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 nods along. It’s probably true—for all their power, the goddesses would want to shape Lyra into a mortal version of themselves. That’s not at all what she needs. They can’t teach her how to live a good, full life of her own.

“Gods, that would be wonderful.” The mention of magic gives Achilles fresh hope. Right now, Lyra lives near enough to the Underworld’s gate for regular visits, but she won’t stay in her little village forever. He’ll see less of her when she needs his guidance all the more. “Letters just won’t do. I need to see her, speak with her.”

Achilles pulls Hermes into a tight embrace. He feels so much more like a partner now; they’re bound together by an exciting, new goal—one that lasts a whole mortal lifetime—and a new kind of love. “And I don’t want you to feel alone in this, my love.”

Hermes melts in Achilles' arms, embracing him tight in turn. He'd really never dared to think about the finer parts of parenthood--in his secret fantasies, he thought about what it might be like to have children, but he hadn't thought about the nitty gritty of parenthood and working together with a partner. It really is so lucky that of all the lovers that he might have had a child with, it was Achilles, who he trusts implicitly.

"You'll see her and speak with her, my love. I'll make it happen." One way or another. Hermes may have his own shaky journey of bonding with Lyra ahead of him, but he can already tell how in love Achilles is, and how much Lyra is ready to adore him in turn. He won't let death part them any more than it has to.

Hermes kisses Achilles. It's a happy kiss, despite Hermes' own anxieties. Achilles' excitement is infectious, and Hermes has to confess to a flutter of excitement in his stomach as well. "So Medea is on the table? You ought to still speak with her, I think, just so you know her better. And maybe get more comfortable with the idea."

“Thank you.” That promise eases any lingering anxiety about a future shared with his daughter. Achilles leans into the kiss with deep gratitude. These plans are absolutely in defiance of his master and the strict bounds of death, but Achilles’ devotion to Lyra already trumps that.

At the question, he draws back slightly, and looks upward—as if he could see the bustling life on the surface somewhere above. He should trust Apollo’s foresight—Hermes certainly does—and Lyra needs to learn to defend herself. But the stories about Medea still loom large.

His eyes return to Hermes and he nods. “Yes … but you’re correct. I need to speak with her to feel absolutely confident. Can you arrange a meeting?”

“Absolutely. Immediately, if you want it, but tomorrow morning may give you more time to think of what you want to ask.”

Medea is powerful and fearsome, but she’s also not fool enough to ignore an Olympian’s summons. If Hermes asks it, he has no doubt she’ll drop everything to summon Achilles’ shade.

“It might be best if we both do our evaluations ourselves. You can speak with her plainly, and I can observe.”

And by that, he means lurk around her for a while as various little animals that are easily missed so he can see what she’s like with her guard down. Hermes is very much a spy at heart.

“Tomorrow, yes.” He’s only just met Lyra, but he’s eager to plan a stable future. If Medea doesn’t meet their standards, they’ll need to find someone else.

Achilles is grateful for Hermes’ subterfuge, particularly in assessing someone as complicated as Medea appears to be. He knows speaking plainly can only get him so far and this is one decision they need to consider from all angles.

Achilles lets his arms drop loose around Hermes’ waist, toying with his belt while he muses. “And shall we keep up the ruse? Claim Lyra is Lord Apollo’s daughter?”

Maybe Medea is clever enough to see through it. Or simply question why Achilles of all people needs to visit her on Apollo’s behalf. Most of Greece would guess that Achilles and Apollo wouldn’t be on friendly terms. “… Or can we trust her with the truth?”

Hermes looks up and considers. And as he does so, he swings his leg to sit in his favorite seat in the world: Achilles' lap. He plays with Achilles' hair, humming, eyes darting to and fro as he thinks and measures invisible factors.

"...I trust her with the truth," he says, like a decision. He looks to Achilles, delicately arranging the coils of his hair over his shoulder. "I would say that Medea's greatest asset is that she's smart. Smart enough to know what fights she can win, and what she will lose."

In many ways, Medea falls under Hermes' own purview when she doesn't fall under Hecate's or her grandfather, Helios'. Most of what she wants, she gets not through magic, but through cunning and trickery. Hermes has long recognized that about her, and sympathized with the fact that mortal men would never respect her like they respected Odysseus. Even when she'd ended a famine in Corinth with her magic, and healed Atalanta, and defeated the bronze automaton Talos. She's a hero deserving of the same renown of any man, but no mortal will grant it to her.

"The only people she's ever harmed were the men stupid enough to hurt and underestimate her, and she knew they'd be too dead or stupid to avenge themselves." Her father and brother, stupid to think she'd allow them to kill the man she loved. Pelias, stupid enough to think he could break a promise to Medea's husband and then trust a ritual that required he be cut into pieces and boiled in a pot. Jason, stupid enough to discard her after she gave him everything. Creon, stupid enough to think a notorious witch would allow her husband to marry a younger woman without retaliation. "We've never done her wrong. And even if we had, she knows I'm not stupid enough to underestimate her, and not impotent enough to avenge myself if she crosses me."

Hermes doesn't like to hurt mortals. But he won't rule it out.

If Hermes trusts Medea with the truth, Achilles resolves to do the same. He knows Hermes doesn’t make these decisions lightly.

“Yes, Lyra should learn to choose her battles carefully,” he says somberly, then he huffs and can’t stifle a laugh at the hypocrisy. “That’s not something I was ever particularly good at.”

And certainly not something Achilles is well-suited to teach; he’s accustomed to defying kings, fighting river gods, standing up to Zeus. If he tried to teach Zagreus to be better, he wasn’t particularly successful.

Achilles cocks his head and idly runs his hands along Hermes’ sides. “How do you expect she’ll receive this responsibility, if we give it? Willingly? As an honor? Or will she resent Lyra as a burden?”

Hermes hums softly, draping his arms around Achilles' neck. "I'm not sure. I think she'll recognize it's an honor, but being happy about it is another matter."

He has no doubt that Medea would agree to take on the task if asked, and he has no doubt that she would carry out her duties accordingly, but would she be happy about it?

"I have a feeling that will depend on how well she gets along with Lyra." And Hermes isn't confident he knows Medea well enough to say if she'd like Lyra. His interactions with the woman have been mostly businesslike--carrying messages to and forth. "The most I can say is that it seemed to me like she disliked people she thought stupid or ungrateful. That, at least, I think will play in Lyra's favor."

Hermes hasn't meet a child so clever since... well, himself. And her desire to look out for her family speaks well to her heart. She's still young enough to be taught the value of respect, loyalty, and demonstrating gratitude.

Given her humble upbringing, he has no doubt Lyra will be grateful. That is, assuming knowledge of her divine parentage doesn’t immediately go to her head. But Achilles has only seen Lyra in a good mood and at her most charming; he’s yet to see how she’ll respond when her will is opposed.

“Mm. Yet another fine reason to speak with—and observe—Medea.” Achilles is positive she’ll be a far cry from Phoenix or Chiron. Phoenix loved Achilles as if he were his own son and the centaur had a bottomless well of patience for headstrong, impetuous heroes. “It will give us a chance to instruct Lyra. To teach her how best to get on with her new guardian, should we proceed.”

Achilles’ face is more set and certain now that a plan is taking shape, but it softens after a moment. He runs a hand up Hermes’ arm. “How are you feeling now, magpie?”

Hermes nods along, pleased to have come to agreement with Achilles about how to move forward. It eases his anxiety to know they have a plan, and to know the next steps to take. For all he knows, maybe Medea will like the idea of having a little girl running around. Well, maybe not--she'd be an advanced age now, given she was a grown woman married with children when Achilles was born--but Hermes has learned not to make assumptions about people he doesn't know well.

But his thoughts pause at Achilles' question. His own face softens as he considers.

"Afraid. But better, knowing that we have a plan. And having met her." She's not his worst fears of a child at all. Curious, compassionate, charming, and clever. And she's mortal, so there's little risk of her growing up to kick off divine wars and making messes like some of Hermes' brothers by Zeus have. But now his fear of what he might have begotten is replaced with fear of what might happen to her. Greece isn't a good place for little girls, especially not beautiful ones without a powerful mortal father right there to look out for her.

And he wonders... "Achilles, love, are you sorry she's not a boy?" Hermes, for his part, never really cared about having boys or girls. Boys would have to be hidden from war recruitment, and girls would have to be hidden from cruel men, and his fear on their behalf is the extent of his different thoughts on them. If anything, he might prefer a girl, knowing that he won't have to watch her grow up to delight in violence like so many Greek boys. But he knows it's different for a mortal, especially one like Achilles, who was denied a chance to raise his son and grew up in a time and place where any man who thought of children relished the idea of seeing their boy compete in athletic competitions and dreaded needing to deal with gathering a dowry and arranging a marriage for a girl.

The question raises his brows. He wants to say no, but he was raised in a society that values sons, and he’s not immune to that. He’s quiet for a long moment as he puts more careful thought into his answer.

“In truth, a part of me is sorry. I know more about boys and how they should be raised.” Girls are a gap in his knowledge. He hasn’t had particularly deep relationships with women. His mother, perhaps, and more recently the ladies of the House of Hades, but a goddess isn’t the same as a mortal woman. He knows superficially what’s expected of mortal girls—preparing for marriage, keeping a home, bearing and raising children—but he’s not fit to teach those things.

“But any son of mine would be bound for war. I doubt either of us could keep him from it. He might swiftly become another Neoptolemus.” And with Hermes’ divinity? The world would be clamoring for him, just as they had for Achilles himself. “Lyra has no hunger for war as I did. She has every chance for a different life. A better one, I hope.”

Hermes nods along in understanding. It's true that in many ways, it would have been easier to have a son. A son who Achilles would be more familiar with the raising of, but who would be the target of different attention than Lyra would be. But Hermes can't help but be glad it wasn't in some ways too. A son would be more likely to crave war, and Hermes doesn't relish the idea of gathering shades slain by his own child.

"I hope so too." Hermes adjusts himself on Achilles' lap, stroking his hair and staring at how it shines even in Ixion's light. "I'll admit I'm afraid for her. The world she wants to explore is wide, and there are many dangers that I won't be able to completely protect her from. But I also think there isn't a place in Greece for a girl like her to grow into a happy woman."

There's space for her to be happy as a girl. Children are allowed to get away with more. But she won't be a child forever, and Greece is not a good place for assertive, headstrong women without citizenship in any particular city.

And Hermes knows that mortals will expect certain things of him, as a father. Expectations he doesn't care to meet if he personally doesn't want to.

"I won't ask her to marry anyone if she doesn't want me to," Hermes says. The statement is heavy. He remembers seeing Zeus drive away all his daughters with his petulant insistence that they marry the men of his choice, Hebe driven so far as to be completely disconnected from the family for centuries. He remembers seeing Hebe's heart shatter when their father tried to force the matter, and Hera didn't stop him. He can't stand the idea of breaking Lyra's heart like that. "I hope you don't, either. My father trying to force marital arrangements is half the reason why most of my sisters barely spent time on Olympus."

It’s a sad thought—that Lyra may never find happiness in her own country. Achilles knows it to be true, though. He thinks of Deidameia, Iphigenia, Briseis … even Helen. All of them were little more than property. Things to be used, stolen, sacrificed. Achilles hasn’t known a single mortal woman who was truly happy with her lot.

He won’t see Lyra suffer the same fate. Not if he has any say in it.

“I’m not in a position to negotiate or benefit from such things.” Maybe, if he was still alive, he might be more interested in brokering her marriage. He might have some sense of which kings or princes would make worthy allies and take good care of his daughter. But now he knows little of the living. The world has moved on. “If she wishes to marry, let it be to a man of her choosing.”

He drums his fingers on Hermes’ thigh and quickly adds: “Though, I will want some say in his worthiness.”

Hermes' mouth quirks into a smile. "I'll want some say too. Can't have her running off with some brute."

But mostly he's happy that Achilles has agreed not to broker a marriage for her. He thought it unlikely--Achilles, after all, is right that he stands little to gain and doesn't have the knowledge a living man would to make that decision--but still. It's giving up a right most mortal men have over their daughters, and Hermes thinks Lyra would be glad for it.

Hermes leans in, pressing a long kiss to Achilles' mouth. "I doubt she'll have a normal life. But let's do our best to make it a happy one." And Hermes doesn't mind the idea of his child having an abnormal life. He's not a god of propriety or law or order--his devotees are all types. She could become a thief queen and have ten children from different men and never marry, and Hermes wouldn't mind so long as he was happy. He's not so sure that Achilles has such loose expectations, but that's a bridge to cross if they ever come to it.

After the kiss, Achilles smiles and bumps his nose against Hermes’. “She was birthed from the sea, a child of two fathers, and marched fearlessly into the Underworld. Her life is already far from normal.”

Really, no child of an Olympian and a hero could ever expect to lead a mundane life. The Fates usually have special plans for them, for better or worse. Grimly, Achilles wonders if he’ll soon understand for himself how his mother struggled to guide his own destiny. He should speak with her soon.

For now, he puts fate from his mind and shifts to press their foreheads together. He twines his arms tight around Hermes’ waist, keeping him close as he breathes, “Yes, we shall safeguard her happiness, you and I.”

Achilles has a point there. But a strange life doesn't mean a bad one. It might even mean a better one than could have been expected.

Hermes smiles as he's pulled up against Achilles, feathers fluffing up and air warming with his contentment. "I love you, my darling." Hermes kisses him again, and he tastes like fresh adventure. "And I'm glad to have this little fledgling with you."

Hermes coils his fingers in Achilles' hair. "Do you want to try to celebrate with wine and music again?" Maybe this time without Patroclus, so he and Hermes don't bash heads again?

“I thank the Fates for this second chance at fatherhood.” Achilles captures one of the hands in his hair and turns his head to kiss it. “With one who I love so dearly.”

Hermes’ mood has dramatically improved and Achilles is keen on keeping it that way. He senses the implied question and, as much as he wishes Pat could join their celebration, he’s not about to repeat the earlier disaster.

“I’d like that. And as it happens, I hid your lyre just over there.” He nods his head towards an altar, half-covered with ivy and moss.

Hermes grins, wiggling cheerfully in Achilles' lap. In a perfect world, Hermes would have liked to include Patroclus, but at the moment, they can barely manage a full conversation, much less a celebration. And perhaps it's selfish, but Hermes wants Achilles' full attention when they celebrate their daughter.

"I'll get wine."

Hermes kisses Achilles again, his mouth a smile as he does so. "I'll be back before you've set up the lyre."

“I’ll have a song at the ready.”

Once Hermes has zipped off for the promised wine, Achilles stands and makes his way to the shrine—a simulacrum of the one at which he and his father made offerings to the household gods. Zeus, Apollo, Hestia, Hekate and appropriately, Hermes.

He parts the thick vines and finds that they’ve already coiled themselves greedily around the arms and body of the hidden lyre. Elysium and the Lethe like to devour memories in more ways than one.

Achilles carries the instrument back to the hearth, tugs a few clinging leaves free, and begins plucking each of the strings, twisting the pegs until the notes ring true. He smiles. Someday soon he’ll teach his daughter how to play her namesake.

Hermes zips back with a krater of wine and two cups. But not just that--he also comes bearing proudly a bowl of figs. He remembers Achilles' favorite.

"I got the good stuff," Hermes says with a flourish as he puts down his prizes. As if there were any doubt that Hermes would get the good stuff. "You know, it occurs to me that we've missed a few of her birthdays. Should we give her gifts to make up for them? Not sure she's ready to deal with the sorts of gifts my siblings would want to ply her with. I had to talk Dionysus out of sneaking in to meet her as a mouse in my bag. I'm not convinced he won't be a mouse nibbling at their crumbs during dinner."

As Hermes chatters cheerfully, he pours out wine for himself and for Achilles. He offers Achilles his cup, smiling like the sun. "Cheers, my love."

“You spoil me so,” Achilles laughs upon seeing the figs. He accepts the offered cup and taps it against Hermes’. “To our dear Lyra. May she grow happy and healthy.”

He takes a long drink to complete the toast and swirls the remaining wine in his cup, thinking. “Clothes would be a fine start. I won’t see her wearing rags stained with goat’s blood. Sandals—she needs those as well. And a travel cloak.”

After her upbringing, she doesn’t need to be showered in divine riches, she needs the bare essentials. “Simple, but well-made. No use drawing more attention to herself with finery.”

"To Lyra," Hermes agrees with a smile. The more his anxiety fades, the more excitement replaces it. Having a child could be fun, he thinks. Especially one like her, so eager to try and learn new things. Maybe they could be snakes together for a time. Maybe one day he'll teach her how to fly as a songbird. Maybe it'll be fun to lavish her with the attention that he so desired from his own father. "May she grow happy and healthy."

Hermes drinks to complete the cheers, smiling at he considers what Achilles says. "Good ideas, all. Maybe 'clean clothes' is a bit much to ask of a child her age, but at the very least clothes that aren't bloody. Maybe a clip for all that lovely hair. A blanket for cold nights, certainly--I didn't see one when I visited their home."

It looked like the adults likely had the only blanket, and the kids huddled together as needed. Hermes can fix that.

But Hermes finds himself excited, strangely enough. Excited by the prospect of spoiling her. "If we decide to send her to Medea, she could get away with nicer things. I think green jewelry would suit her when she's older, don't you? I think it'd make her eyes pop." If Hermes weren't so sure it'd make her a target, and if he weren't so sure that finery would simply burden her childish expeditions, he'd dress her in gold and emeralds.

Achilles sets his cup aside to resume the lyre. He begins improvising a song with hopeful, sweeping notes that bring to mind a ship cresting waves, bound for new lands. Perhaps Lyra’s future journeys, or their own foray into the realm of parenthood.

“I’m afraid I’ll need to count on you to gather those things. I’ve no coin, nor market to spend them.” Giving gifts is an easy way for Hermes to connect with Lyra. And who better to handle shopping? “You are the god of merchants, love.”

Hermes’ talk of spoiling brings another smile to Achilles’ face. In fairness, he might have done the same if he was raising her at Phthia. “Until she’s old enough for jewels, perhaps a green cloak like mine will suffice?”

Hermes snuggles against Achilles, smiling as he listens to the music. Achilles really is a skilled musician. Maybe Apollo did favor him once upon a time, or maybe it's just a sign of Achilles' love for the instrument.

"If it comes from me, it comes from both of us," Hermes says without pause. He'll happily take care of the shopping and gift giving as needed, but he feels like it should be treated as something they do together, even if he technically does the work. Part of it is Hermes' insecurity taking anything resembling initiative with their daughter, but part of it is also Hermes wanting to be seen as a team even if Achilles is dead and limited in how he can be with Lyra. "A green cloak sounds like a fantastic idea, my love."

He takes another drink. The wine is sweet, Achilles' music lovely, and the glade, so like Pthia, is comforting. Hermes could stay here forever. Or, well, he could stay for as long as it took before he got restless again.

"I wonder if she likes any sports. Did she mention sports when you spoke to her in Elysium?" It's easier to come up with questions about his daughter when she's not right there in front of him, making all his anxiety go off. Maybe she likes footraces. Hermes could turn into a child her size and race her. Maybe she'd be interested in archery. He'd even teach her how to wrestle if she wanted, though she'd be hard pressed to find mortal wrestlers willing to compete with a woman.

Achilles is abruptly transported back to that night years ago at the House—playing Orpheus’ lyre with Hermes sprawled on his lap, deep in his cups. Who would have guessed that fate would lead them here?

“She mentioned being fond of footraces,” Achilles says, meeting Hermes’ cozy weight. “She hoped they would have them in the coliseum here in Elysium.”

The plucked notes shift. Now they sing about panting runners, drumming heartbeats, pounding feet. “I won’t be the least bit surprised if she grows to be faster than I ever was.”

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