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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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.“

Maia hums in understanding.

"It seems that mortals are always at war." Fighting over resources, mostly. Land, gold, power. Things she doesn't really understand wasting a limited life on. She's grateful that the gods aren't at war so often. "I didn't often watch over humans, unless they happened to live on my mountain. Those mortals were usually peaceful. No one wished to disturb a mountain they knew goddesses lived."

At least, no one mortal.

"The main war I would say I've really seen was the war between the Titans and Kronos' children. I was young at the time, and no one was looking to me or my sisters for military support. I have to confess, I don't see the appeal." And there must be some appeal, if mortals go to war so often, but Maia just remembers it as destructive and terrifying. It was lucky that the newly minted Olympus didn't consider her and all her sisters threatening enough to imprison like they imprisoned her father.

So many gods delight in mortal wars—either delightedly watching or directly meddling in them. Like tiny proxies for the wars the gods themselves can’t be bothered to have. Or maybe war is the greatest celebration of the divine: courage, revenge, love, greed, madness, a sacrifice of blood.

Achilles has only had the smallest tastes of divine conflict; he can’t fathom the destruction that would result in a pitched battle among the gods. “I only know the accounts from the centaur, Chiron, and the songs sung by mortals. I can’t imagine the terror of living through it.”

Talk of the Titanomachy reminds Achilles of two of its most famous prisoners. He shoots Hermes a glance before returning his gaze to Maia. “Have you seen Lord Atlas? Or Lord Prometheus?”

Maia's expression closes and she looks at her lap, smoothing the skirts of her peplos. Hermes immediately picks up on the change in her mood, frowning at her.

"Mum?"

She thins her lips.

"My father met us when we came from the sky, yes."

"Really?" Hermes says, brow furrowing. "We've been looking for him."

"Yes. So he said." Maia looks at her son, still with thinned lips. There's a chill to her expression. "Leave him, Hermes. You'd find him if you really looked, and it wouldn't serve you well."

"But we can't just have--"

"He wouldn't promise not to destroy you if he ever saw you again," Maia says sharply, shoulders tense. She's not playing right now. She'd asked for that promise, and her father refused to give it to her, and that scares her. "So do not look for him."

“Zeus is the one who administered his punishment. His departure released Lord Atlas. Surely he can remain that way?” Achilles looks askance at Hermes. “And Lord Hephaestus has invented a structure to take his place holding the sky, has he not?”

On the one hand, he can imagine Atlas’ fury at such grueling punishment. On the other, he wants Hermes to reclaim another of his kin. If Atlas is anything like Hermes, Maia, or even Prometheus, surely he can be reasoned with? His rage will cool. It was his grandson, after all, who played a key part in his release.

This probably isn’t something a mere mortal should butt in on, but Achilles is lured by the sense of injustice. “The war was before Hermes’ time. Or most of his siblings.”

“My father’s rage doesn’t come from the war, and it doesn’t come from holding the sky,” Maia says, her shoulders tense and her hands balling up in her lap. “I don’t know he wouldn’t hurt Hermes even if he came in peace.”

“Then why would—oh.” Hermes connects the dots with a wince. “He’s mad about me being around at all.”

It’s a painful thought, but one that Hermes isn’t sure he can really blame his grandfather for. He wonders how he’d feel, trapped forever in pain, and had to know that Lyra was attacked by his worst enemy and there was nothing he could do about it. He wonders how he’d feel seeing the product of that attack. Would he ever be able to really see that person as a grandchild? “I mean… I did meet him while he was holding the sky, and he didn’t tell me to go away.”

“He was pinned by the sky, and he isn’t anymore,” Maia said, avoiding eye contact and balling and unballing her fists. “Don’t test him. He won’t come for you, but I don’t know what he’ll do if you approach him.”

Achilles immediately catches Hermes’ eye, brow furrowed and worried about how he might take this vehement rejection. He remembers how Hermes once spoke about inheriting his wings from Atlas—like he was proud of the connection with his grandfather.

“I’m sorry, my love. Your mother is right. Don’t seek him out. Not yet,” he echoes softly. And if Atlas would hurt Hermes, what about …? Achilles abruptly turns to Maia. “Lord Atlas—he wouldn’t harm Lyra, would he?”

He doesn’t expect Atlas to seek her out, but he can certainly see his curious, intrepid daughter one day searching for her Titan great grandfather. What would Atlas make of her? Another reminder of Zeus’ legacy?

Hermes' face doesn't reveal much, but his wings pin hard to his head. He doesn't know how he feels about his grandfather's rejection, but he doesn't feel good. But he doesn't want to react in front of his mother and risk upsetting her when she's already clearly unhappy about the situation.

"Lyra? No, not unless she insulted him." Maia smooths her skirts, fidgeting more now that she's uncomfortable. Hermes leans against her, ignoring his own hurt for the moment so she won't feel worse. "My father is... very old. He doesn't consider individual mortals worth his notice, no matter their heritage. I doubt he would really consider her his great-grandchild, even though she is."

Which probably also isn't a glowing recommendation for seeking him out, but at least she trusts he won't be hostile.

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