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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“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."

“Unlikely,” Achilles huffs. It’s difficult to tell if he’s being playfully stubborn or if onions really are so offensive. “Unless he invents a new kind of onion that doesn’t smell and taste awful.”

It sounds like Hermes didn’t inherit as much from his grandfather’s demeanor as he did from his great uncles. Achilles wants to know more about Atlas, but not at the cost of causing Maia and Hermes more pain. He focuses on the safer Titans instead.

“Lord Prometheus reminded me very much of Hermes in that regard. Chatty, yes. Also very curious and intelligent. Kind to mortals.” He gives Hermes a sidelong glance. “He seems far more patient, though. Sorry, magpie.”

Hermes laughs brightly at Achilles' distaste. It's one of those things he finds delightfully amusing about his lover. How wonderful to disagree about things, even now.

And at the patient comment, Hermes promptly puts his hand to his chest. "Are you calling me impatient, love?"

He flops his head in Maia's lap, gasping loudly. "Mum, I've been betrayed. Are you hearing this?"

Maia laughs, petting her son's wings, and the stars that make her eyes twinkle as she looks at Achilles. "Thank you for loving my son despite his dramatics, Achilles."

Hermes gasps louder. "MUM!"

Achilles almost makes a quip about Hermes’ tendency to rush their more intimate encounters, but he holds his tongue. That’s nothing Maia needs to hear about.

“Impatient. Impulsive. Impish. You’re quite a lot of things, my dear.” Achilles ruffles one of the wings on Hermes’ ankles. Then, his voice soft with affection, he answers Maia: “I love him because of it, not in spite of it.”

Achilles smiles at the god fake-pouting at his mother’s lap. He can’t imagine anyone else—immortal or otherwise—who would be so playfully silly. “After my death—and all that led up to it—I’d forgotten how to smile and laugh as I once did. Hermes reminded me how.”

Hermes makes a faux-outraged noise as he pushes his legs forward to affectionately rest in Achilles' lap. "Mum, are you hearing this? He's being sweet to make me forgive him. And it's working."

Maia chuckles warmly. She pets Hermes' wings, smiling at Achilles, and the stars that make her body seem warmer than stars in the sky.

"I'm so happy you found each other." Maia never fell in love with a man. Maybe she could have, if it weren't for Zeus, but she's long since set any dreams of that nature aside. She's more than happy to witness her son find the love and devotion she never did. "You deserve to smile and laugh. Both of you do."

“You’ve taught me all about the fine art of manipulation,” Achilles laughs, tickling Hermes’ ankles in flirtatious retaliation. For a moment, it feels like they’re boys again—especially compared to the quiet grace of an ancient goddess.

“I’m happy you found each other as well.” Achilles nods his head at mother and son. “It’s been a strange and wonderful few days—stumbling upon Lyra, and now finally meeting you, Lady Maia.”

And poor Hermes was anxious about all of it, even though mother and daughter adore him. The idea of family being so utterly frightening is still a wildly foreign concept to Achilles.

Hermes snickers as his ankles are tickled, spreading the wings on his feet to give Achilles a gentle feather smack on the stomach. "I'm rubbing off on you. Before you know it, the Greatest of the Greeks will be a thief."

Maia stays smiling. There's something deeply healing to her, watching her son be so comfortably silly with a man who's professed such deep love for him. Her greatest fear was that her son would never be cherished like he deserved, and it's a salve on her heart to see that fear laid to rest.

"It's been a very strange few years," she admits softly. "So much has happened, after so long of the same. But I'm hopeful that good things will come to follow. The reign of Olympus was kinder than Kronos, and perhaps this new era will be kinder than the last as well."

And if she thinks about it, she supposes that's a very good thing. She's been afraid for so long, but perhaps fear isn't an inevitable part of being a relatively weak goddess in a world full of powerful gods.

“I think it will—if I know my patron goddess, she will rule with wisdom and honor.” There’s really no other god more suited to rule Olympus, at least through his mortal eyes. If anything, Athena might be too rigid … but that’s exactly what she has Hermes for.

Achilles gives his foot-wings a gentle tug. “And she has an exceptionally kind and insightful advisor.”

Yes, he’ll keep laying the praise on thick; Maia needs to know exactly how good her son is. Hermes might put on a facade of bravado, but he’s far too modest when it comes to his most important accomplishments. Like ushering in an era of peace on Olympus.

Hermes flushes gold, but he smiles, fluttering his foot wings in Achilles' hands. "Well, her advisor does his best."

Throughout the conversation, it's clear that Maia likes Achilles a lot. It's an achievement, considering her skepticism of men, and warrior men particularly. But Achilles clearly adores Hermes, and Hermes adores him, and she can't help but be happy that her son has that.

And before she knows it, the dawn light starts to kiss the horizon. She looks to the sky, already the scant light making her star-strung form fade.

"I should return to my sisters," she says softly before looking to Achilles with a warm smile. "It made me very happy to meet you, Achilles. I would like to meet Lyra soon, too."

Achilles admires the blush of dawn for a moment—it’s a rare sight for a shade. It brings to mind new beginnings, new adventures, fresh starts. None of which he ever expected death to provide.

“I’m eager for you to meet your granddaughter. We must arrange it. She’s so like Hermes.” He laughs and gives Hermes a teasing pinch on the calf. “For better or worse.”

But his smile turns soft and he bows his head respectfully. “It was an honor to finally meet you, goddess. I hope to see you again before you make your journey back to the sky.”

Hermes snickers. "But she gets her nerve all from you, love."

Maia, still smiling, pulls her son into her arms and gives him a hug so tight that he makes a playful 'ack!' noise, hugging her back and fluffing his feathers.

"Goodbye, Mum. I'll make sure to introduce you to Lyra soon."

"Good." Maia pulls away, patting Hermes' cheeks softly before taking Achilles by the arms. "Thank you for meeting me, Achilles. This was lovely."

She leans in and places a soft kiss to Achilles' cheek, then another to his other cheek, patting his arm affectionately before she starts to fade. Already, she's going to her sisters. And yet even in her diminished state, even her soft kisses are like the kisses of stars. "I'll visit again soon enough."

There’s a lingering, gentle warmth where Maia’s starry lips and diaphanous hands touch his shade, as if they are made of like stuff; the bare essence of a god meets that of a mortal.

“Be well, Lady Maia,” Achilles says softly as she disappears into the dawn with the rest of the night’s fading stars. Orange creeps into the horizon, heralding the start of Helios’ journey.

Achilles exhales and looks to Hermes. He didn’t realize how much his nerves were thrumming that whole time. Meeting Zeus was easier somehow. “I dare say that went well.”

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