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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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.”

Maia notices that he doesn't talk much of himself, but she can hardly blame a new father from wanting to gush about his daughter.

She instinctively touches her own cheek as he mentioned her beauty. Her eyes are soft as she listens. "Hermes liked animals too. He was fascinated by every little creature that approached our cave."

"Lyra is less likely to turn one of them into a lyre," Hermes quips.

"I would like to meet her. You'll introduce us, won't you, Hermes?" Maia looks to Hermes, and he nods sheepishly.

"Of course, Mum, of course I will. But I wanted you to meet Achilles first. It seemed like a lot to introduce both of them at once."

Achilles notes the way Maia reminisces about Hermes—either her perception of him wasn’t so bad as he made it to be, or Maia came to cherish those few memories she had of her son. Either way, her affection is obvious.

“He still loves animals, and he makes for a very handsome tabby,” Achilles says, with a smiling nod towards Hermes. “When he first met me, he was in the shape of a hummingbird—I was but a child and never imagined he was a god.”

It would be rude to completely avoid talking about himself, so Achilles offers some vague scraps: “I met him again many years later, toward the end of a long, bloody siege. And our paths crossed frequently after my death, during my service to the House of Hades. I came to cherish his visits—he was a warm ray of sunlight in a chill, dark place.”

Hermes has heard Achilles be romantic before, but it hits a little different in front of his mother after all the emotions of the last two days. His cheeks flush gold and he smiles, moving closer so he can affectionately bump his shoulder against Achilles'.

"He was a brave hero in life, and in death, he's become my rock," Hermes says, one wing at his temple extending to affectionately nudge Achilles' face. "A safe place to settle, and who convinces me I can be braver than I am."

It feels so small in comparison to everything Achilles is to him. Hermes doesn't think he'd have ever screwed up the courage to do half of what he's done since meeting him, like Achilles has so much bravery that he just gives it to Hermes.

Maia smiles, and it's a warm smile. She may have never found someone to fall in love with, but she's glad to see her son has. "I want to hear everything."

She gestures to the ground. "I can't easily come into the Underworld, and you can't easily step out here, but if the land would be so kind..."

And as if in answer, rocks and broken marble pillars roll to create seating right where they are, like the land itself is eager to answer her implied request. She takes a seat on a pillar, patting the mossy marble with a soft, "Thank you."

Hermes and Lyra clearly got ability to convince the land to do things from somewhere.

He leans into the affection and raises Hermes’ hand to give it a grateful kiss. “You are plenty brave, magpie. You just need to be reminded.”

Once Maia has taken a seat, Achilles settles on a slab of rock—still within the bounds of Hades’ realm but close enough for comfortable conversation. He leaves Hermes to choose his own seat—he sees his mother so rarely, Achilles won’t be offended if Hermes favors her close company.

Achilles rests is elbows on his knees and continues unraveling some threads of his story:

“I wasted most of my life on war and the pursuit of glory, as most heroes are wont to do. In the process, I hurt many people I loved.” Patroclus, of course, but also his friends, his father, Neoptolemus … He rubs his palms together. “I spent the early years of my afterlife lamenting that. Hermes taught me that death isn’t an end, but an opportunity for change.”

"Humans aren't unique throwing too much away for glory," Maia says gently. "If I've learned nothing else, it's that we always have the opportunity to change if we choose to. There's no taking back what we lost, but at least we can build something new."

Hermes perches on the edge of Maia's seat, close enough to hold Achilles' hand but still close to his mother. He may still not quite feel secure in his relationship with her, but he wants to be close to her while she's here.

"I can sense some of the divine about you. I take it that you're not all human?"

Maia hasn't been up to date on the goings on of gods and their children in quite some time, but she still has the sense that most gods do and Achilles, even dead, smells a little like the ocean.

It’s abundantly clear: Maia is every bit as gentle and thoughtful as Hermes. Achilles feels a pang of impotent anger at the thought of Zeus’ assault, Maia’s flight to the stars and the terrible distance it put between mother and son. A vindictive part of him wishes Zeus suffered a proper punishment.

But the ripples of old rage don’t disturb his calm surface.

“I owe my divine blood to my mother—the Nereid, Thetis,” he says with a touch of pride. “The two of you should meet sometime. You would enjoy each other’s company, I know it.” As fellow nymphs who suffered Zeus’ will, but also as proud mothers … and now grandmothers.

“And my father was a mortal. Peleus, King of Phthia. A fair and wise man, but he’s since died by Ares’ hand.” Achilles frowns and shifts his palm in Hermes’. Describing his parents, his voice was warm, but now it turns chill. “My only living blood is my son, Neoptolemus.”

Hermes doesn't see the similarities as well as third parties, but the moments he can spot it, there's something comforting about it. Knowing he somehow still was able to keep something of his mother, even if he didn't know where it came from.

Hermes squeezes Achilles' hand gently as the topic of Neoptolemus comes up. Maia picks up on the change of his mood, but doesn't go out of her way to point it out. She of all people can't judge someone for having a troubled relationship with their child.

"I might have met Thetis, long ago. But I was of the mountains before I went to the stars, so I didn't have much occasion to meet the people of the sea. I would like to meet her again, now that we have so much in common." It's easier to talk Maia into going out of her comfort zone and chatting with a fellow goddess than meeting another god. She'll probably never feel quite comfortable around men not vetted by her son again.

She cocks her head. Her face is still gentle. But her hands stray to the edge of her shawl, and she fidgets with it with an air of someone who fidgets a lot and has worked very hard to learn to stop. "What is your son like? Did you have a chance to know him before you died?"

“I only knew him as a babe. I sailed for war shortly after he was born,” he says with a sigh. “When I fell, he took my place on the battlefield. He was barely a man grown, but already eager for blood.”

Odysseus told him that much—the King of Ithaca was equal parts impressed and horrified by Neoptolemus’ drive to violence. Like the boy was a scion of Ares himself.

“It pains me to hear he’s still a callous, brutal man.” Achilles looks past Maia and Hermes to the surface beyond, as if he could spy his son in the distance. “I wonder if I could have steered him down a gentler path.”

Maia hums softly in acknowledgement. Her face is still gentle. She's in no position to judge a parent who chose not to be present in his son's life. She just as easily could be the one lamenting a son gone astray--it's only pure luck that her son grew into a gentle and kind man without her. "Maybe you could have. Maybe you couldn't have. The past can't be changed. But the future?"

Maia looks to Hermes. She pets one of his wings, smoothing down his feathers.

"I regret I didn't reconnect with my son sooner."

And Achilles is in the unique position of having people very dear to him willing to bend the rules and send messages from the dead to the living.

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