There are fewer stories about Hermes.
Yes, he features in many. He makes appearances in myths. Providing aid to the hero, consulting with Zeus, ferrying souls. But always in the background, always a supporting character.
If he’s in a mood to joke– and he usually is – he’ll point to the Nords, say “now there’s a culture that knows how to treat their trickster God.”
But he loves it, really. He loves that space between tales. He loves the image of himself slipping through scrolls, living on the edges of stories.
There are fewer stories about Hermes, because Hermes does not tell them.
He prefers to be all-purpose. Hermes, the God of whatever needs divinity. Hermes, God of thieves and merchants, God of tortoises and Hawks, God of contradictions.
The joke, on Earth. A woman might be complaining about everyday troubles, and someone will say “take it to the Gods.”
“Oh really?” She’ll say. “The God of aching feet? The God of belly fat? I’ll just send a prayer to the God of spoilt milk.”
And someone will say, “just give it to Hermes.”
And everyone will laugh. Hermes, God of whatever.
But in those small moments, those small hurts, it is Hermes that they pray to. Because the messenger God listens, the messenger God carries every prayer, and sometimes that’s all that is needed.
Hermes cares about humanity because he cares about stories. He cares about the flicker of words from mouths, about the way information travels in haphazard lightning across continents.
He thinks himself the start of every tale, and often he is. The figure by the fire, the rich whisper of the narrator, the heat on enraptured faces. Hermes thinks himself the one to carry stories from reality to legend. He thinks himself the one who creates heroes. And it’s true, in a way. A hero is created only when stories are told about them.
And Hermes’ reward is the stories he doesn’t tell. The one God privy to playground myths, to bedtime legends, to the way people narrate the Gods when they aren’t in temple.
Hermes finds himself, there in the background, along the edges of stories he didn’t make. People add him in for that trace of humor, for that wicked smile. He’s delighted every time. The only God to take actors aside, to whisper congratulations on their portrayal of him.
If there is a story about Hermes, he didn’t tell it. It came, instead, from the storyteller being asked to repeat “the part where Hermes…” from children asking their mother to “do the Hermes voice again.” Even the Gods can’t reckon for how tales take on a new life down below. Even the God of messengers can’t contain the flow of a story from person to person.
If there is a story about Hermes, he has been in the audience every time, has heard it over and over.
If there is a story about Hermes, he knows it.