Whispers from the Underworld

The weight of the lyre, cool and smooth against his shoulder, had been a novelty. The satisfying thrum of its strings, a new song for a new dawn, had been a triumph. But this… this was a different kind of burden. Hermes felt it settle upon him, not with the tangible heft of Apollo’s sun-kissed cattle or the polished wood of his first invention, but with a chilling, pervasive chill that seeped into his very bones. He was the psychopomp now, the guide of souls.

Zeus, in his booming voice that echoed with the finality of thunder, had decreed it. "Hermes," he’d thundered, his gaze fixed and unwavering, "your speed is unmatched. Your ability to slip between worlds, unparalleled. You shall ferry the departed to the silent halls of Hades."

Hermes had almost protested. He’d wanted to ask if there wasn’t a more… exhilarating role. Perhaps a divine courier, delivering urgent messages between warring titans? Or a celestial scout, charting unexplored nebulae? But the look in his father’s eyes, a mixture of paternal pride and unwavering expectation, had silenced him. And then there was the glint of amusement in Hades’s own dark eyes, a silent acknowledgement of the grim humor in the assignment.