Hermes had messaged Hecate, and now all he had to do was wait. Wait to see the face of his sometimes-wife, which he hadn't laid eyes on for three months. Hermes didn't like to show weakness or vulnerability, but with Hecate it was easy. He didn't have to fake anything with her. He could just be sad, broken Hermes who had spent three months wasting away in a dungeon while no one he loved even looked for him.
He supposed it was 'lucky' - to a certain degree of lucky - that Lucifer had lost interest in actively torturing him after a month. His wounds had healed, though the scars remained; mostly burn marks and the traces of whip marks across his back, which he figured would fade with time. The passive torture though...the starvation and terror and thirst and sleep deprivation, the marks of those would be harder to erase. Hermes was bone-thin, his appearance truly alarming. Especially to someone who - up until a few hours ago - had thought him safe and well at home. He constantly panicked at loud noises, and jerked away from hands coming at him. He hadn't been touched in kindness in so long, with the exception of dear Henry, and then his rescuers. He wasn't used to hands coming at him to help.
He wanted to go home, but he was far too weak. The doctors had him on some kind of feeding plan, and he couldn't walk on his own, unaided. He had a fair way to go. Anyway, that imposter was still in his house. With his wife and his Luna. And there was no way Hermes could fight whatever that thing was like this. Hermes needed help.