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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"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.

Hermes hums in consideration. On one hand, it'd make it a lot easier to see Achilles regularly, and he wouldn't have to hide their relationship. But on the other hand, he doesn't think that Achilles can be amused for an eternity of tournaments, and Hermes cares more that Achilles is happy than he cares about seeing him when he'd like.

He sips his wine, rolling a few half-formed thoughts in his head.

"...How do you feel about children?" He fluffs his feathers, his mouth running away with him as he puts together ideas in real time. "Because you were so good with my cousin. And since Than usually deals with natural deaths, I'm usually the one delivering children to Charon, most of the time without any adults with them. I do my best to calm them down and convince them that Charon will be nice and take care of them, but he's scary for adult mortals, much less children. Maybe they'd be more comfortable if a human could deliver them to Erebus instead and organize chaperones to guide them through the sentencing process?"

And while Hades has dominion over his own House and shades, the ways and methods that those shades get from the surface to their final resting place is much more within the jurisdiction of people like Charon, Hermes, and Thanatos. And he can't imagine either Charon or Than would object to extra help with their smallest shades, especially since Than is uncomfortable with children and Charon is woefully aware of how frightening most of them find him.

"Just an idea. I can probably think of others. It can be sad and joyful work at once to deliver them safely."

It's Achilles' turn for surprise, as he tries to follow Hermes' train of thought. He is, of course, well beyond the point of having children, and how this might solve their problem, he can't even begin to guess ...

And then the full idea tumbles out and Achilles cocks his head. He quietly works at a seed between his teeth, thinking.

He usually sees the shades of children after they've suffered Charon's well-meaning, but ghoulish presence and the scrutiny of the judges. Sometimes he'll observe another kind shade caring for the child—often aged grandmothers and grandfathers who eased into death with no qualms, and see their own grandchildren in these orphaned souls. But more often, a child might be left alone, finding no comfort among those elder shades who are too absorbed by resentment or numbed by grief at their own misfortune.

In those children, he easily sees Zagreus when he was small, or even his own infant son, so full of promise. They'll still carry signs of their fate: blood on their tunics, rumpled bedclothes and wasted limbs, or hair still heavy with sea water ...

"It's a good idea," he finally says, slinging an arm around Hermes' shoulders. In fact, he'd happily take on the work even if it wasn't Hermes he was partnering with. "I would be honored by such a responsibility. Do you think you could convince Lord Hades to allow it?"

Hermes smiles, happy to snuggle into the one-armed embrace with his wine like a smug cat. He's very pleased that Achilles likes the idea, because the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks it'd be good for everyone. "I think I could so long as I ask him in front of Nyx and Persephone. Persephone has always had a soft spot for the little ones, and it's Nyx's children that administrate Erebus."

It's one of those unspoken things in the Underworld that Hermes has learned about. Hades is the figurehead who manages the paperwork and acts like he's in charge, and Nyx will defer to him as the lord, but he and Nyx both know that it was her realm before he descended its depths and it'll be her realm after he's gone.

"And my associate is never one for complaining, but I know he's wanted a better way to handle the children for a while. He really has a tender heart under all the smoke and groaning and he doesn't want the experience to be any scarier for them. I'm sure Thanatos would be grateful for someone who knew how to manage crying children, too."

Hermes sips his wine and nuzzles against Achilles' shoulder, his cheeks a warm gold. "The kids would love you. I cheer them up and help them feel better about everything, but once they're at the Styx, they need someone to make them feel safe." Hermes looks up at Achilles, expression nakedly adoring. "No one could keep them safer than the Greatest of the Greeks, hm?"

"The Greatest of the Greeks may need to set aside his spear and armor for the task." A few of the shades he'd approached in kindness still recoiled at the sight of a very imposing man-at-arms. Now he knows to be more careful. "Some of these children will have met their fate at the hands of a man like me."

He means any raiding warrior so armed and girded, but it could very well be one of the descendants both Zeus and Apollo had used as effective barbs against him.

It was as if they knew his deep regret: that he wasn't a good father in life—didn't even have the chance to enjoy fatherhood at all. He exhales the weight of that grief and lets his head loll against Hermes'.

"I've only ever told this to Pat, but ... When I imagine the other path I could have chosen, it leads to a home lively with sons and daughters—my own, and perhaps Pat's brood all under one roof. I would grow as old as Nestor and see the births of grandchildren and great-grandchildren." There's a hint of color to his face, a hushed softness in his voice—some vestigial shame at admitting a preference for a peaceful, domestic life. One he only formed after he slaked his deep thirst for violence and sealed his fate.

Hermes’ smile softens with Achilles’ admittance. He looks down at his wine, letting out a contemplative sigh.

“You would have been a good father, Achilles.” Hermes says it softly. Maybe the young, bloodthirsty Achilles wasn’t ready to be a father, but Hermes thinks that if he still could be, Achilles would be a wonderful father.

Hermes sets his drink aside, nuzzling his nose against Achilles’ neck.

“Is it mad to admit that sometimes I wish for children too?” It’s not something he talks about with anyone. He’s made his stance on kids clear. But still… “If I could guarantee they wouldn’t be dragged into some divine quarrel or start one of their own, I think it’d be very nice.”

He likes kids. He likes hoisting them up in his arms and making jokes and hearing them babble and letting them touch his wings. He thinks he’d love to have his own.

But if he did, he’d either eventually deliver them to Hades’ care or he’d see them grow into a god, and he’s not so sure the world needs new gods. He’s not so sure how many more gods the world could survive.

"Your worries aren't unfounded. I would be plagued by the same: that my sons would be recruited to war, or follow a dark path. That my daughters might marry cruel husbands." Achilles idly combs his fingers through one of Hermes' wings, deeply grateful that they weren't devoured. "And for all my good intentions, I could end up making the same mistakes as Lord Hades, or your father. A man thinks he knows better than his children, and they suffer under his hubris."

Achilles doesn’t say it aloud, but he wonders what Zeus might do to Hermes' children, either as penance for Hermes' own missteps, or if his offspring became too powerful and threatened Zeus' sovereignty. Maybe if this bid to put Athena on the throne is successful, another one of Hermes' worries could be put to rest.

"I think you would make a fine father. You're still quite like a child yourself." Achilles tilts his chin down and adds, "In all the good ways. Energetic, curious, amusing. Your children would never grow bored with you."

Hermes hums softly in thought, resting a hand on Achilles' knee.

"I think all children suffer under their parents, no matter how hard they try. The trick is if the parents care enough to see that and try to change. You're stubborn, but you care."

Hermes doesn't say it--it might hurt too much to say, even now--but Hades cares enough to try to change despite his innate stubbornness and pride. Zeus doesn't.

Hermes smiles at the thought of children, arching an eyebrow. "You know, I think most adults take themselves too seriously, forgetting what it's like to be curious and silly. A lot of adults could learn a thing or two from children." Hermes may not be the patron god of youth or children, but they still like him and he still likes them and they often wander into his domain of curiosity and mischief. He chuckles softly to himself, staring into space for a moment. "I remember that I harassed 'Thena with so many questions that she practically built a library to research so she wouldn't have to swallow her pride and admit she didn't know something. I like to joke that I'm the reason she became a goddess of wisdom. She pretends she doesn't think it's funny, but I see her trying to hide her smile."

"Athena and I have more in common than I knew," he laughs. "Zagreus was about as rigorous with his own questions. I never thought my duties in the afterlife would include penning an exhaustive codex on the Underworld and beyond, but that's what it ultimately took."

Achilles reaches for the hand on his knee to twine their fingers, and he shifts himself to better notch Hermes against his chest.

"That's one reason why I love you." He rubs a palm in a slow circle over Hermes' back, then settles at his waist. "You remind me of a time when I could be curious and silly, before everything swallowed me up. You give me hope that part of me hasn't withered completely away."

"You have a lot in common. It's really too bad that she's so hung up on decorum and status. I think you would be very good friends if she could let it go."

And Hermes thinks that his sister, as imposing and untouchable as she presents herself, is lonely. Maybe one day she'll soften and let herself have friends.

Hermes squeezes Achilles' hand, giving a happy hum to be so thoroughly held and cuddled and loved. It still makes his heart beat a little faster to hear Achilles say that so casually.

"It hasn't. It never did, my darling." Hermes turns so his nose rests against Achilles' throat, breathing him in. "It's always been there. You just need someone around to remind you that you can still be silly sometimes."

Hermes lets out a long, slow breath against his lover's neck. Happy to just be at peace right here in his arms.

"...One of the reasons I love you is that you make me feel safe. Like I can relax, and it's okay not to act like being a god means I always know what to do, or that I'm never afraid or vulnerable," he murmurs softly into Achilles' skin. "It can be hard to find people who don't need me to be more than I am."

That's how it seems a lot of the time--it's not just about preserving an image for ego or pride, but because so many people need that image to believe in. They need to think that the most powerful beings in the world are never scared, never needy, never hurt. They need to think that there's someone to turn to who can shoulder any burden and weather any storm. Hermes doesn't want to take that away from them any more than he wants to humiliate himself not living up to their expectations.

"If you succeed in your task, she may be even less inclined to fraternize with mortal heroes." And really, Achilles would have just as much difficulty relaxing around his patron deity.

It takes a massive amount of trust for people like them—gods and heroes—to relax. But it's important. Patroclus provided—still provides—that safety for him: someone with whom he can set aside his role as a hero, a demigod, a prince, a commander, the Greatest of the Greeks and simply rest. He returns to Elysium just as he would return to their shelter at Troy: he removes his armor, and lays bare his fears and uncertainty. He's often wondered if this is a heavy burden for Pat to shoulder, but now that Achilles is here, doing the same for Hermes, he knows it's no trouble to listen in sympathy and provide a warm embrace.

The chair creaks under Achilles as he draws Hermes into his lap. It's a terrible risk in his master's house, but after the two months behind them and everything that now lies ahead, he's feeling greedy. Achilles closes his eyes and ignores the tickle of feathers and the ambient hum of cosmic power—only focuses on the press of Hermes' wine-warmed cheek at his neck and the thrum of his words. Hermes may be a god, but Achilles knows there's a core of him that's imperfect and fragile. Human.

That Hermes shares such a tender part of himself is a blessing.

"Even if you were a mortal—a shepherd, an athlete, a cutpurse—I would love you just the same."

Hermes gladly allows himself to be pulled into Achilles' lap, curled up against his lover like a cat. Or perhaps like a bird shielded from the cold. He snuggles up against Achilles in a position perhaps even more compromising than the throes of passion, and he just hopes that everyone is good about knocking in the House of Hades.

"Keep talking like that, my love, and you'll never get rid of me," Hermes murmurs into Achilles' neck, smiling against his skin. "A hundred years hence and you'll still have to put up with me coming along and demanding all your time and affection. You'll be so bored but I'll still be bothering you for more wine and sweet words and sex."

Hermes hums affectionately, setting his wine aside so he can wrap his arms around Achilles' neck, kissing the joining of his jaw and neck. "I'm sure it'll be awful for you. But if you ever complain, I'll just remind you that I warned you not to speak so sweetly if you didn't want me to stay around."

"Ah, finally your cruelty comes to the fore," he laughs. "Beware, or I'll demand the standard rituals before I'm summoned. Sacrifices, libations, perhaps a few lengthy incantations."

Achilles gives Hermes' waist a teasing squeeze, then turns his head to collect a kiss. After he's enjoyed the taste of wine on Hermes' lips, he withdraws, and says with a weak smile: "My novelty will wear thin before a century's passed. Your eternity takes you anywhere you desire. Mine is bound to the Underworld. It changes very little—and slowly, at that—and leaves me little to discuss besides my duties."

A hand moves to Hermes' chest, tracing the loop of his necklace and each of the charms strung along it. There's no jealousy or resentment in his voice when he says, "You'll find other lovers in a hundred years' time."

Hermes happily returns the kiss, tasting figs on Achilles' lips, but then his smile falters a little at what he says. Tucking a golden curl behind Achilles' ear, he says, "Do you think I need novelty to keep loving you? Do you think you're just a dalliance in my long immortal life?"

His eyes are sincerely concerned (and maybe even a little hurt) as he rests his hands on Achilles' collar. "There will be other lovers. Maybe even other loves. But that won't change how I feel any more than I've changed how you feel about Patroclus."

At least, Hermes is pretty sure he hasn't changed how Achilles feels about Patroclus, or how Patroclus feels about Achilles. Hermes doesn't ask after their relationship too much because he doesn't want Achilles to worry about him getting jealous, as some other gods might.

"If you worry about getting boring, then I'll bring things down for you. Books or stories or new weapons. Then you can tell me what you think of them. Or even if you don't, I'll still want to come back to you when I'm in the Underworld."

"I've lived nowhere as long as you have. I can't even fathom time on such a scale, nor can I guess how long love and friendship can endure. Mortals believe love can weather an eternity, but we scarcely know what an eternity truly is." All he knows is his own experience: he loved Patroclus all his life and sees no end in death, but his mind is still a mortal's. He thinks in the span of years and decades. Not even a century has passed since he died. What comes after that? What does the span of a millennium feel like? The vastness of an eon?

But he sees how Hermes took his words. Achilles wraps both arms around him reassuringly and he tries to explain himself. "I was only granting you permission to see less of me, or to move on someday if you wish. I'll be sad, but I won't be hurt. I'll always treasure the time we've shared and what you've taught me."

He presses his nose to Hermes' and gives him a pointed look. "And if you never tire of seeing me, rest assured I will always be happy to see you."

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