refusetofight | For @messageforyou

Lyra listens carefully, eyes wide as she takes it in and tries to understand. So Patroclus was hurt like Agathe, but he was also scared. Scared that Hermes might take away his one person, who should have wanted only him as his one person. And that made him mad and scared. Yes, that makes more sense to Lyra. She'd also be mad and sad and scared if it looked like someone she loved might not love her anymore because they found someone better.

But Lyra can't help but notice that Hermes and Achilles must have been together for at least as old as she is. So if Hermes really did want to have Achilles all to himself, he probably would have by now.

But just 'cuz Hermes doesn't want Achilles all to himself doesn't mean that Patroclus wouldn't still be scared of it.

"Gods are weird. Hermes admitted it when I said so." She looks at Méli, at her happy doggy face and her fluffy fur. "There's this butcher at the market I really don't like. He's mean. He kicks the dogs that come too close to his stall. He kicked one so hard that he made her snout bleed."

She scratches Méli behind the ears, as if in apology for making her hear such awful things. "When you think about it, we all could be mean like him. We could all kick dogs, and dogs couldn't do anything about it. But we don't. Because we know it's mean, and some of us love dogs very much and hate people who are mean to them because it's not fair to pick on someone that can't fight back." She looks up at Patroclus, her brow furrowed in thought. "I think it's like that with gods. That they could all be mean if they want to, and some of them are, but a lot of them aren't. Maybe Hermes doesn't want to hurt you anymore than we want to hurt Méli. Even if he already did."

She doesn't know Hermes, really. She's only talked to him a little bit. Maybe he meant to hurt Patroclus, but she doesn't think so, if he brought him Méli.

Méli’s mouth and tongue loll, blissfully free of any notion that anyone would hurt a dog. It’s not the first time, but Pat wishes he could be as carefree as this canine shade.

He considers Lyra’s comparison. Simple, but it’s well-reasoned, and apt—after Troy he’s certain that gods place mortals on the same level as animals. Disposable fodder for their games.

“No, he’s not like Zeus or Ares or Apollo. There are stories of Hermes’ mischief but he doesn’t seem to delight in cruelty.” Pat looks down at Lyra and notes Hermes’ features blended so seamlessly among Achilles’. “Nor would Achilles love anyone, man or god, who would do such things.”

He exhales, sagging. “I know all of this to be true, but my heart still aches.”

Lyra thinks she understands better now why Patroclus is sad, and why he doesn't like Hermes even if Hermes isn't mean to him. It's not just because grownups want to be the only person their person loves.

"Are you scared that Achilles might not like you as much anymore?" Lyra doesn't consider the tact of her blunt question, just the truth. It'd make sense, how Patroclus can know Hermes doesn't want to hurt him, but he's still scared of him taking Achilles away. Because he's not really scared that Hermes will make Achilles leave--it's that Achilles might want to leave. And her foster dad once told her that it's easier for grownups to feel mad at someone instead of feeling scared.

Not that Lyra thinks that's true. The stories don't make it sound like it'd be true. But she doesn't really know Achilles well enough to say.

In a way, it would feel better if Hermes bewitched Achilles somehow. Then Pat’s anger could be legitimized. It would be another case of a god selfishly meddling in mortal (after)lives. Importantly, it wouldn’t have been Achilles’ choice to be unfaithful.

But that’s not the case, as far as Patroclus can tell. Hermes didn’t push himself on Achilles. Apparently Achilles is the one who initiated the affair.

Patroclus doesn’t respond for awhile. Only rubs Méli’s ears in silence. Should he really be talking to a child about this? But who else can he discuss it with?

“Yes,” he admits quietly. “Why else would he grow to love someone else?”

"I don't know," Lyra admits honestly. "I don't know much about that kind of love yet."

She knows enough about it to know that she doesn't know much at all. She doesn't know what stirs Agathe to cry over her husband or slap him in public, what stirs her husband to love someone else even if it hurts her, what stirs Achilles to split his affection and why Patroclus doesn't--or can't--do the same. All she knows is that it's obvious that it's a big deal to grownups, and it hurts them a lot, and they keep coming back to it even when it hurts. It seems mean of Achilles to hurt Patroclus so much, but also it feels strange to be mad at him for it considering Lyra wouldn't exist if he didn't.

"Achilles would probably know," she says. As she always says to herself: when in doubt, just ask. If Patroclus doesn't know why Achilles would grow to love someone else besides not loving him as much anymore, then he should ask. "You could talk to him. Or you could try to fall in love with someone else too and see for yourself."

Maybe that would make it fair. Or make Patroclus happier. Maybe love is like food, and the more you get from many sources, the happier and healthier you are, even as a grownup. Maybe that's part of why Achilles seems happier than Patroclus. Or maybe that's just Lyra not quite understanding it. She'd ask her foster parents if she had any faith they'd really explain instead of just saying she'd get it when she's older.

“Hearing the question from me would cause him such pain,” he says with a solemn shake of his head. And as much as the uncertainty plagues him, Patroclus fears hearing Achilles’ answer. Worse yet, to see him struggle with a lie.

Lyra’s second suggestion takes Pat by surprise. He blinks, and then huffs in amusement. As if falling in love with someone else is as simple as changing one’s clothes, or tasting a new food. “Try as I might, I could never love anyone else. Not after all that the two of us have endured together.”

Méli squirms to nuzzle her cold, wet nose into the palm of his hand, trying to cheer him up. It reminds him how she ended up here in the first place, a token of Hermes’ kindness. “… All I can do is accept that things have changed. Really, what did I expect? That everything would remain the same for eternity?”

"Did you really want everything to stay the same forever? That sounds really boring to me," Lyra says, thinking about staying forever in the comfort of her own family, her own home, her own life as she's always known it. It sounds like it'd be nice for a while, but how boring to have so much potential for new things, and to never experience them.

She's not sure why Achilles can fall in love with someone else, but Patroclus can't. Surely there's someone nice around here that he might like. But she knows better than to try cajoling him into loving someone else--that seems like a silly thing for her to do, if he doesn't want to do it.

"Maybe it'd make him sad if you asked the question, but you're sad now, and he can tell if I can tell. So right now, you're both sad." And it seems silly to Lyra to put off making Achilles more sad for a little bit and then maybe get better in favor of staying sad together. But maybe it's one of those things she won't understand until she's older.

Patroclus feels a twinge of pique. “After a life like ours, I was hoping for some peace.”

Once Achilles’ assignment was changed, Pat hoped that they could have some approximation of their time back at Phthia or Mount Pelion, or even the months leading up to Troy. But that was silly, he realizes. They’re not boys anymore. They’ve been irrevocably changed by experience.

And their relationship has never been so challenged and strained as it has been since their death. When have they ever had to negotiate something like this? Patroclus looks pointedly away as he admits, “The problem is … I’m a coward. I’m afraid of what he might say.”

In comparison to war, this seems pretty peaceful to Lyra. But then again, she's never been to war. Maybe this isn't all that peaceful after all.

How strange to hear a grownup admit to being a coward. She thinks it's quite brave of him to say so, really. Even grownups are mean about making fun of cowards in Greece. But those are the cowards who run away from war, and Patroclus didn't do that. He's just running away from a conversation, and it's hard to imagine a conversation that's scarier than war.

"Well, when my brother--the one who cries easy, not the dumb one--when he's scared of stuff, our foster father tells him to think of the worst thing that could happen, then the best thing, and make a plan for both but expect that something in the middle will happen."

Lyra has never really needed the trick because she's not an anxious child, trusting as she does that the world will look out for her. But clearly, Patroclus is scared, so he needs a trick, and Lyra will help.

She takes his hand, idly tracing the calluses on the pads of his fingers and palm and comparing the sizes of their hands. "So... if you ask him, what's the worst thing that could happen, and what's the best thing?"

Pat wasn’t expecting for Achilles to pick fights with gods, least of all Zeus. Nor did he expect it to culminate in a savage assault on the Underworld led by Ares himself. He was hoping death would free them both—Achilles especially—from violence.

He lets his hand rest slack in Lyra’s. His palm isn’t nearly so calloused as Achilles’—Pat was more likely to wield a surgeon’s tools than a spear and shield—but it was difficult work all the same. It took a craftsman’s strong and careful hand to mend bones and flesh.

The first answer comes easily: “The worst case, Achilles will admit he no longer loves me. That he would sooner spend his eternity with Hermes.”

The best case takes a little more care. Lyra probably doesn’t want to hear his first thought: Achilles says he’s done with Hermes and he’ll never speak of him again. As much as he wants that for himself, Patroclus doesn’t want that for Lyra; her fathers should both be there for her, and on good terms.

Instead, he says, “The best case, Achilles will say that he loves me, and nothing will change that.”

Lyra notices his pause before talking about his best case scenario, and she suspects that he's not being wholly upfront. But that's okay. He's been very honest with her so far, and grownups have such trouble talking about grownup things. She hopes that even if he won't say it out loud, he at least thinks his best scenario, and he thinks of a plan.

"So... what's your plan if he says he doesn't love you anymore, and what's your plan if he says that he'll always love you?"

Eu-Eu would call this Lyra being sneaky, talking like Patroclus has already decided to ask the question. It's something she's figured out makes it more likely that people will do what she thinks they should. And she really does think that Pat is very sad, and that Achilles will probably say he still loves him, and hopefully that will make Pat less sad.

Lyra curiously explores Patroclus' less prominent calluses, drawing spirals into his palm. His hand isn't so hard as Achilles'. She wonders if Patroclus did much fighting before he died. The songs don't really say much about him before he put on Achilles' armor.

“In the first case, I would drink from the Lethe,” he says without hesitation, as if that option is always top of mind. Achilles is the only part of his life he cares to remember. If he no longer wants to be a part of it? Patroclus would sooner forget it all.

“In the second, I would …” The better outcome requires more thought. At least, it does with the way he framed it for Lyra’s sake. Even if Achilles did convince him that his love is enduring, that it hasn’t changed, there’s still Hermes.

Hermes, who hasn’t been unkind or cruel like his kin, and who’s given Achilles so many things Patroclus can’t—this sweet, clever child included. He’s made Achilles happy … given him purpose, even in death.

Pat tips his head to look at Méli. Her dark, guileless eyes peer back at him in simple adoration. And Hermes has gone out of his way to make him happy. This dog is proof of that.

“I would be pleased with that,” he finally says softly. “I would be content.”

Lyra frowns when he talks about drinking from the Lethe. She knows that there are so many stories of people throwing themselves to their deaths after being rejected by their lovers, but it seems like a very big reaction to her. Perhaps even an overreaction, though the grownups would say that she's too little to know that for sure. But is the Lethe the same as death? Would Patroclus persist after drinking, and be free to make a new, happier afterlife? Or would whatever holds his shade together fade away forever?

Questions to ask Elysium, she figures. Who would know better than Elysium?

"I'd be very sad if you drank from the Lethe," Lyra admits. "But I'll make friends with you again if you forget me. And I'd teach you any games you forgot."

She means it as a reassurance. That if Patroclus really does feel like he has to forget, that she'll still want to be his friend, and she'll still want to spend time with him. And perhaps he'll be happier for her company if his memories don't make him sad.

"My foster dad always says that it's usually not the best or worst thing that happens. It's usually something in the middle." She presses Patroclus' hand to her cheek, looking up at his face and memorizing the lines. He doesn't have many smile lines. He seems so sad. "You should ask him. You're very sad now. And I don't think anyone who loves you can be very happy when you're so sad."

Patroclus swallows back the sudden tightness in his throat. Why is he getting so emotional about this child he barely knows? Is it because she looks and behaves so much like Achilles? Because she says all of these things so earnestly? Because her care seems so disarmingly genuine?

He cradles Lyra’s face in his palm as he considers her advice. He opens his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted by the stir of approaching footsteps. Achilles appears at the edge of the glade and does a blinking double-take on seeing Patroclus, Lyra, and Méli.

Achilles had no immediate destination, so Elysium must have seen fit to steer him here, to those people most important to him. Ever since Lyra began “talking” to Elysium, Achilles has looked at it differently—as an entity with a mind of its own, always leading him where it thinks he needs to be.

His surprise softens into a fond smile. “Ah! Pat … Lyra, you’ve come to visit?”

Achilles knows Pat will always be kind and welcoming to Lyra, but he also shares her concern: that she serves as a reminder of Achilles’ affair with Hermes and only adds to his low mood. He can clearly see something in Pat’s face. Not his usual melancholy. Something deeper.

“Apologies, child. I was off on an errand.” Achilles strides over, bending to rest a hand on Lyra’s head. Then, to Patroclus: “Thank you for looking after her, Pat.”

Méli clambers to her feet and dances around Achilles as if she’s just met him for the first time. He laughs and scratches her back with his free hand. “You too, Méli. Good job, pup.”

Lyra sees the emotion in Patroclus' eyes. Her gut pinches a little in guilt, knowing that she's made him feel so much, but she hopes that it's sweet pain. Sometimes her foster father talks about sweet pain when he comes home crying from the rare days he can catch a tragedy playing at the theater. The proper word is catharsis, but Lyra's noticed her fellow children don't really get that word, so she's taken to calling it sweet pain instead.

She perks as she sees Achilles (her father) emerge from the glades of Elysium. He rests a hand on her head, and she smiles wide at him.

"Hello, Daddy," she says the new title smoothly, just testing it out in her mouth, seeing how she likes it, seeing how he reacts. "You don't have to call me 'child' anymore. I liked it when you called me 'fledgling'."

When she thought about it more, she'd seen the meaning. Hermes is part bird, so she's part bird, so she's a fledgling. It's nice. She doesn't know any other kids who can be called that. She takes Achilles' hand from her head and presses an affectionate kiss to his knuckles. "Pat was taking very good care of me. I wanted to make sure he didn't want me to avoid him, and he said no, and he's very good at petting hair, and it's been really nice."

And she'll give Pat an opportunity to bring up his questions on his own. But she's not above bullying a grown man if she thinks she's right about what he ought to do, and Lyra always thinks she's right.

The mode of address and show of affection creases the lines of Achilles’ face around a deeper smile. His pride couldn’t be more obvious. It’s much different, though, from the sort he had in life. “As you wish, my little fledgling.”

This is exactly why Patroclus is so very close to forgiving Achilles and Hermes; the way Achilles looks at his daughter is worth all the hurt he’s suffered. This tiny piece of the future they never had is invaluable.

Patroclus reaches out to calm Méli’s excitement. She settles back to the ground, but her tail still thumps happily against the mossy ground.

“And the two of you haven’t got up to any mischief?” Achilles teases, catching Lyra’s chin and tilting it with a curled knuckle. “Haven’t stolen anything from poor Theseus?”

“Not yet, but she’s only just got here.” Pat sets aside his emotions long enough to give Lyra a wink.

Lyra smiles to be called a fledgling--something she didn't realize she wanted is the little nicknames parents give their children, when her nickname among her foster family is 'trouble'--and she scrunches her nose with a giggle as Pat winks at her.

"I've got all day to get up to mischief," she says smugly, pleased at all the potential the day offers. "But I haven't stolen anything. Even though stealing is fun. Because I think Theseus needs to be mad about his belt for longer."

She can't distract from her first heist by committing a second so soon. She must let Theseus stew in his outrage that someone stole his treasured belt. Maybe wait until he makes another to steal it again. She could have a little collection of stolen belts from Theseus and then give back her treasure hoard when she dies with all the smugness due a hero.

"We've been playing with Méli instead." Lyra playfully bats gently at Méli's thumping tail. "Elysium spilled the secret of how Méli got here and I told Pat before I realized it was supposed to be secret. Sorry."

Lyra gets into trouble, but she only really wants to keep her trouble secret if she means to get into trouble. Now she might as well just tell Achilles that she told on Hermes before Pat says anything. Maybe it'll even prompt an important conversation between Achilles and Pat.

Achilles settles into a kneel, laughing at his daughter’s taste for trickery. He presses a smiling kiss to her temple. Should he be encouraging this? Probably not, but Hermes would contradict any attempts to rein in her behavior.

“How Méli got here … ?” Achilles blinks owlishly as he processes the implications of Lyra’s admission and surprise is replaced by dawning shame. His eyes flick to Patroclus and he rests an apologetic hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry to keep that from you. I knew how happy you’d be to have a dog, and Hermes was kind enough to arrange it.”

Pat rests his hand over Achilles’ and sighs. He knows how difficult it is for Achilles to keep secrets. “You’re right. Méli’s been wonderful. It was thoughtful of you … and of him.”

Patroclus spares Lyra a brief glance, then shakes his head, contrite. “I’m sorry for treating him so poorly when he’s gone out of his way to show me kindness. I see that he’s not like his fellow Olympians.”

The kiss is nice. Lyra's still smiling as the grownups have their little apologetic exchange. She's not sure why Achilles feels bad about lying, but a lot of grownups don't like lies, even when the lies are for their own good.

If Pat has treated Hermes badly, she has a feeling that he ought to say that directly to Hermes, but she doesn't really know what 'treating him so poorly' means. Maybe he's been mean, or maybe he's just not wanted to spend time with Hermes. Excluding people is its own kind of mean, but sometimes it's better than including them when you don't want to.

Lyra trusts that Achilles will know and say so if Hermes ought to be talked to, so she leaves that to him. Instead, she starts scratching Méli's ears to direct her to cuddle Lyra. Lyra is going to try to be verrrrrry easy to miss while the grownups talk, and make Méli easy to miss too. And only poke Pat if it looks like he won't talk to Achilles as much as he ought to.

“I owe you an apology.” Achilles scoots closer to Patroclus and slings a full arm around his shoulders. “I’ve been quite clumsy, quite careless through all of this.”

“Yes, you have,” Pat says wryly, like the long-suffering partner of a hero that he is. He rubs his beard pensively, sparing another glance at Lyra, almost as if he were a student under a mentor’s scrutiny. His throat bobs in a swallow, the question lodged thick in his throat. Instead he says, “You’re difficult as ever, Achilles.”

As much as Pat is trying to force some humor, Achilles can feel the tension in his posture, the tightness in his voice. “Are you alright, my dear?”

By contrast, Méli leans into the ear scritches, tongue lolling in bliss. She’s pleased to have so many nice humans gathered around in one place, even if they’re behaving strangely.

Lyra thinks she knows what answer Achilles is more likely to give. Grownups don't say sorry to other grownups when they don't care, not like kids trying to get out of trouble.

She hears Pat's hesitation now, which seems sillier now that she's hearing Achilles with him, hearing how he prods at his mood. It reminds her of her brother Thales, and how scared he gets of bad things that might happen, even if they don't happen.

But Lyra loves Thales, even though he's a scaredy-cat who cries easy, and she has tricks for making someone scared of bad things that might happen do what they need to anyway.

She kisses Méli's sweet nose before taking Pat's hand, giving it a squeeze. This could be considered kind and reassuring, were it not for the fact that she also pinches the skin of his hand. Support, and also a light dusting of bullying to get him to spit out what he's gotta ask.

Patroclus is so trapped in his own head, he can’t see the genuine concern and affection in Achilles’ eyes. But he feels Lyra’s tiny hand in his … and that goading pinch.

“No,” Pat finally sighs. “I need to ask you something. And I need you to be truthful.”

Achilles’ brow furrows deep with concern, and he combs fingers through Patroclus’ hair, reassuring. “Of course.”

Patroclus swallows once more, then gently squeezes Lyra’s hand, and forces the words out in a rush: “Do you still love me, Achilles?”

“Pat,” Achilles gasps. The question lands like an unexpected blow. But he recovers quickly; the answer couldn’t be more clear. He leans to press his forehead to Patroclus’ and breathes soft and insistent, “I do. I do, and that will never change.”

Achilles presses a kiss to his brow and clutches either side of Pat’s face so as to look him in the eye. “Death hasn’t changed that. Hermes hasn’t changed that, either. I swear it upon the Styx.”

The lesson Lyra chooses to take from this is that bullying grown men is a good thing that she should do more often, as long as it's for their own good.

She doesn't know if this will make all the sad go away from Pat. Probably not. Sadness seems to stick harder to grownups than it does to kids, who shake it off so easy. But maybe it'll make the sad less sticky.

Lyra tips her head to look at Patroclus' face, squeezing his hand again. She doesn't speak, not wanting to pull away Achilles' attention or remind the grownups that she's here. Grownups can be weird about talking about these things in front of kids sometimes. But she also wants to see Patroclus' expression, see if he really believes what Achilles is saying.

He said his plan was to be content if Achilles said he loved him. But Lyra wonders if he can follow through.

There’s a wet shimmer at the edge of Patroclus’ eyes. The certainty in Achilles’ voice cuts through the nagging worry that’s plagued him for so long. It pierces through the calloused sadness to something tender.

And Lyra’s hand is still warm and caring in his.

“I love you,” Achilles says. His tone carries the same steady conviction as it did when he declared that he would become the greatest of the Greeks, that he would secure a victory at Troy. It’s a hero’s firm statement.

“I believe you,” Pat finally replies, his voice still tight. But it’s the truth, judging by the soft openness of his face. Some of his sadness has been replaced with hope. “I’m sorry I had to ask. Forgive me for doubting you.”

Achilles dips his head to give Patroclus a short but tender kiss. “I’m sorry I gave you reason to doubt me. I will do better—you have my word.”

“Yes, well … you have a witness.” Patroclus glances past Achilles to his daughter. “I trust she’ll hold you to your word.”

Yes, good, this has gone well. Lyra should interfere in people’s love lives more often. She smiles as she’s acknowledged, giving a cheerful wave.

“I’m witness!” she confirms with a chirp. “And I’m really good at making judgmental faces when people do dumb things. Just ask my brothers.”

She has the impression of missing context—of course she is, there’s no Hermes here to tell her about his own view on the whole thing, if he’s got an opinion at all—but she’s pretty sure she’s done something good here. Patroclus doesn’t seem so sad anymore. Which has to be a good thing.

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