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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“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.”

Hermes smiles, curling his fingers in Achilles' cloak affectionately. "If you wrote a song, I'd love to hear it, my darling."

It's one thing to hear regular mortals shout his praises, but another to hear it from someone who actually knows him. Him and all his messy foibles and indignities and quirks. It makes it easier for Hermes to believe that it's about him, and not about all the power he has over everyday mortals.

"The years she missed out on were full of mischief, so I'm sure she'll be exhausted keeping up with any of that," Hermes says with a laugh. "But at least Lyra can't fly, so she should be easier to wrangle. No need to call in Artemis with her honeypot to catch a rogue fledgling again."

It occurs to Hermes that Artemis may actually be interested in Lyra, though she's rarely interested in their mortal relatives (getting attached leads to too much heartache, really). But Artemis has a weakness for strong-willed, independent girls, and it's not like Hermes will nag Artemis about getting married if she shows her face around his daughter. Maybe that'd be good for Lyra, all told.

"I know that there's good reason to be worried about how my family will act--" Good reason for Patroclus to be worried, not that Hermes really wants to bring him up and the disaster yesterday. "--But I really think all the Olympians will treat her well, and not be too irresponsible with gift-giving. Except maybe Aphrodite. I'll talk to her about boundaries." (And he'll remind her of how much blackmail material he has if she disrespects them.)

Achilles has written a handful of songs in his lifetime—mostly for Patroclus—but he might have to consult Orpheus for help this time. There’s quite a lot to cover.

“Your mother might appreciate the mischief—I’ve no idea what it’s like among the stars, but it strikes me as very quiet. Perhaps a bit too peaceful.” If Maia shares even a fraction of Hermes’ restlessness, that might be maddening.

“And if your family treats Lyra anything like Zagreus, I’m not terribly worried. And I trust you to keep them from meddling overmuch.” A bit of friendly advice or an occasional blessing to help her on her way is fine. Achilles slings his arms around Hermes to clasp hands at his waist and says, softly, “The Olympians who might have worried me the most are gone, thankfully.”

The implication is clear: Zeus in particular. No doubt he’d feel entitled to dictate his granddaughter’s fate—hand her off as a coveted prize to some king who earned his favor.

Hermes hums softly. "I feel the same way." That he's not terribly worried about his siblings, and that the people he would've been most worried about are gone now. He would have never been able to trust Ares or Zeus near Lyra, and unlike with Ares, Hermes would be powerless to stop Zeus from doing whatever he wanted.

Hermes sighs softly, contemplating how much fear of his father commanded his life. The main reason he avoided children was because of him, now that he thinks on it.

"If Pop had still been around, I don't think I would've told anyone who she was, not even her. Might've found some lesser god to claim her instead." Just under the radar enough to not interest Zeus, but still providing her a fraction of the protection and status that's her birthright. And it'd break Hermes' heart to do it, and he'd never break his silence.

But he doesn't have to worry about that. He can openly be her father. He's not going to have Ares threatening her in a fit of pique, or Zeus casually deciding who to gift her to, or Hera possibly falling into a fit of destructive jealousy to see a grandchild of Zeus' infidelity happy. He doesn't have to worry. It's a weird feeling.

“I’m so grateful that she can be ours without worry,” he sighs, pressing another kiss to Hermes’ temple. This interim secrecy is bad enough; Achilles can’t imagine keeping the truth hidden for Lyra’s entire life.

“Will you tell the rest of Olympus immediately?” As far as Achilles knows, only Apollo and Dionysus are aware of Lyra. Though … he gets the feeling that Dionysus might be a little careless with that information. “Or only a select few?”

He winces. That means revealing something else, too. “There are still some who don’t know about us, aren’t there?”

Achilles sorts through the list in his head. Really most of them know about their relationship by now: Apollo, Athena, Dionysus, Aphrodite, Hebe, Hephaestus …

"Um..." Hermes frowns, looking up at the ceiling of Elysium as he counts off the various Olympians that already know about them in his head. "Artemis doesn't know, unless Apollo already told her, but she wouldn't care either way. Uncle Poseidon doesn't know, but I don't think he'd care either. Or Aunt Demeter, and Auntie Hestia is probably only pretending not to know for our benefit..."

Hermes gives a shrug after going through his internal Rolodex of Olympians. "No, I don't think any of them would care. But Uncle Poseidon might let something slip to Uncle Hades because he's terrible at tact."

And Hermes would prefer that Hades not know, but he's not desperate to keep the secret anymore either. With Achilles working more for psychopomps than for Hades himself, there's not much room to object, and Hermes honestly thinks at this point it would just be normal fodder for his uncle to be grumpy with him. And Hades is grumpy without any provocation, so it wouldn't be much of a change.

"I don't know if I really want to tell everyone, but the news has already made it to gossipy members of the family." Hebe and Dionysus. It's made it to Hebe and Dionysus.

“We should tell Lord Hades ourselves. About us, in any case,” Achilles says with a decisive abruptness. “Far better to hear it from us than second hand from Lord Poseidon.”

And Achilles can see Hades being exceptionally cross if he learns that everyone else knew about this before he did. This information would undermine his sense of order and control over his realm and subjects.

He hums, conflicted, and rests his head against Hermes’. “Lyra, though. I’m not certain.”

Shades becoming romantically entangled with gods is one thing, but shades having children is so far beyond the natural order, he’s not sure what Hades might do in response.

Hermes grimaces, but he can’t argue with the logic. As unpleasant as the thought of confessing to Hades is, it’d be much worse for him to find out that all of Olympus knew before him and hearing it from his brother.

“If we confess the affair, we ought to confess to Lyra too. I doubt the gossip will escape him for long, and I also doubt that she’ll respect the borders of the Underworld as much as she should.” She reminds him of himself when he was young, and he didn’t exactly do as told all the time when adults wanted him to. “I think it’d help to know that it was the earth that saw fit to form a child and not something I set out to do, but not by much.”

Hermes still intends to gloss over the part where he stole a shade from the underworld for a romantic ocean date, but it’ll be hard to hide an entire child from his uncle.

“I know he won’t be happy about it, but will he be angry enough to do something other than yell?” Hermes squeezes Achilles’ hand, frowning in thought. He knows that if his uncle is in a rational state of mind, he’d know that this affair isn’t worth retaliating against his quickest psychopomp and loyal advocate for the Underworld in Olympus. Hermes did, after all, keep the secret of Persephone’s marriage and then subsequent departure from the Underworld from Demeter at great personal risk, and averted war in doing so. He’s proven his loyalty.

But Hades is prideful just as his brothers are, and he’s prone to thinking the worst of people, especially children of Zeus. Hermes isn’t sure that Hades might be offended enough by the disrespect to retaliate against his better judgment.

“He might reinforce the realm’s boundaries against Lyra. Or forbid me from visiting her entirely.” If Hades was a mortal lord, Achilles would easily subvert his will, but Hades is the son of Titans and has the power to bind his shade in any number of ways.

Yes, he does have allies in Zagreus, Nyx, and others in the House, but he’s not keen on dragging them into his affairs, or causing strife in his Master’s realm. Achilles prefers to fight his own battles.

He rubs the coarse pads of his fingers over Hermes’ hands. Maybe the god of diplomacy has some leverage? “Do you believe this is something you can negotiate?”

Hermes guns softly, closing his eyes. His pupils dart under the lids as he thinks, laying out what he knows of his uncle, what he knows of his leverage, what he knows of their shared history.

His uncle doesn’t respond well to arrogant grandstanding, or threats, or confrontation. His uncle is a hard shell of a man, most at home when standing against resistance.

What few people give him credit for is that he’s fair-minded. Rules matter to him, but so does honoring debt and reciprocating kindness in kind. Maybe if Hermes leads with that…

“I have served the Underworld faithfully since I was a child. I’ve never asked for anything in return—not recognition, not a place in the House, not protection, not the resurrection of beloved mortals, not boons.” Not even protection from his father, though he suspects that Hades was at least somewhat aware of what Zeus’ children suffered. “This is the only thing I would have ever asked of him for myself. The only repayment for thousands of years of service.”

Hermes wants Achilles to know his daughter, and for Lyra to know him. That’s what Hermes asks of Hades. And he knows intimately that Hades has given more for much less.

Achilles knows his master decently well. He’s not unreasonable—he’s not Zeus—but he still has a tendency to be inflexible. The certainty and permanence of death, Achilles understands, needs to be rigidly guarded. Few gods would be suited to such a task.

But Achilles dares to hope Hermes is right. He’s delivered shades with utmost efficiency and honored his uncle’s privacy. Not to mention he thwarted Ares’ assault on the Underworld.

“Mmm. He might see reason in that, if we approach at the right time and with proper deference.” He lightly trails his fingers up and down Hermes’ forearms. “The House is nearly mended, and the backlog of shades is much reduced. His mood should be vastly improved.”

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