "They looked terrified."

"They'll survive."

"You seem strangely concerned about them."

Hermes finally turned. "I was dealing with a nuisance."

Apollo studied his brother for a moment. There was something different in Hermes's expression, something guarded. Apollo had known him long enough to recognize when Hermes was avoiding a question, and he had certainly learned not to expect a straight answer when his brother decided one was inconvenient.

"You were protecting that servant," Apollo said.

Hermes's expression hardened slightly. "And?"

Apollo shrugged. "Nothing. I simply found it interesting."

"Then forget it."

"Who is she?"

Hermes looked away.

"No one."

Apollo gave him a skeptical look. "She didn't seem like no one."

"She's a servant."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"It answers exactly what you need to know."

Apollo's amusement faded. He could tell that Hermes was becoming genuinely uncomfortable, which only made the situation more intriguing. His brother was usually impossible to rattle, yet there was something about this particular subject that had put him on guard.

"You know something about her."

Hermes said nothing.

Apollo waited.

Still nothing.

Finally, Hermes looked directly at him. "Whatever you think you saw, leave it alone." That answer only raised more questions. Apollo folded his arms. "Why?"

"Because I am asking you to."

It was not an explanation, and Apollo knew it. Hermes had given him no reason to believe the girl was dangerous, important, divine, or connected to Olympus in any way. He had simply asked Apollo to stop asking questions.

Apollo considered pressing him, but something in Hermes's expression made him hesitate.

There was no anger there.

There was fear.

"Fine," Apollo said eventually. "I won't say anything."

Hermes studied him for a moment, seemingly deciding whether to believe him. At last, he nodded.

"Good."

Then he vanished in a rush of wind.

Apollo remained beneath the marble columns, watching the empty space where his brother had stood. He still had no idea why Hermes had been watching the servant, what had made him intervene, or why the subject had frightened him so badly. Whatever secret Hermes was keeping, he clearly had no intention of sharing it.

Apollo should have left the matter alone.

He did not.

The following morning, curiosity drew him back to the village.

He kept his presence concealed as he followed Hermes from a distance. His brother settled into the branches overlooking the village, apparently unaware that Apollo was watching from farther away. Apollo followed Hermes's gaze toward the river and soon found the same servant girl from the previous morning.

Aeria was kneeling at the water's edge with her sleeves rolled to her elbows, washing another bundle of linen. There was nothing remarkable about the scene. It was an ordinary morning in an ordinary village, and she was performing the same kind of work she had likely done every day for years.

Then she began to sing.

Apollo stopped.

Her voice carried softly across the river, blending with the sound of moving water and the rustling willow leaves. It was not the polished singing of a temple performer, nor did it have the grandeur of the hymns offered in his honor. She seemed to sing simply because she enjoyed the melody, allowing the quiet tune to accompany the repetitive work of her hands.

Apollo listened.

He had heard the greatest musicians in Greece. He had heard voices trained for years and instruments played by masters whose names had become legends. Yet there was something about Aeria's voice that held his attention in a way he could not immediately explain. It was unpolished, but that seemed to be precisely what made it beautiful. There was no attempt to impress anyone. No audience. No performance. Only a young woman beside a river, singing because the song made the work feel lighter.

Without realizing it, Apollo smiled.

Then instinct took over.

He reached toward the threads of fate.

The world changed through his divine sight. Every living creature possessed a thread woven through the great tapestry of existence. Some were bright, some faint, and some twisted through possibilities so complicated that even Apollo could spend years following them. Mortals carried the marks of choices yet to come, paths branching from one decision to another. He could see beginnings and endings, turning points and possibilities.

His gaze settled upon Aeria.

Nothing happened.

Apollo frowned.

He looked again.

Still nothing.

He focused more deeply, searching for even the faintest thread connecting her to the tapestry.

There was none.

His expression slowly changed.

Aeria had no visible future.

No thread stretching toward tomorrow.

No branching paths.

No distant ending waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.

It was not that Apollo could not see her fate.

There was no fate for him to see.

He had spent centuries looking into the paths of gods and mortals alike, and he had never encountered anything like it.

"Impossible," he whispered.

Aeria suddenly stopped singing.

She lifted her head, sensing that she was no longer alone.

Her eyes searched the opposite bank until they found him.

Apollo froze.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The river continued flowing between them, sunlight dancing across its surface as the morning breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and fresh water through the trees. Aeria did not know who he was. To her, he was simply a stranger standing across the river.

Apollo, however, could no longer see her that way. He had intended to ask her name. He had intended to ask where she came from, how long she had lived in the village, and perhaps why Hermes had been watching her. But all of those questions suddenly seemed insignificant.

For the first time in his immortal life, Apollo was looking at someone whose future was completely absent from his sight.

And he had no idea why.

Aeria gave him a small, uncertain smile before turning back toward her washing. Apollo remained where he was. He watched her for several moments, his thoughts racing through possibilities that made no sense. Somewhere behind him, hidden among the branches, Hermes remained silent.

Apollo glanced toward the tree.

Hermes was watching him now.

Their eyes met.

Neither brother spoke.

Apollo still did not know what Hermes knew. He did not know why Zeus had ordered his brother to watch this particular servant, nor did he know what secret Hermes had been protecting all these years. But now he had discovered something of his own.

Aeria was not woven into the threads of fate.

And whatever that meant, Apollo knew one thing with absolute certainty.

He had to find out why.