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May. 9th, 2006 11:25 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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neutral_omensTime: April 19, 2000 let's say
Setting: Hermes Bedroom
Status: Private, Complete
Summary: Challenge response to the nightmare prompt.
Black and red, lit by a glow so dim it was almost darkness. The too-familiar rip of a twelve-tailed whip, the metal spikes clacking like teeth as they flew through the air. Blood spattering his shoulders, legs, face. Chains on his ankles, a cruel symbol of the power the other gods held over him.
He knew better than to ask why. He knew better than to ask what he’d done. It didn’t matter, with Ares; he could have just said ‘hello’ at the wrong second of the day, or conversely not said ‘hello’ at the right second of the day.
His throat was not sore from screaming—rather, his belly was, for he screamed as an infant does, the sound shrill and unbroken, from deep within him. Blood the colour of summer skies, shimmering with ambrosia, splashed in a morbid display around him. His screams took on a new agony as the whip cut as deep as bone.
When it stopped, he didn’t relax—‘twould be a luxury, a grand mercy, if Ares were to leave him like this and let him crawl off to bed. Hermes didn’t dare go to his brother Apollo; the sadistic Ares would only take that as liberty to make the pain ever worse the next time. No, he didn’t dare relax, because now came—
Hermes screamed, waking up drenched in a cold sweat, shaking feverishly as phantom agony haunted him. Forgetting himself, he turned to throw himself down into Eros’ arms…only Eros wasn’t there. The truth shattered the momentary half-dream, and Hermes burst into tears, his pillow the closest to Eros he’d ever get again.
He remembered the countless times Ares had used him as whipping post, marking them by who had come to comfort him, or who he’d run to in escape. Dionysus was a fair healer, if one could stand the burn of wine on open wounds; he was no poet or nurturer, but he cared as best he could in his way. Eros was good-hearted but only upset Hermes more with his temper—even though it was directed at Ares. Hades was too wise to heal more than little, but numbed the pain with but a word and kept the door—and his patient ear—open. Apollo healed the worst damage, and the bruises the whip gave, and healed the lacerations in the manner of mortals (lacerations were showiest, and healed the slowest, deceiving Ares into thinking that no healing power had been used). By far the best thing, however, was that Apollo sang to him—voice soft as clover, he stroked his brother’s curls and sang lullabies, paeans that mortals had written to Hermes, silly travelling songs, until Hermes fell to Morpheus, who gave him blissful oblivion.
Crying alone, feeling very exposed in the large bedroom, Hermes silently asked why Morpheus kept visiting him with these terrors. It’s no use trying to talk with him though, he thought bitterly, he isn’t there anymore. For if he had been, there would be no dreams at all, or nonsensical dreams that had little to do with reality or memories. Morpheus was kind to him like that, perhaps pleased that Hermes liked nonsense so well, or perhaps showing his own small bit of support for the abuse the messenger suffered. Either way, he’s dormant now, thought Hermes, refusing to even think that anyone might have outright died.
It was a long while before Ares’ laughs didn’t follow him back to sleep.
Setting: Hermes Bedroom
Status: Private, Complete
Summary: Challenge response to the nightmare prompt.
Black and red, lit by a glow so dim it was almost darkness. The too-familiar rip of a twelve-tailed whip, the metal spikes clacking like teeth as they flew through the air. Blood spattering his shoulders, legs, face. Chains on his ankles, a cruel symbol of the power the other gods held over him.
He knew better than to ask why. He knew better than to ask what he’d done. It didn’t matter, with Ares; he could have just said ‘hello’ at the wrong second of the day, or conversely not said ‘hello’ at the right second of the day.
His throat was not sore from screaming—rather, his belly was, for he screamed as an infant does, the sound shrill and unbroken, from deep within him. Blood the colour of summer skies, shimmering with ambrosia, splashed in a morbid display around him. His screams took on a new agony as the whip cut as deep as bone.
When it stopped, he didn’t relax—‘twould be a luxury, a grand mercy, if Ares were to leave him like this and let him crawl off to bed. Hermes didn’t dare go to his brother Apollo; the sadistic Ares would only take that as liberty to make the pain ever worse the next time. No, he didn’t dare relax, because now came—
Hermes screamed, waking up drenched in a cold sweat, shaking feverishly as phantom agony haunted him. Forgetting himself, he turned to throw himself down into Eros’ arms…only Eros wasn’t there. The truth shattered the momentary half-dream, and Hermes burst into tears, his pillow the closest to Eros he’d ever get again.
He remembered the countless times Ares had used him as whipping post, marking them by who had come to comfort him, or who he’d run to in escape. Dionysus was a fair healer, if one could stand the burn of wine on open wounds; he was no poet or nurturer, but he cared as best he could in his way. Eros was good-hearted but only upset Hermes more with his temper—even though it was directed at Ares. Hades was too wise to heal more than little, but numbed the pain with but a word and kept the door—and his patient ear—open. Apollo healed the worst damage, and the bruises the whip gave, and healed the lacerations in the manner of mortals (lacerations were showiest, and healed the slowest, deceiving Ares into thinking that no healing power had been used). By far the best thing, however, was that Apollo sang to him—voice soft as clover, he stroked his brother’s curls and sang lullabies, paeans that mortals had written to Hermes, silly travelling songs, until Hermes fell to Morpheus, who gave him blissful oblivion.
Crying alone, feeling very exposed in the large bedroom, Hermes silently asked why Morpheus kept visiting him with these terrors. It’s no use trying to talk with him though, he thought bitterly, he isn’t there anymore. For if he had been, there would be no dreams at all, or nonsensical dreams that had little to do with reality or memories. Morpheus was kind to him like that, perhaps pleased that Hermes liked nonsense so well, or perhaps showing his own small bit of support for the abuse the messenger suffered. Either way, he’s dormant now, thought Hermes, refusing to even think that anyone might have outright died.
It was a long while before Ares’ laughs didn’t follow him back to sleep.
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