#naiads

In the hills of Arcadia, where olive trees bent toward a shining stream, a naiad lived alone, besides certain other naiads that prefered to keep to themselves most time. Her water ran clear even in drought, and her voice was said to be sweeter than any honey. Travelers stopped to drink, soldiers washed their wounds, and shepherds thanked her with handfuls of flowers. She belonged to the river as much as the stones and reeds. The seasons changed, but she did not. And that was what made her stand out the most than other things.

One afternoon, the wind shifted, as if shifting something new in the force of nature for the first time. Leaves scattered across the water, and the surface trembled. The naiad lifted her gaze, curious, and from the sky came a shimmer of gold— a figure descending swift as a falling sunbeam. He landed upon the bank, light-footed and laughing, his sandals bright with tiny wings.

"You have a beautiful river," he said, crouching to trail his fingers through the water. "It listens. Most do not."

The naiad regarded him, her voice low and clear. "You should not touch what you do not know, stranger."

He smiled. "Then teach me."

"Who are you to ask lessons of the river?"

"Hermes," he said simply, "the one who travels farther than the horizon can see."

At his name, the air shimmered faintly, as if recognizing him. She had heard of the god who guided souls and tricked kings, the one who never stayed long enough for roots to remember his steps.

Still, she allowed him to linger by her waters.

He came each day, bringing stories from beyond the hills, of sailors chasing stars, of mortals who bargained too dearly with the gods, of laughter echoing in the marble streets of Athens. She listened, her gaze soft, her heart curious.

"Do you never tire of traveling?" she asked one night, as the stars shimmered in her water.

"I cannot tire of what I am," Hermes said, lying back on the grass. “To move is to exist. To stop is to vanish.”

She smiled faintly. "And I cannot move. To stay is my nature."

He turned his head toward her, eyes thoughtful. "Then we are opposites."

"Perhaps," she said. "But opposites still meet when the wind bends low to touch the river."

Hermes reached out then, his fingers brushing the surface where she lingered. "And what happens after?"

"The wind leaves," she whispered.

He smiled again, softer this time. "Not always."

For a while, he made her believe it. He came with the dawn and left with the stars, but each morning he returned. He carried gifts: a sprig of laurel, a silver coin, a story from some distant coast. He asked for nothing in return except her laughter, which he said was lighter than air.

He made her river his resting place. He would lie beside the water, his voice curling through the reeds as he spoke. She would rise from the current, her hair dripping silver in the moonlight. When he laughed, the sound rippled through her water like sunlight breaking the surface.

He kissed her once, beneath the shadow of a cypress tree. The river stilled. The air itself held its breath. She thought then that even the wind could learn to rest.

But Hermes was born to move.

One dawn, he was gone. No sound, no farewell. Only the faint imprint of his sandals in the damp soil, already fading beneath the morning light.

The naiad waited though.

Days passed. Then weeks. Then years. The river did not change, but she did. The other naiads whispered that he would not come again, that even a god cannot chase the same breeze twice. Yet every evening she lifted her eyes to the sky, hoping to see the glint of gold between the clouds.

She still waited. Naiads are patient, she reassures herself. They have eternity to wait. Yet even eternity can ache.

Sometimes, when the evening breeze skims across the river, she imagines it is him, speaking softly,

"Do you still guard my reflection?"

She answers, though no one hears. "Always."

And so the wind and the water meet, again and again, never at the same time, never for long. He was made to wander; she was made to remain.

She was water; he was wind. They met only in passing.

Did you see her Hermes comic? Or the one with Ody talking about how much he loves Penelope?

Okay good. Anyways, here's that excerpt you were looking for:

“Always such a flatterer,” Poseidon chuckled. His siren turned to pout at him, but he cut her off with a playful narrow of his eyes before she could refute the challenge to her sincerity. “I suppose fate spun along as intended, then. Or perhaps, my clever little weaver took the threads into her own hands,” he remarked.  The girl spun over her shoulder, her face gradually shifting from surprised to delighted. She beamed up at him and Poseidon refused to admit just how much that expression warmed his heart—how all of it had warmed his heart, really. She was such an unassuming, fragile thing, and yet something about her stubbornness and passion seemed to sweep him up like a fish in a net. No matter how hard he swam against the ropes, they never seemed to yield, the cords woven together with determination and intention. It was past the point of denying that this fisherman’s daughter had caught him hook, line, and sinker, but Poseidon was still in disbelief that her pull had been so strong. Maybe the ocean was as drawn to her as she was to it. Maybe he too needed to stop fighting what felt right. His siren was about to respond, surely to offer some cheeky quip, but the pair were interrupted by a third voice breaking into the fold.  “Well well well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Poseidon knew that voice. It was a rich, lilting mezzo, and each word dripped like the smoothest honey known to man or god.