Achilles, Best of the Greeks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
refusetofight) wrote2023-10-15 09:01 pm
refusetofight) wrote2023-10-15 09:01 pm
For @messageforyou
Achilles arrives at the Temple of Styx well before the appointed time. This is equal parts because it’s so difficult to judge time in the Underworld and because he’s determined not to be late to one of the most important meetings of his afterlife. … Or his life for that matter.
He approaches the edge of the Underworld—as close as he can before he begins to feel the insistent tug on his shade. By now, he’s discovered the exact stones that mark the border—unassuming at a glance, but should he step past, he knows he’ll feel the pull, like a strong ocean current willing him back to the depths.
So he stands just clear of this invisible delineation, hands clasped behind his back, and gazes past to what little he can glimpse of the surface. The slash of sun is too bright for his eyes, accustomed as they are to Ixion’s lesser light. The wind shifts, and he breathes in the pungent smell of growth, the distant tang of the Aegean Sea.
It brings to mind what Hermes said about Lyra’s birth: she was formed in the ocean. Was she tucked away in the midnight depths? Swaddled safe in a forest of kelp? Or floating free in the tides, pushed and pulled in meandering currents until she was finally washed upon the shore?
He wishes he could have been there to receive her that day—to lift her from the surf and sand, as small and precious as the beach’s scattered shells and wet, jewel-bright stones. Achilles entertains himself this way: imagining her early days, her first steps, her child’s adventures, her clever eyes examining each new thing the world offers.
Each shifting shadow, each rustle past the temple’s gate stirs a fresh flutter in his chest. It’s not long before his impatience and eagerness is fit to rival Hermes’. He periodically paces to the opposite side of the gate, as if it might provide a better vantage to spot her approach.
He approaches the edge of the Underworld—as close as he can before he begins to feel the insistent tug on his shade. By now, he’s discovered the exact stones that mark the border—unassuming at a glance, but should he step past, he knows he’ll feel the pull, like a strong ocean current willing him back to the depths.
So he stands just clear of this invisible delineation, hands clasped behind his back, and gazes past to what little he can glimpse of the surface. The slash of sun is too bright for his eyes, accustomed as they are to Ixion’s lesser light. The wind shifts, and he breathes in the pungent smell of growth, the distant tang of the Aegean Sea.
It brings to mind what Hermes said about Lyra’s birth: she was formed in the ocean. Was she tucked away in the midnight depths? Swaddled safe in a forest of kelp? Or floating free in the tides, pushed and pulled in meandering currents until she was finally washed upon the shore?
He wishes he could have been there to receive her that day—to lift her from the surf and sand, as small and precious as the beach’s scattered shells and wet, jewel-bright stones. Achilles entertains himself this way: imagining her early days, her first steps, her child’s adventures, her clever eyes examining each new thing the world offers.
Each shifting shadow, each rustle past the temple’s gate stirs a fresh flutter in his chest. It’s not long before his impatience and eagerness is fit to rival Hermes’. He periodically paces to the opposite side of the gate, as if it might provide a better vantage to spot her approach.
no subject
“We have much to do, don’t we?” He runs down the mental list so far: speak with both of their mothers, Medea, Hades … and Achilles still needs to work through problems with Patroclus. It’s good to be busy, though, particularly when it’s for the benefit of his child.
His eyes wander over the krater of wine, realizes it’s still mostly full and he clucks his tongue. “We’ve spent far too much time discussing responsibilities and too little celebrating. Look—we’ve barely touched the wine. Your brother would be sorely disappointed.”
no subject
Now Dionysus would be very pleased.
“Tomorrow,” Achilles agrees, rocking into Hermes to pepper kisses along his jaw and neck. It’s not often that he defers responsibilities, but this is a special occasion.
He sighs and dances his fingers over the curve of Hermes’ wing, warm and soft. “I love you, magpie, and I love our unexpected little fledgling.”
no subject
Achilles sighs contentedly, warmed by the buzz of wine suffusing his shade. He splays his fingers across Hermes’ stretched wing, still every bit as lovely as when he first laid eyes on them.
“Of all our adventures—” Defying Zeus, delving into dreams, battling Ares … “—this promises to be the best yet.”