Hermes didn’t sit back down. He just stood there, holding the teacup, studying Merlin like he hadn’t quite decided what came next.
Merlin’s back ached. Probably not real. Probably just his soul remembering how many times it had been twisted around like a wet towel in the last hour.
"You say I didn’t break," Merlin said. "But what if I did and I just don’t realize it yet?"
Hermes tilted his head. "That’s the thing about breaking. You usually notice."
"Unless you get glued back together without knowing it."
"Then maybe you’re not broken anymore."
Merlin rolled his eyes. "That’s not how trauma works."
"I didn’t say it was healthy glue."
He ran a hand through his hair. "What if I can’t handle it? What if something from his memories... I don’t know... bleeds through. Starts changing how I think. How I act."
Hermes’s face didn’t change. "Then you’ll have to notice. And decide."
"That’s it? No divine protection clause? No failsafe spell that keeps me from turning into the next vengeance-fueled demigod with a god complex?"
Hermes shrugged. "You’re not a demigod."
"And if it helps," Hermes added, "I don’t think Rathan wanted another him running around."
Merlin paused. "He said that."
"He was..." Merlin let the sentence trail off. There wasn’t a good way to finish it.
"He was Rathan," Hermes said. "No one else could’ve been."
Merlin leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Did the gods know what was going to happen to him?"
"And you didn’t stop it?"
Hermes looked away, just for a second.
The silence that followed felt colder. Not angry. Just resigned. Like disappointment that had been soaking for too long.
"So what now?" Merlin asked.
Hermes finally looked at him again. "Now you go back."
"That’s not an answer."
"No," Hermes said. "It’s a direction."
Merlin stood, slowly. His body didn’t hurt. Not physically. But there was something beneath his skin now, something too deep to reach. The kind of soreness that didn’t belong to muscle.
"I’m not going to become him," he said.
"No one asked you to."
"I’m going to stay me."
Hermes smiled. Not much. Just enough to show that he heard him.
Merlin crossed his arms. "But I’ll use it. Everything he gave me."
"That’s not what I mean," he said. "I’m not just going to carry it. I’m going to wield it."
Now Hermes stepped closer.
"And that," he said, "is why I picked you."
Merlin blinked. "Not because I’m ordinary?"
"You were," Hermes said. "Now you’re a little more interesting."
He stared at him. "You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?"
"I’m a messenger. Watching stories unfold is my whole thing."
’Of all the gods, I had to get the one who treats existential upheaval like a bedtime story.’
"I don’t know what’s waiting for me out there," he said.
"Then open your eyes and find out."
Then: "One last thing."
Hermes raised an eyebrow.
"If I start turning into him," Merlin said. "If I start losing it... you’ll stop me, right?"
Hermes was quiet a moment. Then he nodded once. "Yes."
’That better be true,’ Merlin thought. ’Because I’m not sure I could stop myself.’
Hermes raised the teacup one last time. "Ready?"
"Not remotely," Merlin muttered.
The air around him started to stretch.
The kettle whistled like it was in a damn hurry.
He sat cross-legged on the living room floor, back pressed to the wall, watching the steam curl into nothing. The sound was weirdly sharp in the quiet, sharp enough to remind him how long it’d been since anyone said anything worth listening to.
Merlin was still out.
On the couch. Blanket tossed over him like it mattered. No twitch, no flinch, no change in breathing. Just that same dead stillness he’d dropped into back in the ruins.
Nathan stared at him. Not worried. Just tired. The kind of tired that was rooted in your chest instead of your bones.
’Come on, man. You’re late. Again.’
A cup clinked softly on the table nearby.
Elara, barefoot, robe draped around her like a quilt she’d lost the motivation to belt properly. Her hair was tied up half-assedly, like she’d paused mid-panic and just never got around to fixing it.
"I made tea," she said.
Nathan didn’t say thanks.
Across from him, legs stretched out, her foot tapping quietly against the wooden floor.
"How long now?" she asked.
"Four days," Nathan said. "Maybe five."
They’d lost track after the first two.
Dion had tried to keep a log. That lasted about six hours.
Mae had cried herself out the first night. Then just... stopped talking.
Seraphina hadn’t come out of the guest room since noon yesterday.
The apartment wasn’t big. White walls. No paintings. One cracked window that refused to close right. Two doors, three beds, and a view of a train station that never looked the same twice.
None of it was theirs.
Nathan didn’t know the name of the man who owned it.
White hair. Crooked smile. Wore slippers inside and outside like it didn’t matter. Said something about hospitality when they first arrived, then made himself scarce like he was waiting for the world to catch up.
Merlin had met him, apparently.
Not that anyone else had a clue.
"Do you think he’s stuck?" Elara asked, voice low.
"I think he’s fighting."
"You think he’ll win?"
’I don’t know. I don’t think he knows either.’
Instead of saying that, he said: "He’s Merlin."
"Yeah," she muttered. "He is."
They lapsed into quiet again.
The kettle stopped screaming, finally. Neither of them moved to grab it.
Elara sipped from her mug.
"You remember that guy?" she asked. "From the border checkpoint. The one who handed us the papers. Quiet. Smelled like ink."
Nathan blinked. "Sort of."
"He was humming when he stamped Merlin’s form."
Nathan frowned. "Okay?"
"I don’t think I’ve stopped thinking about that." She traced the rim of her cup with one finger. "Just... how normal it was. For like, five seconds. The world wasn’t ending. We weren’t bleeding. Just a guy, a desk, a stamp."
Nathan scratched the back of his neck.
’I miss desks too. And chairs that don’t wobble. And showers with water pressure.’
Footsteps creaked from the hall.
Dion stepped into view, hair a mess, shirt rumpled like it had lost a fight with a laundry basket.
"Anything?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
Nathan shook his head.
Dion didn’t say ’damn.’ Or ’shit.’ Or anything theatrical.
Just walked to the counter, poured whatever was left in the kettle into a mug, and leaned against the sink.
The three of them sat there, in that lived-in silence.
It was strange, knowing you couldn’t do anything. Stranger still to feel that not-doing-anything was the right move.
"He’s twitching less," Dion said, after a minute.
Elara blinked. "Was he twitching?"
"First day. Like, little jolts. Hands. Jaw."
Nathan leaned his head back against the wall. "Great. That means either he’s stabilized or he’s more dead."
"You’re optimistic today," Elara muttered.
Nathan didn’t answer.
Then, finally, footsteps.
The man. The white-haired one.
He came into the room like someone used to being ignored.
Wearing loose clothes. A cardigan too big. Socks with holes. He didn’t speak right away.
"He’ll wake up," he said.
None of them asked how he knew.
Elara straightened. "When?"
The man smiled faintly. "When the weight stops dragging."
Dion stared at him. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
Nathan narrowed his eyes. "You’re not just some guy, are you."
The man shrugged. "Most people aren’t."
He stepped closer to Merlin. Crouched down. Rested a hand lightly, barely, over Merlin’s sternum.
The room chilled for half a second.
"Still breathing," the man said.
"Barely," Elara muttered.
The man smiled again. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just like someone who didn’t deal in comforting lies.
"You wouldn’t want to see what he’s breathing through."
Then he stood, and padded off down the hall, humming under his breath.
But his fingers tapped once on the floor.
’Come back soon, idiot. Or I swear, I’m dragging your corpse to another god’s door myself.’
The white stretched in every direction.
Not cold. Not warm. Just endless. Too smooth to be air. Too dry to be water. A nothing that wrapped around him like it was waiting to be told what to be.
Merlin stood in the middle of it, barefoot, still dressed in the same torn shirt from... whenever that had been. His knees didn’t hurt anymore. His ribs didn’t burn. He should’ve felt relief.
’Is this limbo? Because it’s really committing to the minimalist aesthetic.’
Then came the sound. Not a voice. Not a chime. More like a flicker, like a switch being flipped in a room that didn’t have walls.
Something shimmered ahead.
Vaguely humanoid. Smooth lines. Transparent, but not empty. Like glass filled with light. No face. No arms. Just the outline of something standing.
[System Interface: Online.]