Hello again,
clever minds and curious hearts.
I’m Harmonia—goddess of harmony.
daughter of war and love, and your loyal chronicler of divine dysfunction.
Tell me: have you ever met someone who can’t sit still?
You know the type. Talks fast, walks faster. Always late but never flustered. One eyebrow cocked like they know something you don’t. And somehow… they usually do.
That’s Hermes.
He’s the god of messengers—and messages. Also roads, thieves, dreams, travelers, markets, lies, luck, and shoes with wings. Basically, if it moves fast or causes mischief, it’s in his job description.
He’s the one god you’ll see everywhere. Olympus, Earth, the Underworld—he zips between them all like a divine delivery guy who moonlights as a spy and maybe also runs a prank channel on Mount Olympus Live.
But don’t be fooled by the grin. Hermes is clever. Too clever. He once stole something from Apollo before he could even walk.
Today’s episode? It’s about the fastest god on two feet—and the slow lessons he sometimes has to learn.
Because even the gods have issues.
So tighten your sandals, keep an eye on your lunch, and whatever you do… don’t blink.
Hermes might already be gone.
If you ever wanted a job done quickly, sneakily, or both—Hermes is your god.
Let’s start with the sandals. Not just any shoes—these are golden, winged sandals, custom-made by Hephaestus. They let Hermes fly. Not glide. Not float. Fly. Forward, backward, upside down, around corners—he’s the only god who treats the sky like a skate park.
Next, the caduceus. It’s a staff, wrapped in twin snakes. Very official-looking. If you ever see someone holding one, either they’re about to deliver a message from the gods… or they’ve borrowed it from Hermes and are about to cause a lot of confusion. The staff can calm conflicts, send dreams, and occasionally hypnotize people—though Hermes insists he only uses it responsibly. (Narrator’s note: he does not.)
He wears a traveler’s cap, too—wide-brimmed, enchanted, and supposedly makes him invisible to mortals when he chooses. Which means Hermes can go places even Zeus doesn’t know about. And he often does.
But his real power isn’t the gear.
It’s his brain.
Hermes is the god of cleverness, quick thinking, and creative solutions. A problem appears? He’s already got three answers, two backup plans, and a getaway route mapped out just in case. He’s a trickster, but he’s not chaotic. He likes rules… so long as he can bend them.
He’s also the only god who travels freely between the mortal world, Olympus, and the Underworld. Most gods don’t go near Hades’ realm unless they have to. But Hermes? He’s got an all-access pass. He’s the divine escort—guiding newly departed souls across the River Styx. It’s not all laughs and riddles. This part of his job is serious. Solemn. Sacred.
So, let’s take inventory.
Fly? Check.
Teleport? Basically.
Master of dreams, lies, trade, roads, and diplomacy? Also check.
Can cross into the land of the dead? Yes—but don’t try this at home.
And if that’s not enough, he speaks every language ever spoken—including bird, fish, dog, and bureaucrat. (Yes, even those.)
Hermes uses his powers for all sorts of things. Delivering Zeus’s top-secret scrolls. Guiding lost travelers home. Whispering ideas into the ears of inventors. Negotiating peace—or stirring up a little drama just to keep things interesting.
He’s the god behind inspiration and improvisation. If you’ve ever come up with a brilliant excuse on the spot, talked your way out of trouble, or figured out a shortcut that saves ten minutes and a tantrum—you might have had a little help from Hermes.
But here’s the twist: he’s not just fast. He’s focused. Hermes isn’t sprinting for the sake of it. He’s chasing meaning. Movement. Messages. Momentum.
And if you’ve ever felt that tug in your chest—the sense that you’re supposed to go somewhere, say something, do something—but you’re not sure why… that might be Hermes, too.
He’s the god of going.
And wherever he goes, a story usually follows.
Hermes was born in a cave.
Not a palace. Not a temple. A quiet, shadowy cave tucked into the side of Mount Cyllene in Arcadia. His mother, Maia, was one of the Pleiades—seven celestial sisters, daughters of Atlas. She was gentle, wise, and reclusive. The kind of goddess who preferred starlight to spotlights.
And the father?
Well… it was Zeus. Of course.
Zeus had many children in many places, but this time he chose secrecy. He visited Maia in silence, under the cover of night, and when Hermes was born, no trumpets sounded. No golden cradles. Just a baby in a cave, and a mother who hoped he might stay quiet long enough to nap.
He did not.
Within minutes of birth—literally minutes—Hermes did something no infant should be able to do.
He stood up.
Then he stretched. Then he wandered outside.
And by sunset, he had already caused an international incident.
See, just over the hills grazed a herd of sacred cattle belonging to his half-brother Apollo. Hermes, curious and mischievous from the start, decided they were interesting. So he stole them.
But not recklessly. Oh no. Baby Hermes thought it through. He reversed the cows’ hooves so their tracks pointed the wrong direction. He wore sandals made of branches to disguise his own footprints. He led the cattle into a hidden glen, tied them up neatly, and—just to top it off—created the first lyre from a turtle shell and sheep guts.
Yes. While other babies babble, Hermes built a musical instrument. And played it. Beautifully.
Apollo, of course, noticed the missing cows.
Storming across the hills, glowing with solar fury, he eventually found Hermes back in his cradle… looking suspiciously innocent. Apollo demanded answers. Maia was horrified. Hermes? He just grinned.
“I don’t even know what a cow is,” he said. “I’m a baby.”
Eventually, the truth came out—Hermes confessed. But instead of punishing him, Apollo listened to the music from the lyre… and was enchanted. The two struck a deal. Hermes gave Apollo the lyre. Apollo, in return, gave Hermes the caduceus—the herald’s staff—and forgave the cow caper.
Zeus, watching the whole thing unfold, didn’t scold his newborn son. He laughed. He saw something in Hermes: a spark, a speed, a genius for negotiation and invention. And so he gave him a job.
From that day on, Hermes would be the herald of the gods. The official messenger. The one who could go anywhere, talk to anyone, solve the unsolvable—or at least distract people until the problem vanished on its own.
He grew up fast. Not just in years, but in purpose.
As a child he invented new musical instruments, new types of dice, the first alphabet (depending on who you ask), and a dozen clever ways to sneak desserts without anyone noticing. As a teenager, he was already carrying Zeus’s declarations across realms. As an adult—well, if gods even have adulthood—he was everywhere at once. A whisper. A breeze. A traveler’s luck. A clever lie that saves a life.
Hermes wasn’t raised in a traditional home. No golden throne or formal training. But maybe that’s what shaped him. He was free to explore. To invent. To break things… and then explain, charmingly, why it had been necessary.
He didn’t learn by rules. He learned by doing.
And what he did… was everything.
There’s one story Hermes doesn’t joke about.
One delivery he never mentions.
It happened early in his career. Before the golden sandals were broken in, before he had memorized every shortcut between Olympus and Earth.
The gods had made a woman.
Not just any woman—the first mortal woman. Crafted by divine hands, each god adding something. Aphrodite gave beauty. Athena gave skill. Hera gave charm. And Hermes… well…
He gave her a gift, too. A silver tongue. A clever mind. The power of persuasion. Zeus told him to.
And when she was ready, dressed in flowers and mystery, Zeus handed Hermes one more thing: a jar.
Sealed. Silent. Glowing faintly at the seams.
“Take her,” Zeus said. “Bring her to Epimetheus.”
Hermes didn’t tell her what was in the jar.
He didn’t answer when the woman looked confused.
Her name—Pandora—meant all-gifted, but she seemed to know nothing of what she was for.
He just smiled. Took her hand. Walked her across the hills, through the forests, down into the world of mortals.
He told her jokes. Pointed out birds. Played her music on a flute he’d made the day before. She laughed. She trusted him.
And when they reached Epimetheus’s house, Hermes handed her over like a gift-wrapped riddle.
He didn’t stay for dinner.
He didn’t stay to see her open the jar.
He knew exactly what would happen when she did.
How everything would. How pain and plague and sorrow would spill out into the world like smoke from a broken lantern.
How mortals cursed Pandora’s name.
Called her a fool.
A traitor.
The one who ruined everything.
But that’s not what hurts Hermes.
What hurts is this: he knew.
He knew the jar wasn’t just decoration. He knew Zeus had a gleam in his eye—not of justice, but of vengeance. He knew this wasn’t kindness—it was a trap.
And still… he played his part.
Because it was his job. Because he didn’t question orders. Because he liked being trusted, included, important.
Because it was easier to deliver the box and pretend that the opening of it would not be his fault.
Sometimes, when he’s walking the long road between life and death, he remembers her face. The way she smiled up at him, holding the jar in both hands. Curious. Bright. Unknowing.
He wonders if she ever felt betrayed.
He wonders if she ever knew it was him who sealed her fate with a nod and a grin.
He tells himself he was just the messenger.
But sometimes… that’s not enough.
He’s delivered love letters and death sentences, declarations of war and pleas for peace. But no scroll he’s ever carried has weighed more than that jar.
Because it wasn’t just sorrow that spilled out. It was blame.
A cosmic blame cast on all womankind—for the curiosity that the gods themselves designed. A punishment disguised as a present. A story told backwards, until guilt became her legacy.
And Hermes?
He was the ribbon on the box.
Even now, if you mention Pandora in his presence, he won’t crack a joke. He won’t wink. He’ll just go quiet. For once, he won’t say anything at all.
Because even the god of speech… sometimes has nothing to say.
Sometimes, I wonder if anyone ever says “no” on Olympus.
Not a dramatic, lightning-crack “no.” Just a quiet one. The kind that says, “This feels wrong.”
I don’t think Hermes meant to hurt anyone. He’s not cruel. But when you’re fast, clever, and constantly in motion, it’s easy to skip the pause that asks: “What am I part of?”
It’s easy to confuse doing your job with doing the right thing.
I’ve seen it before. Orders passed down like thunder. Plans carried out without question. And then… the consequences land on someone else’s shoulders.
In this case: a girl named Pandora.
She didn’t build the jar. She didn’t ask for it. She didn’t understand it. But she opened it—and the world blames her.
I think about that a lot.
Because I’m a goddess, yes—but I’m also a daughter. Of Ares and Aphrodite. Which means I come from a long line of people who think desire and destruction are just two sides of the same coin.
And still… I try to be different.
I try to listen.
To sit with the stories that make us uncomfortable.
To ask: who really made the jar?
Who handed it over with a smile?
Who walked away before it opened?
Hermes did what he was told. And he’s spent centuries wondering if that’s enough.
He didn’t cause the pain—but he helped deliver it.
And maybe that’s the hardest truth of all.
Because being kind isn’t just about being gentle. It’s about paying attention. Asking questions. Noticing the power you have—especially when you’re the one holding the message.
Mortals say that Pandora let all the world’s troubles loose… but that’s not the end of the story.
There was one thing left in the jar.
Hope.
Small. Flickering. Brave.
I don’t think that was an accident.
I think some part of Pandora—despite everything—chose to keep it. To guard it. To leave something behind that might outlast the pain.
And maybe that’s why Hermes still carries her memory.
Not just because he delivered sorrow.
But because, somehow, hope got delivered too.
So… that was Hermes.
Fastest god alive. Smoothest talker on Olympus. Bringer of messages, music, miracles—and, sometimes, mistakes.
He’s clever, yes. Funny. Charming. But beneath the wings and winks, there’s something deeper: a god who knows the weight of what he carries. Who’s delivered both joy and heartbreak. Who’s still learning when to speak… and when to stop and think.
And maybe that’s the hardest lesson of all, even for the gods.
But don’t worry—Hermes won’t stay quiet for long. He never does.
Next time, though, we’ll meet someone very different.
Someone who doesn’t glide through life.
Someone who limps.
Someone who doesn’t charm with words—but with flame, with hammer, with fire-forged brilliance.
Hephaestus.
The god of metal, invention, and things that last.
He’s not flashy. He doesn’t show off. He’s often overlooked. Even laughed at.
But don’t underestimate him.
Because while Hermes delivers the message, Hephaestus builds the world it lands in.
He’s the one who shapes what gods wear, what mortals wield, and what endures after everything else breaks.
And trust me… he has a story worth telling.
So polish your bronze. Oil your gears. We’re heading into the forge.
I’ll see you there.
I’ve learned something from watching Hermes.
That speed and silence can both hide things—and reveal them.
That being clever isn’t the same as being wise.
And that even the gods, for all their power, sometimes look back and wonder, “What could I have done differently?”
That question matters.
Because it means we’re still learning. Still growing.
Even the immortal ones.
So if you ever feel like your voice doesn’t matter, or that your choices don’t count—remember Hermes.
He carried a thousand messages.
But the one that stayed with him…
Was the one he didn’t question.
Much love to you my dear friend.
I am Harmonia.