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The Olympian dining hall, typically a symphony of clinking goblets, boisterous laughter, and the occasional booming pronouncement from mighty Zeus, was presently experiencing a rather . . . unique phenomenon. It was the grating, high-pitched whine of Hermes, punctuated by the exasperated sigh of Apollo.
Hermes, a whirlwind of gleaming wings and mischievous grins on most days, was at this moment resembling a petulant toddler trapped in the body of a perpetually youthful deity. He sat before a plate of ambrosia-infused roasted quail, prepared with painstaking care by Demeter’s celestial chefs, and glared at it as if it had personally offended his immortal lineage.
"It's too . . . gamey," he declared, pushing a perfectly browned leg around with a golden fork. "And the ambrosia sauce is too sweet. It's cloying, Apollo. My palate has been refined by millennia of nectar and the finest divine pastries. It cannot abide such an assault."
Apollo, usually the picture of golden serenity, a god whose very presence could calm a tempest, felt a familiar twitch begin behind his left eye. He’d spent centuries trying to instill some semblance of table manners, (or indeed, any manners) into his younger brother. Hermes, bless his eternally energetic soul, was a creature of impulse, a spoiled brat of the highest order, and a master of turning the simplest meal into a dramatic operetta of dissatisfaction.
"Hermes," Apollo said, his voice a low thrum that usually commanded attention. "That quail was harvested from the Gardens of Elysium this morning. Demeter herself oversaw its preparation. It is, by all accounts, a culinary masterpiece. And you, my dear brother, are being a ridiculous drama queen."
Hermes sniffed, a sound akin to a disgruntled celestial badger. "Ridiculous? Oh, Apollo, you wound me! My discerning tastes are simply a testament to my sophisticated nature. Unlike some . . . " he trailed off, glancing pointedly at Ares, who was currently devouring a whole roasted boar with the enthusiasm of a famished wolf.
Ares, oblivious, merely grunted, a bone cracking loudly in the background. Apollo winced and shuddered.
"Eat your quail, Hermes," Apollo urged, trying for patience. He was easy-going, yes, but there were lines. And Hermes had a particular talent for dancing flamenco on every single one of them.
"But I don't like it!" Hermes wailed, his voice rising, now attracting the attention of Hebe, the cupbearer, who paused mid-pour, a splash of nectar threatening to cascade over Zeus's toga. "This is as bad as Hera's face!"
A collective gasp rippled through the hall. Even Zeus paused, a thunderbolt metaphorically hovering in his hand. Hera, seated regally at Zeus's side, turned a withering gaze upon Hermes. Far too used to having her stepsons insulting her, she didn't bother to pass comment. Apollo, on the other hand, felt the slightest pang of sympathy for his stepmother.
He closed his eyes, counted to three, then opened them. "Hermes, that's enough. You will eat your food. Now."
"No!" Hermes declared, puffing out his chest. "I will not! It's a culinary travesty! A gastronomic catastrophe!" And with a flourish borne of pure petulance, Hermes flung the offending quail leg across the hall.
It sailed through the air, a trajectory of divine indignation, and landed with a distinct splat directly onto the pristine white tunic of Athena, who had just been in the middle of a deeply important discussion about battle strategy with Zeus.
Silence. An Olympic-sized, earth-shattering silence.
Athena slowly lowered her hand, which had been demonstrating a new spear-wielding technique. She looked down at the greasy smear of ambrosia-infused quail on her shoulder, then slowly, majestically, raised her gaze to Hermes. Her eyes were twin points of molten obsidian.
Hermes, for the first time so far, looked genuinely terrified. He visibly gulped. Even Ares had stopped eating.
Apollo, however, didn't look terrified. He was simply calm. Too calm. A calm that preceded a solar flare, a sunstorm and a supernova of annoyance mixed together. His golden aura, usually comforting, now seemed to pulse with a warning.
"Hermes," Apollo said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You have officially reached the end of my very considerable patience."
He rose from his seat. Hermes, ever the quick one, instinctively reached for his winged sandals, a flicker of an escape plan in his eyes.
"Don't even think about it," Apollo warned smoothly. "Because if you run, I shall personally ensure that every single message you deliver for the next century is intercepted by a flock of particularly aggressive harpies, and every single package you carry is mysteriously swapped for a sack of live scorpions."
Hermes froze, his wings drooping. "It's just a quail! And Athena has that weird magic detergent, doesn't she?"
Athena merely raised an eyebrow, the universal sign for "you are so, so dead."
"Come with me, Hermes," Apollo commanded, striding purposefully around the table. He took Hermes by the arm, his grip firm. "We are going to have a little chat. In my study."
The Olympian gods and goddesses watched, a mix of amusement and schadenfreude on their faces, as Apollo practically dragged a now whimpering Hermes out of the dining hall.
"Oh, this is going to be good," Dionysus chuckled, pouring himself another goblet of wine. "Oi, Hephaestus! You still got that recording device thingy with ya?"
*************************
Apollo’s study was a sanctuary of scholarly pursuits and cosmic charts. Bookshelves lined the walls, overflowing with ancient scrolls and celestial tomes. A grand orrery, depicting the movements of the planets, silently rotated in a corner. The air smelled of parchment, starlight, and the faint, pleasing aroma of Apollo's own laurel-wood incense. It was not, in short, a place for boisterous naughtiness.
Hermes, however, knew it well. He’d received previous lectures and spankings, and even the threat of a grounding (which, for a messenger god, meant the horrific punishment of not being allowed to deliver messages for a set period) here. The look on Apollo's face now promised something rather similar.
"Apollo, please," Hermes began, attempting his most charming, repentant look, which usually worked on everyone but his older brother. "It was just lapse of judgment! A misunderstanding! A - "
"Silence," Apollo cut him off, his voice utterly devoid of its usual melodic warmth. He led Hermes to a large, comfortable armchair and seated himself in it in a swirl of golden silk robes. "Now, come here, little brother," he said tartly. "Bend over my lap. Now."
Hermes blinked. "But why?" he whined, already knowing the answer perfectly well.
Apollo raised an eyebrow. "Because, Hermes, throwing food, especially at Athena, during a council dinner, is an act of supreme disrespect, utterly childish, and frankly, disgusting," Apollo explained, his tone even and calm, which was far more terrifying than if he had simply roared. "And you, my dear brother, are far too old for such antics."
"But I'm a god!" Hermes protested, "We're allowed to be capricious! It's in our nature! Besides, I'm only . . . well, you know, eternally youthful!"
"Eternally youthful doesn't mean eternally exempt from consequences," Apollo countered, eyes fixed on Hermes. "Now, come here. I won't ask you again."
Hermes' eyes widened. With trembling hands and a dramatic sigh that he hoped would elicit sympathy (it didn't), he untied his sash, and walked over to Apollo, who took him over his knee, locking him down in position before he could even think of protesting, and pushed down his undergarment. The cool air of the study touched his bare bottom and he felt a hot flush creep up his neck. This was humiliating.
Apollo took a deep breath. "Hermes, I love you, you know that. You're my brother. But you are also a spoiled, impetuous little brat who needs to learn some manners. This is going to hurt - as usual - and it's going to hurt for a while."
Hermes whimpered. "Please, Apollo, I'm sorry! I really, truly am! I'll eat all the quail in the universe! I’ll even clean Athena’s tunic myself!"
"Too late for bargaining, brother," Apollo said, his voice firm.
Then, the first strike.
SMACK!
Hermes yelped, a sound somewhere between surprise and indignation. His bottom stung with a heat that spread rapidly. It wasn't excruciating (yet), but it was certainly startling.
SMACK!
"Ow!" Hermes let out, jerking his hips. "Apollo! That really stings!"
Apollo continued, unperturbed.
SMACK! A little harder this time.
Hermes cried, tears pricking at his eyes. This was not a joke. This was real. His bottom was starting to tingle and burn.
SMACK! SMACK!
Hermes began to plead in earnest. "Please, Apollo, stop! I get it! I understand! I won't throw food ever again! I promise! I swear on the River Styx!"
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
"You're going to bruise me!" Hermes wailed, his voice cracking. "My divine posterior! It'll be ruined! What if I have to pose for a statue?"
SMACK! SMACK!
Apollo's hand was steady, unyielding. Each strike landed precisely, firmly. The sound echoed in the quiet study.
Hermes squirmed, trying to twist away, but Apollo’s other hand settled on his lower back, holding him in place.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
"Agh! Make it stop! Apollo, I'm going to disintegrate!" he sobbed, hot tears streaming down his face, splattering onto his bare forearms. His bottom felt like it was on fire, a deep, throbbing ache that pulsed with every beat of his immortal heart.
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
"I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry! I'll be good! I'll be the bestest brother ever! I'll shine your lyre! I'll organize your scrolls! I'll even fetch your chariots for you every morning without complaint!"
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Hermes buried his face in his hands, hiccupping, his entire body trembling. The shame was almost as bad as the pain. Almost.
SMACK! SMACK!
The final strike from Apollo’s hand was a firm punctuation mark. Hermes gasped, feeling the lingering heat, the deep throb. He thought it was over. He was wrong.
Apollo's arm shifted away for a moment. Hermes heard a click and a rustle. He peeked through his tear-blurred eyes. Apollo was holding something. Something wooden. Something with bristles.
"No," Hermes whimpered, a new wave of terror washing over him. "Oh, please, no! Not the hairbrush! Not again! Please!"
Apollo, ever the pragmatist, inspected the brush. "Precisely, the brush. It proved quite excellent for ensuring certain lessons are thoroughly absorbed last time. Your backside needs a thorough paddling, Hermes." He tapped it lightly against his palm. The sound was surprisingly ominous.
"But that's so much worse!" Hermes cried, trying to scramble up, but Apollo was too quick.
"That's the idea, little brother," Apollo said, his voice still calm, still unyielding. "Perhaps then you'll think twice before turning the dining hall into a food fight."
And then, the hairbrush descended.
WHACK!
Hermes shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated shock and pain. The brush was so much wider, so much harder. It didn't just sting; it delivered a blunt, stinging thud that resonated deep into his bones.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
"AAAAAAAAAGH!" Hermes howled, his bottom feeling like it had been struck by a miniature thunderbolt. Fresh tears erupted, a torrent, blurring his vision. He tried to writhe, he tried to kick, but Apollo held him fast.
WHACK! WHACK!
"I hate quail! I hate it! I hate it! I hate it!" Hermes screamed, the pain overriding all sense of decorum. "It's evil! It's a fowl demon!"
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
"Stop it! Stop it! I can't take it! My bottom is going to fall off! It's going to be flat! And welted! And . . . and purple!"
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Hermes sobbed, desperate, truly believing that his backside was suffering a fate worse than any underworld torment. He pleaded, he wailed, he begged, his voice hoarse and broken.
"Please, please, Apollo! I'll do anything! I'll be good! I promise! I'll be a little angel! A perfectly behaved, silent angel! I'll never cause trouble again! I'll walk in a straight line! I'll never prank Ares! I'll do anything you want, anything at all!"
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
The words seemed to have no effect. Apollo continued, his strokes firm, even, determined. The sound of the brush on Hermes' bare flesh filled the study, a rhythmic sound that was punctuated only by Hermes' increasingly desperate and tearful cries. His bottom was scarlet now, throbbing horribly, feeling hot and swollen. His face was soaked with tears and he genuinely believed this was the worst moment of his eternal existence.
WHACK! WHACK!
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! So, so, so sorry!"
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
"Father will hear about this!" he threatened weakly, knowing full well Zeus would probably applaud Apollo.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Hermes was reduced to incoherent whimpers, his body shaking uncontrollably. He just wanted it to stop. He wanted the pain to end. He wanted his big brother to be nice again.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
Apollo lifted the brush. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by Hermes' ragged, gasping sobs. His bottom throbbed, a relentless ache that radiated through him. He was completely, thoroughly and utterly thrashed.
Slowly, carefully, Apollo removed his hand from Hermes' back. He placed the hairbrush back on a nearby table, then lifted the whimpering god up onto his lap.
"Alright, little brother," Apollo said, his voice, surprisingly, soft. He turned Hermes around until he was facing him, his raw, red bottom now resting against Apollo's chiton.
Hermes flinched, then buried his face in Apollo’s shoulder, clinging to him. The tears were still flowing, but they were now mixed with a profound exhaustion. He felt the firm, warm hand of Apollo gently stroking his back, then running through his messy, tear-dampened hair.
"There, there," Apollo murmured, rocking him gently. "All done now. Shhh, you're alright. Just breathe."
The sudden shift from stern disciplinarian to comforting older brother was jarring, but Hermes, too broken and sore to question it, simply leaned into the warmth. Apollo’s soothing presence, his gentle humming, the steady rhythm of his breathing, slowly began to calm the storm within Hermes.
"It hurts," Hermes sniffled, his voice muffled as he stated beyond the obvious against Apollo's shoulder.
"I know it did, little brother," Apollo replied, his voice laced with a surprising tenderness. "And I'm not sorry it had to. You need to understand why."
Hermes nodded weakly. "Because I threw the quail," he said miserably.
"And because you were rude and disrespectful, and you made a public spectacle of yourself," Apollo added, a touch of his earlier firmness returning, though softened by concern. "You're a god, Hermes. You need to act like one. You can't just throw tantrums because you don't like your dinner."
"But it was gamey," Hermes whined, a small, residual flicker of petulance.
Apollo chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. "Yes, well, perhaps you'll find an appreciation for gamey quail after this, won't you?" He gave Hermes’ still-sore bottom a very, very gentle pat.
Hermes yelped lightly, instinctively drawing closer to Apollo. "Never again! I swear, I'll eat gruel if it means not getting the hairbrush!"
Apollo smiled, a genuine, warm smile that restored the golden light to his presence. He continued to hold Hermes, stroking his hair, letting his brother cry himself out on his shoulder. The lingering burn on Hermes' backside was still very much present, but the comfort of Apollo's embrace was slowly, surely, starting to outweigh the pain.
"Good," Apollo said softly. "Now, how about we get you washed up because your face bears an alarming resemblance to a frozen tomato. And then maybe some of Hera's famous shortbread to make up for the awful quail, hmm?"
Hermes sniffled, lifting his head. His eyes were still red and swollen, but a small, hopeful glint appeared in them. Hera's shortbread? That was tempting. "You won't tell anyone about this, will you?" he asked in a small voice.
Apollo raised an eyebrow. "Oh, my dear, mischievous brother. Do you really think a scene like that in the dining hall, followed by your theatrical wails from my study, will go unnoticed? Trust me, it's already the topic of conversation on Olympus. You'll be the butt of jokes for decades." He paused, then added with a wink, "Pun intended, of course."
Hermes groaned, burying his face in Apollo's shoulder once more, a fresh wave of mortification washing over him. But then, a small, hesitant giggle escaped him. The pain was still there, the humiliation lingered, but Apollo's warmth, his comfort, and the promise of shortbread were slowly mending his bruised ego and his, well, his bruised everything else.
Perhaps, just perhaps, he’d think twice before throwing food again. Maybe. For a little while, at least. He was Hermes, after all. There was always another prank, another mischief, just around the corner. But for now, he was content to be a cuddled, albeit sore, little brother in the arms of the sun god. And Apollo, for his part, was simply glad for a moment of peace, even if it had required a hairbrush to achieve it.