"Listen up, there's not a moment to spare
It's quite a drop from the top so how you feeling down there?
It's a cold, cruel, harsh reality
Caught, stuck, here with your enemies!"
-Shinedown, Enemies
Hermes was bored. Being a messenger, he decided, was not interesting at all—at least when there were no messages to deliver.
He scowled up at the sky from where he was lying flat on his back—one of his legs was crossed over the other, and his golden sandals glinted in the bright sunlight. He bounced his foot along to a song that was still stuck in his head after Apollo had played it on his lyre at dinner the previous night—shame on that god and his catchy music. Apollo should really get some new hobbies, Hermes thought. If the messenger thought his job was boring, he would have to think up an entirely new word for how Apollo had so far spent his life—who wanted to waste countless millennia doing things like chasing around sacred cows and strumming lyres?
Although Apollo still disagreed with him—in fact, he thought that the messenger's volatile existence would eventually doom everyone in heaven and on earth—Hermes thought he did a rather good job at spicing up the lives of everyone he ever came across. The herald was willing to bet that Apollo would never have thought that his sacred cows' intestines could be used for something as fabulous as creating a lyre—at least not until Hermes had come along.
"Would you please stop thinking about me?" Apollo's voice suddenly snapped in his ear. "Your annoyingly loud thoughts are keeping me from concentrating on my poems."
Ah, poems—how could Hermes have forgotten the poems? The messenger opened his eyes and sat up. His eyes were sparkling with amusement. "Aw, Apollon…you know how much I love thinking about you," he teased.
The older god looked miffed—but then again, he so often did that Hermes sometimes wondered if he had been born looking irritated with world. It was a very real possibility, Hermes decided.
When he tuned back into the present situation, he realized that the other god was talking. "Don't say such idiotic things," Apollo snapped. "Don't think such idiotic things, either. 'Sacred cows'…honestly." He let out a derisive snort. "Do you ever have an intelligent thought?"
"Of course I do. Nothing about my thinking is idiotic," Hermes declared. "I'm a genius, didn't you know?"
If it was possible, Apollo looked even more affronted—he usually did whenever someone implied that there was something he didn't know—but apparently he decided to let it go, because the next thing he muttered was, "I've had my doubts."
"Well, stop doubting," Hermes retorted.
The irritated expression was back, but before Apollo could open his wise, all-knowing mouth, a third god appeared.
"Is it really necessary for the two of you to argue so loudly?" Ares drawled—he was leaning against a tree, looking as haughty as ever.
Hermes fought the urge to snicker at the sight. Ares had absolutely no manners, very little brains, and an awful sense of humor (which was a crime in itself, in the messenger's opinion), but he still walked around looking like he was their Father's gift to Earth.
It was such a pity that Aphrodite believed he was, in fact, a gift to Earth.
Fortunately, Hermes was a master at composing himself. He arranged his face into a sincere expression before speaking. "Hello, Ares! What can we do for you on this beautiful day?"
Ares, completely ignoring Apollo (who returned the favor), smirked and took a step towards the messenger. "Hermes…you're looking well," he said in a sickly-sweet voice that didn't suit him at all.
An impish grin spread across Hermes' face. "Why, thank you. You look as—um—fit as ever." He gave the god's well-defined muscles a glance.
Apollo finally decided to speak up. "Excuse me while I go vomit," he muttered.
Hermes turned to face him. "Jealous?" he purred.
Apollo flushed. Hermes couldn't tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. Either way, his smirk widened before he returned his attention to Ares. "You wanted something?"
Ares's sneer was brutish. "I heard a rumor about you today."
Hermes was extremely unimpressed, and if Apollo had been listening, he would have undoubtedly been proud of the messenger's derisive snort. "Really?" Hermes asked with a fake gasp. "A rumor?! Excuse me while I go alert the Fates! This might change the course of destiny!"
Ares scowled. "Okay, it wasn't exactly a rumor. I happened to overhear a certain someone expressing his opinion of you."
Hermes raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Well, not just you," Ares amended, rubbing his head. "He mentioned Athena and Artemis too."
Apollo looked up at the mention of his twin.
"And? What did he say?" Hermes asked, growing impatient.
Ares grinned slyly. "You'll have to find out for yourself. Pay a visit to King Eumelus's kids tonight."
Hermes really hated that smug voice.
And so it was that Hermes, accompanied by Athena and Artemis, appeared on the island of Kos just as the sun was setting. The messenger was disguised as a shepherd—his head was bare and he wore a plain, white chiton that fell just above his knees. Boots were laced up his calves.
Hermes tugged at the itchy cloth and glanced to the side, where Athena was looking just as uncomfortable in her disguise as a country maiden. It was unusual to see her without armor, but Hermes thought she looked quite pretty. Artemis, on his other side, also looked out of her element in a chiton that covered her from shoulder to toe. Hermes was used to seeing her dressed in a tunic much like he was wearing now—the huntress preferred to keep her legs bare for running—with a bow-and-arrow in tow.
"What are we doing here?" Artemis was grumbling. "I had plans for tonight. They didn't involve wearing this." She glared down at her ankle-length chiton like it had done her a great wrong.
Hermes fought the urge to snicker. An annoyed Artemis was just as amusing as an annoyed Apollo. "I'm actually not sure," he said after he was sure that no laughter would escape his mouth. "Ares told me that I should come here tonight."
"And you listened to him?" Athena asked in disbelief.
Fortunately, they were interrupted before he could be scolded further.
"Hey, you there!" a man shouted, and the three disguised immortals turned to face a ruddy villager. "You new around here?" he asked without prelude.
Hermes put on his most charming smile. "We are visiting a friend, sir, but have yet to find him."
The villager eyed Hermes, but seemed to accept the excuse because he then said, "Well, we're having a festival up at the village in honor of the gods. You're welcome to join us."
"That sounds delightful!" Hermes said happily. "We would be honored to join. Would you kindly show us the way?"
They followed the villager to—well, a village. Although, Hermes thought, it was really more a handful of houses built in close proximity to each other…did that count as a village or would it be considered a hamlet? He frowned, pondering the question, but his thoughts were interrupted by Artemis, who had just dug her elbow into his ribs.
"What?!" he hissed.
She pointed.
A crude banner had been erected in front of an altar—black letters spelled out "To Hermes, beloved herald and blessed son of Zeus".
Hermes grinned and bounced over to the altar, leaving his sisters behind. A group of villagers was gathered around, and the messenger saw that they were passing around plates piled with servings of some sort of meat. Nearby, a group of girls was dancing. Hermes could smell incense burning on the altar—the scent was delightful. "Hail, good people!" he called, aiming a smile at the first woman that looked his way. "May I ask what it is you are passing around on those dishes? It smells heavenly."
"Indeed you may," the woman replied, returning his smile. "A hog was slaughtered in honor of the Radiant Messenger. Whence did you come, young man? I can't seem to recall seeing you before."
"Many places are whence I came," he replied airily, waving a dismissive hand. "I get around quite a bit."
He gazed around at the cheerful villagers, all merrymaking in his name. He raised an eyebrow, wondering again why Ares had sent him here, before turning back to the woman. "Would it be rude of me to ask, kind lady, if there are any depictions of Hermes around?"
She looked slightly surprised—perhaps because it was rather unusual to refer to a god by their actual name instead of one of their billions of titles, or maybe she found his request strange.
Hermes didn't care one way or the other. He was always curious to see what mortals imagined his appearance to be.
After a short pause, she nodded and gestured for him to follow.
It was a brief walk along a crude path through a cluster of trees, and they soon reached a clearing where Hermes found himself staring into the face of a life-sized statue. The person depicted was a mature man with a straight nose, low-set eyebrows, a small mouth, and little forehead. The cheekbones were somewhat low, the chin and jaw weak. Stepping back, Hermes noted with amusement that, as usual, he was depicted naked.
"Why is it," he asked, turning to the woman with a slight smile, "that mortals always feel the need to show the herald as a nude old man who inherited the worst of his mother and father?"
She looked confused, and once again, Hermes had to force down his laughter. He decided not to press her for an answer. "Nevermind," he smiled. "Let us return to the festival." He offered her his arm, and together, they walked back up the path.
The sky was becoming dark, and at the village, oil lanterns were ablaze with light. The moon could already be seen far above, and as he gazed at it, Hermes wondered where Artemis and Athena had gotten to.
"Agron!" the woman at his side suddenly called. Hermes tore his eyes away from the sky when he felt her release his arm.
Following her gaze, Hermes spotted a young man standing in the doorway of a nearby house. At the woman's call, he began to move towards them.
"Yes, Mother?" the man—Agron—asked in a voice that, to Hermes, sounded not only reluctant but also disrespectful. Then Agron noticed the man standing next to his mother. He eyed Hermes with beady, dark eyes. "Who's this?"
"I'm a visitor," Hermes replied smoothly.
His mother ignored the question. "Aren't you going to join us?" she asked, gesturing at the festivities that surrounded them. "You sit in the house by yourself far too often."
Agron sneered. "Mother, there is a reason I sit in the house while you and the others are out here 'worshipping'. I won't lower myself to praise such petty gods. To whom are the festivities dedicated tonight?" He looked around and when he caught sight of the banner, his sneer grew. "Hermes? Really, Mother? He is nothing but a common thief!"
At these words, Hermes stiffened—but he would not let this foolish mortal see his anger. Not yet.
The woman didn't give Agron a chance to keep going. "Well, you should do something!" she insisted. "There are festivals for Artemis and Athena in the woods…"
Much to Hermes' dismay, the insolent child rolled his eyes. "Athena?" he scoffed. "Why should I sympathize with a goddess who is boastful of her 'beautiful, fair eyes'? If you hadn't noticed, Mother, each of your children have eyes as dark as the night sky."
"Artemis—"
"—is ridiculous," Agron snapped. "What goddess makes a habit of walking around in the woods in the dead of night? No woman should do such a stupid thing."
Hermes was seething with anger; he'd heard quite enough. "You idiotic fool," he hissed, drawing the attention of mother and son. He took great pleasure in their startled expressions. "You are in no position to speak of such things. What do you know of the gods?"
Agron drew himself up to his full height and looked down at Hermes with a glare. "I know more than you ever will!" he spat. "Who do you think you are, anyway? You don't belong in our village!"
"'Who do I think I am'?" Hermes repeated with a snicker. "What a wonderful question! Would you like me to show you?"
He didn't wait for an answer; with a wave of his hand, his disguise was shed. Dirty, brown hair became luscious and black, and thin eyebrows became full, turning up slightly to create an impish appearance. There was a sparkle of malice in eyes that were unnaturally green. The white tunic became deep purple. His boots were replaced by golden sandals, and a winged band appeared around his head. And, in case the moron was still too dense to realize just who was standing before him, Hermes summoned his caduceus…it appeared in his hand with a bright flash of light.
The woman gasped—her hand shot up to cover her mouth. Agron was gobsmacked.
A mocking smile spread across the messenger's face. "Well, boy? What say you now? Would you like to discuss how I'm—how did you put it?—'nothing but a common thief'?"
"You tricked us!" Agron found his voice. "You—you can't do that—"
"Oh?" His voice was soft. "Now you're telling me what I can and cannot do? Let me tell you something, child. There are very few people in this universe who can give me orders—unfortunately, you are not on that list."
"What are you going to do about it? Look at you—you're nothing but a boy, yourself!" Agron scoffed, and Hermes had to admit to himself that the mortal was very brave—or very stupid.
"'Nothing but a boy'?" Hermes' mouth quirked up into an unnerving smile. "Your education leaves much to be desired. I have been alive longer than everyone in this village put together. On the day I was born, many thousands of years ago, I outsmarted my older brother—perhaps you've heard of him? His name is Apollo."
And suddenly, Apollo was there. "Must you tell everyone that story?" he griped, glaring at Hermes with icy blue eyes before looking around at the scene. His eyes fell on the insolent Agron, then to his terrified mother, and finally around at the ongoing festival. Nobody seemed to have noticed that the very god being worshipped was now standing in their midst.
"Apollo—fancy seeing you here," Hermes drawled, knowing that the other god would be able to identify the rage in his green eyes…or perhaps he had already foreseen the whole thing.
Apollo's eyes returned to Hermes, and for a long, silent moment, his eyes darted over the messenger's face, clouding over in the way they often did when he was delving through someone's past, present, and future. It was evident that Apollo was no longer here, at this festival, staring at Hermes' face—he was in another place, catching glimpses of things that had already happened, or perhaps seeing flashes of things that had not yet come to pass.
Then, quite suddenly, the blond's eyes focused, sharpening into a cold look of apathy.
He didn't say a word to Hermes. Instead, he directed his narrowed eyes to Agron. He radiated beauty and power, and the sight was equally exquisite and petrifying. No one could do a callous expression quite like Apollo could, with the possible exception of Hades. Anger would have been a less unnerving reaction.
Apollo's broad shoulders moved slightly as he shifted his weight, and muscles rippled beneath his skin. His long hair was golden in the torchlight—shadows danced across his face, moving over his defined cheekbones and slender nose. Hermes wished he would speak, but he continued to analyze the mortal as the minutes ticked by. The only sounds came from Agron's mother, who was weeping quietly.
Finally, Apollon spoke. "What shall we do with you, foolish boy?" he drawled. "What is a befitting punishment for a human who mocks the gods?"
The mother made a sound like a hiccup, or perhaps it was a gasp of fear. Hermes gave her a glance before returning his attention to Agron, who was attempting a defiant expression as his eyes bore into Apollo's.
Hermes wasn't fooled. Agron's face had tightened in a way that only fear could accomplish. The mortal started when Apollo's voice once again cut through the air like a knife. "Speak!" the blond demanded, and his eyes were flashing. "I asked you a question and you will answer me! You weren't so hesitant when you taunted my brother, were you, idiotic child?"
"I only spoke the truth," Agron replied. There was a slight tremor in his voice, and Hermes cocked an eyebrow at him as Apollo let out—what a surprise—a disdainful snort.
"The truth?" Apollo asked scornfully. "You speak to me, the god who has never spoken a lie, of truth? Let me tell you the truth: you are lying."
"And not even very well," Hermes added, sharing a bemused look with Apollo before turning his catlike eyes to Agron. "I should know, right? After all, I'm just a common thief. We're supposed to be good at lying, are we not?"
Agron didn't answer.
Unfazed by the lack of response, Hermes stepped towards him, his eyes now sparkling mischievously. "Do you know what Apollo's name means, Agron? It means 'destroyer'. You see, he's really good at smiting people."
The woman on the ground let out a tormented moan. "Don't hurt him—please—don't hurt him…"
One look from Apollo and she fell silent.
Hermes went on. "I should really let him handle your punishment. All it takes is a shot of one of his arrows and you'll be down with the plague—it'll have your blood boiling within a week."
He shot Apollo an impish grin as Agron's face paled.
Apollo's nose wrinkled. "He isn't worth the effort it takes to draw my bow. We'll have to think of something else to do with him."
It took less than a second for Hermes to get an idea. A grin that seemed to show every single one of his teeth spread across his face, stretching from ear to ear. "Allow me?"
"Be my guest."
The messenger was nearly bouncing with excitement—he loved to express his creativity.
Spinning around to face Agron, Hermes waved his caduceus in a series of complex movements. In spite of himself, Apollo leaned over the herald's shoulders to watch.
There was a small pop, and then a loud scream—Agron's mother fell to the ground, sobbing hysterically. Her son had disappeared. In his place was a large raven with sooty black feathers.
To Hermes' great surprise, Apollo burst out laughing. The sound, so rarely heard from the other god, was as delightful as the pealing of bells. Not even the shrill squawks the bird was now emitting could ruin the moment.
"A raven, Hermes? Really?"
Ravens were often associated with Apollo, usually as the deliverers of prophecies.
For a moment, Hermes didn't respond—he was too busy dancing victoriously, cackling all the while.
When he finally stopped, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes were shining brighter than ever. "Suits him well, don't you think?" he asked Apollo with a sly wink.
"Indeed," Apollo said, still chuckling. Then his smile fell. He turned to the heartbroken mother, who was still huddled on the ground, and held a slender hand out to her.
Trembling, she took it, and he pulled her to her feet.
For a long moment, god and mortal stared at each other.
Hermes looked on with bemusement. He wished he could know what was going through the woman's mind as she looked into the face of Zeus's most beautiful son: Apollo, with eyes the exact shade of lapis lazuli.
The god was the first to break the silence. "I hope you know why we did this," he said quietly.
"Perhaps I will, someday," she replied in a broken voice. "Today, I grieve."
Apollo tilted his head, and Hermes saw his hand squeeze the mother's—gently, as to not break the delicate bones. His expression had changed in the space of a few seconds—where there had been cruelty and anger, there was now calmness and understanding. This, Hermes knew, was Apollo's goodness shining through—the god with an air of serene majesty about him, who comforted those in most need of his kindness.
"Have no fear. I will watch over you," Hermes heard Apollo whisper. "You needn't grieve alone."
"Way to ruin my fun," Hermes pouted.
Apollo offered him a disdainful look before turning back to the grieving mother. "Call my name, and I'll be there," he promised, releasing her hand and taking a step back.
Hermes glanced at Apollo and then at the woman, inadvertently meeting her eyes.
He held her gaze for a long moment, reading the pain and suffering written across her face.
He wasn't going to apologize. He refused to.
"It was a pleasure meeting you," he said instead. "I hope you won't curse my name because of what I did to your son."
She parted her lips as though to reply, but Hermes didn't wait for an answer. He reached out to grasp Apollo's wrist, and a split second later, they were soaring through the air on the way back to Mount Olympus.