refusetofight | For @messageforyou

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.

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Achilles’ smile creases his eyes. They still glisten with barely-contained emotion—deep happiness now, more than anything. He rises to his feet and guides Lyra into the temple with a gentle hand on her shoulder.

The sigh of the rushing Styx echoes against the ancient masonry, which still shows signs of Ares’ thwarted invasion: there are plenty of shattered stones with Persephone’s plants clinging in the gaps and vines snaking throughout. A few fallen blocks of marble make a passable bench, surrounded by patches of creeping thyme. Achilles has taken to sitting here (sometimes with Cerberus for company) while waiting to receive young shades.

He takes a seat and pats the space next to him in invitation. Lyra already knows quite a lot about her fathers. Granted, not all of it is true, but Achilles doesn’t know where to begin debunking, so he leaves it to her. “Tell me: what would you most like to know about us, my dear?”

Lyra cheerfully pulls herself onto the block of marble, swinging her legs off the edge. She frowns in thought at the question, absently plucking at the thyme creeping over the stone. (It occurs to her that it's odd that there's so much visible damage and plants here, but questioning that is secondary to learning about her parents.) Hermes takes a seat on Lyra's other side, his shoulders relaxed and his wings sitting at a calmer position as he looks at her with curiosity. Clearly, his nerves have diminished a lot now that they've got the hard part out of the way. Hermes doesn't feel so much like he might pass out or shrivel into nothing.

"I guess... we can start with how you met?" Lyra decides, eyes darting between them curiously.

"Depends on what you mean by meeting," Hermes says, looking to Achilles with a fond smile. "I had business with your grandfather, Peleus, time to time, so I first met Achilles when he was still toddling around, but I wouldn't say he met me. I was a hummingbird he chased about the gardens."

Lyra's eyes shine with curiosity and wonder. "Can you turn into animals? All the stories say that gods can turn into animals, but can you?"

The more they talk, the easier it is to keep going. She's a child. His child, and preternaturally clever, yes, but still a child, and he's good with children. Hermes smirks and gives a little flourish. "You tell me, darling."

And then he's replaced with a glittering orange hummingbird, zipping to and fro before Lyra, letting his wings catch the light for an extra showy display. Lyra squeals in delight, holding out a hand, and the hummingbird alights on her finger.

"You're so pretty," she says, gently running her finger down the hummingbird's back. The hummingbird chirps in response. "I wish I could turn into a bird."

She looks at Achilles. Her smile is wide open and unguarded, delighted with wonderment in a way only children really can be. "How did you meet him, then?"

“Just as I remember,” Achilles laughs. The hummingbird has always felt like the most apt animal for Hermes: energetic, fast, beautiful, and fierce. “And he has many more forms besides. Show her the ‘cheetah’ next, love.”

Achilles looks down at Lyra and hums. “The first time I met him—albeit briefly—was at Troy.”

He pauses, clasping his hands on his lap. He doesn’t want to sugar coat the story of that time, but it also seems too heavy for a child of her years. But after an exhale he decides that it’s more important to give her the truth, always. “It happened as it’s told in the songs: grief turned me into a raging beast. I wouldn’t allow my enemy’s family to collect his body—to let them grieve in turn.”

Achilles’ eyes shift to the tiny bird perched on her equally tiny finger. “Hermes delivered King Priam to my tent. I saw how much the man suffered, how alike we were in our pain. He reminded me of my own father, who I love dearly. How could I deny him any longer? I promised to return Hector’s body safely.”

He releases another tight breath. It’s still difficult to talk about this time, particularly with someone as important as his own child. “Hermes knew exactly how to dispel my blinding rage, to make me see clearly again.”

Achilles’ tone lightens as he moves past talk of Troy: “After my death, I was assigned to guard the House of Hades, where we saw more of one another—Hermes had regular business there, both as a psychopomp and a messenger. I delighted in his visits, and admiration turned to love when the trouble with Zeus began.”

"A cheetah? What's a cheetah?" Lyra bounces in excitement at the prospect of seeing a new animal. Hermes flutters his wings and bounces from foot to foot, still showing off the hummingbird. He'll show her soon enough, but he sees Achilles' mood shift before she does, and he doesn't want to distract from the story.

And it's not long before Lyra notices Achilles' shift in mood, too. She leans against his side, looking up at him as he speaks. There's nothing he says that surprises her. The songs said that he was shamed after his anger cleared, but it's different from actually seeing how heavy the weight sits on him in person. Lyra, so far away from the reality of war and loss, doesn't really know what it's like. An adult who's been through funeral rites, who's known the fear of their loved one being damned by a lost body, might judge Achilles more harshly, but Lyra has none of the life experience to make that story viscerally twist her gut. But she can see in his face that it still hurts, even after he's been dead so long.

"You don't wear your laurels," she says. It'd been one of the things that helped her identify him in the beginning--he was a hero deemed worthy to guard the temple by Hades, but who didn't deem himself worthy enough to wear his own laurels. It's her way of acknowledging that she knows his regret, and knew it from the start.

She looks to the hummingbird in her hand, and she strokes his little head with the tip of her finger. The stories paint Hermes as clever and skilled with manipulation. But Lyra things that that's only possible because he's good at knowing people. Even people at their worst, like Achilles was.

"What happened with Zeus? Did he have a fight with Hades?"

“No, I don’t. I leave laurels to more deserving heroes.” Like Patroclus, who looked after the Myrmidons with such quiet, steady care, who sacrificed himself for the sake of his fellow Greeks. Heroes whose hearts weren’t rotted by pride.

Does he even deserve such a sweet child? Achilles instinctively puts a welcoming arm around Lyra. She’s so eager for affection—both to give and receive it. Achilles has never had to work for love. It was something he took for granted—from Patroclus, his mother, his father, his fellow Greeks. Lyra seems to soak it up every touch, smile, and kind word like a flower deprived of sun and rain. She’s so like Hermes in that way.

“And no, it wasn’t a fight with Lord Hades specifically. Zeus had been treating many of the gods unfairly for a very long time—I’m sure that comes as no surprise. Hermes was punished unjustly, and it was cause to finally fight back.” Achilles meets Hermes’ tiny hummingbird eyes, shiny and black as beads. Meeting Lyra has been challenging enough. Maybe it’s best they don’t talk about Zeus. “The story is a long one, and not all of it is happy, little fledgling.”

One downside of turning into an animal is that it's hard to be too expressive. Hummingbirds don't have faces like humans. But Hermes grows still as the topic of Zeus comes up, and it's pretty clear that he doesn't want to talk about that right now. Getting into Zeus might require getting into Maia, and it would definitely require getting into how Hermes betrayed his own father. It's too emotional a day for him to figure out how to recount all that.

Lyra, for her part, picks up on the mood in the air. It doesn't escape her that Zeus is supposed to be king among gods, so 'fighting back' is treason. If Hermes is still here, that must mean that the treason won... or else Hermes made a nasty bargain for forgiveness. Either way, she imagines it's painful and complicated.

"I'm curious," she says, looking to the hummingbird on her finger. "But I won't ask now. I know it makes grownups sad to tell unhappy stories."

She hasn't quite had enough life experience yet to know what it's like to be sad because she had to tell a story, but she's seen it consistently in all the grownups in her life, so she believes this is the kind thing to do right now.

"Now, may I please see a cheetah?"

At the polite little request, Hermes' response is immediate. Gone is the hummingbird, replaced by a long, graceful big cat, resting its head in Lyra's lap and purring. Lyra squeals in delight, clapping her hands together before calming her limbs enough to run her fingers through the rough, sandpaper fur.

"It's like a cat! A huge cat! But it's not a lion."

Then Hermes gives one of the silliest possible meows possible for a cheetah, and Lyra laughs loud and bright.

"That can't be the real noise it makes! You're making it up!"

No, hummingbirds aren’t very expressive, but Hermes’ reservations still come across. Achilles is grateful Lyra doesn’t choose the stubborn, impatient route—at least this time. Both of those things are certainly her inheritance.

“Thank you for being patient.” He combs back her unruly curls from where they’ve bounced around her face. “We’ll tell you everything soon. You have my word.”

Besides, a cheetah is much more fun than a tale of divine conflict. Achilles laughs, as much at Lyra’s unrestrained delight as the strange meow. “I’ve never seen a cheetah that wasn’t Hermes. I couldn’t tell you if they truly make such a sound!”

He scratches at Hermes’ fuzzy cheeks with his free hand. “You know, Lord Prometheus was inspired by Hermes when he made this cat. It’s very fast. It can outrun a horse with those long legs.”

Lyra can accept the promise of answers for now. She doesn't need to learn everything immediately. There are so many things to learn already that her curiosity will surely have plenty to work with.

And she has plenty food for her curiosity here with this strange giant cat. Hermes purrs louder as Achilles and Lyra scratches his face, eyes half lidded and mouth stretched into as close to a smile as a cheetah can get--which is remarkably close, all considered.

"I didn't know that Hermes was born before Prometheus stole fire," Lyra says, clearly unaware that Prometheus has since been released. "How could a cat outrun a horse? Can I see?"

Ah, the magic words. Hermes rises to his paws, playfully bumping his nose against Lyra's--provoking a bubbly giggle--before he takes off. He picks up speed quickly, his long tail whipping with every turn, and he turns into an orange blur. Lyra bounces in place, grinning wide as she claps in delight.

"Look at him go! I didn't know any animal could go so fast!"

“Hermes paid Lord Prometheus a few visits. The two of them have much in common.” In fact, Achilles wouldn’t mind if Lyra spent some time with Prometheus. He could teach her quite a lot, and he seems like the type to be charmed by a child’s many questions.

“I’ve no idea if all cheetahs go so fast, or if Hermes is adding a bit of his own speed. He does like to show off.” And Hermes seems to be basking in Lyra’s delight. Achilles is pleased to see him back to himself—it beats all the fear and anxiety leading up to this meeting.

“May I ask you some questions, Lyra?” Achilles shifts his posture to better face his daughter. “I’d like to know about your life—where you live, what your foster family is like, what you do day-to-day. Will you tell me?”

At the accusation (gasp! Horror!) that Hermes might like to show off, he stops in his tracks and flops on his back in front of Achilles and Lyra, meowing loudly as he waves his giant paws in the air. Whatever he says can't be directly translated to Greek, but any old melodramatic monologue about 'how dare you accuse him this way, he's never been so wounded, he's been betrayed, stabbed in the back, sold out by the one he loves most' would probably work.

Lyra, for her part, finds this hilarious. "Look! You offended him!" she manages between her laughs before she slides off the marble to scratch the cheetah's exposed belly. Hermes stops his flailing to purr instead, smirking up at Achilles and playfully swishing his tail to tickle the tip of Lyra's nose.

Showing off his animal forms for Lyra serves dual purposes: Hermes can bond with her, but it also saves him from the expectation of speaking. It's so much easier sometimes to interact with people if he's not expected to speak, and can instead bond more physically, showing his affection through purrs and play rather than trying to put all his feelings into words.

Lyra smiles at Achilles as he asks his questions, chewing her lip as she considers.

"So... I live in a little village near here. It's pretty small, but it's near the coast so we see sailors and merchants come by sometimes, and they don't mind telling me stories when I bug them at the market. My foster parents--Eudokia and Isidoros--they're farmers. And they were never able to have kids, so they figured that was the gods telling them that they should take in the kids no one else wanted, so they took in a lot of foundlings." The sorts of kids left at temples, or in the woods, or in the sea. Usually babes borne to a frightened unmarried woman, or a woman dead at childbirth with a lover who wanted nothing to do with the child that resulted in her demise. "I have four brothers and three sisters. We usually spend all day working on the farm. We're very poor, but I'm good at making sure we aren't too poor."

Meaning, the sort of poor that may force their foster parents' hand and sell some of them into slavery so the others don't die of starvation. Lyra didn't start off by stealing from the Underworld, and she's not afraid of admitting it, not even to her noble father. With a god of thievery for her other father, she figures she comes by it honestly.

“You manage such theatrics, even as a big cat. What skill!” Achilles laughs. “Will you show her more of your menagerie? Ah! The fluffy cloud-dog perhaps?”

He leans forward, elbows propped on his knees, listening to Lyra describe her life. It’s such a far cry from his own. As a prince, Achilles encountered that sort of poverty only rarely. A few times during his youth in Phthia, and later during his raiding along the Troad. But neither of those truly taught him what it was like to eke out such an uncertain existence.

It’s a wonder Lyra is so healthy and energetic. Her divinity must have granted her resilience—both of mind and body. “Your foster parents were very kind to take you in when they had so little for themselves. I’m deeply grateful that they gave you a home.”

Achilles grasps one of Hermes’ paws and gives it a teasing waggle as he continues his questions. “The sailors and merchants—and bards, as I remember—is that how you learned so much about history and the world?”

"Yup." Lyra nods, smiling proudly. "I paid the bards to sing for us while we worked. My foster parents thought it was a waste, but I always made sure we had enough for food, so they let me get away with it." And Lyra suspects that they themselves were rather delighted at the strange luxury of hearing stories and histories they never would have heard otherwise. Stories of the gods were still told over the fire by peasants, but not as beautifully and thoroughly as by a bard. "I still don't know my letters, but I'll learn."

Lyra says it with breezy confidence. She's yet to have the leisure time to sit down with a tutor and learn how to read and write, but now that she knows the future of her family is assured, then it'll be easy to find the time and money to learn.

Hermes wiggles his big paw in Achilles' hand, then the cheetah pops out of existence, replaced by a happy panting cloud.

Lyra squeals in delight, throwing up her hands. "It's so fluffy!" Completely forgetting for a moment that she's dealing with a god, she picks Hermes up and hugs him tight like a stuffed toy, rocking back and forth as she rubs her face into his fluffy, fluffy fur. Hermes, for his part, seems perfectly pleased to be manhandled and squeezed within an inch of his fluffy puppy life. "It has to be made up. This isn't real. It's so cute!"

“It is made up, after a fashion. People in the future breed dogs to look that way, or so Lord Apollo says.”

Achilles watches Lyra cuddle ridiculous-dog-shaped Hermes for a moment. Funny how Hermes probably isn’t anywhere close to ready for that kind of physical affection from Lyra in his normal body. A cheetah or a dog is safe, though. Then he remembers all the times Hermes has shifted into an animal when his emotions are too much and it makes entirely more sense.

“Hermes and I will arrange for more tutors. You’ll learn your letters and much more.” Even if they send her to Medea, he’ll make sure she has a well-rounded education. Maybe he can persuade Hermes to send her away for a few months with Chiron. He gives her a sideways look, as if sharing a secret. “You know, my own letters are quite sloppy. Heroes aren’t asked to write very much at all. I only had occasion to pick up a quill after I died.”

Maybe someday he’ll share the codex with her so she can read more about the Underworld. Or maybe it’s time to start a new one with her in mind.

Or …

“Even if you can’t visit me regularly, we can send letters to one another. And we have just the messenger to deliver them, assuming he ever turns back into a man.” Achilles gives the fluffy cloud a boop on his wet nose.

Being an animal is a welcome respite from the overwhelming pressure of godhood… or fatherhood, in this case. Hermes is grateful for his ability to hide in a less complicated state of being, because right now, he can’t be the happy, accepting father that Achilles is. He needs to warm up to her, needs to get used to the idea of being her father, but he can’t bear the thought of actually saying that to Lyra and risking her thinking herself unwanted and unloved. It’s easier to be an animal, to let her treat him like an animal, and make her laugh for now.

As for Lyra, it doesn’t escape her that Hermes has been strange this whole time, but that’s not weird because gods aren’t supposed to act like normal people. And in some ways, perhaps a small part of her is grateful for him to be an animal, because it’s easier to get to know her fathers one at a time.

When Hermes’ nose is booped, he looks at Achilles upside down, panting with that big natural smile and rotating his head side to side. At the goofy show, Lyra laughs, scratching the dog behind the ears. “But he’s so cute like this! I bet a cheetah would be a really good messenger.”

She smiles bright and open at Achilles. It’ll likely take a while before Hermes warms up enough for them to connect on the same level, but she’s clearly connected with Achilles. “I’d really like to write you letters. I’ll learn how to make mine extra neat for you. I like learning new things.” She looks back down at the fluffy impossible cloud dog, at its happy face and wagging tail, and rubs its ear gently. “Like… I didn’t know gods could be silly. But Hermes is silly, and that’s fun to learn.”

He might not feel like her father yet, but he feels friendly, and that’s more than she would have expected.

It’s a quite a different thing, to grow up with a good father. One who makes the role something to aspire to. Something wonderful and rewarding. As a boy, Achilles wanted to be a hero, of course, but he also wanted to be like Peleus: a loving, protective, attentive father. While heroism has since lost its luster, the other goal remains, stronger than ever.

As much as Achilles would like Hermes to dive into fatherhood with the same eagerness, this is one of the rare things he can’t rush. Hermes needs to do this at his own pace, in his own way. Hopefully Lyra can understand that and not mistake it for a lack of love.

“We can both practice neater penmanship,” he says, giving her curls a playful ruffle.

“I didn’t know gods could be so silly, either, until Hermes showed me otherwise. Gods are much more like mortals than most people realize.” Achilles moves his hand to Hermes’ fluffy head to give him an affectionate pat as well. “Eventually you’ll meet some of your aunts and uncles. They’re all so very different.”

"I'd like to meet them. Most of them. Some of them don't sound very nice."

Lyra has heard her fair share of stories about gods losing their tempers and damning mortals to some unsightly fate for minor grievances. Hopefully, those stories are exaggerated.

And yet even after thinking that, as she leans against Achilles' leg and scratches Hermes' back, she says, "Are they all weird like Hermes?"

The brazen statement surprises a noise out of the fluffy dog, and then it loses shape. Orange sparkling light replaces it for the briefest moment, tumbling cheerfully in the air before Hermes reforms as himself, laughing loudly. His cheeks are gold with mirth, and he sits cross-legged in the air as if sitting on something solid.

"Oh, I love that nerve. You're going to be so much trouble." In his usual form, Hermes has put significantly more space between himself and Lyra--a solid foot at least--but he still props his elbows on his knees and smiles at her, mischief in his eyes. It's easier to face her when she makes him laugh with that blunt hubris. "The answer is yes. Weirdos, all of us. No one calls us out on it because they don't like the idea of being smote from the earth, but we are all weird." Athena always being reduced to helpless confusion when faced with romance or sex. Aphrodite obsessed with the stuff. Dionysus perpetually drunk. Apollo being a porcupine on two legs. Hebe being an absolute gremlin. Artemis avoiding family gatherings like a moody teenager. Oh yes, Hermes' family is nothing but weirdos.

A laugh bursts out of Achilles, similarly surprised and charmed. The nerve, to call a god—one who is her father—“weird.” Of course, it’s only funny because Hermes absolutely doesn’t mind. Achilles isn’t sure many other gods would take it in stride, but as parents, they can always teach her the importance of manners and respect around certain Olympians.

“Mortals grow quite peculiar with age. Imagine continuing that process for centuries.” Well, that, and having access to dizzyingly vast divine knowledge.

“But if your Olympian family is a bit too weird, I‘ll introduce you to your grandfather. He has odd stories from his time as an Argonaut, but he’s otherwise mostly normal.” Achilles smiles, remembering how elated Peleus was to hear about his granddaughter. Naturally, that was paired with ample surprise when he learned about Lyra’s other father. “And he’s quite eager to meet you, I might add.”

"I bet he was surprised," Hermes muses, smiling with a twinkle of amusement at Achilles before looking to Lyra. "I like to keep my affairs private. Peleus didn't even know we were together before yesterday."

He's almost sorry he didn't get to see Peleus' face, but also Hermes has met his quota for family drama to deal with for a while and has to dedicate the rest of his energy figuring out what fatherhood means.

"Weird isn't bad. I'm pretty weird too," Lyra says with the prim air of a child who's far too sure of herself considering her life experience. "But I'd like to meet Peleus. I never thought I'd have a grandfather to meet before."

Then she frowns in thought. "Should I call him Peleus? Or... you Achilles, and you Hermes? Should I say granddad and dad and stuff?"

Hermes holds up his hands with an opaque smirk. His feathers tense, but they don't pin. "Take it at your own pace, darling. At least for me. No need to jump into calling me something if it doesn't feel right to you yet." And also, maybe it wouldn't feel right yet to Hermes either, but he doesn't want to say that. That sounds too much like rejecting her as a daughter, and he can't bear the thought.

“He thought ‘Thermusa’ was her mother. I suppose that guess wasn’t too far off the mark, was it?” Achilles huffs a laugh. Naturally, his father had lots of questions about Achilles’ relationship with Patroclus, and Achilles explained the ongoing tension. Peleus was sympathetic and offered ideas for how to help things along with Pat; he knows Patroclus like a second son, after all.

Achilles cocks his head and gives his own thoughtful frown when he realizes both of them can’t exactly answer to ‘father.’ And … it’s such an odd thing: a child asking what to call her parents. Usually that comes about so naturally. “I’m sure Peleus would love to be called ‘granddad,’ but you should call him—and each of us—whatever you like, my dear.”

Hermes huffs a laugh as well, smiling. "Well, he's not wrong, if you look at it a certain way."

Lyra cocks her head at the conversation, gathering pretty quickly that 'Thermusa' must be Hermes, just disguised. But she hums when her question is answered, rocking back and forth as she thinks. She has similar restless energy as Hermes, like thought requires movement.

"I'll think about it," she says. She needs to consider different names for fathers, after all. They can't both be 'father'. But as she puts that at the back of her head to consider, she looks at Hermes curiously, leaning her head against Achilles' leg.

"Is it weird being a girl, when you're usually a boy?" she says. Hermes rocks back and forth in the air as he considers her question--neither of them notice how they mirror the other.

"No weirder than being a dog, or a cheetah, or a bird," Hermes says. "It's not what I usually am. But it's not not me, either. And sometimes it's more comfortable to take a break from what I usually am and slip into something else."

Lyra looks up as she thinks about the answer. She's not sure she understands, but that might just be because she can't turn into other things like him. "Could you turn me into a bird some time? I'd like to try to slip into something else."

Hermes' brow goes up in surprise. "I could. But I'd recommend trying an animal that doesn't fly, first. It's hard to learn how to move in a new body, much less one that can have you fall from great heights if you don't learn it well."

Watching those mirrored movements brings on a fresh swell of affection for both of them. They truly look like family. Achilles smiles fondly and continues rearranging Lyra’s curls, putting them into a semblance of order.

“Changing shape … It must be a bit like changing clothing,” Achilles muses. “Some days I felt such tremendous relief when I removed my armor. I could stop being a hero for a moment.”

Achilles pauses in working out a tangle. “Not to mention my time hidden on Skyros. What a simple thing it was to become a girl.”

But parental caution instantly kicks in at Lyra’s request and he gives Hermes a pointed look. “Yes, small, easy animals to start, please. A rabbit, perhaps? Or better still, a tortoise. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Yes, something sturdy and slow-moving sounds about right for a start.

Lyra doesn't really understand that either, mainly because she doesn't have a wide variety of clothes to change into. It's her tunic, and whatever else her elder siblings might grow out of. But that just makes the idea of changing into an animal more enticing.

But Hermes puts up his hands with a sheepish smile at Achilles' Look, and it's clear that Achilles is the one who gets to decide if Lyra turns into an animal or not. Lyra looks up at Achilles with a scrunched face. It's supposed to communicate her displeasure, but all her baby fat makes her look a little like a frustrated puppy. "Being a tortoise sounds boring. Like crawling while wearing a box."

"How about... Mmm, a snake, perhaps? Very different from being human, but hard to get yourself into trouble." Hermes, ever the diplomat, smiles as he glances between Achilles and Lyra. Lyra seems pleased enough with the suggestion, but Hermes is more concerned with getting Achilles' approval.

"Could I pick the color of the snake?" Lyra asks.

"Oh, absolutely. Any color you want," Hermes promises.

Yes, Achilles is quickly settling in as the responsible parent. That said, he hasn’t had a chance to develop an immunity to Lyra’s adorable petulance. He tries not to look affected; he keeps his face as stern as possible and considers the offered alternative. Snakes are still a bit too fast and vulnerable.

“So long as you promise not to slip away and get stuck where we can’t reach you. And that you keep clear of any places with hawks about.” Not that he doesn’t trust Hermes to keep her safe, but it’s better to not put her in danger in the first place. She’s a mortal changing shape, not a godling like Zagreus.

“And I want you to change my shape first, Hermes. I want to know what Lyra would experience.” Is it painful? Disorienting? Scary? Maybe it’s not something a child should go through.

Lyra keeps her face scrunched and casually perches her chin on Achilles' knee, just in case he doesn't realize that she's displeased about this. But she'll think later that she really ought not to complain to have a father who wants her safe.

"Oh, if anyone's trying an animal form for the first time, they're staying on my arm until they figure out how to move. Going from two legs to none is an adjustment, I promise," Hermes says, holding out his arm as if to illustrate. "So is having senses you've never had before. Most snakes don't see very well, but they can taste the air to tell what's around them. They can taste so well they know what direction it comes from, like a human knows the direction of a sound."

Snakes can even taste temperature, and some can see heat. All very disorienting changes for a human that a Bronze Age Grecian can't possibly anticipate, given snakes' limited ability to communicate their experiences or why they flick out their tongues so much, but Hermes knows perfectly well will be A Lot to take in at first.

But if anyone was hoping this would deter Lyra, they're sorely mistaken. Her scrunched indignation gives way to bright excitement and curiosity. "I want to see what it's like to taste in directions!"

Fun facts about snake senses aren’t exactly reassuring Achilles. If anything, that sounds overwhelmingly strange. Maybe even similar to when Hermes has opened up his expansive senses to Achilles—amazing, but disorienting.

“Just be very careful. And make certain there’s a way to signal if something doesn’t feel right.” Achilles rests a hand back on her shoulder, signaling his seriousness. “It sounds as if it might be very fun, but I don’t want you to feel trapped or uncomfortable, my dear.”

It’s as much about her safety as ensuring the success of the activity—that it will help their bond and make a good memory for the both of them. If the opposite happens, Achilles worries that Hermes’ confidence as a father might take an hit.

“But that’s an adventure for another day. Are there other questions you have for us, child? Anything that worries you?”

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