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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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.”

Hermes perks, wings fluffing with the thought of footraces and the shift in music. "Oh, as if we needed more proof that she's mine. I could turn into a child and race with her. I used to do that with Dionysus when he was little, but he lost interest in footraces somewhere around the time he made wine the first time."

Dionysus will play the odd sport, but he prefers a party over a competition, and wine over athletics. Lyra seems like she'll hold interest in running around for longer.

Hermes turns his face to smile at Achilles, and for a moment he remembers the party in the House as well. The air warms with his sudden rush of affection, his gratitude that the Fates brought them together so unexpectedly.

"I'm going to tell Thetis tomorrow about Lyra. Is there anything you'd like me to say to her from you? And... anyone else you'd like me to tell?" That's as close as Hermes will get for now at potentially introducing the topic of Neoptolemus. Not that he thinks Achilles has changed his mind about allowing his son to know about his daughter so quickly, but they should talk at some point about what to do about Neo. But it doesn't have to be now, when they're trying to celebrate.

“Promise you’ll allow her to win occasionally,” he laughs. With her parentage, Lyra must be fast, but still nowhere near as fast as Hermes himself.

Achilles pauses his playing to reach for a fig. It reminds him of another night—the one by the sea. That must have been when it happened, now that he thinks about it. Funny that their first lovemaking conceived a child.

… And probably for the best that they were none the wiser, given all they were about to endure from Zeus. How much worse would it have been if they had a child to worry about?

Achilles twists off the stem of the fig and considers Hermes’ question. “My mother is the only one who needs to know. Please ask her to keep watch over Lyra, and to be mindful of Neoptolemus. She may be well-situated to keep him in check. Or, at least, to divert his attention far from his sister.”

He rolls the fig between his fingers, plump and ripe and fragrant, then looks to Hermes. “When will you tell your mother?”

"I'll give her a challenge," Hermes says, smiling catlike. Oh, he'll let her win occasionally, but she'll have to work for it or it's not worth anything.

Hermes nods at Achilles' instructions. Yes, Thetis should keep careful watch of Lyra. And Hermes suspects that she may actually enjoy having a granddaughter to spoil with attention, since her grandson has such an... unfriendly temperament.

But the question about Maia makes him pause. Right. He also has a mother who'd probably want to know about a grandchild. "Well... I suppose I'll tell her as soon as I can. She's due to come down from the sky soon anyway." Hermes thinks that his mother will be pleased with the news, but he doesn't yet know her well enough to be sure. And will she want to meet Lyra? Probably. What would they think of each other? Hermes' own grandparents were busy being imprisoned when he was growing up, so he's not intimately familiar with how involved grandparents should be with grandchildren. "There's a lot of catching up for her to do once she does, that's for sure."

Achilles pops the fig in his mouth and gives it a slow, savoring chew. He’ll allow for a challenge. A daughter of a hero and a god has talents that should be pushed. She probably won’t find a worthy match in another mortal—either in wits or athleticism.

He senses the pause, the hesitance in the talk of Maia, and Achilles gives Hermes’ shoulders a warm, comforting rub. “Who wouldn’t be delighted to know they have a grandchild? And such a charming one, besides?”

He leans to refill Hermes’ cup with wine and presses it back into his hands. “I hope you’ll introduce me to your mother one day … When the time is right, of course.”

Hermes leans against Achilles, looking down at his wine as it's passed into his hands. "I was planning on it, you know. Then, well... everything happened."

He was discovered with letters between Titans. Then he was in hiding. Then he overthrew Zeus and Hera. Then he was stabbed by Ares.

Hermes grimaces. "My mother hasn't been down from the sky since Ares got me. She's going to be besides herself when she hears about it."

Which most children would expect from their parents, but Hermes doesn't know how to feel about his mother fretting over him. Guilty, mostly. Guilty that he seems to be a consistent source of pain and grief for her.

“She also needs to hear about how brave you were. You saved the Underworld from irreparable damage. You freed so many shades from their suffering at Ares’ hands. You’ve delivered peace to Olympus.” Achilles presses a kiss to Hermes’ temple. “And now you’re a father to a wonderful daughter.”

Achilles sets aside the lyre so he can shift closer. “I know she‘ll be proud of you. I’m proud of you, love.”

It would have been easy for Hermes to keep his head down and maintain the status quo for centuries on end. Perform his duties, keep Zeus happy, turn a blind eye to the suffering of his kin. But he stood up for what was right, against more powerful gods and frightening odds. Achilles couldn’t respect him more.

Hermes huffs a breathy laugh, sipping from his wine before tucking his head in the crook of Achilles' neck. "I should ask you to tell the story. You remember me as so much more heroic than I do."

Hermes remembers himself as a coward. A coward who turned a blind eye to his father's cruelty until it was his turn under the lash, and only then did he upend all of Greece so he could live without his father's threat hanging over him. And then he didn't handle the obvious threat of Ares fast enough, and so an unheard number of mortals died in a torturous way and their shades were tormented. But Achilles always sees the best in him, even when he can't see it himself.

"I think she'd like you. She seems to like people who I like." But maybe that's just a mom thing, liking the people who have been good to her son when she wasn't around for him. "And I think she'd probably like Lyra. Maybe it'd be nice to have a do-over. And daughters are less scary than sons."

Hermes has thought about more than once how his mother likely wouldn't have recoiled so much from him if he'd been born a girl. He might have been able to have a mother then. But Zeus likely would have discarded him as uninteresting far faster, and if he wasn't clever, Zeus would have married him off to someone as a gift like he did to Hebe, to Thetis, to Aphrodite, to so many goddesses.

“I would happily tell it,” Achilles says, voice still rich with pride. “In fact, I should make a song of it. Such deeds are worthy of bards.”

He nuzzles his nose into Hermes’ hair, breathing in his smell—fresh and bright like the sun dawning on a new day of travel. It’s reassuring to hear him speak more optimistically about his mother. Maybe Lyra can help soothe the scars left by Zeus. “If Maia is anything like you, I’m certain to like her just as well.”

As far as Achilles can tell, Hermes inherited more traits from his mother’s line: Atlas’ tenacity and endurance, Prometheus’ intelligence. Perhaps some of his kindness comes from Maia. “Lyra might give her a taste of the years she missed with you.”

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