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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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?”

Lyra's childish petulance smooths from her face as she thinks about the new question. It feels like there are so many questions that they're stuck in her head, unable to pick just one to come out first.

She picks one of the many questions that seem more immediate than the others. She takes the edge of Achilles' cloak between her fingers, fiddling nervously.

"How often will I get to see you both?" She looks to Achilles, then to Hermes. "I can come to the Temple a lot while I live here, but Olympians probably are very busy."

"Not too busy for this," Hermes hastens to say, crossing his legs midair again and hiding his concern behind a smile. "You'll see me as often as I can manage, my dear. I might not always look like this--mortals get very uncomfortable when gods pop up out of nowhere--but I'll visit."

Maybe as a tomcat to start. Then he can work his way up to just appearing as a mortal man.

She asks that and Achilles’ heart feels a sinking ache. In a perfect world, they’d share a home. They’d sit down to meals together, he’d carry her to bed after long days, tell her stories until she falls asleep. He’d take her to festivals, they’d travel all around Thessaly and beyond, to Athens, to Corinth ... But the world is far from perfect. They’ll have to make do with these tiny, precious visits.

“My duties find me here at the Temple quite often. Choose a regular day, a time and I’ll meet you, I promise.” Achilles cups her round face in his palm, and says, with all the sober certainty of a hero: “Death won’t keep me from you.

“And someday, perhaps, you’ll learn the spells to summon my shade, wherever you are.” At least, part of it. Enough to speak, if not to touch. His brow furrows and he blinks back the sting of brewing tears. “I’m sorry, little one. I wish we could live together as a proper family.”

One day, Lyra will understand what she'll never have, and she'll mourn it. One day she'll understand what it means that she'll never be able to live with her fathers, never be put to bed by them, never be able to crawl into their bed after a nightmare, never be able to share the important moments in her live except secondhand or through letters.

But right now, all she sees is what she's been given, and how sad Achilles seems. She holds his hand to her face, frowning at him.

"Don't be sad. I'll visit a lot, so we'll see each other much more than we did before now." She considers for a moment, as if making a decision. "If there's magic to summon you, I'll learn it. Then I'll be able to talk to you even when I go on adventures. No one else can do that with their parents."

There, a narrow silver lining of their situation. She may one day be able to travel the world, and still regularly speak to her father face to face.

Hermes, for his part, aches in his chest. He knows that there's something Achilles desperately wants--a living family, a normal family--that he can't give. Even were Achilles alive, Hermes wouldn't be able to give it. Hermes closes the distance between himself and his family (what a weird thought) and sits down on the marble next to Achilles, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll figure something out." Hermes gives a conspiratorial wink to Lyra. "The nice thing about being Olympian is that we tend to get what we want. And I want to figure something out that makes all of us happy."

Lyra smiles up at Hermes, and the vision of looking up and seeing both her fathers together is something that will be indelibly engraved on her memory forever, then--

"Lyra! Lyra!" in the distance, an older, feminine voice calls from the woods. Lyra perks, looking towards the sound before wincing sheepishly.

"That's my foster mum," she says with a grimace. "I'm probably in trouble."

It doesn’t even occur to Achilles that simply having parents who want her is an amazing gift to an orphan. Living in a home together—that’s just a bonus. But Achilles only knows his own idyllic childhood as the norm, as the pinnacle of what a child is entitled to and what a parent should provide.

… And here is his child, comforting him. That show of kindness, her soft skin pressed against his calloused hands, makes the knot in his throat even bigger. He smiles tightly. A tear slides down his cheek, following the hard angles of his face.

“Thank you, Lyra,” Achilles says thickly. He rests his free hand on Hermes’ and leans into his side with a sigh. They’re both so warm. “Thank you both. I’ve nothing to worry about—not with people as clever as the two of you working at it.”

This will work. Somehow. It won’t be how he envisioned his family, but it has the chance to be something even better.

The woman’s voice tugs Achilles from his reverie, he sits up straight. That’s another thing they need to address, and he hasn’t had time to think about how to approach such a potentially delicate conversation. Lyra’s foster parents love her, surely, even if she’s another mouth to feed. Will they be sad or relieved to know she has parents?

“We should let her know that you’re safe.” Achilles glances at Hermes, trying to get a read. Should they mention that Lyra was born to two fathers? That one of them is a god and the other is the ghost of a hero? “… And introduce ourselves.”

It's a lot easier for Hermes to forget his own discomfort when he sees Achilles in pain. Achilles so rarely weeps that it always twists Hermes' heart. "Oh, my love." Hermes slides his arm around Achilles and wipes the tear from his lover's face. "Nothing to worry about at all. We'll figure it out."

And then everyone's attention is drawn to the sound of Lyra's name. In a moment, Hermes is running different factors in his head. The value of telling the truth to Lyra's foster parents versus the risk of the wrong attention being drawn.

Hermes doesn't trust mortals to keep secrets. Even when they do their best, they often speak where prying ears can hear. But they should know, because he doesn't trust Lyra to keep the secret either and doesn't want her restricted from seeing them. But he also doesn't want her to attract attention. Rumors of godly heritage are common enough, both rooted in truth and vain lies, and the worst sorts of men are unlikely to investigate rumors of a demigod unless news of her youth, beauty, and prowess travel with those rumors. She's too young to bring in kings and men clawing for her hand, but should Neoptolemus learn he's rumored to have a sister, he'd likely come regardless of how old she was or how unsubstantiated the rumor. For curiosity's sake, if nothing else. And perhaps it's cruel to think poorly of his lover's son, but Hermes doesn't trust Neoptolemus to leave Lyra unharmed.

No, right now, Neoptolemus is the most likely threat for Lyra to face should the truth come out. And Lyra can't be expected to be savvy enough to defend herself against her brother, should he arrive. The news of Achilles' fatherhood is far more dangerous than news of Hermes'.

Hermes looks to Achilles, his mouth in a grim line.

"If news that you're her father gets out, Neoptolemus will investigate." And he'll either kill her for her perceived lies, or he'll do far worse if he believes her. Lyra, for her part, scrunches her face at Hermes, but instead of petulance, she's scrunched in consideration, following his invisible train of thought. "Can you be her mentor, so she still has cause to visit?"

Hermes knows he's asking a lot right now. Achilles is already so in love with the idea of being her father, and to deny her publicly even for now will hurt. But Hermes sincerely thinks it's the best way to keep her safe.

This is what Achilles hoped for. As always, his instinct is to be straightforward, to tell the truth, but he can count on Hermes to consider all the angles. The simple truth might have complex consequences.

“You’re right, unfortunately.” Achilles pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales sharply. Neoptolemus is going to learn someday, best not to hasten that along. Give Lyra time to grow stronger and smarter. “Styx, there must be some way to deal with him …”

Not kill him. Achilles doesn’t want to do that. If there was just some way to set him straight. Break him of his malice and violence … It’s something to discuss later, when Lyra isn’t present.

“Her mentor, yes,” Achilles says, rising to his feet. It’s an easy enough lie. He is that, isn’t he? Still odd that her mentor is a shade, but there’s no hiding that. He offers his hands to Hermes and Lyra. “And you, Hermes? Who will you be?”

"Lyra! Lyra!"

The voice is coming closer. Hermes frowns in thought, and Lyra watches him in fascination even as she takes Achilles' hand in hers and stands. There's something cleverly prying about her eyes, almost like she can read his thoughts if she tries hard enough. Hermes is so lost in thought that he doesn't notice Achilles' hand, still sitting on the marble.

"Hm." Hermes nods to himself, looking to Lyra. "For now, my dear, you're Apollo's child instead."

"Apollo?" Lyra furrows her brow, cocking her head curiously. It's not what she expected, which means Hermes knows something she doesn't. "Why is that better than you?"

Hermes has a matter of fact way of answering her, quick and precise, and it's clear she's taking mental note. "Because Apollo's known to curse whole armies with plague over one kidnapped priestess. Any mortal with half a mind would be afraid to harass his daughter, and anyone who tries to raise any support from an army or kings would risk mutiny."

Plenty of people messed with Zeus' children because it was widely known he didn't intervene on their behalf, and Hermes doesn't have the same fearsome reputation as his big brother. No one wants to risk angering him, but they don't know what happens if they do. Apollo has made the consequences of crossing him abundantly clear, and his history of collective punishment means few people would risk serving someone they think might anger him. It'll frighten Lyra's foster parents, but given their position in society, Hermes is pretty sure that knowing he was her father would have frightened them just as much.

"Won't he be annoyed about someone lying about being his child?" Lyra says, because she's heard enough stories to tell that Apollo doesn't seem the sort to have a sense of humor.

"Yes, but I'm his little brother and I can get away with that sort of thing," Hermes says, giving her a wink and a smile.

It all makes sense, but it still doesn’t sit right. Achilles doesn’t like to hide behind lies, and he doesn’t want his child to, either. His eyes flick to Hermes with an edge of unease. He wants to ask how long they’ll keep this up, but that’s another discussion to be had later. Not in front of Lyra.

“Come along, let’s put an end to your foster mother’s search.” Achilles ushers his daughter back towards the gates of the Underworld, where the surface looks like a vibrant, sunny painting framed by heavy stone. He stops just short of the threshold, kneels down, and rests a hand on Lyra’s shoulder.

“You understand what Hermes is asking and why?” She’s Hermes’ daughter. He expects a certain amount of insight and guile, but she’s also still a child. She may not fully grasp the danger she’s in. “Don’t speak of us as your fathers until we tell you it’s safe to do so, understood?”

Lyra allows Achilles to guide her, leaning against his side as they go. As he kneels in front of her, she holds eye contact, nodding solemnly.

"I understand. You're scared people might want to hurt or use me. So I shouldn't tell people you're my dads."

"That includes your siblings." Hermes puts his hands on his hips, all too aware of the temptations of sibling rivalries. "No bragging to them about your parentage."

Lyra scrunches her face at Hermes in childish petulance. "That's no fun."

"Pinky swear you won't tell them," Hermes says, holding out his hand.

"Pinky swears aren't really magic," Lyra says, face still scrunched.

"Pinky swear."

Lyra sighs, shoulders slumping before she hooks her pinky with Hermes'. "I pinky swear. Even though it's no fun."

"Good girl." Hermes winks with a smile before gently ruffling her hair.

"LYR--oh!"

A woman with steel gray hair, deep wrinkles on her face and hands, and swollen, arthritic knees and finger joins stumbles out of the woods to just outside the mouth of the temple. Her tunic is dirty and ragged, her sandals worn and thrice repaired, and her back is hunched from many years of long, hard work with little rest. She looks at the scene, a ghost knelt before her foster daughter, a god towering above them, because the glowing winged man could be nothing else. Eudokia breath shakes as she drops to her knees, bowing her head and averting her eyes, her hands out in supplication. Her whole body shakes with bone-deep terror, the sort that a deer has just as it spots a hunter, but she forces herself to stay rooted in place, gesturing for Lyra to come to her.

"My apologies, my apologies, Lord, for her trespasses, but she's just a child, I beg your mercy--"

The poor woman is so terrified that she sounds like she might cry. She is dead certain that she's about to be turned into a frog for daring to even look at a god and a noble shade, because she's no hero or queen or warrior. No one important, no one that any god or hero would find consequential. She's just a poor farmer, praying that her foundling hasn't pissed off the gods so much that they won't let her go home.

This is a familiar sight. Standing guard at the House of Hades, he’s watched plenty of shades prostrate themselves before his Master, begging for mercy, for a return to life. It was common enough in life, too: his weaker-willed enemies fell at his feet, begging to be spared.

Achilles can’t stand to see it again. Nor does he want Lyra to see her guardian this way.

“Please don’t be frightened. Not for yourself or Lyra. She’s done nothing wrong. In fact, she’s come at our invitation.” He stands, but his hand still rests gently on the back of Lyra’s curls.

“You must be Eudokia?” Achilles inclines his head and offers a reassuring smile. He opens his mouth to introduce himself and his name almost tumbles out by reflex. Naturally, he doesn’t have a false name ready. Pyrrhus? Sullied by Neoptolemus. Demetrius? Might do in a pinch. But then his gaze sweeps downward to Lyra’s eyes, glittering green as the sea, and a fine name springs to mind. “I am Pelagios.”

A smile comes to Lyra's face as she makes the connection with the name, gently leaning against Achilles' leg.

Eudokia doesn't dare to meet Achilles' eyes, but she does incline her head slightly so she's not just staring at the dirt and can instead see Lyra at his side. She doesn't dare even glance at the god at her side, too paralyzed by fear that even her unworthy gaze might incite wrath.

"Eu-Eu, it's okay," Lyra says, sounding a little exasperated in the sort of way only a hero with no conception of mortal terror can be exasperated in this situation. "They're not going to hurt us. They're really nice."

"Oh, be patient with your foster mother, my dear. She's just trying to keep you safe."

It's almost like Hermes has put on a new face, even though he doesn't shapeshift. His body language becomes loose and comfortable, his smile becomes his usual opaque smirk, his eyes grow gentle yet clever. It's the persona he always keeps with strangers and mortals in need of his services. He drops down to a crouch before the woman, wings comfortably fluffed and the warmth of his aura falling on her as she's forced to look at him.

"Hermes, god of messengers, at your service, boss. Your piety is admirable, but no need for any more genuflecting. Can't be good for the knees."

Lyra watches with fascination as Hermes offers his hand to Eudokia. Hermes had allowed Achilles to take the lead talking to her, but now he seems different, more in his element, and it's interesting to watch from the sidelines. Eudokia, trembling, takes Hermes' hand, allowing him to help her to her feet as if in a dream.

"You called me boss?" she says faintly, like she's not sure if she's about to pass out or not.

"I live to serve." Hermes does a playful little flourish of a bow to her. Lyra watches, noting that this must be what he does with shades, too. Acting a bit silly and making them feel special so they don't feel so scared coming with him to the Styx. "And you've done Olympus a great favor, though you don't know it, and we like to pay our debts."

The performance reminds Achilles why he’s so taken with Hermes—he has such a kind, cheerful way with mortals. Even if this isn’t the most authentic version of Hermes—he’s definitely laying on a breezy charm—it’s still not terribly far from the truth.

“Lyra is an exceptionally clever child. Perhaps it’s no surprise to hear that she’s not entirely mortal.” Maybe it’s for the best Eudokia avoids looking at Achilles or Hermes for any great length of time; if she’s astute, she might note the similarities they share with Lyra. Those golden curls. That confident, cocky smile. If she sees those echoes, what Achilles is about to say might not ring true. “Lord Hermes has just delivered the message: Lyra’s father is his brother, Lord Apollo.”

He pronounces the lie a bit stiffly and tries to smooth it out by adding something more honest: “You’ve done well to take her in and raise her with such care, even when you have so little. Thank you, Eudokia.”

"Lord Apollo... her father?" Eudokia's voice is distant and breathy, like it's not quite hers. She's probably not going to quite process what she's been told until she's slept on it. Luckily, that also means that she can't think too hard about it right now.

"Exactly. You've done Olympus a great service by taking in one of ours, so you'll never want for anything again." Hermes looks at her hand in his, humming before passing his palm over her swollen knuckles. "Let's start with that."

The swelling in Eudokia's knuckles and knees suddenly recedes, settling into the form they might have had if she hadn't needed to labor with them regardless of her health every day of her life. She gasps, her hands trembling as she examines them. Her eyes grow glassy. A tear overflows and rolls down her cheek. She quickly tries to wipe it.

"Sorry. I... forgot what it's like not to hurt." Her hands shake as she clutches them close to her chest, like she needs to rub them together just to make the lack of pain real. Her eyes dart from 'Palagios' to Hermes to Lyra. She wets her lips, struggling to find words. She can safely say this is a situation she never saw herself being in, and she finds herself so overwhelmed that it's hard not to be emotional. "This--i-it's not necessary. We didn't take her for a reward. She can be trouble, but she's a good girl, she really is."

"I know." Hermes' voice grows gentle, more sincere. His aura is gentle, but it envelopes the clearing with divine warmth, like he's taking her in an embrace without physically doing so. For a woman who's only known gods as painted pottery and marble statues in a temple, the feeling of gentle divine love washing over her makes tears spring to her eyes. "This isn't a reward. It's a 'thank you.' For loving her when her father couldn't."

Hermes rests his hands gently on her arms. His breezy charm has been replaced with sincerity. "She'll come back here often to receive Pelagios' counsel, and one day she'll have to leave for a hero's education. But for now, I want you to go back home with her, and dig up your garden. Gold will be at the roots of all your crops, and I want you to go out and buy the fattest goose you can to share with the whole family. Feast well in the knowledge that you will want for nothing ever again."

“You and your family have worked hard. Please, enjoy your well-deserved bounty.” Achilles is grateful one of them has the power to return the favor. The best he can do is put in a good word with Hades, maybe get her and her husband set up in a particularly nice part of Asphodel when their time comes. But they deserve to enjoy the rest of their lives on the surface.

“Lyra isn’t the first child of a god I’ve taught. I’ll see to it that she learns a few basics—letters, history, perhaps the lyre …” He gives Lyra a warm smile and ruffles her hair. “Anything she wishes to know.”

He kneels beside Lyra once more and whispers, “Would that we could visit longer, but you’d best be off. Be safe, my dear, and remember what we’ve told you.”

Achilles desperately wants to give his daughter a hug, but that might come across as odd for a supposed-tutor. Instead, he smiles warmly and gives her an encouraging nudge towards her foster mother. In a louder voice, he says, “Go along now, Miss Lyra. I expect to see you a few times a week for your lessons.”

Lyra, for her part, refuses to deny herself a hug. She throws her arms around Achilles' shoulders, hugging tight and resting her face in his neck. Eudokia squeaks, coming a little more into herself as Lyra drags her into more familiar territory (that is, correcting her misbehaving foundling.)

"Lyra! We ask before we hug."

Lyra roundly ignores her foster mother, provoking an exasperated noise. Lyra pulls away from Achilles, giving him the confident look of a hero absolutely certain to get her way. "I'll see you again soon."

And then she steps away from Achilles and looks to Hermes. She's not quite comfortable enough to mob him with a hug, so instead, she just stretches her arms out in invitation.

"Lyra, we don't hug gods," Eudokia says sharply, but Lyra still ignores her. Hermes honestly isn't so ready for hugging at this point, but he can't bear to say no.

"Oh, children can take liberties." He crouches and holds his arms out for Lyra. She gives him a much more polite hug than with Achilles, but it's a hug. "You'll be seeing more of me, my dear. Enjoy the goose tonight, hmmm?"

Well, if she’s the one giving the hug, there’s no harm reciprocating in full. Achilles holds her equally tight, as if he could fit at least a dozen of the hundreds of hugs they’ve missed into one. She feels so small in his arms, and the world beyond suddenly feels so big. He’s loathe to send her back into it, well beyond his reach.

But just as he can’t follow her into the world of the living, she can’t stay in the world of the dead. His smile tightens at the corners, wistful.

“I look forward to your return,” he says softly.

Achilles tenses when Lyra confidently petitions Hermes for a hug. For a moment, he wonders if Hermes can bring himself to respond. It’s such an odd thing to see, given how lavish Hermes is with his affection—at least with him. How long did that take, though?

Achilles finally exhales, relieved, when the two embrace. It’s a tentative hug, but it’s progress, he supposes. He steps up beside Hermes—or as close as he can before the Underworld drags at his shade’s limbs—and raises a hand. “Farewell, and thank you again, Eudokia.”

Lyra goes to Eudokia, taking her outstretched hand. Eudokia, at a loss for words, can only dip her head silently as she searches for some kind of response.

"Thank you," she says lamely, but sincerely. "Thank you."

"Bye!" Lyra waves as Eudokia draws her away. "I'll see you soon!"

Lyra doesn't really watch where she's going. She's looking at her fathers as she walks away, led by her foster mother, still watching them until she's disappeared among the trees.

And once she's long gone, all the air goes out of Hermes. His glow flags as his pent up anxiety and ambivalence all release at once, burying his face in his hands and rubbing the skin before turning to Achilles. "Let's go to Elysium."

Hermes doesn't wait for a response before turning into a hummingbird, zipping to Achilles and tucking himself in the crook of his lover's neck. Hermes is feeling very overwhelmed, and he needs some animal time before he's prepared to have all the conversations they surely must at this point.

Lyra will see Achilles similarly watching until she’s out of view, soaking up the last sight of her to keep him until her next visit. Part of him still wonders if he didn’t slip back into a dreamscape—that Lyra isn’t some wishful figment of his imagination.

He’s pulled from his thoughts by Hermes’ words, followed by the thrumming of wings at his neck and the warm flutter of a tiny heartbeat. Achilles hums his understanding and silently walks back through the temple. The Underworld expedites their journey downward; it only takes a half-dozen turns before the stone of the temple gives way to Elysium’s lush, misty glades.

Achilles only speaks once they’ve arrived at a familiar glade: the one that resembles the palace at Phthia. He takes a seat by the overgrown hearth and strokes Hermes’ head with his pinky fingertip. “You did well, my love. I’m proud of you.”

Hermes hides in Achilles' curls, content to ride in contemplative silence. He's exhausted. Almost as exhausted as he was after being stabbed by Ares. Probably not a good sign that he's comparing talking to his own daughter to being stabbed by his brother. Oh, he's hopeless, poor Lyra, she'd probably be better off if Apollo were her father.

Elysium's familiar embrace is a balm. Hermes' nerves buzz, and the dim light of Ixion and loamy scent of forgetfulness is like a blanket to ease him. It feels even better as they find the familiar glade, the quiet embrace of homey secrecy.

He raises his head to encourage the little strokes of Achilles' pinky. He chitters softly, nudging Achilles' wrist with his long, delicate beak. And then, like a sigh, he's back to his usual form, sitting at Achilles' side with his head tucked in his neck and his arms draped across his waist.

"I'm glad one of us thinks so," he mumbles. "I was a mess. I am a mess, poor girl."

Not for the first time, Hermes is grateful for his ability to pretend. It's the only thing that stopped him from wounding his own daughter the way he was wounded, the only thing that kept him from doing what every inch of his panicky heart demanded and recoiling. He hopes it's easier next time he talks to her.

He pulls away enough to look at Achilles' face, tucking a curl behind his ear. Those lovely curls that Lyra already has, already growing wild and beautiful around her face.

"You were amazing. She already is quite taken with you," Hermes says. A part of him is a little envious, wishing that it came so easy to him, wishing that he could instantly be the sort of father everyone wants to have. But more than envious, he feels relieved that at least one of them can do that, that at least one of them can give Lyra what she needs right now.

Achilles slings an arm around Hermes’ shoulder and rests his other hand on his bare knee. He can feel Hermes’ exhaustion, see it in his faded glow. “Don’t say that. She’s not a poor girl. She’s a lucky girl.”

How can such a clever god be so blind to something so glaringly obvious? Achilles gives Hermes’ knee an emphatic shake and locks his gaze with heroic certainty. “Do you know what I saw? I saw our child laughing and smiling—utterly delighted by you. I saw a kind, generous god lavishing blessings on her foster mother. Lyra saw that, too.”

He runs a palm over Hermes’ feathers, equal parts fond and soothing. It reminds him of Lyra’s clear wonder when she first saw them, the reverent way she touched them. A smile tugs at Achilles’ lips at the memory; it’s one he won’t soon forget. “Most importantly, she was watching you with so much curiosity. She wants to know you, magpie.”

Hermes wonders how Achilles is always able to see the best in him when Hermes barely can sometimes. All Hermes can see is how he could only really connect with her as an animal, not as a man. But perhaps he's being hard on himself. Maybe the only thing that really matters is that she was happy.

"Making children laugh is easy. They like animals."

Being a father is hard, especially when Hermes feels so much like some essential piece is missing, like everyone learns what a good father is from childhood but he never did and he has to scramble to figure it out.

"I don't know how to let her know me. I know there are things children shouldn't know about their parents, but I don't know where the line is." At least, he's pretty sure there are things children shouldn't know about their parents. Hermes rather wishes he didn't know as much about his father as he did so early, but maybe that's just Zeus, and maybe that's just him. And besides that, there's the concern about letting mortals know too much about the fallibility of gods. A little fallibility makes them relatable, but too much and mortals start getting nervous that the beings they pray to can't take care of the world. What's appropriate? He can't talk to Lyra like he talks to Achilles, surely. But he doesn't really want to talk to her like all the other children he encounters, because he doesn't let any of the children he encounters know him enough to think they might not be safely delivered to Charon.

“Don’t overthink this, love,” Achilles gently chides. Maybe an animal shape isn’t ideal for conversation, but … “You’ve only just met. Do whatever makes the both of you most comfortable.”

Achilles sighs and coaxes Hermes’ head to rest against his shoulder. He continues petting his wings, his hair in long, slow strokes. “There’s no single way to be a good father. And there’s certainly never been a perfect father.”

His eyes rove over the rough, ruined sketch of his father’s palace. Even Peleus wasn’t perfect. Sometimes he didn’t know how to deal with his son’s stubbornness, particularly as Achilles grew older and more assertive. He remembers heated arguments when Peleus refused to take him along on a journey, or when his father turned away the many men keen to recruit him for battle.

Achilles fully expects to suffer the same struggles with Lyra one day, and he’ll absolutely need Hermes’ help.

“You need not tell her about the painful things—Zeus and Lady Hera, your mother … Someday, I hope you can bring yourself to tell her, but until then, you’ve plenty to share. Your time and your presence is more than enough to start.”

Maybe Achilles is right. Maybe Hermes is overthinking this. It's supposed to come naturally to people, after all. She liked her animal forms, so surely she won't mind if he just visits her as an animal at first, right? Right. Probably. Hopefully.

(Oh, this poor, poor girl.)

Hermes focuses on the rhythmic feeling of Achilles' hand on his hair and feathers. His feathers relax under the touch, turning his nose to press gently against Achilles' neck. He breathes his lover in, just basking in his attention while he tries to wind down from the anxiety attack that was talking to his own child.

"She'd probably like me as a cat," Hermes says softly. "She strikes me as the sort who'd like a cat or dog to follow on her adventures." And that's something Hermes could manage. A little cat weaving between a little girl's legs, watching her get into trouble but keeping it from being too much trouble. That seems approachable.

Hermes curls his fingers in Achilles' hair. How blessed is he, to have a lover so kind and patient?

"I ought not mope. She seems like a wonderful girl. The sort any man would be proud to have as a daughter." Or. Well. Any man who wanted a daughter, which isn't everyone in Greece, but Hermes is happy to have a daughter, the fact it makes her life harder aside. "She has so much nerve. It reminds me of you."

“You are a charming little tomcat, at least when you aren’t raking me with your claws.” Achilles kisses the top of Hermes’ head and gives his side a teasing pinch.

“You’re right. She is a remarkable child. Clever, kind, courageous. She’s already off to a fine start, even without us.”

Achilles laughs softly at the talk of nerve. He’s not about to deny it. But there’s an important difference between them: Lyra is a girl. Nerve in a man is laudable. Heroic. Not everyone will appreciate or respect that same confidence in a woman.

“As charming as it is to see that nerve in a child, it’s bound to cause trouble when she’s a woman grown,” Achilles sighs. Trouble with gods or, more likely, mortal men who resent assertive women. “I don’t want Lyra to lose her spirit, but I want her to be careful.”

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