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 not quite what Hermes wants to hear. Better than nothing, though. Hermes strokes Achilles' hair, allowing him to avoid eye contact. It's not a promise Hermes relishes pulling from him.

"Remember all the other people you love, and who love you," Hermes says. "At his most spiteful, he'll take them all down with you to make an example."

Zagreus has the protection of being the son of Hades and a beloved nephew of Zeus (or as beloved as anyone is). But Patroclus is nothing but a dead speck to Zeus and Hades. Peleus and Neoptolemus still live under Zeus' sky, and Thetis, while able to hold her own, still can't stand against Zeus' unbridled wrath.

Hermes kisses the crown of Achilles' head, resting his cheek against his lover's hair. "Gods rise and fall, my love. Titans, Olympians. The ones who survive are the ones who know how to keep their heads down and adapt when change comes upon them."

People like Aphrodite, who was born just as Kronos dethroned Ouranos. Not that anyone remembers that, when she's so skillfully folded herself into the Olympian family. Of all the gods, Hermes is certain that Aphrodite will emerge unscathed regardless of what happens, because she was clever enough to not gain a reputation for cleverness.

"I know it," he huffs. "Others will pay for my hubris."

Just as they did before.

But all this talk ignites that very same pride; his voice grows hushed and vehement, and his hands grip into fists around the folds of Hermes' tunic. "What is the point of survival, if it's only to spend one's existence with a bowed head—standing by like a coward as others suffer under the whims of a tyrant?"

He shakes his head grimly, twisting his curls. "That is why I can't promise more, Hermes. To do so would mean surrender."

Hermes breathes an exasperated, but unsurprised sigh. "Oh, my stubborn hero. Won't you ever tire enough to lay down your arms?"

If Achilles ever does tire enough, it certainly won't be in this century, Hermes can tell. He cups Achilles' jaw, tilting it up to make eye contact. In this moment, despite his youthful face never changing, Hermes' eyes look very, very old.

"If you can't promise me inaction," Hermes says, "then please, promise me this: that you'll act with wisdom and cunning, and you won't be too proud to do what you must to win. You won't have a chance to act again if you fail once."

Were Achilles Odysseus, Hermes wouldn't ask this promise. He'd know that he would just find the cleverest way to get things done. But Achilles is himself, born a demigod prince and still devoted to the honorable principles taught to him, and Hermes fears that Achilles would stick too rigidly to those principles and Zeus would cut him down. Achilles is not the sort of person used to bending his personal rules to do what must be done.

"Just as you were born for godhood, I was born for this." He meets Hermes' ageless eyes with his own, piercing and determined. "I cannot set aside my nature anymore than you can shed your divinity."

For a time, Achilles thought that the last of his heroism had drained with his lifeblood. His grief was so great that he welcomed death and its numb rest. But only the anxiety over his own legend, all of his greed and selfish pride had been purged, not his drive to action. His service to the House of Hades infused him with a new, durable sense of purpose.

"On my honor, I promise you that I will act with care. I won't waste any chance I have to set things right." He moves a hand to hook around the back of Hermes' neck, heavy and beseeching. "And you—promise me the same."

Well, Achilles has got him there. He was born for great deeds and glory, and if anything, death has forged his resolve into steel without the distractions of greed and vainglory.

Hermes closes his eyes and nods. "I'll take it." He opens them again, still cupping Achilles' face in his hands. "And I--I promise you I'll act with care, cunning, and sure feet. I'll do everything I can to win, and with as little blood shed as possible."

He leans in, sealing his promise with a kiss that tastes like the thudding of one's heartbeat in anticipation of the biggest competition of their life. "I'll do everything to come back to you, my love."

That sense of anticipation is one that he used to enjoy often, but this isn't a game or a simple match of strength against a strong opponent. Achilles returns the kiss with steadying thoughts of a sheltering shield, raised in the midst of battle so an archer might draw and aim his bow with confidence.

"The future we've dreamed up today—hold it close." Achilles tugs him in tight for another kiss, fingers buried in the back of his hair, and an arm firm around his waist. This time he imagines the relief of a triumphant return from a battle decisively won, then parts his lips enough to breathe, "Listen for my prayers."

Hermes takes a moment to savor the feeling of being so safe and loved in Achilles' arms. It's not a feeling he gets to have nearly often enough. Achilles holds him like he can't stand to let him go, not because of what he can give but because of who he is.

"I'll listen." Hermes clutches Achilles, straddling his hips so it's easier to look him dead on in the eye. "And one day, we won't sneak around to kiss in secret. And you'll crack open that library when my curious fledglings sneak past Cerberus."

Hermes says it like a blessing. And maybe it is. Gods have power, and the limits aren't always clear. Hermes leans in and presses another kiss to Achilles' lips, savoring his lover. "I love you."

"And I love you." For a moment, Achilles wants nothing more than to underscore this statement with action: to carry his lover to bed and spend the rest of his visit tangled together. His eyes wander over Hermes' youthful face and hands instinctively search for warm, bare skin beneath his chiton.

But Achilles thinks of inopportune knocks at the door or listening ears and forces himself to stop. He blinks and swallows back his desire.

It will have to wait. Achilles releases a long exhale and straightens the hem of Hermes' tunic with a weary smile. "When next we meet."

The hands against his bare skin don't surprise Hermes in the least, because his thoughts go in much the same direction. But Achilles has more self control than he does. Hermes sighs, part in frustration and part in resignation, as Achilles straightens his clothes and returns his hands somewhere more polite.

"Next time." Hermes kisses Achilles softly. It's a brief, chaste kiss. "Next time, you'll see stars and it'll look like a wildcat mauled you."

Hermes' flashes a cheeky smile before reluctantly moving off of Achilles' lap. It'll just be all the more tempting to throw caution to the wind if they're on top of each other, and at a delicate time like this, Hermes doesn't want to risk rousing Hades' ire now. "We ought to do better at eating this food, or the Chef might think I don't like it. Far be it from me to insult them so."

"If you return safely, you can do anything you'd like to me," he says casually, with the briefest of winks—just in case all the wholesome incentives aren't enough.

He finds Hermes' neglected cup and tops it off from the amphora, stealing another sip before passing it along.

"It doesn't take much to please the chthonic natives, but the chef frets about impressing Olympians with only the best surface food." Achilles peers at the non-sweet offerings and helps himself to a tiny round of bread heaped high with mushrooms and—

The Greatest of the Greeks suddenly wrinkles his nose in clear revulsion. He quickly offers the morsel to Hermes instead, pinching it between thumb and index finger like something dredged from the bottom of a satyr's sack.

A combo of wholesome and sexy incentives are always better than only one.

Hermes accepts the cup, then laughs at Achilles' reaction to the little snack. "Don't like mushrooms, my love?" Hermes sips his wine before accepting the bread. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it for you."

Hermes pops it into his mouth, humming softly as he chews and swallows, washing it down with more wine. "I don't blame your chef for fretting, but if you think they'd believe you, do let them know that I enjoy their food greatly and they shouldn't worry."

He chuckles softly as he picks up a little pomegranate treat for himself. "Besides, they've learned my preferences well. I do have a weakness for sweets."

"Onions. They were mixed in among the mushrooms. Didn't you see? Can't stand the rotten, smelly things." Achilles turns away and flaps a hand in front of his face. He can't even watch Hermes eat them with such nonchalance. "No more kisses for a while."

He only turns back when Hermes tucks into the sweets. Achilles thinks of the dream and the tiny hummingbird asleep in his palms. His smile returns and he pinches a stray pomegranate seed from the platter, rolling it between his fingers before popping it in his mouth. "The chef will be pleased to hear your praise."

"Onions? You're so upset about onions?" Hermes laughs brightly, popping a pistachio in his mouth sticky with honey. Evidently, he has no trouble with onions at all. "Darling, I think you just haven't had them cooked right."

But far be it from Hermes to force onions upon his beloved. Especially when there are plenty of other treats to nibble on. He is indeed still a hummingbird under it all, looking for ever more sugar.

"I hope so. I know I still make most of the staff nervous. I'm never sure if that means I should try to be more or less friendly." With someone like Dusa, it seems like more friendliness just makes her expire faster.

He rolls his eyes and harrumphs like the stubborn old man he should have become.

"Do you know how many people have told me exactly that while they pushed every fiendish kind of onion on me?" Red, white, yellow, green. Pickled, caramelized, roasted, stewed.

He pops an olive in his mouth, deliciously salty with brine. "It was testament to Pat's devotion that, from the time we were boys, he ate every last onion that tried to spoil my food."

Hermes laughs, resisting the urge to kiss Achilles' nose with how grumpy he looks. "Are you sure he didn't just enjoy onions?"

He nibbles on a piece of cake, happily swaying in place in delight as he bites into it. Yum. Fruit and honey.

"You know, there are places out there where all they can eat are onions because they're so easy to grow, and the nobility take everything else. Onion soup all day, every day. Maybe with some mutton if they're lucky."

"Maybe. But isn't it more romantic to think of it as a sacrifice he made on my behalf?" As if it's on par with donning Achilles' armor and trying to singlehandedly sack Troy.

"Don't invoke such horrors under this roof, lest your uncle take note," he says, giving Hermes' leg a chiding kick. But the talk of such dismal mortal societies brings with it another thought. "Aside from those doomed to eat onion soup, how is the surface?"

Achilles rolls another fig between his palms, and his fleeting silliness gives way to his usual sober tone. "The mortal world suffered while you slept. Have you been able to help them? Or would that risk your father's notice?"

Hermes giggles, nose wrinkling, at the little kick. But he sobers again at the question, his lips pressing together in thought.

"...A lot of my help is unconscious. If Pop's noticed, he hasn't said anything. He might just assume that's mortal society righting itself somewhat and adjusting to my absence."

Hermes sighs through his nose. "But it's not great up there, even so. When there's unease on Olympus, there's unease on the surface. The roads are treacherous. The sea is unsafe. The woods are hostile. Plague is threatening to spread. Wine turns to vinegar and too many people are getting mind-sick... But soldiers and warmongers seem pleased with their lot."

Of all his siblings, Ares has been affected the least by his absence, it seems. It makes sense, he supposes. Diplomacy is often in direct conflict with war, and as diplomacy breaks down, war gains power.

"Luckily, Aunt Demeter and Aunt Hestia have carried on as normal. If they didn't, I don't know how the humans would feed themselves."

He hums a grim note. "It still shows in the shades, but I dared to hope the world was on the mend."

"All the more reason to end this quickly and as peaceably as you can." Achilles grasps Hermes' hand, turning it so he can twine their fingers.

"Our happiness together is but a small prize in all of this." He knows how much Hermes cares for humans, but as a man who suffered in part from the bickering of gods, he can't help but say it aloud: "Mortals have but one short life, and it's much too precious to be spent steeped in such discord."

Hermes squeezes Achilles' hand, nodding grimly. "We'll do everything we can to make it quick. If we fail, then it's war. And I don't think anyone will win if there's war on the mountain, least of all mortals."

The older Olympians don't often talk about the Titan war, but Gaia still bears scars. Hermes doubts that many humans would survive another round like that. For now, they just suffer the side effects of divine grief and displeasure--what would they suffer if all the gods raged?

"But it won't come to that. Because we won't fail." Hermes puts on a cocky, cheeky smile, winking at Achilles. "I'm the one doing the tricking, after all."

Achilles returns the smile with his own, albeit more sober and lined with worry.

Hermes is right: Achilles isn't as cunning as brilliant Odysseus. Trickery isn't in his arsenal, and so it feels like he's watching Hermes go off to battle with nothing but a dagger in hand. A very sharp dagger, yes, but one he needs to get dangerously close to use on a very small opening in Zeus' metaphorical armor. And if he misses his mark ...

But this is Hermes. If anyone can wield that weapon effectively, it's him.

Some of the tense concern in Achilles' smile relaxes. "No, you won't fail. That clever mind has saved you before, and it will save you yet again. I know it."

Hermes brushes some of Achilles' hair behind his ear, and says with perfect confidence, "It will. And I'll tell you all about it next time I'm here."

No one gets by on Olympus without learning how to fake confidence. And hey, if he can fake it enough, maybe he can will it to be certain. Gods have done stranger things.

But then Hermes' smile freezes. His eyes dart to the side, his ears perking, wings pinning themselves hard against his head as he takes in something Achilles can't sense.

"My sister's coming this way. Up, up--" Hermes pushes Achilles to get off the seat. Even for Hermes' famously friendly reputation, it'd be hard to explain away why he's snuggled so close to his chaperone alone in his chambers.

And this is exactly why Achilles stopped himself from getting carried away earlier. It might as well be a recreation of his unveiling in Lycomedes' court for how abruptly the hero is on his feet, spear in hand.

He runs his tongue over his teeth and a hand over his mouth to catch any stray crumbs or fig juice. Despite this care, however, he still misses one tiny, orange down feather clinging like an ember in his curls.

He positions himself by the door—face stoic, posture vigilant—and awaits the goddess' knock.

Hermes has no time to examine his lover, because he’s too busy straightening himself out—smooth the feathers, straighten the clothes, pull the plate towards himself and grab the wine goblet—

There are few people who would dare enter an Olympian’s quarters without knocking. But other Olympians will do it.

“Hermes?”

Athena says his name just before opening the door. Where Hermes’ aura is bright and uplifting, and Apollo’s is painfully radiant, Athena’s is stern and commanding. It’s not cold or unfeeling, but she carries dignity that seems inherent to her being.

Hermes, for his part, has already collected himself and he glances at her as he lifts his goblet to his mouth.

“You know, most people do this thing called knocking, sis,” he says dryly, sipping the wine as if that’s all he’s been doing.

“Do they now?” Athena says in the mild way of someone who knows what you’re saying and is choosing to ignore it. She frowns at the spread before Hermes, lips thinning. “Take care what you eat here, brother. They’ve served you pomegranates.”

“Sis, I work here. I’m suited to the food, I promise,” Hermes says, putting his wine aside and avoiding the question of whether pomegranates are actually a danger to surface dwellers as Persephone said. “Are you here for dinner company? I thought Zagreus was visiting you.”

Athena sighs through her nose. She moves to the chair across Hermes, but instead of sitting, she leans on the back of the chair. She’s restless, too restless to enjoy a meal.

“He was. And he asked some… difficult questions.”

Hermes sobers, leveling his sister with a serious (and sympathetic) look. “Which ones? There are so many he could ask.”

“He…” but then Athena remembers they’re not alone. She looks to Achilles, and she has the grace to look apologetic.

“Thank you for chaperoning my brother, Achilles, but we must have a private conversation. If you would…” but she trails off. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly. She approaches Achilles not unlike a general inspecting her troops.

And then she plucks a glowing orange feather from Achilles’ curls.

She looks at it. Her lips thin. Hermes manages to keep his expression even, but his shoulders tense and his wings pin tight against his head.

“I wasn’t aware you started growing feathers, Achilles,” she says, voice cold.

Achilles is prepared to settle into the background like he usually does when in the presence of visiting gods—impossibly still, only speaking when spoken to, ready to attend to whatever needs arise. There could scarcely be a more significant departure from the headstrong prince he was among his mortal peers.

"Of course, Lady Athena." He's in the middle of rising from a deferential bow when he catches her chilling expression. From eyes like hers, Achilles has no choice but to freeze in place like a shew under the shadow of a stooping owl. So he stays when she approaches, and when the tiny feather comes into view, pinched between her fingers.

The tone in her voice and her frigid scrutiny are somehow magnitudes worse than Apollo's blindingly bright rage. Achilles' mind scrambles for some kind of excuse, but even if he grasped one, he could never hope to speak it convincingly. Nor could he bring himself to lie to the goddess who granted him so much favor in life.

He wishes Chaos would generously open a portal beneath him so he might plummet into the endless, primordial void. But Chaos is not so charitable today and leaves Achilles to his struggle.

"My lady, I—" is all he manages to stammer before he hazards a glance at Hermes. He's the one with the silver tongue and no compunctions about lying.

Hermes only takes a beat to snap to it.

“‘Thena, stop staring him down, you’re going to give him a heart attack.” Hermes stands from the table, taking another glug of wine before walking over and casually tugging the feather from his sister’s grasp. “Very impressive considering his heart’s already stopped.”

Athena turns her frigid gaze on Hermes, arching a single eyebrow and waiting. Any wise man would quail under that gaze, but Hermes just rolls his eyes emphatically.

“If you must know, I hugged him.”

The one eyebrow arches further.

Hermes waves the feather for emphasis. “Sis, he’s the house guard. He greets me every time I have a message. And some people make friends with their coworkers, and actually get concerned when you’re missing for months. It’s great fun, you should try it.”

Athena’s eyes narrow. There’s still skepticism, but she doesn’t look quite so sure of herself anymore. “Brother, you can’t hug our uncle’s house guard. You’re an Olympian. It disrespects our uncle’s house.”

“Yes, hugs are famous for turning a man’s loyalty. Very insidious things, hugs are,” Hermes says dryly. Athena’s lips thin, but more tellingly, her nose wrinkles. For a moment, she looks like Hermes when he’s about to laugh, except she’s clearly holding it back. Hermes can tell he has the upper hand, and he playfully brushes the offending feather against his sister’s nose.

“Are you done being nosy now, dearest sister?”

Athena waves Hermes off with an exasperated sigh, looking back to Achilles.

“My brother’s affection hasn’t been unwelcome, has it, Achilles?”

There’s half genuine concern in her voice. She does have affection for Achilles, and she’s aware of how overwhelming her friendly little brother can be.

But there’s also a shade of suspicion. Athena knows that Hermes can lie to her. She also knows that Achilles can’t. And if this is a lie, she’s more likely to see it in her favored hero’s response than her little brother’s.

Edited 2022-12-22 06:34 (UTC)

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