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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“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.

Achilles recognizes the pinned wings, clamped as tight as Hermes emotions. As much as he wants to move closer, he only adjusts his hold on Hermes’ hand. He’ll let him find comfort in his mother. Achilles will ask about his feelings on the matter later.

For now, he nods. He doesn’t think Lyra would insult a Titan, but it’s hard to say how bold she’ll grow. In his youth, Achilles certainly wasn’t afraid to pick fights with gods and kings.

“Will your father pose a threat to Olympus?” he asks carefully. Achilles dearly hopes it’s not the case. Atlas could easily set off a new war if he gathers support from Gaia and frees Kronos. And where will Maia’s loyalties lie? With her father or her son?

Hermes squeezes Achilles' hand, but refuses to allow himself more than that at the moment. He wants to focus on his mother.

Maia doesn't answer at first. She smooths her hands over her skirt more, then again, then again.

"I'm not sure," she admits finally.

Hermes sucks on his teeth. His wings are pinned so tight they might as well be glued to his head. "Athena was worried about that."

"Olympus was brutal with its enemies for a reason. Fear kept people in check," Maia says, keeping her eyes on her lap. By 'Olympus', she really means 'Zeus'. She doesn't enjoy this conversation in the least, and she doesn't like telling her son these things about her father. It feels like betraying her father to share any news of him with Olympus, but this is her son. "As it stands, my father has much reason to be angry, and not much to fear."

“Thank you.” Achilles notes the unease in Maia’s posture and bows his head. “And please forgive me, goddess. The past months have been difficult—Hermes has endured so much. I only wished to know if we should prepare for more trouble ahead.”

It’s enough to confirm that Atlas is no Prometheus; he may not be content to simply enjoy his newfound freedom. “We need not discuss this further.”

He exhales and shifts his weight, casting around for a better topic. Maybe some safer family to discuss: “Have your sisters joined you on your visit to the surface? Or do they remain among the stars?”

Maia is still on edge, wondering if she's harmed her father by revealing even some of what she knows, but Hermes holds her hand and she can't really bring herself to regret it.

Her father would say that she could have many sons, proper sons with a proper husband, but she only has one father. But she doesn't want many sons. She wants this one.

"My sisters must come down from the sky like I do," she says softly. "They will be very pleased to hear about Lyra. My sisters who've had children only ever bore mortals, and long enough ago that they no longer know their descendants as theirs. My niece, Aethusa, she was mortal and only bore mortal children even though her lover was Apollo."

Which was... well. It was a tragedy. Of any of them, Merope was the only one to bear children with a mortal man, and yet all their children had been doomed to die, and all their children's children, as if someone had cursed them. All their children... except for Hermes.

She tries to shake the thought off, giving Achilles a weak smile as she squeezes Hermes' hands. "They'll all be pleased for the chance to spoil a new child, but I hope you understand if they keep her at arm's length as she grows. It's hard to allow yourself to love, knowing how quickly and painfully you'll lose."

“Of course.” Achilles knows this well, at least from the perspective of the mortal son of a goddess. “My mother struggled to accept my mortality, and I wonder if she will ever have another child.”

He doubts it. Like Maia, Thetis’ opinion of men—mortal and immortal—has been soured.

“I know it’s difficult to love a mortal, but think of her … hm, like a flower. A gift to be cherished while she lasts.” Somehow the topic remains gloomy, but he can still try to make a case for the beauty in fleeting mortality. “Perhaps it’s selfish to ask, but I would like nothing better than for her to have a life filled with family.”

He smiles at Hermes, thinking of how well he loves his large family. Brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins.

"I would like it too." Maia smiles at her hands. There's a hint of melancholy to the smile, but it's mostly warm. "I've learned to be grateful for the time I have with those I care for. Even for gods, you can't always expect forever."

And there's no reason why she can't visit with Lyra like she's visiting with Achilles now after her death. Her son being a god of the boundary between life and death has perks.

"I would like to meet her. Then I will speak to my sisters about meeting her as well. I think they would like the idea of spoiling a little girl again, after so long without children about." The grief of losing their children will always be present, but the edges have softened over the years. "I hope you're ready for her to be trouble, though. The fun sort of trouble, but a child breaking into the Underworld so young will prove to be trouble nonetheless."

Hermes huffs a laugh. "I would personally be bored if it were any other way."

Achilles returns the smile—grateful, genuine and lined with his own love and grief. Between Maia and Thetis alone, Lyra will have nearly sixty doting aunties. She’ll be spoiled rotten.

“I would expect nothing less from the child of a trickster.” Achilles spares a long, loving look for Hermes. “I expect you to teach our little fledgling how to use charm and cunning to get herself out of trouble as easily as she gets into it.”

Achilles cocks his head, curious as to whom Hermes and Lyra owe their mischief. “Lady Maia, did you get into trouble as a child?”

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