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Hermes was bored.
Really bored.
It should’ve been illegal to allow a god like him to be as bored as he was.
He was sitting down on the cold hard stone of his home, Mount Cyllene, watching the torches along the walls flicker and burn. His mother, Maia, was sound asleep in her room, leaving Hermes to his own devices of entertainment.
He stood, looking out the mouth of the cave with a mix of awe and childhood wonder.
In all the centuries Hermes had lived (around fifteen years in God-time), he’d never left home before. Maia told him it was because his father’s wife, Hera, was—to say the least—rightfully pissed about her husband’s affair.
But it isn’t fair! Hermes would complain to his mother. It’s not my fault I was born!
I know. His mother would reply gently. One day, when you’re old enough, Hermes, you may leave.
Hermes strongly believed he was old enough now.
He glanced behind him, just to make sure his mother was still sleeping, and slipped out of the cave entrance.
Immediately, the light from the sun caused the young god to wince, his eyes too accustomed to the darkness of the cave. But as they adjusted, a grin formed on his face as he took his first look of the outside world, sprinting down the mountain as fast as he could, bare feet skidding against gravel.
The world stretched endlessly before him.
And Hermes had plans.
…
..
.
He hadn’t gotten more than ten steps before curiosity tugged him in every direction. Flowers he’d never seen before, birds that darted like thoughts, the distant hum of mortal villages.
But then he heard something.
A sound like hollow wood.
Hermes followed it to a half-buried tortoise shell. Inside his mind, a spark ignited—bright and brilliant. Before he even realized what he was doing, he was scooping up reeds and string, humming a tune he didn’t even know he knew.
Minutes later—maybe hours—he held the world’s first lyre.
It vibrated in his hands like it wanted to be alive.
He plucked a string.
The note spiraled into the air—clean, sharp, beautiful.
Hermes grinned.
This was good.
This was dangerously good.
So dangerously good, in fact, he needed to show someone.
Someone important.
…Someone that may or may not have a huge herd of incredibly stealable cattle.
…
..
.
Stealing Apollo’s sacred cattle wasn’t originally the thing Hermes expected to do the first time out of the cave. But then again, nothing he ever did was originally what he planned.
He disguised his footprints, reversed the hooves of every cow so it looked like they walked the opposite direction, and herded them away with the smugness of a god twice his age.
He was halfway through celebrating his victory when Apollo burst in—glowing, furious, and very much done with this child’s existence.
“Hermes,” he growled, “give. Them. Back.”
Hermes didn’t run.
Surprisingly, he didn’t even lie.
Instead, he lifted the lyre.
One soft chord filled the air.
Then another.
Apollo’s anger dissolved like mist under sunlight. The god of music listened—eyes widening, voice caught in his throat. It was beautiful. Otherworldly. Addicting.
“Trade me,” Apollo breathed. “My cattle… for that instrument.”
Hermes shrugged innocently, grin widening. “If you insist.”
…
..
.
Zeus arrived not long after, pulled by both Apollo’s complaints and the lingering music in the air. He expected chaos. He expected rage. He expected to punish his son.
Instead, he found Apollo lovingly cradling the lyre while Hermes pretended to look repentant.
Zeus stared at his son for a long moment.
“Boy…” he laughed, “you are either trouble incarnate… or exactly what Olympus needs.”
He snapped his fingers.
A pair of golden winged sandals appeared, shimmering with gears and magic—crafted by Hephaestus himself.
“Take them,” Zeus ordered, “and try not to cause too many disasters with them.”
Hermes took them.
He absolutely caused more disasters.
But he also became Hermes—the messenger of Olympus, the trickster, the boundary-breaker, the one god who could outrun consequences.
And to think it all began with boredom, a tortoise shell, and a terrible idea.