It was always a tragedy when you were called this way. An innocent man, one of your own, killed only by the bad luck of carrying the wrong message. It was an unwritten rule, easy to break, but there nonetheless. And as easy it was for the great commanders and cruel generals to forget, you were there to enforce that rule.
People didn’t call you often - not that messengers getting shot were rare, on the contrary. But few of the ones who would send them remembered the rule, and even fewer cared. So when you ever got a call, you knew you had to answer.
Your journey was often long (they never bothered to ask where you were before asking you for a favor), but you always obliged. Your old sandals would carry your feet from herm to herm, as patient travelers as you were.
You always made sure to hold an air of tragedy when you arrived. After all, you were a messenger yourself. One that couldn’t be shot so easily, one that was called for instead of ordered around, but still of the same cloth than those who died for a message.
So, when you finally found the man you were sent for, you simply waited for him. He finally came out of his tent, his soldiers coming to surround you, hands on their weapons with no care for subtlety. Not that it bothered you - you did appreciate an audience.
The man barely stared at you while you introduced yourself, as though you were already dead to his eyes. A reasonable assumption: he was a beast of battle with a thousand soldiers and a thousand more victories, you were a simple herald carrying a mission he didn’t care to know about. Yet, that look of disdain slowly started to faint as, though he was taller than you, he had to raise his head to meet your eyes.
And so, with winged sandals carrying your feet higher and higher, caduce forming in your hand, you finally allowed yourself a smile. He said your name before you even could, as if that would somehow dismiss you from your mission. You reassured him it would not.
A messenger ought to deliver his letter. A god ought to protect his domain.
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