refusetofight | For @messageforyou

For @messageforyou

Besides the obvious, there’s one big problem with being dead: it leaves Patroclus with too much time to think. To ruminate. To overanalyze. That was always his tendency, but at least in life, he had Achilles and the war. There was rarely a stretch of stillness that allowed him to wander so deep in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

Not like Elysium. Patroclus wishes he was more like Ajax, always spoiling for a test of strength against the shades of other legends, or Odysseus, chatting and joking so easily with anyone who will listen. Will they ever tire of it? Meanwhile, Pat still feels like his place here is undeserved. His act of bravery at Troy was a fluke. That wasn’t enough for Elysium; Achilles had to arrange that deal with Hades himself.

And what is he doing with that gift? Whiling it away in a chronically dreadful mood. It’s no surprise Achilles would take another lover. He needs someone more exciting and vibrant. He needs a challenge. Hermes is who he needed from the very start. Powerful, divine, worthy.

Now there’s Lyra, to—a beautiful, perfect child. Hermes can give Achilles anything he wants. What can Patroclus give him? Painful memories. Shame and regret. Achilles never says as much—of course he wouldn’t—but Pat assumes.

He lays sprawled on the spongy ground in the center of a glade, looking up at Ixion and fumbling around the corners of this well-trod maze of thought. Méli has surrounded him in scattered offerings: very fetchable sticks, a sandal, a broken arrow, an old bone. She finally gives up her restless pacing to flop down next to him. She shifts to rest her chin on his chest and sighs emphatically. Her gifts don’t seem to be helping.

“I’m sorry. I’m not good company right now, am I?” he mumbles, stroking her soft ears. He wishes he could be more like her. Living in the moment, not a single worry except what fun will be had next …

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Achilles has absolutely no intention of letting go of Lyra if he can help it. She’ll be off to Medea soon and he wants to hold her as long as he possibly can. He wants to commit her childhood squeals and giggles to memory—he knows she’ll be grown in an instant.

He shifts his hold more comfortably under her legs, still rocking her slowly back and forth. “You need not worry about Apollo, my dear. Even if he doesn’t like me very well, he loves your father. He wouldn’t hurt you.”

Really, the only Olympian Achilles is concerned about is Ares, should he ever be free of his imprisonment, but he doesn’t want to worry Lyra (or Hermes) with talk of that. “Someday, I’d like you to meet the gods and goddesses of the Underworld as well. Between you and me, they’re not nearly so scary as the stories say.”

Lyra is very happy to be carried. Her foster father is too old and bent from a lifetime of labor to carry her, so she clings to Achilles like a little monkey and giggles as she's rocked, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. Even now, even as a shade, he smells a little like the ocean.

"What are the gods and goddesses of the Underworld like? Patroclus told me that there's a prince Zagreus, and you taught him," she says, happy to bask in the affection and attention being lavished on her.

Hermes watches, smiling. His own internal clock tells him that soon, Lyra will need to go home, but he doesn't want to make her go quite yet. He wants to commit this moment to memory, watching Achilles hold and rock her back and forth.

Achilles flashes Patroclus a teasing smile, half in apology for cutting him off earlier. “Revealing all of my secrets, are you?”

Patroclus shrugs. “Oh, of course. And there are plenty more where that came from. Juicier ones.”

“Don’t listen to him, fledgling,” Achilles says in mock exasperation before returning to the topic. “You asked about the Chthonic gods …”

He hums, still moving Lyra side to side, as if she’s infected him with her fidgeting. “They’re not as ostentatious as Olympians. They work hard and don’t ask much in return. Many of them are kinder than they might look. Particularly Charon.”

Lyra giggles, wrinkling her nose in delight at the banter and rocking. "I haven't seen Charon, yet."

"My associate--Charon--is impossible to miss. He towers over people, breathes purple smoke, and has very little flesh on his face, and the lack of lips make it hard for him to say anything but groaning." Hermes' aura, if anything, warms even more as he talks about Charon, guard thoroughly down. Not that he's really worried if Achilles picks up on his relationship with the boatman. "But don't let the intimidating visage fool you--he's a softy. He especially likes it when people talk to him and learn how to understand him. You catch on eventually, if you take the time to listen."

Hermes is pretty sure Charon fell in love with him because Hermes was terminally incapable of shutting up. Charon likes cheer and chatter. Hermes thinks that's why Charon has a soft spot for Zagreus, too. All too frequently, people find Charon frightening or repulsive, but that's their loss.

"I'll listen, if he talks to me," Lyra promises. "I'll learn how to understand."

Achilles has his suspicions about Hermes and Charon, but it’s hard to know for sure; Hermes is so friendly with most everyone. In general, Achilles avoids thinking too much about Hermes’ other lovers. He can’t trust himself to not be a little jealous, even if it’s only fair. Achilles has Pat, after all.

But Achilles is the only one who has a child with Hermes, so he can’t help but feel just a little special. “If you keep sneaking down here, you’ll meet Charon before long. And Prince Zagreus.”

He adjusts his hold on Lyra, easily transferring her weight to one arm. With his free hand, he fixes the shoulder of her tunic. “I think you would like Lady Persephone and Lady Nyx, too. They’re both kind, strong, and wise.” He looks to Hermes, “They’re as vital to the Underworld as Lord Hades himself, don’t you think?”

If Lyra grows to be anything like them, he’ll be more than pleased.

Hermes has kept a pretty solid policy of not unnecessarily talking about other lovers when he's with one person. It seems rude. Plus, he's always been so afraid of one being discovered that he's made a habit of not sharing any of their names, even to each other.

"Oh absolutely. And my uncle would readily admit it." Hermes stands up from the grass, leaning in to tuck a lock of hair behind Lyra's ear. There's something very nice about just... standing with them. Together. Like a family. "My uncle Hades is grumpy, but you can trust him to be fair-minded. Persephone is half mortal, so she understands them better than most of the family."

Hermes grins at Achilles. "I think Lyra would get along with Zagreus. They'd keep each other busy with questions for eons."

"I want to meet Zagreus!" Lyra may not be able to tell how time is passing down here, but her body is. She stifles a yawn, fatigue beginning to drag her eyelids, but she's too eager to keep up the conversation to admit to being tired. Especially since she's pretty sure that it wouldn't be good for her to sleep in the Underworld. "I want to meet everyone. They all sound so interesting."

Achilles gives a ringing laugh. “Styx, I don’t want to think of the mischief the two of them would be capable of.”

Especially given how well the Underworld seems to like Lyra.

“You’ll meet them all someday, you have my word. But you’ve had quite enough excitement for one day, little fledgling.” It’s almost surprising to see her tired after buzzing with so much energy; he expects her to be like Hermes, scarcely stopping for a single moment. But she’s still a mortal child with mortal limits. Achilles gives her a smiling peck on the cheek. “Time to get some rest.”

He sighs softly, wishing he could keep her here. But this isn’t her place. Not for a long time yet. Achilles steps closer to Hermes and presses Lyra into his arms. “See her safely home?”

"I'm not tired! I can stay!" Lyra protests, but Hermes just shakes his head with a soft chuckle as he takes her into his arms.

"Don't try to push yourself to stay awake as long as gods and shades, little bird. You're still growing, and you need your rest."

Lyra pouts. She makes a point to pout very emphatically. It makes Hermes giggle, tapping her nose playfully. "Keep making faces and you'll get stuck that way."

She scrunches her face at him, which makes him laugh again. He smiles to Achilles, aura swelling with love. "I'll make sure she gets home safe. I'll meet you at the mouth of the Temple later tonight?"

To meet his mother, Maia. Just in case Achilles needed a reminder.

Lyra, meanwhile, twists in Hermes' grip and reaches for Patroclus, wordlessly requesting he come close so she can squeeze his hand and say goodbye.

“Yes, I’ll be there,” Achilles confirms to Hermes, then leans in and brushes the curls away from Lyra’s forehead to give her another kiss. “I love you.”

And Pat can’t very well deny that adorable petition. His beard bristles around a smile as he stands, releasing Méli. He approaches and rests one hand on Achilles’ lower back while he takes Lyra’s tiny, offered hand in a gentle squeeze. Hermes receives the briefest glance before Patroclus focuses his eyes on Lyra’s. They match Achilles’ color, but take Hermes’ shape and keen focus. “Be good and rest well, little stranger.”

Méli won’t be left out, and she plants her front paws on Hermes’ leg, snuffling excitedly and begging for all the pets she’s missed in the past several minutes.

Lyra smiles as she's kissed by her father. "Love you too."

It's easy for her to say. Hermes is almost jealous, how easy it seems. But the jealousy gives way to relief that she doesn't face the same struggles he does.

If Hermes feels any sort of way about Patroclus getting close enough to say goodbye to Lyra, he doesn't give it away. Lyra smiles at Patroclus, squeezing his hand. She at least has the tact not to bring up their conversation they had when they were alone.

"I'll be good. You be good too." Lyra presses Patroclus' hand to her cheek before she lets him go, scratching Méli's head. "You be good too, Méli."

"I don't know if Méli can be anything but good," Hermes says, adjusting his grip on Lyra. "Say goodbye, little bird. We'll be back to your home before you know it."

“I make no promises for myself,” Pat jokes. “But Méli will do her best.”

Right now, Méli’s best is to enthusiastically lick Lyra’s hand before it moves back out of reach.

Achilles soaks up this moment. Savors it like a ripe fig. He wishes he could capture it forever, crystallized in amber. Lyra, Hermes, Patroclus: three of the people he loves most, all together, surrounded by divine warmth. He never would have expected this from his afterlife.

His hand strokes Lyra’s cheek one last time. “Farewell for now, my dear. We’ll meet again soon.”

Lyra giggles at Pat's joke before wrapping her arms around Hermes' neck. "Yeah. I'll see you again soon."

And then they're gone.

It's dark outside when Hermes flutters down in the woods just near Lyra's home, the glow of the fire in her cottage glowing through the windows. He's about to say goodbye when she clings harder to his neck.

"Don't go yet," she says. "I can stay awake. Just to talk a little. I still have questions."

Hermes isn't so sure how he feels about spending time with her as a person without Achilles around to reassure him, but he remembers all the times he wished Zeus would stay with him a little longer, and he can't deny her. He sits on the forest floor, settling her on his lap. "What do you want to ask about?"

"About everything." Lyra presses her cheek to his shoulder, watching him with wide eyes. "Were you born before humans were made? Do you have a favorite color? Did you really kill the giant Argos? Did Lady Hera really take his eyes and put them on peacock feathers?"

Even at the best of times, Hermes has a weakness for the curious. And it's easier to answer straight forward questions and tell stories than to deal with his feelings. He sits there too long, talking to Lyra, held in place by her questions and sincere desire to spend time with him.

He'll be late to meeting Achilles at the mouth of the Temple. Maia will make it there before him, taking a seat on a stump and waiting patiently for her son. It's like a piece of the night sky has stepped onto the earth and draped itself in a shawl of darkness, waiting for him.

Once they’ve disappeared, Achilles releases a long sigh and leans against Patroclus’ shoulder. Pat can hear two distinct notes in that breath: contented, but wistful.

“She’s a good child.” Patroclus pets Achilles’ curls. “I’m sorry you can’t be with her.”

“Mm,” Achilles agrees with a solemn nod. Then, after a moment, he cups either side of Pat’s face. “Thank you. For your understanding and patience.”

“She makes you happy.” Pat dips his head, swallows. “Hermes makes you happy.”

“And you make me happy,” Achilles adds quickly. He continues holding Patroclus’ face and simply admires his steady, dark eyes before he pulls him into a kiss. Méli, meanwhile dances around them and barks her displeasure at being left out of all of this ongoing affection.

“Fine,” Achilles laughs, reaching down to ruffle her ears. “You make me happy, too, pup.”

They spend another another hour or two walking Elysium’s glades, and for once, their conversation is more about the future than the past. Pat still grumbles about Medea and Apollo’s advice, but it doesn’t give way to bickering. His mood doesn’t sour, even when Achilles finally has to take his leave again.

Just shy of the Temple, Achilles dusts the dirt from his chiton (left by Méli’s eager paws) and checks his reflection in a glassy pool of water. He tries to tame back his hair, only for his curls to resume their rugged cascade down his shoulders. He frowns. Goddesses can be very opinionated about the lovers their only son takes.

He’s glad he tried to clean up, because he didn’t expect Hermes to be late to such an important meeting. Maia is already here and he’ll have her full focus. Achilles rarely ever feels nervous—it’s not something a hero is usually capable of—but he does now.

Not for himself, he realizes, but for Hermes.

Achilles clears his throat softly before breaking the silence. “Lady Maia?”

Maia is tall, but within the bounds of how tall a human is. But her shadow is long, far longer than it ought to be, just as Prometheus' was. And there's a quiet about her, like the earth no longer knows her and doesn't quite know what to do with her presence.

And it's clear why the earth doesn't know her. Where Hermes showed the stars that make him as a treat to Achilles, Maia seems to only be stars now with only the faintest outline of what she used to be. She turns her head to look at Achilles, and her eyes are burning stars. But if one squints, tries to make out the features that faintly remain between points of light, she looks much like Hermes. The same clever, narrow eyes. The same pert nose, the same soft, feminine curve of the jaw, the same upturned mouth, the same wet sand skin, the same long dark lashes and hair. Stars cling to the end of her lashes, framing the light of her eyes.

She's the most beautiful of the Pleiades, and it's clear who Hermes took after.

"You know me." Her voice seems not quite of this world either. Like it might have been warm and present once, but now it seems like it comes from somewhere far away and unknown.

"Keep your distance. I'm waiting for someone." She says it firmly, skeptical of any man she doesn't recognize knowing her name. She's had enough of heroes pursuing her.

His eyes are accustomed to the dim, subterranean light, and Hermes’ features are so indelibly stamped in his memory, he can find their familiar shape in the space suggested by stars. This is to whom Hermes owes his clever beauty.

Achilles easily sees Hermes in Maia, but he also sees Thetis—a nymph, beautiful and formidable, but ill-used by gods and men. Her cold mistrust doesn’t come as a surprise; he’s seen his mother show mortals the same, and worse.

“Goddess, I cannot cross the border of this realm. I can come no closer,” Achilles assures in the even, formal tone he’s learned to address the gods. He bows. “I am Achilles, son of Thetis, once called Greatest of the Greeks. I was summoned here by your son, Hermes.”

"Achilles?"

Her demeanor changes instantly. The stars that make her form twinkle brightly as she rises from her stump, turning her eyes fully onto him. She approaches, her previous distrustful distance immediately forgotten.

"Hermes told me about you."

She toes the barrier where the Underworld meets the surface. So close, it's clear that she's wearing the shawl Hermes asked of Nyx to give to her. It suits her star-spangled form, clinging to her like gossamer. There's the implication of a woman who was once commanding, the air of leadership, but the stars give her the appearance of one who might disintegrate into light one day.

"He said you were the one to give him strength to open my letter. To reach out to me, after he did."

Good. Hermes told her that much; he doesn’t have to start from scratch explaining how how he knows her and her son.

“I did,” he says with a dip of his head, almost a modest bow. As Maia becomes less guarded, his voice grows more relaxed. “Over recent years, Hermes has shared much with me. You were often on his mind, and your letter was a blessing.”

Achilles raises his eyes. They wander over the familiar shawl, and he remembers how Hermes fretted over giving his mother a gift—how they discussed what exactly he should give her. Achilles appreciates the way it lends more glittering stars to her shape before his gaze reaches her face. “Your son has become so dear to me. It is good to finally meet you, Lady Maia.”

"He loves you," she blurts. She takes Achilles' hands and clasps them between hers, holding on just a little too tight. There's a desperate, hungry air about her, presented with a scrap of her son's life that she so wants to be a part of. Hermes isn't the only one that so craves re-connection, but hasn't been sure how to go about it.

"Do you love him?"

It's a forward question, one that any goddess may feel entitled to ask a mortal, but there's a note of desperation in her tone. Desperation to know that her son is loved, that he hasn't given his heart to someone who doesn't appreciate it, that someone is caring for him like she should have been from the beginning.

Most nymphs would cringe at the thought of their child falling in love with a human, but she's well beyond caring about that. He could fall in love with a monster as long as she could be safe knowing that they will cherish him in the way that she and so many others cruelly denied him for too long. The memory of inflicting that first heartbreak on him is still fresh in her mind, so many years after, and she can't bear the thought of someone doing it to him again.

He’s only known her for mere moments, but this gesture, Maia’s tone, the way the question shapes the stars in her brow—it all reminds him of Hermes. Achilles wonders if, tragically, the way the two are alike is what kept them apart so long.

“I love him dearly,” Achilles says, without hesitation. He shifts his hands to clasp hers back. “He’s bright and kind—I thank the Fates for weaving our threads together.”

Achilles pauses, trying to decide if he should add what he says next, but it feels like a truth that needs to be spoken. He keeps his eyes locked on the goddess’. “I knew his father’s cruelty. Hermes is entirely the opposite. A generous, caring, selfless god.”

She breathes a soft sigh of relief. That's all she really wanted to know. Whatever happens to her son, however far he may stray from her, she just wants him to be loved the way he deserves.

"I know," she says softly. "He's a good man. I'm proud of him."

Though she's not so sure she has a right to be proud of him, given how little a role she took in raising him. Perhaps it really ought to be Zeus and Hera that should take credit for that, for all their flaws. Hermes has been cagey about answering too many questions about his childhood--she suspects he's afraid of hurting her feelings if he tells her that he was happy without her, or that he was unhappy without her affection.

The air changes. A whiff of fresh air, of adventure. Then Hermes is there, alighting onto the ground and brushing off his chiton.

"Sorry I'm late, love, Lyra had all sorts of questions and I didn't have the heart to interrupt her before she fell asleep, this really must have been how Apollo and Athena felt, I'm not sure I've fielded so many questions in my life--" he stops mid-chiton brush as he sees his mother, standing there and holding hands with Achilles. Hermes clears his throat. "Oh, Mum, sorry I'm late, I didn't mean to keep you--"

Maia doesn't let him finish. She releases Achilles to throw her arms around her son, pulling him into a tight hug. In the embrace, her star-y form has a little more substance. "I thought you might still be on that mountain, darling," she says.

The urgency of that embrace and her comment reminds Achilles that Maia and Hermes haven’t seen each other in a long while. How long? Achilles is a poor judge of time in a realm without the sun and seasons.

But his heart warms to see the two of them together. How eager Maia is to shower Hermes with affection. All of Hermes’ past worry is rendered absurdly unwarranted.

“I’m not at all surprised Lyra held you captive,” he says with a fond laugh. “She really does adore you, my dear.” Another thing Hermes truly need not worry about.

“Fortunately, it won’t be long before she’ll have a mentor to answer that stream of questions.” May the gods grant Medea strength …

Hermes freezes in his mother's embrace, then relaxes, pulling her in and burying his face in her neck, feathers fluffing. Maia presses her cheek against one of his wings, the force of her hug great enough to almost lift her son off his feet. For all his own angst and anxiety about these relationships, it's nice to go from his daughter pleading to spend time with him to his mother squeezing the life out of him.

"I'm okay, Mum, I'm okay. Everything's all wrapped up with Pop and Lady Hera, and no one has to worry about them anymore," Hermes assures her, but she seems much more concerned with the fact that he's in front of her, and whole. She pulls away, immediately frowning and thumbing the scar on his lip, the one left behind by Ares.

"Where did this come from?"

"Ah, just a tussle with my brother, Ares," Hermes starts, but his mother is still talking.

"And who's Lyra? Is she a new lover of yours?"

"Oh! Oh, no, definitely not, Mum, she, uh--" Hermes looks to Achilles, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly as he pleads for help with his eyes. "I... a lot's happened, and I don't know where to start."

“A tussle—your son is too modest. Ares launched an assault on the Underworld and Hermes bravely thwarted it. He saved countless mortal shades from Ares’ thrall.” If anyone should hear Hermes’ praises sung, it’s his own mother. Achilles carefully leaves out the part about how close Hermes came to death. It’s not worth fretting about right now.

“And as to Lyra …” he winds up, taking an inhale and meeting Hermes’ eyes. It’s not difficult for him to say, it just feels like the words need space. “She’s our daughter. Your granddaughter.”

Achilles scratches his jaw with an awkward smile and gives a breathy laugh. “We only learned about her two days ago, so you’re not terribly far behind the two of us.”

"You what, darling?" Maia says at the description of Ares' assault, looking to Hermes, but Achilles is still going and she's immediately distracted by the news.

"A daughter?" Maia's starlit eyes widen, and she presses a hand to her collar as she looks to Hermes. "You have a daughter?"

Hermes rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, wings not pinned but tucking against his head as he tries to figure out how best to explain. "We don't really know how it happened, but the ocean was involved and she was found by some kind mortals. And then she decided to break into the Underworld to prove a point to her brother, so that's how we met."

Maia stares, then she huffs out a laugh, then another, covering her mouth. "She broke into the Underworld? Well, now you know how I felt when you showed up with all that sacred cattle as a baby."

Hermes can't help but laugh too, feathers fluffing. "Yeah. They get into trouble so fast, don't they?"

Maia takes Achilles' hand again. This time, the gesture is warm and with a smile. "Well, I'm here now. Tell me everything. About you, and this new miracle daughter."

Achilles would much rather talk about Lyra than himself. She probably doesn’t want to hear about arrogant mortal heroes. What will Maia make of his legacy of pride and violence?

“Lyra is still quite small.” Achilles waves a hand at about her height. “But clever beyond her years and insatiably curious. Like Hermes, she can’t sit still, and has designs on a life of adventure, traveling the world.”

What else? He looks at Maia’s star-flecked features and can easily imagine Lyra when she’s grown. “She has your beauty, goddess. She loves her foster family, and adores animals—Hermes’ shapeshifting delights her.”

Achilles clasps Maia’s hand in both of his. In this celestial state, she almost reminds him of the shade of a god. No longer anchored to this world. “You should meet her soon.”

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