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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Lyra notes that Achilles has an arm around Lord Hermes. It's not expected in the least bit. She knows that sometimes grownups can be touchy with each other like kids, but not with gods, surely. But she's distracted by her question, and she looks down at her tunic, as if only just remembering the blood.

"Oh, this? Don't worry, it's not my blood," she says, walking closer to Achilles, allowing the tips of her toes to touch the boundary of the Underworld, in arm's reach of Achilles. She lifts the hem of her tunic with childish immodesty, showing her knees stained red but free of injury. "See? I'm okay."

"Wh--" Hermes thinks of Hercules, and for a moment wonders if he begat a tiny serial killer. "Who's blood is it?"

"Our goat's," Lyra says, too unfamiliar with Hermes to recognize his nerves for what they are. "My foster mum didn't like that I stole from Hades and told me I had to sacrifice our goat to him to say sorry. I said that that defeats the purpose of slipping out without notice, and she said that I'd do it, or else she'd do it herself and then box my ears and make me take double chores for a month, so I sacrificed the goat."

Even demigods need to bow to their mothers, clearly.

Achilles gives a relieved hum, though it’s a shame her foster family had to part with a valuable resource when they’re already stretched so thin. “To answer your question, you’re not in any trouble. Not with either of us.”

Hades is another matter. If Lyra had any hope of her trespassing going unnoticed, her step mother ruined it with that sacrifice. But still, if she’s lucky, the offering will have been ignored entirely. Achilles often heard Hades complain about the foolish things mortals petition him for: curses on enemies, a means to defy death, the return of a loved one. Such a nuisance, he growled, like loathsome little flies buzzing about my ears.

“I’m sorry we asked you to return so soon, but …” Achilles takes a steadying breath, willing himself to keep looking forward, eyes on Lyra. Eyes on their daughter. His words come out more stilted and formal than he’d like. “There’s a matter of great importance we need to discuss with you.”

Is Hermes breathing? He must not be, because he feels like he's about to pass out. He tries to screw up the wherewithal to speak, but his famously chittering chattering voice is stuck in his throat. Would it be bad if he just left to go faint somewhere? It'd probably be bad. Achilles wouldn't like it if Hermes stuck him with the task of explaining this on his own. Even though Hermes would reeeaaaaally like to go hide somewhere.

He braces himself with one hand on Achilles' shoulder, because he thinks he might topple over otherwise. She looks so much like Acchilles. Her hair, catching the light. The confident tilt of her chin, her cheekbones, her nose. Hermes sees Achilles write large on her, but he also sees himself. Her skin, warm brown with golden undertone. Her jaw, round and feminine. Her mouth, turned up at the edges, like she was born to smirk. Her eyes--they seem to be given to her by the sea itself, one mark of whatever primordial mother formed her. Like someone found shards of sea glass and affixed them to her face.

To Lyra's eyes--unfamiliar with Hermes' expressions, unfamiliar with how much one ought to look at his feathers rather than his face--his expression is intense, but inscrutable. Which, while not the worst thing to see on an Olympian's face, isn't the best thing to see either. Especially when paired with the intensity of Achilles.

"Are you sure I'm not in trouble?" she says, narrowing her eyes skeptically. But she trusts Achilles not to hurt her, so she reaches her hands across the barrier between life and death with childish daring, taking his hands and gently swinging them. There's a playful air to it. Despite the intensity of the adults around her, she trusts Achilles and Hermes not to hurt her. "You look really serious. Is Theseus really upset? I hope he is, but maybe not everyone is happy about it."

Achilles clasps her hands, firm and gentle. They feel warmer than Hermes’, in the way that all young creatures are warm and humming with growth. He watches her carefully appraise the both of them, and how she puzzles over Hermes in particular.

If she knew him better, she might see that he’s not himself right now. Achilles feels it in his silence, the weight of Hermes’ hand on his shoulder. The nerves are back in full.

“We’ve no punishment in store for you, I promise.” He runs his thumbs over her knuckles and gives her a small smile. “Theseus is upset—I heard him bellowing when I passed the coliseum earlier.”

Achilles turns his head to glance up at Hermes. Clearly he needs a little prodding to loosen up. They both do. Achilles tries his best to channel his father’s easy banter: “It’s a terrible racket, but that’s no different from every other day, is it, Hermes?”

Hermes wants to complain. Wants to whine that Achilles can't possibly expect him to be able to talk right now without fainting. It definitely feels like opening his mouth might somehow knock down the fragile stability he has.

But lucky for Hermes, his body is so used to talking that it somehow manages it even without any real thought from him. "No different at all. But I like this racket better than his usual. Usually, you just hear him boasting all day and gnashing his teeth against the prince of the Underworld. It's so bad that I've put his prayers on mute, and I'm pretty sure he hasn't noticed this whole time."

Lyra giggles. Her nose scrunches with the laugh, and something in Hermes' heart jerks to see that expression on a child.

Lyra doesn't know Hermes, and she doesn't really know Achilles either, but she does know people. It's strange that a god of speed summoned her, and has barely spoken nor made any indication that he wants to hurry this exchange along so he can get back to his (surely busy) schedule. It's strange that he would lean a hand on a dead hero, and the dead hero would be so comfortable with it. Hero or not, she's pretty sure most people would be scared stiff with a god leaning on them.

She cocks her head as her giggles recede. Her too-keen eyes narrow, picking the men before her apart, happy to soak up Achilles' casual affection as she does so.

"You're both being weird," she declares.

That surprises a laugh out of Hermes, which turns into a gale of laughter, his hand coming to cover his mouth as his nose scrunches. When was the last time any mortal had the daring to say something like that to his face so quick?

Lyra turns up her chin in confident defiance, looking at the all-powerful Olympian like he's perhaps a babysitter caught out breaking rules. "It's true."

"Oh, it's true, it's true, my dear. Can't be mad about you pointing out the obvious, mm?" Hermes says, and it feels like he's himself again, like her sheer audacity kicked through the tension holding him in such a tight grip. Ohhhh that nerve is all Achilles, good evidence as anything.

Achilles is instantly enthralled by the symmetry of their smiles and laughter, the matching scrunched noses and glinting eyes. His own smile grows around a quiet chuckle.

Suddenly everything has fallen into place—into an easy harmony he hasn’t felt for a very long time. Not since days in Phthia with his own father.

“I suppose we are, aren’t we? But if I may be equally bold, you’re quite unusual yourself, Miss Lyra.” Achilles squeezes her hands a little tighter and captures her gaze in his own. His smile flattens out, but his expression is still open and earnest. “You know things that other children—even other adults can’t fathom. And stranger still, the Underworld didn’t repel you like it would other living mortals.”

Maybe he shouldn’t be stroking her ego, but he has no idea how else to ease into this revelation. He tilts his head. “You’re a very clever child. By now, you must have realized how different you are?”

Lyra's smile falls into a similar serious but open expression. She keeps her eyes on Achilles in the way children do when it's clear adults are saying something very important. (And it helps to stroke her ego a little bit. Oh go on, it can't inflate much more than it already is.)

"Yeah, I know," she says. There's almost a note of wistfulness in her voice. She's suspected for a long time that her parents might not have been a pair of mortals who left her in the sea. But accepting that suspicion would require accepting that for one reason or another, her divine parent ignored her, and she might be the target of horrible torments when she's discovered.

Her eyes dart to Hermes. Out of respect, she keeps her voice low as she grimaces, "No offense, but if it's Zeus, please don't tell me. I don't think that'd end well."

That surprises another, breathier laugh from Hermes. He shakes his head, offering her a sympathetic smile. No, he supposes Zeus isn't exactly an enviable father. "I guess he's the obvious option, right? But no. No, it's not."

Lyra sighs in relief. She doesn't even have the grace to hide it. "Oh, good. I was going to go hide if it was."

Achilles’ smile grows a little tighter, like a commiserating grimace. Even a mortal child knows what it means to be a child of Zeus. “You needn’t worry about that.”

Or about Zeus at all. Achilles still isn’t sure if the news of Zeus’ retirement to the stars has made it to the mortal world, but it isn’t his place to declare that his reign has ended.

“But your guess is close. Very close. Zeus is your grandfather.” Achilles releases one of Lyra’s hands so he can find Hermes’ and clasp it tight. It would be ridiculous to make her keep guessing, but the words feel heavy and thick. Caught in his mouth. They’re words that will alter her whole life, and her sense of identity with it.

No, not just her life—Hermes’ as well. Achilles’ own. Saying the words aloud is voicing a pact, binding them all together.

“Lyra—” Achilles glances up at Hermes, back at Lyra, and takes a long inhale. “Your father is right here, standing beside me.”

Oh, it was a bad idea to try to do this so fast. Hermes should have waited, should have given himself time to process, maybe a good twenty years. It feels like he's going to pass out, and his wings are pinned tight to his head. Hermes holds Achilles' hand like the only life raft in the ocean, knuckles white.

Lyra's eyes linger on Achilles' and Hermes' hands joined together--yeah, she's pretty sure that means one thing--but her attention is diverted by the news.

She doesn't react dramatically. She cocks her head, looking up at Hermes with open curiosity. The wings like a sunset, the keen eyes, the mouth that seems a little like it was designed to smirk. He's not the one who said it, she notes. He looks a little ill, if it's possible for a god to look ill. Certainly not eager to greet a long lost daughter.

Oh well. Lyra supposes she knew that if her suspicions were true, her divine parent probably wasn't all that eager for her.

"I feel like I should be more surprised," she says matter of factly. "But that tracks."

Hermes huffs another laugh, but this one is breathy, tight with the tension in his throat. "It's pretty obvious when you think about it, huh?"

"Yeah," she says. She blinks up at him, still taking him in. Hermes feels like he's being examined by a scientist, or perhaps by a judge. "Why did you leave me in the sea?"

"Oh--" Maybe it's the casual way she asks, like it's a given that her father just dropped her into the ocean when she was born, but the question feels like a knife in the gut. For a moment, he feels like he's reliving the moment he reached for his mother for the first time, but now he's in Maia's position, so paralyzed by fear that he'd wound his child's heart for the rest of her life.

Hermes' eyes suddenly grow wet. He drops into a crouch to be at eye level, blinking quickly as he forces a smile, taking Lyra's free hand in his. Her hand is so small and rough in his. Lyra blinks, surprised at the sudden emotion in his face. "I'm sorry you were alone so long, darling. It wasn't intentional, I promise. I didn't know you existed." He couldn't let her think that her parents wanted her so little that they'd throw her away. He couldn't. "No one left you in the ocean. You were born there without a mother. You were created by two fathers."

Hermes nods his head towards Achilles, squeezing his hand. "And your other father is right here."

"What?" Okay, she's gone through this whole conversation without surprises, but this one gets her. She looks at Achilles, clearly confused. "What?"

Achilles puts his arm around Hermes’ shoulders, tugging him close. His eyes are on Lyra, but he can hear the underlying emotion in Hermes’ voice, can feel it in his energy. Why did you leave me … It’s painful enough for Achilles to hear that question—for Hermes, it must agony.

And then it’s Achilles’ turn to reckon with his fatherhood declared aloud. He was eager and ready for this, but his stomach lurches like he’s suddenly slipped and fallen, and for a moment, he interprets her confusion as dismay. Does Lyra even want to call such a proud, selfish, brutal hero her father?

But Achilles soldiers through for Lyra and Hermes’ sake. “It’s difficult to believe. We found it just as strange, but it’s true. There was a convergence of … hm—fate, divine power, love—that brought you into being.

“If we’d known, we would have sought you immediately.” Achilles’ own eyes shimmer with the threat of tears, and he gives Lyra’s hand a gentle shake for emphasis. “I wish we had known, but thank the Fates, you’re safe and healthy. You’re so strong and brave, child.”

Lyra frowns in confusion, gears visibly turning in her head. "How does that work?"

"How did my Aphrodite come from sea foam? How did my sister burst from our father's head?" Hermes gives a helpless shrug. "These things are just weird sometimes."

That's probably as good an explanation as she'll get. Not that she really wants to hear the nitty gritty of her conception anymore than anyone else. (Hermes and Achilles together, huh? That didn't make it into any of the stories she's heard.)

Lyra looks at the ground, still frowning. She's processing. She really didn't expect to have a conversation like this today, and she's figuring out how she feels about it. She's not like some of her siblings, hung up on heroic fantasies about her parents that somehow deny the fact of their abandonment--she'd always just accepted things as they were, and it's strange that she of all foundlings is given the fantasy that many of her siblings would kill for. Two whole parents, both from myth and legend and proud legacies, and neither ever meaning to abandon her. She should be overjoyed, shouldn't she?

"...Do you like each other?" she asks.

"Yes," Hermes says without hesitation. For his part, he doesn't find her muted reaction at all surprising or off-putting. It reminds him of any intelligent creature put in a strange, unexpected situation, testing the waters to see what may come out of them. "We love each other very much."

Lyra nods, humming with thought. That's better than she would have expected, really. The stories rarely make it sound like gods and mortals like each other very much when they have children, but maybe that's just stories of Zeus.

"Is it... bad that I was born?" Lyra asks with the same tone of cautious curiosity. She certainly couldn't have been expected. And Achilles is dead, and Hermes must be very busy, so they probably weren't looking to be fathers, and tending to her even a little must be very hard and inconvenient. And Patroclus? He's no Hera, but Lyra can't imagine he likes her very much after the revelation, which pinches her gut. She really liked him, and it's sad that he probably doesn't like her anymore.

But Hermes' whole body cringes at the question. It really does feel like he's Maia, talking to himself, and the fear of hurting Lyra like he was hurt is paralyzing. He drops his gaze, shaking his head, struggling to keep his voice steady as he says, "No, no, not bad, you're not bad to be born."

Achilles has every urge to pull Lyra into a hug, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm her. Besides, it seems like Hermes is the one who needs more reassurance. Achilles grips his shoulder tighter. I know this is difficult.

He imagines Hermes when he was this small. Did he pose the same question to Athena and Apollo? What answers did he receive … if any?

“It’s not bad at all, my dear. It’s wonderful.” It would be easy for that to come off as empty exaggeration, but Achilles’ voice is thick with emotion and tears cling at the edges of his eyes. The honesty of it is unmistakable. “Truly, it is. I never imagined I would have another child.”

He blinks back his tears and gingerly moves his hand to touch her cheek. “I wish we were there for you the moment you came from the sea. I’m sorry it took us so long, Lyra.”

Lyra doesn't move away from the hand on her face. It's strange. She knows this is a big deal, and the grownups feel a lot of things about it, and she should feel a lot of things too. But she's not sure what she feels. If she's not sure, does she not feel anything? No she's pretty sure she feels something, just not sure how to talk about it.

She leans her head into Achilles' hand. Somehow, the calluses on them are more obvious when against the soft skin of her cheek. Calluses that must have been built up by years of fighting in war.

"Neither of you need to be sorry. I'm not mad. I wouldn't have looked for me either in your shoes." She decides that, yes, she feels good about that. It's nice to know that she wasn't discarded and left to die. Her parents just didn't know she existed. How can she expect people to look for someone they don't know exists?

So it wasn't that she was unloved and unwanted. It was just that she was unknown. That's nicer than she thought, she decides.

But then there's another question that might make it easier to know how she feels about this.

"...What next?" Lyra frowns in thought. "I can't stay in the Underworld. Or Olympus. Should I... find Neoptolemus? I don't think he'd like me very much."

Hermes, for his part, is trying really hard to pull himself together. He's never had such a hard time putting on a mask before. What's wrong with him? You're supposed to be a god, Hermes, get it together. But the suggestion of Neoptolemus draws him from his own thoughts, and his wings pin hard to his head. "I'm not sure that's a good idea." He doesn't know how much news has filtered to Achilles of Neoptolemus--Achilles hasn't asked Hermes about it, and he hasn't volunteered information--but he has little doubt that Neoptolemus would not be a kind, supportive big brother.

“Keep well away from Neoptolemus,” he warns harshly. Fresh shades often speak of Neoptolemus’ ruthlessness with a kind of reverence; they assume Achilles will be pleased to hear of his son’s prowess. By now, he’s heard plenty—more than he’d like to know—but he listens anyway. It’s his son, and his burden to bear.

If Neoptolemus found Lyra, he’s likely to use her—take her in, only to marry her off to some dubious, perhaps equally cruel ally. Or worse yet, try to father a powerful heir with her potent divine blood. Achilles can only hope she heeds his warning, and that Thetis and Hermes—perhaps Medea—keep her from his influence.

“Hermes and I, we’ve discussed plans, but …” Achilles cups her face and strokes his thumb along her cheek. “What do you want for yourself? I know you worry after your foster siblings. I wouldn’t keep you from those you care about.”

When Achilles, Hermes, and her own better judgment say she shouldn't seek out Neoptolemus (her half-brother? Weird thought), she's convinced. Maybe she'll change her mind one day, wanting to meet the only living mortal family she has, but her foster siblings are plenty enough sibling for her now.

And Achilles asks what she wants for herself. What a curious thought, to have parentage like this and still have the ability to choose. She leans her face against his hand, frowning as she thinks.

"Whatever you decide, your foster family will be well taken care of," Hermes assures her. That, at least, he can be confident about. Maybe the first thing he can be confident about in this whole conversation. "Each member will live in comfort the rest of their lives. I'll make sure of it."

That removes a major concern from Lyra. One of her big reasons for staying is making sure that her foster family is set up. But a god of merchants and commerce can set them up far better than she ever could, and she trusts that Hermes (her father? Should she call him 'Dad' or something? Is that presumptuous with a god?) will keep his word.

"I..." Her voice trails off. Then she clears her throat, squaring her shoulders and tipping up her chin to look at both of them. She can hold herself with confidence. If she held herself with confidence before she knew these were her fathers, then she will after. "I want to travel. I want to see the whole world, not just Greece. I want to see all the places people live, and I want to meet them."

Her eyes sparkle with ambition, and it makes Hermes' wings fluff, his posture perking. He can't deny how much it resonates with him to hear his child so eager to see what's out there.

"But I'm still little. And there's a lot of things I don't know yet, that I should know before I go on an adventure." Finally, she reaches up her hand and rests it on Achilles' against her cheek. She leans into his touch, and for a moment she can appreciate how nice it is to know that she's wanted. "And... I want to get to know you both. I dunno if it's against the rules, but I don't really care if it is. I want to see you as much as I can. If I can."

She's not sure if she can. Maybe Hermes will never have time for her, or Achilles will be assigned away from the Temple of Styx, and talking to him would require plumbing the depths of the Underworld repeatedly and risk greater and greater wrath from Hades if she does. But she'd do it. She wants to know her parents.

Hermes, for his part, softens. His wings relax against his head and he dares to reach out, tucking a lock of her curly gold hair behind her ear. "You can, my darling. You'll know us. Know us until you're sick of us."

That gets Lyra giggling, her nose scrunching with each bright, happy laugh, and Hermes smiles. At her little scrunched nose, at the sparkle in her eyes as she speaks of adventure--he feels the stirring of love in his heart already.

Deep in his heart, Achilles wishes he’d gotten to travel the world as well. Not as a conqueror, but as a guest in a new land. What would that be like? To travel with no aim other than to satisfy one’s curiosity? It sounds like a lovely dream. “I’ll do everything I possibly can to prepare you for those adventures. And you can trust Hermes to bless your journey with safe roads and swift travel.”

Achilles smiles at her determination; he recalls making similarly confident declarations in his youth. He’s glad, though, that her ambitions are so peaceful. “I only ask one thing in exchange: that you return and tell me all about the lands you visit. The people you meet.

“But you’re right—we need to know one another first. I want to hear all about you.” Even if it means defying the gods yet again, Achilles is determined to spend time with his daughter. He’s optimistic: the Underworld has welcomed her in. Perhaps that will help curry favor with Hades, and if not … “I served Lord Hades for many years and tutored his son. Hermes is his nephew and a dutiful psychopomp. I’m positive we can arrange for your visits.”

Lyra smiles. Finally, she decides that yes, this is a good thing. It's a good thing to find her fathers. It's a good thing they didn't want to abandon her, and it's a good thing that they want to know her now and support her wanderlust. And how lucky that of all the foundlings in the world, she has parents well appointed enough to give her the chance to know her father after his death.

(What should she call them? Their names, perhaps, but if she wants to call them 'father', she needs to think of specific names for both of them.)

"I'll tell you everything." Lyra throws her hands in the air for emphasis, as if to try to encompass the entirety of all her future adventuring experience in her arms. "All the funny things I see, and the pretty things people make, and the new ways people do things. I'll tell you all of it."

She looks to Hermes. She's noticed that Achilles is the one more inclined to talk and touch her, but perhaps Hermes is just quiet. Or maybe he needs time to warm up. "Is it okay if I stay in the Temple for a while? Just to talk?"

"If it's not okay, I'll handle it," Hermes says, stepping back and giving a little playful bow and a flourish to welcome her in. She giggles as she steps across the threshold between the living and the dead, and she feels the warmth of an old friend in the stones welcoming her to a home that isn't hers yet. "My uncle can be very grumpy and is good at seeming scary, but I know his secret. He has a soft spot for children that want to meet their parents."

Hades would probably sooner die (ha) than admit it, but Hermes knows that he still has a lot of feelings about everything with Zagreus and Persephone, and he can't imagine it'd be easy for his uncle to look another small child in the eye and tell her she wasn't allowed to even speak with her father.

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!"

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