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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"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.”

"Oh, you still think I'm charming when I'm clawing you," Hermes purrs, snicking as he's pinched. But his smile fades as he thinks about Lyra, and about how that nerve will play different for a girl than it did for a famous hero prophesied for greatness.

It's an odd thing, coming from a family like Hermes' with such a piggish, domineering man in charge, yet simultaneously surrounded by women powerful enough to make the earth shake. Hermes knows that Achilles is right, that Lyra's spirit will lose its charm for most men when she's grown and they may hurt her, but his soul still recoils at the thought of asking her to smother that fiery spirit. One that he loves so much in her father, one that she's come to by right, and one he could see in any one of his divine sisters.

"I think she'll prove to be just as stubborn as you too, my love," Hermes says, resting his hand on Achilles' side. "I think it'd be easier to teach her to be courteous, and then how to handle consequences when people still don't like her spirit."

In the back of his mind, Hermes thinks of Medea again. She'd never lost her spirit. She'd made herself so fearsome that she killed a king and princess and is now still allowed to live her life in peace as the advisor of another king. Maybe a mortal woman can't be gentle and spirited in Greece.

Achilles doesn’t want Lyra to suppress those parts of herself that make her strong and unique. He doesn’t want her to bend herself into an uncomfortable, unnatural shape. He knows what that does to a person—Patroclus did that for his father and it only bred resentment and pain.

“Mmm. She’ll most certainly be headstrong.” Achilles idly coaxes a wing open and runs fingertips along the warm, glowing primaries. ”I’ll count on you to teach her diplomacy. I don’t have the head for such things.”

As if reading his mind, Achilles sighs and adds, “She will need a woman to teach her those things we can’t. Would that your mighty sisters could do so, but only a mortal truly knows how to navigate mortal society.”

His fingers trace over the place where Hermes’ wing was stitched whole again, and his lips flatten thoughtfully. “I suppose your brother is right—Medea may well be the best choice.”

Hermes hums softly as Achilles manipulates his wing, keeping it relaxed and malleable in his lover's hand. He really enjoys the feeling of those fingers running along and in between his feathers.

"Would that they could, but you're right that they don't really understand what it means to be a woman and a mortal. And they'd be demanding, too. Athena would want her to be a warrior or artist, Artemis would want her to swear off men, Aphrodite would want her to enjoy too many men..." Yep, no, he loves his sisters, but all of them are used to getting their way and would not be well suited to teaching a girl who wouldn't let them chart the course of her life.

Hermes sighs against Achilles' neck, smiling ruefully. "The really annoying thing about Apollo is that he's usually right. He just says things in such a callous way that no one wants to listen to him."

Hermes pets Achilles' hair, his smile fading as he thinks. "Maybe... Medea wouldn't be a terrible option. She's not a great sister, but she's a good mother. And learning magic would be very useful for Lyra. It might be the only way to even her footing with men." Especially heroic men, ones who can match her physically and decide that entitles them to her. Hermes is afraid that her poor social class will embolden men like that, so used to taking what they want from slaves and servants. "And it'd give her the ability to keep in touch with you better. You'd still be able to have a hand in raising her. We both would."

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.

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