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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"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."

Hermes pouts, but there isn't hurt in his eyes anymore. He makes a little 'hmph' noise when Achilles presses their noses together. "I'm not my brother. I can't see the future." And also Apollo is still grumpy at Hermes' choice of lover and is clearly gearing up to set him up with some pretty nymphs, but that's neither here nor there. "But for now, and for as far as I can see, I love you ardently. You'll always be the hero who helped me when I was turned out from Olympus. Don't go trying to wave me off now."

Hermes makes another soft 'hmph' and settles in like a cat digging in its claws when a human it's sitting on starts thinking of standing up. There's something pertinently possessive about it. "A hundred years really isn't that long, you know, after you've lived a few. You'll see what I mean after a while. And I'm sure Zagreus will keep things plenty interesting down here."

He gives a soft laugh at Hermes' use of the word lived. Although he should know better by now: death is a transition, not an end. Of course, he can no longer influence the world of the living (not directly, in any case), but he can still impact the world of the dead—mentoring young gods or maybe ushering frightened children to their early eternities.

"My father used to say the same. Time moves faster the more years you have behind you." He looks up at the vaulting ceiling, still discolored with water stains and rushed patch jobs from the downpour months back. "I must at least be as old as he was when he told me that. Approaching sixty? Thereabouts?"

It was hard to tell with the former Argonaut. He was a sturdy, lively man, but still scarred and weathered by voyages and warring. Achilles suffers a brief pang of sadness at the thought of him.

"Maybe Lord Hades and Lady Persephone will have another child to tutor. Or Zagreus will have his own." Achilles shifts his posture, as one might when he's given up hope of moving from underneath a well-settled cat. "In the meantime, I'll take you up on your offer. I've need of a lyre ... or whatever curious things you come across. So long as they aren't obvious contraband."

"Might be over sixty. Not that I'm all that good at keeping track of years." Hermes keeps track of seconds, minutes, hours, centuries. Very little in between. Units of measurement in between rarely have much bearing on his work.

Hermes relaxes against Achilles again, smug in his knowledge that Achilles is stuck under him and not going anywhere soon. "Oh, I'm sure I can find some shiny magpie treasures for you, darling." Hermes already has some ideas. A lyre is easy to bring along--Hermes could just make one himself. But maybe Achilles would also be interested in some of the new plays being written, or new treats enterprising bakers are trying to make.

He drums his fingers affectionately against Achilles' collar, humming soft and thinking back earlier in the conversation. "...If I ever have children, and they can wander the Underworld like I can, I'd like you to tutor them too. I don't know any other mortal I'd trust."

Demigods usually can't freely enter the Underworld, but the child of a psychopomp may be different. The Underworld is not a wholly unthinking location, and it tends to recognize its own.

"I'll begin building a library just in case your fledglings show up at the gate with their relentless questions."

Of course, all of these possible futures hinge on Hermes' success in the short term; if he fails to oust Zeus, it could all be reduced to wishful thinking. But there's no harm in optimism; Achilles hopes this happy talk will help steel Hermes' resolve and improve his chances against his father.

Achilles' shifting jostles the table and he realizes they've totally ignored Dusa's request; the food still sits mostly untouched. Looking at it, what's there shows the head chef has learned about Hermes' sweet tooth: there are honeyed cakes topped with pomegranate seeds, dates stuffed with goat cheese, and fried dough sprinkled with chopped pistachios, to name a few.

He plucks one of the cakes from the spread and offers it to Hermes. "With all the new ingredients from the surface, the chef has never been happier. The only challenge is that surface food doesn't keep as well in the Underworld.

"The queen is experimenting in her garden, though—trying to acclimate plants." He frowns. "The results can be strange. I brought her water from the Lethe to cultivate a crop of tomatoes. When I tried one, it was uncanny ... The next hour felt as if I'd lived it all before." Déjà vu, the feeling might be called one day.

It does put Hermes' mind at ease to talk about a happy future like it's fact. It's not--it never is--but it makes it easier to be brave in its pursuit.

He hums as he's offered cake, and he dips his head to take a bite while it's in Achilles' hand. His feathers fluff in delight as he chews. The Chef is clearly enjoying having some of the ingredients they had in life. Goodness, it tastes good, and sweet enough to have Hermes' inner hummingbird whirring.

"Far be it from me to give anyone advice on gardening, much less Persephone, but the water from the Styx might be better for everyone's health." And less likely to just burn out the plants than Phlegethon's 'water'.

He finishes the cake in Achilles' hand in another bite, swaying side to side as his wings fluff in his continued unfettered delight at the treat.

"The Underworld's hospitality improves every time I come here." He leans against Achilles' chest. "It's too bad 'Thena's here too. She might let it spill that it's very nice down here, and then the rest of my family might want to visit. And then where would I be, competing for your attention?"

Aphrodite would almost certainly try to sleep with Achilles if she came down here, and Hermes would scratch her eyes out.

Achilles licks the crumbs and sticky honey from his fingers. The taste reminds him of childhood, but he takes more delight in Hermes' obvious joy. He looks as happy as a sparrow with a fresh scatter of seed in the garden.

His sister must be somewhere else in the palace, sampling a tray of food specially selected for a refined palate. Achilles imagines her seated prim and restrained like the patient herons she uses as her messengers.

"You can guess how your uncle agonizes over visions of that exact scenario. If Persephone and Zagreus didn't stand in his way, you'd be served Stygian water and half-stale bread. Maybe a bit of cold barley porridge if you're lucky."

For the most part, Achilles doesn't mind the thought of more Olympian visits. It might break up the monotony. There are a few exceptions, of course. He could do without Zeus or Ares, and Apollo is a definite maybe.

But he can see why Hermes might like to keep the Underworld free of his family; it's a place he can escape to for some respite. Still, Achilles takes the chance to tease him with a wink: "I thought you liked a bit of healthy competition?"

"Competition is fun. But not over you." Hermes gives a little 'hmph' as he kisses Achilles softly, tasting the honey on his lips. "Because Aphrodite would want to sleep with you, and I'd just have to scratch her eyes out if she did. Ares might want to sleep with you too, but I think you'd shove him into the Styx before I could."

Ares, after all, does have a major weakness for the kind of warrior that clogs a river with bodies. Call it a hunch, but Hermes doesn't think that the feelings would in any way be returned.

"And then my uncle would have to deal with the headache of family drama in his halls, and I think he'd sooner throw us all into the Phlegethon than put up with it."

Hermes picks up a date stuffed with goat cheese, wiggling in delight in Achilles' lap as he pops it in his mouth. "Better to spare us all the trouble."

"You've nothing to worry about, love. Even if I was a prize for the winning, I don't see any of your siblings putting in the effort. No whisking me off on a thoughtful seaside excursion." He smiles and gives Hermes a kiss on the temple; that night by the ocean ranks as one of the best gifts he's ever received.

He steals Hermes' abandoned cup, refills it, and helps himself to a sip. He visibly grimaces, not at the taste, but because his thoughts linger too long on sleeping with the likes of Ares. How miserable. Especially if he shares glimpses into his domain like Hermes does. "I suppose if I ever want the very worst sex of my life—or death—I'll seek out Ares."

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