refusetofight | For @messageforyou

For @messageforyou

“Achilles!”

“Yes, Lord Hades.”

“There are visitors at the gate. See them to the audience chamber.” Hades sets down his quill and pushes up to his intimidating height to head to the chamber in question—an austere and drafty room reserved for private conversations with his fellow gods and artfully designed to honor xenia, while still uncomfortable enough to encourage brevity. Mortal shades and house staff are rarely allowed entry. “And send my wife along as well.”

Achilles bows and strides off to do as he’s told. After his brief infusion of Hades’ power in the arena, he can well imagine the clarity with which his master sees his realm and all that stirs within it. Particularly divine guests at the threshold of his halls, toeing the invisible boundary he placed to prevent gods from entering without his approval. (Shades and other lesser creatures can more or less come and go as they please; he could care less.)

With the grinding scrape of cold iron and stone, Achilles pushes open the House’s gate to behold ...

“Lady Athena, Lord Hermes. Please, come in. Be welcome,” he says after a very brief, shocked pause. He leans on rigid formality to hide his relief at the sight of Hermes safe and well after two months and only one brief letter. This is short lived, quickly replaced by a fresh bout of apprehension; why have he and his sister come to see their uncle?

Once they’ve been ushered to the cavernous audience chamber, Achilles finds Persephone in her garden—with Zagreus—and summons her as well. She smiles, dusts the dirt from her hands, plucks clinging leaves from her peplos and asks her son to continue weeding. Zagreus looks chagrined as he works at a particularly stubborn patch of crabgrass.

After two more short detours—one to task Dusa with preparing guest chambers, another to request food and wine from the chef—and Achilles finally positions himself outside the imposing double doors, ready to receive orders and steer away would-be eavesdroppers. All while he’s desperately straining his own ears to hear snatches of conversation.

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Achilles gives the apple another toss. It lands back in his palm with a slap. "Agreed."

Again, he may have a blatant bias for the goddess, but he trusts her to be judicious with her power, not applying it to seemingly bottomless, selfish appetites. Though he wonders how mortals will adjust when they realize Zeus is dethroned by his daughter; a woman in power over nearly all divinity—even such a revered goddess—might seem unorthodox to a society that relegates women to keeping house and rearing children.

No matter. Not as if they have any say in Olympian politics.

Achilles immediately registers the pain in Hermes' features, hears it in his tone, and draws him into a close hug. He runs a reassuring hand over his wing, smoothing down some agitated fluff. "Surely, they won't suffer much longer. Imagine their relief when they see you awake and whole—then you'll have more family falling over each other to dote on you."

It doesn't even occur to Hermes to think about how the mortals will react, so little is their power over Olympian matters. Those that don't like the idea will learn to fall in line, because Athena is absolutely willing to smite humans dumb enough to insult her. Maybe it'll prompt some positive change as Zeus' worst excesses stop being excused.

But then Achilles takes Hermes in his arms, and it's like the first time he can relax in two months. He melts in his lover's embrace, burying his nose into his neck, breathing him in. It feels so nice to just have Achilles hold him and pet his wings like he used to before all this mess.

"I don't even know what Artemis and Dionysus look like when they fuss," he confesses. "Maybe dragging me to a party? I haven't the slightest. Unless Dionysus wants to cling like he did when he was a baby."

Maybe Hermes should have seen this coming. Early on, he was more Dionysus' father than Zeus, since he was the one who hid him from Hera and checked in on him regularly. Dionysus used to cling to his leg and ask when he'd get his wings.

"He's a little big for that. Not sure if I could walk if he holds onto my leg like he used to."

Achilles has learned to be patient during long periods away from a partner, but there was still plenty of room to agonize over Hermes' well-being—and feel powerless to provide help and protection. Hermes' warm, trusting weight solid against him dissolves all lingering anxiety. At least for now.

Achilles smiles at the image of an infant Dionysus. Until he first met Zagreus—hardly bigger than a human 5-year-old at the time—it had been difficult to conceive of the gods as children. It was like looking at a venerable old tree and trying to imagine it as a sprout, or picturing bustling Athens as a tiny village before it became a grand city. But Zagreus quickly taught him that godlings are every bit as curious, silly, and troublesome as a mortal child. Clearly Dionysus and Hermes were no different. Maybe, as some of the youngest of the Olympians, that's why they're particularly fond of the plucky new cousin.

"I may have spied your brother doing that at a feast once," he laughs. "Poor Lord Poseidon was deep in his cups, and he couldn't figure out why his leg was so very heavy until it was pointed out."

Achilles releases a smiling sigh and simply gazes at Hermes for a long, contented moment. His eyes only stray when the lamplight plays across the new necklace resting at his chest. He gingerly taps at one of the familiar charms with a blunt nail. "Still carrying your magpie's treasures even without your bag?"

Edited 2022-12-13 05:37 (UTC)

"Really? He insists he's grown out of it, but I never really believed him."

Hermes chuckles into Achilles' neck. Just as Hermes will always be a baby to Apollo and Athena, Dionysus will always be a baby to him. He'll have to do a lot to make everything up to his baby brother, if not for Dionysus' temper then for his own conscience.

He pulls away from Achilles a little to see what he's tapping, and he smiles. The smile is a little sheepish, but also a little sad.

"I wanted to keep you close." Hermes touches one particular charm on the necklace. It sits on the edge of his collarbone and looks no different from the others, but clearly it's different to him. "And I'm not exactly delivering many messages with my bag right now."

Hermes rubs his thumb against the charm. "I hear you, you know. When you pray to me. I can't respond without my uncle noticing, but I hear you."

"Mmm. I'm glad they found you." He was sure to send his prayers once a day—originally thoughts of love and wishes for his safety, soon joined by ruminations on his fondest memories, or something that had occurred during the day: the shade of a renowned athlete that turned up at the gates, the figs that Persephone had finally brought from the surface, Méli's new habit of snapping at butterflies, the new hideous fish Zagreus dragged from the depths of the Styx that they named together and added to his codex (and later asked the cook to prepare ... only to find it tasted as revolting as it looked). Achilles wasn't sure any of it reached Hermes, but the practice brought him comfort.

He drags his index finger along Hermes' jaw and curls it under his chin, tilting his head to meet a kiss. It's slow and savoring, as if he were coaxing all of the tender meat from one of those rare figs. He knows he'll only enjoy Hermes' company for a day or two—then he'll be off again to continue his dangerous campaign.

Hermes hums softly into the kiss. He slides his arms around Achilles' neck, savoring his lover just as much as he is savored. He curls his fingers in Achilles' hair, sighing in sweet delight as two scheming months worth of stress melt away.

As the kiss ends, he looks at Achilles' eyes, just taking him in. Solid. Real. Cold in flesh, perhaps, but warm with love.

"I've missed you," Hermes says, a press of emotion in his throat that surprises him. Hermes is excellent at adapting to the circumstances presented to him and making it look easy, but despite any appearance to the contrary, the last couple months have been among the most stressful of his very long life. And he hasn't let himself feel it until he's alone with Achilles. "Once all this is over, let's try to make sure we don't have to take long breaks like this, hmm?"

Maybe even Hermes can figure out a way to get Hades' approval, or at least an agreement to turn a blind eye. After all this, he doesn't want the possibility of his uncle just ending their relationship hanging over them anymore.

Edited 2022-12-13 23:01 (UTC)

"I missed you, too," he agrees. Even if he often only saw Hermes in passing, delivering a message or a straggling shade, they could still exchange a few pleasantries or a borderline-flirtatious joke—one that's easy enough to dismiss as professional camaraderie. The mere sight of Hermes gave him a bright jolt of energy, like a sunbreak on a gloomy day that shocks the eyes and warms the skin.

"Let's both swear off risky decisions for a wh—" Achilles' thought is cut short by a knock at the door, and it's as if one of Zeus' bolts has struck him. He drops the apple he was still holding with a dull thunk, and takes an instinctive backwards step, but Hermes' fingers are still tangled in his hair. He winces and raises his hands to Hermes' wrists.

"E-excuse me, Mr. Hermes, sir!" Dusa's nervous voice barely makes it through the thick door. "Uh, room service?"

The brief panic abates a bit, knowing Dusa is both too polite and too shy to simply float into an Olympian's quarters. Achilles gives Hermes an apologetic smile, muttering, "Ah. Forgot I'd asked for food and drink to be sent ..."

Hermes' wings fluff like he's just been electrocuted and he jumps away from Achilles like a startled cat, wings flapping with his sudden flustered energy. But then he hears Dusa's voice, and Achilles' explanation and he forces himself to relax, taking a deep breath and alighting back on the ground.

"Guess we shouldn't put too much store by the privacy here, hmm?" Hermes murmurs, picking the apple off the ground and grabbing Achilles' spear from where it rests against the wall, offering it to his lover with a wink. "You look so much more formal with this."

He takes another moment to just pat down Achilles' hair where he'd accidentally pulled it askew, then goes to the door, checking over his shoulder to make sure Achilles has his bearings before opening it up and leaning against the threshold with his usual easy confidence, favoring Dusa with a warm but opaque smile.

"Hello there, my dear gorgon. Very kind of you to bring all this to my quarters."

He's never gotten as familiar with Dusa as Zagreus has--her anxious mannerisms and his very familiar and speedy hellos and goodbyes tend not to mix well--but she's always seemed like a decent sort to him. And she's helpfully the sort who seems far too anxious to accuse him or Achilles of anything, even if she did suspect something untoward.

By the time Hermes opens the door, Achilles has resumed perfect house guard posture: back straight, face stern, spear perfectly perpendicular to the floor. Past Hermes, he can see a full tray of culinary delights balanced on Dusa's head, her snakes coiled tight around handles on either side.

"I couldn't carry it all and the prince, well—" she blushes and giggles awkwardly, "He didn't have to! I could have done it in two trips."

"It's no trouble, Dusa. I was looking for an excuse to give my cousin a proper greeting," Zagreus says from the edge of Achilles' vantage. Then, to Hermes, "Hey, glad to see you in one piece. You had me worried, mate."

Achilles steps forward, face neutral, and uses the door's unusual width to keep a respectful distance from Hermes. He takes the wine from the prince with a, "Thank you, lad."

Dusa dutifully floats after Achilles and they arrange the offerings next to the fruit and flowers. While he helps the gorgon reassemble some canapes that tumbled in transit, he can hear Zagreus drop his voice conspiratorially to address Hermes.

"Don't let Achilles stop you from having fun while you're here." Zagreus remembers Anthesteria; how poor Hermes drew the short straw and had to keep his chaperone occupied for the duration. "Let me know if you want to sneak away for a bit."

Hermes has to fight the urge to laugh. Oh, if Zagreus knew the half of the fun he had with Achilles, he'd never be able to look Hermes in the eye again. But he's able to hide the amusement with his genuine delight at seeing his cousin.

"There you are, Coz! Started thinking they were hiding you from me." Hermes doesn't have to put any show on to pull Zagreus into a big Olympian hug, his wings fluttering and almost pulling them both off the ground. He catches himself before they both fly off and he lets Zagreus go with an affectionate smile and clap on the shoulder.

He drops his voice down into faux conspiratorial tones, knowing full well that Achilles can still hear them. "Don't you worry about me. I'm excellent at sneaking away when I want to. Too bad this trip is just for a short while, or I'd ask to go on one of your famous security inspections."

Hermes squeezes Zagreus' shoulder, feigning ignoring Dusa and Achilles as they set out the food and wine. He knows that the logical next question would be why Hermes was gone so long and why this trip was so short, so he keeps going before Zagreus can ask any questions.

"How have those inspections been, by the way? Punched your way to the surface plenty of times, I hope?"

Zagreus is still growing accustomed to his extended family's love of hugs, but he manages to return Hermes' embrace with a grin and a hearty pat on the back. Meanwhile, Achilles is trying to soothe Dusa's distress at the state of the food by profusely complimenting her work on the room.

"Oh plenty, but it's not the same as it was, now that my mother's back," Zagreus replies, his smile slowly fading into an aggrieved frown. "And my father insists that I file reports in triplicate after I make the rounds. You know how he is about paperwork.

"It's a small price to pay to glimpse the surface, though. And catch up with some friends." His face brightens again. "I think I've nearly convinced Eurydice to share her recipe for pom porridge with the head chef. And you know ... Patroclus has the strangest dog with him these days. Poor thing only has the one head."

Achilles can already sense the burning questions on the tip of the prince's tongue and he ushers Dusa back to the door. "Zagreus, lad, can I bother you to check in on Lady Athena and Orpheus? He usually needs some assistance when it comes to entertaining guests."

Namely, a reminder to provide food and drink before he treats them to an hours-long set.

"Oh funny how--" Hermes stops. "Poor thing only has one head?"

Hermes fights with himself, wondering if he should stop everything just to carefully explain to his cousin that that is, in fact, what a normal dog looks like and Hermes has clearly grievously overlooked Zagreus' complete lack of animal knowledge. But Achilles gives them a good out, and Hermes decides to table that conversation for another day.

"Oh yes, you should go see my sister. She doesn't say it, but she always misses you when she doesn't have an excuse to visit, and she gets jealous that I can come down so often." Hermes holds a palm to his mouth, feigning a whisper. "But good luck getting any sympathy about all your paperwork. You might make her jealous."

The best tricks are just telling the truth. Athena really does miss Zagreus when she can't see him, and wishes she had the same excuses Hermes has to come down and visit so much. And hopefully, that'll distract Zagreus enough to not ask the important questions before all possibility of getting involved has passed.

Zagreus looks at his mentor, then his cousin. The same suspicions that have been nagging him for a while have returned. Luckily, they have nothing to do with Achilles and Hermes' romantic entanglement. Only that something is going on among the Olympians and everyone is keeping it from him. There are far too many hushed conversations behind closed doors and excuses made to shunt him off before he can ask questions.

He feels left out, and after, well, everything he's learned to despise secrets.

The prince opens his mouth, then closes it with a look half-way between disgruntled and disappointed. Achilles knows that face, and it doesn't bode well. The cloud disappears when Zagreus meets his mentor's knowing gaze. The smile that replaces it doesn't quite reach his eyes this time, "Yes, you're right. Her visits are much more rare, aren't they? And I've been meaning to ask her for more tales about Achilles, the Greatest of the Greeks."

Said hero sighs, recognizing it as a kind of retaliation; if Achilles won't let Zagreus in on what's going on, the prince will satisfy himself by prying in a different way. He beckons the gorgon maid along as he turns back down the corridor. "I'll catch up with you later, Hermes. Let's go, Dusa."

"Please eat the food before it goes cold, Mr. Hermes!" Dusa warns as she hustles after the prince.

Hermes recognizes that look. It gives his heart a pang, but he lets his cousin go anyway, keeping an opaque smile on and waving him off.

He waits until the door is closed and the sound of footsteps retreating have receded before he lets the smile fall, sighing and running a hand through his hair.

"He'll understand eventually," Hermes says, and he's not sure if he's trying to soothe Achilles or himself. "He won't ever be happy about us taking his chance to make a choice away from him, but he'll understand."

And Hermes is sympathetic. Isn't he himself chafing under the protection of his family? But there's nothing Zagreus can do that is worth the risk of him taking a side. Or worse, the risk of Zagreus thinking that he can help solve the problems in a different way and trying to get involved.

And just as Athena's suffocating protection is borne of love, so is their discretion. Hermes turns to Achilles, reaching out to brush his fingers against his lover's knuckles. "I don't think we can rely on our privacy very much here. Zagreus is going to snoop if he's anything like I'd be in his shoes."

"I know his frustration." Achilles felt similar when his mother tried to hide him away from war. He honored her decisions—in part because she was a goddess with power and resources to make him obey—but back then, he secretly prayed they would find him and he could do exactly what every fiber of his being yearned to: fight with brutal efficiency and hoard honor and glory unto himself.

But Zagreus is different. Better. He doesn't fight just for the thrill of it, or a selfish desire to forge his own legend. He fights for much truer, lasting things: to see justice done, to protect those he loves, to improve the world around him. To bar him from that feels wrong.

"I know he would make a staunch ally to any just cause, but ... he worked so very hard to get here. I only want him to enjoy this peace as long as he can," Achilles says, an edge of parental exhaustion in his voice. "And he's strong, of course, but I worry he's still not come into his own as a god."

Achilles' eyes rest on Hermes and the golden blaze of his power. By comparison, Zagreus' is still scrappily finding purchase on tinder, sheltered from the harsh winds that might snuff out his burgeoning flame.

"You're right. He'll be watching closely." He takes Hermes' fingers, runs his thumb over them. For a moment, he feels guilty about keeping yet another secret from the prince. "As much as I've missed you, love, it's not worth the risk."

"He's not come into his own by far," Hermes says, his voice uncharacteristically grave. "It's rarely pretty when we do."

It's hard for anything to be pretty when a young, impulsive person suddenly comes into cosmic power beyond imagining. Hermes shakes his head, thinning his lips. "Zagreus will thank us if we make sure he comes into his own down here, where the damage he can do is limited."

Dionysus was the most recent god to grow into an adult, and coming into his own cosmic power involved driving his mortal aunts mad enough to rip his mortal cousin apart with their bare hands and wear his skin and parade his head around Thebes. Dionysus does not like revisiting that time in his life.

Hermes softens again as Achilles takes his hand. Hermes leans in, nuzzling against the crook of his lover's neck. "We'll make up for lost time after all this is over." Hermes huffs a soft laugh against Achilles' skin. "Or once Pop imprisons me in Tartarus for eternity, whichever comes first."

"I look forward to it— Making up for lost time. Not your eternal imprisonment." He echoes the soft laugh and his voice drops low with an edge of mischief. "Though ... in that case, I could always petition my master to appoint me warden."

He gives Hermes' forehead a playful kiss and extricates himself to set aside his spear again. He crosses back to the food-laden table and pours Hermes a cup of wine. As he offers it, he asks:

"What was it like for you? 'Coming into your own'?" The thing that immediately comes to mind is mortal puberty, but as mortifying an ordeal as that might be, Achilles suspects this is magnitudes greater. Certainly worth knowing about as the mentor to a young god, though Hades and Persephone are probably watching their son just as closely for changes in his divinity.

Hermes chuckles softly at Achilles' joke before taking the offered cup of wine, sitting down at the table and nodding his head to invite Achilles to sit with him.

"Me? I was lucky. I already had a little cosmic power in me when I was born, so it wasn't so dramatic." Hermes wiggles his fingers at the word 'power', like he's casting a spell. "Invented the lyre day one, convinced a herd of cows to walk backwards day two. No surprise Olympus accepted me so fast."

Hermes sips the wine before setting it down. "But when you get more powerful... it's easy to be clumsy. You just don't know your own strength at first." Hermes grimaces at his wine. "I found a mortal woman I was fond of, and I put curiosity in her head. Much more curiosity than she could take. She was so curious that she unearthed and opened a box a local healer had buried, and it turned out he was disposing of clothes worn by plague victims. Disease was still on the clothes and the whole town got sick."

Hermes rubs the bridge of his nose. This is his version of a not dramatic coming of age. "I found all the souls of the dead and brought them to the Underworld because I felt so bad about the whole thing. That's how we realized I could be a psychopomp too. Now all these years later, they keep telling some warped version of the story, and the poor woman is called the mother of misfortune."

Hermes sighs, shaking his head. "But I still had it pretty good, all considered. Athena killed her best friend by accident. Dionysus got so angry at his mortal side of the family that he drove his aunts mad and they ripped his cousin apart with their bare hands and wore his skin like a pelt."

He recognizes the parallels to the "warped" version of the story easily enough, nodding with interest to hear the truth of it. Achilles has learned so many of the stories he grew up with—about gods and heroes, monsters and misfortune—were exaggerated or inaccurate.

"I suppose it's similar enough to mortals. When we come to power over others—as kings or commanders," a pause, thinking of Zeus, "or fathers—it's easy to misuse it, often to great tragedy. The wise ones learn from it and persist with greater care, while the fools are destroyed. Usually."

Achilles settles into a seat at the table. Naturally, only one cup is provided; if the house guard is to protect an important guest, he should hardly be drinking. Instead, he rights another slouching stack of bread and cheese and dates.

"Did that sense of the world—the visions you showed me ..." Achilles can't think of a better word than visions, even though it was much larger than any of his human senses. "Did those come upon you all at once?"

Hermes cocks his head at the question, swirling the wine in his cup. For now, at least, he's content to drink without eating.

"...Slowly, then all at once." Hermes tries to gesture with his hand, making a very shallow slope and then a harsh fall. "I felt it coming a little. I had a chance to stop it if I really wanted to. It'd mean not doing what felt natural, but I could have. But then once you're the god of something, you always will be, even if someone else becomes the god of the same thing."

Hermes sips his wine again. The stuff down in the Underworld is strong, and it already gives his cheeks a light golden glow. "It was a lot at first, trying to sort through everything that I could feel and everything people needed from me. And it was a lot every time I became a god of a new thing. But I was born for it. I don't think I can imagine life without it now."

Hermes notes the lack of a second cup. He supposes that it would be inappropriate for Achilles to drink, but Hermes does make a point to put a few figs on his plate and push it towards his lover. A host wouldn't make his guest dine alone, right?

"It probably won't be so much for my Coz. Living mortals won't hear as much of his exploits, so they won't be able to build up his legend and ask him for things. It's always louder if they make temples and ask for things."

"And even if they hear of him, mortals might assume that Zagreus is every bit as terrifying as his father." Inevitable as death was, Achilles only heard the lord of the Underworld mentioned in hushed tones and rarely mentioned in tales of the gods.

Suffice to say, the first time he stood before his master, Achilles was surprised: Hades was intimidating, to be sure, but also gruff and businesslike. He'd known plenty of mortal men with similar comportments. The more time passed, lingering unease fully gave way to a sort of respect. The god's work is obviously difficult and thankless.

Maybe it's for the best that Hades (and Zagreus) aren't inundated with requests from the living. Only the hopeless petitions of the dead.

"But ... If they ever discover his secret—what a good, kind lad he is—he'll have more temples than he can handle." Achilles smiles and takes one of the offered figs, turning it over between his fingers. "You know, I told him about fig wasps and now he refuses to eat them."

"Mortals are always afraid of death until they have to deal with it themselves. Then they see it's just a new phase of existence."

Hermes thinks that Hades could stand to make the Underworld more comfortable, but he clearly takes his purpose to give the dead a place to rest in safety very seriously. It's professionalism that Hermes can respect, even if their temperaments guarantee he and his Uncle will never be close.

Hermes chuckles softly at Zagreus and the fig wasps. "He can afford to be kinder than most, I think. Death isn't permanent down here. Violence is gentler." On the surface, death meant losing someone for the foreseeable future. Killing someone required being comfortable erasing them from that plane of existence, never to return except as a ghost. It hardens people in a way that fighting in the Underworld doesn't. For all his skill in battle, Hermes suspects that his kind cousin would quail at killing a living, breathing, speaking person, and he's glad for it. "I think his kindness is necessary down here. Maybe when he grows, he'll be the counterpoint to his father."

The gentle if lackadaisical counter to the cold, hard consistency of Hades. Hermes already sees it in the way that Zagreus has adjusted the contracts of the dead.

Hermes shifts to lean his head on Achilles' shoulder, sipping his wine.

"...Maybe when all this is over, and provided I'm not locked up in Tartarus with you as my gentle jailer... we can think of how to safeguard our ability to see each other." Hermes looks up at Achilles through his eyelashes. "I don't want anything to get in our way again, not even my uncle."

Hermes isn't yet sure how--after all, Hades is famously uptight about decorum, and it's not decorous for his house guard to be in a relationship with his nephew--but that's something for the gears to churn through. Maybe he could call in favors.

"It's true. Killing the living takes callousness. Or madness."

Strong opponents fought to the last of their strength, pushing their flesh to its limits in the slim hope of dragging Achilles to the gates of Hades with him. Less hardened men wailed and pleaded for mercy—their flesh and its continued place in the beautiful, painful world were more precious than their dignity in death. Powerful or weak, vengeful or afraid, when Achilles cut them down, their eyes grew dark. Fathers, sons, and brothers all became meat for the hungry dogs and circling birds.

Here, death is a mild inconvenience. A shade returns to the Styx, reforms itself, and carries on with eternity. Nothing at stake. Nothing to lose.

Usually. Achilles has plenty to lose.

He squeezes the fig to crack open the skin and turns it inside out before finally popping it in his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, unbothered by the wasps that mysteriously disappear inside.

"What if I was no longer your uncle's house guard?" He licks the juice from his thumb and index finger, then reaches to fill Hermes' cup. "What grounds would he have to object?"

Hermes face slackens with surprise, straightening to look at Achilles' face and search his expression for a joke. "Is that something you'd consider?" he says. "I thought you like it here. Or at least, you like the work."

He doesn't bother with the question of if Hades would let Achilles out of his contract or not--really, with how beloved Achilles is by Zagreus, Hermes suspects that the prince would let Achilles out of the contract on his father's behalf in a snap--but he does wonder if Achilles would be happy without something to work on eternally. And it can be hard to find work in the Underworld, where most of the dead either occupy themselves with the creative pursuits they couldn't in life or fight in tournaments. And what about all the friends he has in the House? Would he be lonely without them?

"If you didn't work for him... no, he'd have no grounds to object. And he can't ban me from the Underworld any more than he could ban Thanatos." Hermes may not be fully of the Underworld, but he straddles the border like Thanatos, and not every god can be a psychopomp, as poor Iris is proving in her struggles.

"I enjoy my duties here at the House, but if it's the only way ..." He shrugs at Hermes' surprise. "I'd likely be confined to Elysium, but I'd enjoy much more time with Pat, and I would still see Zagreus. I could fight in the arena, I suppose? They enjoyed my last performance."

But he has no taste for endless tournaments, and even with Patroclus and regular visits from Zagreus and Hermes, he knows he'd succumb to boredom. His pent-up need to be useful might even drive Patroclus mad enough to consider drinking from the Lethe.

Achilles would miss his part in the Underworld's smooth function: looking after the queued shades while they're most vulnerable, assisting Dusa with the yearly House deep clean, taking dictation for Zagreus' security reports, fending off Chthonic vermin in Persephone's garden, and helping half-drunk Olympians stagger to their guest quarters after a feast (even if it meant enduring a handsy Aphrodite). There's always plenty to do, so much of it well beyond his original job description.

"I could adjust," he says, lamely.

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