Swirling Colors

Blank Walls

Blank Walls.

Everything around him is blank and dull. There is no color. No personality. Only gray. Everything is gray. Despair bleeding gray.

Days pass.

Weeks pass.

He’s lost track of time. Lost track of the days. Seconds blurring into nothingness. His internal clock, trained by strict schedules and the inability to be even a second late without throwing off months of work, almost shutting down completely.

All he knows is that it's been a long

long

long

long

while.

Months? Years? Decades?

All he could do was hang by his sore wrists, and accept that no one is coming for him. He’d long since stopped struggling against the chains. Long since stopped screaming at them to stop as they poked and prodded and went through Him. The foreign (Outside, wrong, terrible, invasive, disgusting, not Him, not his family fellow gods, not a lover, outside, violating) power rooting around inside Him.

Inside his essence

Inside his being.

Inside everything keeping him alive (existing, real, rooted in reality, vibrant, physical, powerful from fading)

Looking at (tearing, peering, searching through, invading, violating) the core of everything He is.

With every passing minute (day, second, month, week) he could feel Himself weakening.

Feel Himself losing more and more of Him.

He can no longer feel his domains.

Can no longer feel billions of messages passing through him.

Can no longer hear the prayers and words of his followers.

Can no longer accept his offerings.

Can no longer grant blessings to his followers.

(he can feel their faith in him fading, he can feel it.)

He can't feel his caduceus.

Reality (the outside world, Olympus, his family) feel far away.

Out of touch.

Out of sight.

Out of his ability to perceive.

Very few things felt real.

But very few is still some.

Some things still felt real.

Grounding him to the here and the now.

The hunger. The desperate, churning hunger that thrums through his body. The desperate terrifying feeling of his essence (or rather. what's left of it) screaming swirling begging for energy.

Panic signals bouncing around inside of him threatening screaming that he will run out of energy if he doesn't eat and he will fade if he doesn't consume.

He aches.

His shoulders, forever suspended by chains, ache.

His head aches.

His body aches.

Whatever is left of Him aches.

He doesn't see the point in holding on.

Was this how his son P a n felt?

Losing connection to Himself?

Losing pieces of Himself to mortals until there was little more than emptiness? Until he was more holes than person?

Was how Luke felt to be abandoned by his family?

He aches.

He aches.

He aches for freedom, for home, to feel the sun on his skin and for May’s smiling face the smile of a close companion.

Hermes aches.

and he lets go.

No one was coming for him.

Was this how Ares felt in the jar?

Was this what it felt like to fade?

The imperial gold chains bit into his wrists. Flush against his flesh. To tight. Bound to only get tighter.

No one was coming for him.

There is so little of Him left.

He feels transparent.

He feels tired.

He feels scared.

He feels lonely.

He hopes George and Martha are okay.

He doesn't want to die.

He knows no one is coming for him.

He knows he is alone here.

The walls of this room are blank,

Hermes knows they will stay blank.

Until He is blank as wel