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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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?”

"Oh, she's already charming enough that I have a feeling I don't have much to teach. But I'll do my best," Hermes says, smiling as he squeezes Achilles' hand. A part of his mind is still on Atlas, but he's trying to put that aside for now so he can enjoy this time with his mother and Achilles.

"When I was a child?" Maia huffs a soft laugh, cocking her head as she looks to the sky in thought. "The world was very different, then. There wasn't as much trouble to get into if you valued your life. But I used to sneak into my uncles' workshops--Prometheus and Epimetheus--which I wasn't supposed to. But Prometheus and Epimetheus both delight in little more than people taking interest in their work."

Maia presses her fingers to her mouth, an instinctive gesture to hide the way her lips stretch into a smile at the memory. "Prometheus let me make an animal once. I just put together all the pieces I found and made a little creature with a duck bill, a beaver tail, webbed feet, poisoned heel spurs, and fur. Prometheus made it lay eggs for fun. Somehow it's still thriving."

"Wait, you made those poor creatures?" Hermes says with a laugh, his nose scrunching at the thought.

Maia’s entire bearing speaks of her difficult past. Not just Zeus, but war and upheaval. He’s seen the same mannerisms in Hermes during moments of stress. Tense, fidgety, as if he might take flight at any moment.

But it’s easy for Achilles to imagine Prometheus indulging his niece with a gesture of kindness in what must have been a frightening time for a young goddess.

At the description of the mishmashed animal, Achilles joins in with his own laughter. “Hermes, you’ve seen this poor creature? I can’t even begin to imagine what it looks like—I must see it for myself someday.”

"I'll show you, love, I'll show you. It's the silliest thing I've ever seen," Hermes says, laughing brightly.

"He let me name it. I called it a platypus," Maia says with a grin, and Hermes just snickers louder. "Epimetheus let me play with making mushrooms sometimes. He was always more awkward than Prometheus, so he struggled entertaining children, but he liked to see people interested in his plants."

Though she hesitates to call fungi plants. They were by far the strangest creations Epimetheus came up with. "My father never really understood my uncles' work, but he was grateful for them redirecting our energy as children. As you can imagine, Kronos was wary of any young gods and goddesses, so my father wanted us away from Othrys." And Atlas' many daughters were happy to avoid Othrys. The uncomfortable intrigue and paranoia there wasn't safe for children.

“I look forward to seeing this … hm … platy … pus?” Achilles tests the strange name, incredulous. He can barely keep a straight face just forming the syllables, and he wonders if mother and son are just pulling his gullible, mortal leg now.

“What became of Lord Epimetheus after the war?” Achilles asks before he can question whether it might be another sore topic. The stories captured Prometheus’ fate in all its tortured detail, but his brother is more of a mystery. Achilles has a hard time believing Zeus would let a (male) Titan off easy, unless he was truly no threat to his power.

"Uncle Epimetheus?" Maia's smile grows wistful. "He was the first god to fall in love with a mortal. He was always an awkward, sensitive sort, and losing her broke his heart even more than losing mortals usually does. None of us had ever loved anyone that time could affect."

There hadn't been much precedent for losing a person they loved to something other than war. To see his wife wither and die to the ravages of time was completely outside any of their experiences, and it shattered the poor man.

"He withdrew to his work after that, and he stopped speaking to the family after Uncle Prometheus was sentenced to his torment. I don't know if he's still working, or if he consigned himself to the stars since then. I just know Olympus never saw trouble with him being left to make new varieties of flowers."

Maia sighs and pats Hermes' hand. "I hope he's well, wherever he is. He was never suited for the violence in the family. He just wanted to be an artist."

“Truly? He was the first?” Grieving a lover—Achilles knows that pain well. What he can’t imagine is how much worse it would be if he was fully immortal. What would he do if he could never see Patroclus again? Probably do something foolish. Like make an ill-advised charge into the Underworld to retrieve him.

“I hope he didn’t retreat to the stars. I hope he stayed among us.” Epimetheus sounds very like Patroclus—a man who only wants peace and quiet. “The world can always use more flowers … and strange new beasts.”

For a long moment, Achilles watches Hermes and Maia sitting close. A mother made of stars and her child made of sunlight and feathers. “I hope this peace will last. For both of you, for Lyra … for everyone’s sake.”

Maia sighs softly, peacefully. "I hope so too. On both counts." She wonders what this new world will be like under Athena's rule. Athena is the first one to be in charge who hasn't violently put down her opposition. Maybe it isn't wise, or maybe it's just kinder wisdom that the young have learned from someplace other than their elders.

"Maybe Epimetheus will emerge again, now that Prometheus is free. If you ever do meet him..." Maia has a small nostalgic smile as she thinks of her uncles. "Ask him about mushrooms. He gets very excited about mushrooms."

Hermes huffs a little laugh and a smile. "We'll be sure to remember that, Mum. Any particular reason why?"

Maia shrugs. "I never quite understood his work. But he said that they were the only creations he or Prometheus ever made that 'can't die in any way that matters.'"

“Mushrooms are effectively immortal, then?” Achilles gives an appreciative hum. He remembers Chiron’s lessons, and learning about how mushrooms live and reproduce in ways unlike other plants. It’s not a plant at all, the centaur declared.

Achilles learned that, as well as which ones are poisonous, or cause strange visions when eaten. Now he imagines Epimetheus, like his brother, mulling over his artistic vision for this bizarre life form—perfecting its spongy flesh and lacy gills.

“I would like to ask him about onions as well,” Achilles muses, frowning. “What inspired him to inflict such a noxious vegetable upon the world?”

"Apparently. He said that the mushrooms we see are only a small piece of the plant, and the majority of it is actually threads in the dirt," Maia says, still with a nostalgic smile. Reminiscing of her most shy, introverted uncle makes her miss his quirky, artistic demeanor.

Hermes laughs at the comment about onions. "Maybe he'll be able to teach you how to like them, love." He affectionately nudges Achilles with one of the wings at his ankle. "If he's anything like Prometheus, I'm sure he'd talk your ear off about it."

"They've both always been very chatty about their work," Maia says with a smile. "My father was the quietest of his brothers. The rest were very caught up in their arts and sciences and experiments."

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