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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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.

Achilles hears the gentle suggestion in Maia’s words and instinctively glances at Hermes. It would be an easy thing for a divine messenger to deliver his words to Neoptolemus. He knows Hermes would do it if he asked. Is that a good idea, though? He isn’t sure.

Now, he’s the one agonizing over a simple letter. No, the mere thought of one.

His eyes return to Maia and he asks softly, “If I may, goddess, what made you decide to leave your letter to Hermes? And … were you worried about his response?”

Hermes holds Achilles' gaze. There's some concern in his eyes, but it's mostly for Achilles' sake. He knows that this is a painful topic, one that he hasn't dared to poke at too hard. But whatever Achilles chooses, Hermes will help him.

Maia, for her part, gives a pained smile. Her starry eyes suddenly cloud like rain brewing.

"I was terrified."

Her voice is tight as she says it. Hermes immediately takes her hand, and she pats it with a huff.

"Don't worry, darling, don't worry. But it's the truth. I was terrified. Reaching out and making yourself so vulnerable to rejection is scary." And Maia was so petrified of rejection, of being told that her weakness had ruined her son's life and he never wanted to see her again. Or maybe worse, that he'd forgotten her entirely, and she was the only one who remembered they had any connection at all. "That was why I left the letter, rather than approach him myself. It seemed less intimidating, to give him the opportunity to reject me without looking him in the eyes. But I couldn't bear the thought of never reaching out at all and letting that 'what if' hang indefinitely. It was a coward's move, all told, putting the onus on him to decide to respond."

"Mum, don't be so hard on yourself." Hermes wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her in and resting his head on her shoulder. "It was a hard situation. Alright? It was hard." It still is, but less so now that they're together.

“That doesn’t strike me as cowardice. It was a wise decision—you provided Hermes enough space to make his own choice. And it kept you safe from—” Achilles waves a hand in the general direction of Olympus.

For a moment, Achilles examines his feelings about doing the same with Neoptolemus. What is he afraid of? That his absence is to blame for turning his son into a monster? That Neoptolemus represents his legacy among the living: the son of Achilles, every bit as powerful and vicious as his father?

And what would he even say? Should he apologize? Should he scold his son for ruining so many lives? Would it change anything at all?

He’ll think more on this later. For now, Achilles wants to enjoy Maia and Hermes’ successful reunion. After all they’ve been through, he’s relieved to see the ease with which Hermes returns his mother’s affection.

“I hope you visit often, when you can. Hermes and I will need help raising a daughter.”

Maia gives him a lopsided smile, the sort of smile one gives when they don't quite believe someone but still appreciate their kindness. She pets her son's wings, threading her fingers through his feathers, and rolls with the change in topic.

"I would be very grateful if you allowed me to give you counsel, and to dote on her. I'll visit as often as I can while I am still on the surface. I trust Thetis will be delighted to pick up the slack with grandmother duties while I'm in the sky."

Maia looks in the direction of Olympus. Her smile falls, and her eyes grow distant. Almost like a soldier thinking about the parts of war that keep them up at night, the parts they try to forget.

"I can... hardly believe that he's not here anymore."

He. She doesn't even like uttering Zeus' name. It's stupid, she thinks. So many nymphs like her have been pinned by his hand and seem to carry on fine afterwards, but she can't. Even when the event gave her a beautiful, kind, forgiving son, she cringes away from thinking about her son's father. She still cringes away from men, haunted by what was done to her and how helpless she was to stop it.

"He's gone, Mum," Hermes assures her, though his voice is tight. Hermes, unlike Maia, is still very ambivalent about his father and his loss. "He won't bother you or anyone else anymore."

“Thank you, Lady Maia. In my state, I can’t see Lyra as often as I would like—it pleases me to know she can enjoy other family in my stead.”

Achilles can’t adequately conceive of what Zeus’ departure must be like for an immortal. Zeus had been in power for so many hundreds, thousands of years. In that span of time, he must have seemed immovable. Inevitable. It must have been easy for Zeus’ victims to despair.

Achilles squeezes Hermes’ knee and gives him a proud smile. “We have Hermes to thank for that. It was no easy task and he made it more difficult—he didn’t play by his father’s rules. No violence. Hermes gave him every chance to negotiate a peaceful exchange of power.”

Hermes' flushes gold looking at his knees. Normally, he wouldn't hesitate to preen about his accomplishments, but most of his preening is really for show. He's honestly not so sure about how praise-worthy his overthrowing of his father is.

"You give me so much credit, love. Honestly, I just didn't see violence working out very well for anyone."

Much less himself. Hermes has power in spades compared to even the average god, but his father is in another league. Or was. And that's to say nothing about how a war between gods would affect mortals.

Maia hums softly, rocking in place. She doesn't have the same frenetic energy as her son or granddaughter, but there's still a hint of restlessness to her.

"It's easy for gods to not care about mortals," she says softly, staring into the distance. "As easy as it is for a human to not care about the lives of mayflies. They go so quickly, and often so imperceptibly, that to care seems like a waste to many gods."

She pets Hermes' wings. It's a natural gesture, like she's known to do it her whole life. "You care, darling. And you don't expect them to bear being casualties for the crime of being too small and short-lived to fight back. Don't downplay your kindness."

Hermes flushes, but he smiles a little, staring at the ground.

Kronos and Zeus both chose violence against their fathers. Hermes could easily have done the same. The fact that he broke from that pattern is an admirable feat. The new Olympus he ushered in begins from a place of peace.

“Well said, Lady Maia. That kindness is what I love most about your son. To hold so much power and choose to be kind takes a humble wisdom that few gods have.“ Achilles gives Hermes’ knee another shake for emphasis. “You even extend it to those who have done you harm.”

Maybe a little more than Achilles would like, truth be told, but that could be his old anger speaking. “And it was you— you taught me the power of grace that night at Troy. I’ll never forget it.”

It's so strange to be praised for his kindness. It was his feature most despised by his father, and often treated as a odd quirk at best and a liability at worst by his siblings. It's the sort of thing that Hermes has always been a little embarrassed by, covering it up by claiming that the good deeds he does weren't hard to do or gave him some advantage, because kindness felt so much like weakness. Now two of the people he loves most in the world are telling him it's one of the features they most value. It's nice, but also it's unfamiliar.

"What happened at Troy?" Maia asks, cocking her head. Hermes answers before Achilles is forced to think of a way to respond.

"Achilles was grieving, and he lashed out because of it," Hermes says, resting his hand on Achilles' on his knee and giving it a squeeze. "I just... gave him some perspective he needed."

That's how Hermes sees it, at least. He'd never had a doubt that Achilles would respond to being faced with an aged father's grief. It's hard to delight in revenge when asked to see the pain of others that so closely resemble your own and that of the people you love.

Achilles dips his head in agreement, and maybe a touch of shame. “The siege of Troy lasted many years. At the best of times, I was a fool. At the worst, I was a beast.”

He smiles, tight and wry. Almost a wince. “Mortals love nothing better than cutting our short lives even shorter.”

Achilles remembers he’s talking to two immortals, much older and more expansive than he can easily imagine. A ten-year war is the blink of an eye. What feels like a hard lesson learned must be charmingly obvious to them. “But you must have watched your share of mortal wars play out, goddess. I know Hermes certainly has.“

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