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 enjoyed having you this way.” Achilles twines his arms around her waist, loose and relaxed, and nuzzles grateful kisses against her temple, her cheek, her jaw. “I love how you surprise me, magpie.”

He gently rocks his hips, sliding free from her—damp with his own seed and her pleasured wetness. His mind finally goes where Hermes’ already has: the potential consequences of this coupling. He absently rests a palm on her belly. “Can you carry a child in this shape?”

It certainly makes more sense than Lyra’s unlikely conception, but Achilles has long since learned to assume nothing when it comes to gods. And if Thermusa can become pregnant? They’ve only just learned they have a daughter; Achilles isn’t sure they have any business making more. Not yet anyway.

Now that they’re not in the throes of passion, the question makes her frown.

“I never have before when I had sex as a woman.”

Thermusa turns back around, comfortably on Achilles’ lap, and shakes out her hair. As she does, her form shimmers away, replaced once more with Hermes’ usual shape. Hermes affectionately examines the bruises and scratches he left behind on Achilles’ neck and shoulder, and presses gentle kisses to them.

On his own skin, he’s allowed bruises to form where Achilles grabbed and bit him.

“I know of a god in the north who did become pregnant when he took the form of a female and gave birth. But he was a female horse and chose to stay in that shape for months so the gestational period could complete, so I don’t think it works if you’re not staying in the same form.”

There’s an implicit question there. Hermes’ wings are relaxed and fluffed as he kisses Achilles softly. “Maybe one day, we’ll have more children. After we’ve taken care of Lyra.” And after Hermes has a better grip of fatherhood.

The marks he’s left are much clearer on Hermes’ flesh. As is the familiar patch of grafted skin on his front. He brushes his fingertips over scars old and new, welcoming back Hermes’ usual shape.

But he arches a brow in disbelief and guffaws. “A horse …? The northern gods must be very strange indeed.”

As much as he likes the idea of more children, it seems like a lot to ask. Nine-odd months should be the blink of an eye to an immortal, but Hermes is no normal immortal. He’s an impatient one. Recovering from Ares’ wounds was torture. “I wouldn’t ask you to hold Thermusa’s shape for so long. Especially if you have to keep still while you’re heavy with child.”

From what little he knows of pregnancies—mortal ones, anyway—the latter months can be brutally taxing. Not to mention dangerous.

Achilles combs fingers through Hermes’ hair and kisses the tip of his nose. “I would happily take another chance making love by the sea and save you the trouble.”

Hermes scrunches his nose affectionately as Achilles kisses it, smiling bright and warm. "We'll see what we think at the time, hmm?"

Hermes isn't... wholly against the idea of holding one shape for nine months. Really, the more daunting part of that would be hiding his condition from other gods, because while Zeus was the worst offender, other male gods would likely see it as weakness. Hermes has seen the blood his sisters have spilled in the name of putting down upstart male gods, and he has zero interest in getting in a similar situation. But it may be worth it just to know that a child was conceived and be able to know its location once it was born.

But they don't need to think about this right now. Instead, he can make fun of other gods, and that's one of his favorite things.

"However weird you think us Olympians are, multiply that by ten and you have the northern gods," Hermes says with a snicker. "The eight-legged horse that was born of that debacle became a battle mount for his uncle."

Poor, strange, eight-legged horse.

But Hermes cocks his head, his smile dropping for a moment as his wings perk, angling as if he's listening to something.

"Speaking of gods..." Hermes pulls his chiton back up from where it's bunched up around his waist. "I think you ought to put your clothes on, love."

“We’ll see, love,” Achilles agrees, smiling and bumping his forehead against Hermes’. If Hermes is okay with the arrangement, Achilles wouldn’t be at all averse to playing his part. Especially if it’s every bit as amazing as what they just enjoyed.

He’s about to comment on the notion of an eight-legged horse (entirely too many legs, in his opinion), but instead he grunts his surprise at Hermes’ warning. It doesn’t seem possible that anyone—god or mortal—would be out in this wasteland.

“Who approaches?” Achilles wraps and knots his perizoma before hastily tugging his tunic back over his head. “A god of Turtle Island?”

Hermes stands up from Achilles' lap, adjusting his clothing again, and he takes a breath to answer, but he's drowned out by a high pitched voice below their bluff, chattering in a language that most certainly is not Greek. Hermes grimaces and says something in response that is also not Greek, before seeming to remember a moment later that Achilles has no way of understanding this language and he snaps his fingers.

The voice below them suddenly makes complete sense, as if Achilles has spoken the language since birth.

"No, no, you can tell me if you wanted to go another round, I'm sure I can find something else to entertain me while you scare the wildlife." The voice is high and playful, and it sounds like it's spoken through a sardonic smile. There's a scrabbling of claws on rock, and a creature that looks like a runty wolf after a lean winter climbs onto their bluff, looking a little ridiculous as it digs its front claws in for purchase and kicks its back legs to get up properly.

The creature is a little pathetic-looking next to the wolves and lions of Greece, but it only takes a few seconds of prolonged looking to see that there's something off about it. Its fur seems to ripple with half-remembered images and designs, like pieces of the beast doesn't belong on this plane of existence, and focusing too hard on making sense of these otherworldly hangers-on will only serve to give a person a headache.

Also, the beast comes with two full leather bladders of something that smells sweet and tart, and a long pipe in its mouth that smells of the smoke Apollo indulged in so long ago in the Underworld. The animal drops the pipe on the ground.

"Achilles, this is Coyote," Hermes says, gesturing to the beast. "Coyote, this is--"

"Handsome dead human, yes, I've met many," Coyote says, shimmying to allow the bladders to settle on the ground and shaking out his fur. "Welcome to the desert, dead foreigner. It loses its charm when you're not always fearing for your life in the heat, but at least it's still pretty."

Of course, Achilles has seen plenty of gods in the shape of animals: Athena as an owl; Hermes as any number of birds and cats and silly dogs. The difference being that they didn’t speak while in those shapes. It’s off-putting hearing language come from this rangy canine.

But Coyote is still a god, and gods deserve respect. Achilles stands and offers a bow. “Lord Coyote. Earlier, I wounded a blameless creature here in your realm. Please forgive me.”

Another contrite dip of his head and Achilles adds: “And … I know my presence offends the order of things—the dead should not wander free among the living. I do not intend to stay long.”

Coyote cocks his head, ears perking and swiveling to face Achilles. Then he throws his head back and laughs. His laugh is canine and high and carries, almost mocking.

"Hermes, what did you tell this poor dead foreigner about me?" Coyote chuckles and taps his paws on the rock cheerfully. "I don't care that you wander the earth, foreigner. Go have fun. Rules are made up by young gods that don't like chaos."

Coyote nudges one of the leather bladders towards Hermes. Hermes picks it up obligingly, opening the seal and giving an appreciative sniff. "And the snake told me about your encounter. She wanted to let me know she has no hard feelings."

"And you're plying us with wine and tobacco because...?" Hermes says, swirling the alcohol in the bladder.

"Because I'm being a good host," Coyote says all too innocently, using his nose to nudge the other bladder close to Achilles. "This is wine, but it's made with raspberries. Not that you know what raspberries are. But I promise it's good, foreigner."

Even if Coyote did care about his guests showing proper respect, Achilles decides he’s already overstepped by having loud sex in what amounts to Coyote’s home. No going back now.

He takes the offered skin of wine and wonders when Coyote will finally shift into a human shape. Handling these gifts seems very cumbersome in his canine form, and if he intends to partake, that’s more easily done with hands and lips …

“This is very kind of you, my lord. I see generosity is as valued here as it is in Greece.” Like Hermes, Achilles smells the wine, but waits for his lover’s sign that it’s safe to drink. Coyote is a trickster, after all. “But ours is a land of plenty. Fine food and drink must be scarce in this desolate place.”

"But it's made all the sweeter for the effort getting it," Coyote says cheerfully, sitting on his haunches. "And Turtle Island is a big place. There are many places that would rival the lush fields of your home."

Hermes doesn't give the signal that it's safe to partake quite yet, but he shows no hostility either. He smiles mildly at Coyote, offering him the skein of wine. "Host first."

Coyote wrinkles his canine nose. "I'm insulted."

"No, you're not," Hermes says with a wink.

"No, I'm not," Coyote agrees before stretching out his neck, sticking out his long tongue and lapping from the skein. He shows his reddened tongue to Hermes, as if anticipating that he'll need to prove he's really partaken. "Happy?"

"Yes," Hermes says with a smile, nodding to Achilles before taking a swig of the wine. It's bright and tart, full of a flavor entirely foreign to Greece's shores. "Now is there a reason you've brought us a peace pipe?"

"Ohhhh I just thought that it might be nice to make conversation," Coyote says in a tone that strongly implies there's more to it than that. The pipe before him requires hands to operate, but instead of becoming human, he twists strangely. He's still his canine form, but he reaches out a paw and it grasps the pipe like a human hand, and he begins to stuff dried leaves that smell a little like Apollo into the bowl of the pipe. Looking at how his joints and paws twist in very human ways is prone to giving an observer a headache.

"Coyote here is inviting us to partake in a peace pipe," Hermes says, looking to Achilles with a smile. "If we all smoke, we're bound by old magic not to harm each other while we speak. It's an old custom, like swearing on the Styx."

Assured of its safety, Achilles takes an experimental sip of wine. The flavor is stronger and sweeter than he’s accustomed to—it might be better if it was properly watered down, but he doesn’t wish to offend his host with the suggestion.

He watches Coyote handle the pipe—curious both about its intended purpose and that his paws can manipulate it at all. The herbs smell woody, spicy like the sacred incense at a temple. Fitting votive for sealing a pact, Achilles supposes, though the ritual itself is foreign. He’s waiting to follow Hermes’ lead when it comes to “partaking.”

“Why do you need assurance of peace, Lord Coyote? Do you fear our conversation will turn sour? That we’ll come to blows?”

"Oh no. Word has spread that Zeus is out, and Hermes is too nice to start fights without his father telling him to," Coyote says casually. Hermes keeps his expression carefully in an opaque smirk, not letting on to any feelings he may or may not have about other gods cavalierly discussing his business with his father. "This is purely for Hermes' comfort. Because he knows that I am not nice."

Coyote agitates the leaves in the bowl with his claw, and fire begins to burn there, releasing sweet smoke. He puts the stem of the pipe in his mouth, breathing deep of the smoke, and holding his breath for a while before exhaling again. The smoke exits his mouth, his nose, curling outwards like a dragon, and images linger in the air in the shape of smoke.

"Sounds like you want to talk to me about something," Hermes says mildly, face still opaque as he takes the pipe from Coyote.

Coyote stays sitting on his haunches, swiveling his ears, before he looks to Achilles, deliberately ignoring the implied question in Hermes' statement. "Tell me, foreigner. What do you trust more? A group of people, each of which say they are good at doing one thing? Or a single person, who says they can do everything?"

"Oh, that's what this is about," Hermes says, face breaking for a moment with some exasperation as he takes the pipe in his mouth and breathing in the smoke. He holds it in his lungs as he offers the pipe to Achilles, giving him a rueful smile to signal that it's safe.

Hermes is well-practiced at hiding his feelings, but Achilles’ mouth twitches into a frown at the mention of Zeus. If Coyote continues to poke Hermes’ sore spots, Achilles isn’t sure magic smoke will bind his anger.

But he takes the pipe anyway and mimics the two gods. Or tries to, anyway. He inhales the smoke, holds it for a beat … and immediately begins coughing. Even as a shade, the smoke makes his insides burn. He’s never so much as seen a pipe in life, so he can only assume this is some strange vice of the gods, unfit for mortals.

Achilles tries to maintain some dignity and clears his throat, blinking back red-eyed tears. Coyote asked him a question and he intends to answer it. After a moment, he says thickly, “The former, of course.”

He offers the pipe back to his host. “Even if they can do everything, I wouldn’t trust them to do all of it—or any of it well.”

Coyote, as promised, isn't nice. And he laughs heartily at Achilles' coughing fit, tapping his paws in his amused delight before accepting the pipe back. Hermes rolls his eyes at his fellow god before casually resting a hand on Achilles' knee.

"The smoke goes down hard if you're not used to it," Hermes says sympathetically.

But Coyote breezes right by Achilles' discomfort. With the three of them sharing the pipe, the sweet smoke has settled around them, softening the glare of the sun. "Would that more mortals thought like you, foreigner. Perhaps then your gods wouldn't have danger sitting at their door."

"We don't have danger sitting at our door," Hermes cuts in, clearly exasperated. "Don't exaggerate." Hermes looks to Achilles, quick to put any concerns at rest before Coyote works up his beloved. "He's talking about a new god in Africa. It's been causing trouble for gods in Egypt. But if we fretted every time there was trouble with some other gods in another place, we'd never get a wink of sleep."

"It's more than just any god! A god that claims to be a God of Everything, a god who has more power in the heart of Egypt than the court of Osiris!" Coyote said, putting his paws in the air for emphasis. It's not entirely clear if he's taking himself seriously, or if he's playing things up to freak out Achilles. "They say this god was once a normal one, but devoured all its pantheon to gain their powers, and now it seeks to devour all gods!"

"If I knew we were telling scary stories, I'd have started a camp fire," Hermes says dryly.

“Mortals can do precious little where divine matters are concerned.” Unless they’re stubborn heroic shades who insist on interfering on a lover’s behalf. “Do the mortals of Egypt truly revere this god?”

If Coyote is trying to get Achilles worked up, he’s succeeding. He glances at Hermes, concern plain on his face and his thoughts full of Kronos devouring his children. What if this “God of Everything” knows Olympus is still trying to steady itself after upheaval? Egypt is just across the sea. A trivial distance for a god.

But Coyote is a trickster. Maybe this is all a ruse. “How has word reached Turtle Island before it’s come to Greece? Would Olympus not hear tales of this god’s exploits before now?”

Hermes gives Coyote a Look. He's easygoing by nature, and always errs towards diplomacy when dealing with gods outside his pantheon, but he's not pleased that Coyote is freaking his lover out with stories Achilles can't do anything about.

"Egypt has a slave class called Hebrews, and they revere this god," Hermes says, staring at Coyote pointedly. "And in exchange for their reverence, this god is causing a ruckus to force Egypt into setting their slaves free. Any stories about cannibalism are just speculated. We've already heard about this, and we're not interfering."

"Isn't it always better to wait for an enemy to gather strength before meddling?" Coyote asks Achilles sweetly, as if he hasn't heard Hermes.

"Coyote, I know you're not fretting over the fate of Olympus. What's this about?" Hermes asks, exasperated.

"Maybe I am fretting," Coyote says, still sounding sweet. He sucks on the pipe, breathing out smoke that makes strange visions of fire falling from the sky and a great river running with blood. "You're too young to know what it's like when change is in the air. You got rid of Zeus, and now gods all over are thinking about changing how things are. You should be more worried about that, I think."

Edited 2024-02-22 05:23 (UTC)

Hermes’ description of the situation is much less sensational than Coyote’s. And who is better informed? A trickster god from Greece, or one from this distant land? If one thing is certain, Hermes has more of Achilles’ trust than this strange canine deity he’s only just met.

“Lord Hermes is not a fool,” Achilles says, voice and gaze steely. “His divine lineage has known struggle, and learned difficult lessons from it.”

Even if Hermes is young, Zeus’ generation isn’t gone. Hades, Poseidon, Demeter and Hestia hold strong. Not to mention Titans and primordial gods like Prometheus and Nyx. “Elder gods still advise Olympus, still remember past uprisings. They will weather this just as surely—if it proves a threat at all.”

"Elder? Ha!" Coyote laughs heartily, and not kindly. Hermes keeps a vaguely exasperated look on his face, although whether that's a front or a genuine reflection on his feelings about Coyote's performance is unclear. "Fetuses! Fetuses advised by babies, who were borne of children! You think that time began when Kronos cut off the sky's balls?"

"Mmmmm," Hermes says in response in the vaguely detached way of someone who's heard this flavor of rant before and is indulging a crazy relative.

"No Titan was born last the Tezcatlipocas exchanged power amongst each other. But I remember. I remember when the dark world as we knew it died, and a new one was created with fire lighting the sky." As Coyote speaks, the patterns in his fur and the smoke shift, showing cataclysmic visions of an unrecognizable world dying, and a new recognizable one being born in its place. "If it happens once more, poof go your humans, and poof go all the human concepts that give you young gods life." Coyote makes a 'poof' noise, waving his paw at Hermes for emphasis. "With no humans to travel, to steal, to trick, to run, you will fade to nothing, not even memory. But I'll remain to see the next world and the strange creatures it brings."

Hermes, despite Coyote's best efforts, does not seem moved by these apocalyptic visions. Maybe it's because he's truly unmoved, and maybe it's because he doesn't want to freak out Achilles. "Forgive me if I'm not staying up at night in fear of four squabbling gods when the rest of us are invested in making sure the world stays as-is."

Coyote smirks, narrowing his eyes. "Are you sure the rest of you are invested in keeping the world like it is?"

Achilles knows he should show gods proper respect—especially as a visitor in their lands—but he can’t stop himself from bristling. This is an assault on Hermes and he won’t tolerate it.

“If this future—this threat is as you say … if you think so little of other gods, and have no stake in humans, why mention it at all? Why not watch disaster unfold and greet the next world?” Achilles huffs. “Do you only wish to gloat? Spread idle gossip?”

Sometimes, when he’s among gods, Achilles feels like he’s back among mortal kings. Boastful. Posturing. He doesn’t care for it. “Has an old god nothing better to do?”

Hermes lays a hand on Achilles' knee. A gentle gesture, intended to calm him. Hermes knows that Achilles doesn't tolerate insults towards those he loves well, but Hermes also knows that Coyote doles out insult like honey cake, and it won't do to rise to his bait.

But Coyote, for his part, laughs once more. He has a canine grin, ears perked and cheerful as he chortles at Achilles' anger. "Maybe an old god doesn't have anything better to do. Have you tried getting old, foreigner? It's boring. What shall Coyote do today? Oh, what he's done every day for the last ten thousand years, probably."

"Oh, no, I don't think you're just amusing yourself." Hermes has a gleam in his eye as he waves the pipe in Coyote's direction. "Something happened. You're rattled, old dog."

"Rattled? Me?" Coyote holds a paw to his chest in a very human gesture of feigning offense. "You think anything out there can still rattle Coyote?"

"You're rattled by geese," Hermes says flatly.

"Because geese are evil," Coyote says, just as deadpan.

Achilles glances at the hand on his knee, then at Hermes’ face. His expression is sour with indignation on his lover’s behalf. I don’t like this beast.

It would be easy to draw comparisons between Coyote and Hermes, but as far as Achilles can tell, the former has none of the latter’s redeeming qualities. Coyote’s jokes and trickery are laced with malice. There might not be a kind bone in his rangy, canine body.

“Speak plainly.” Achilles’ voice is low, almost a growl. “Or we will leave you to your smoke and sweet wine.”

Wine which Achilles has notably not touched since his first sip. If Hermes insists on keeping his temper in check, Achilles will get petty vengeance on Coyote where he can. In this case by intentionally being a bad guest.

Coyote laughs once more. It's like his voice is made for laughter, like the animal he is has laughter constantly trapped in its chest. "You like your ghosts spicy, Hermes."

"I like them honest," Hermes says mildly. "And he sees what I see. Go on and say what you mean, or you won't get anywhere."

Coyote stands up and shakes himself out like a dog, feigning thought as he walks in a circle before settling down again, deliberately making them wait for his answer.

"Old One-Eye sent a boat to my shores," Coyote finally says, voice deliberately airy. But Hermes' wings perk. This is clearly significant news. "Lots of big, strong raiders, ready probe and see if they can spread his influence, help him infringe on my territory. There was a demigod among them."

Hermes leans in, keeping his hand on Achilles' knee but offering the pipe back to Coyote. "I take it that they didn't declare their intentions?"

"Oh no, they just said they were lost. I'm sure they believed they were. But no human could survive that voyage without divine intervention, and they stank of jötunn." Coyote's fur bristles, and the strange visions that ripples on his pelt take more form as he accepts the pipe. The images look like tall, broad, yellow-haired men. "But I showed them a winter on Turtle Island, and let them acquaint themselves with the Wendigo."

Hermes pins his wings hard against his skull. Coyote breathes out a puff of smoke with a cruel, toothy grin, and the smoke makes horrible shapes in the air.

"Do you think One-Eye will want them back?"

"If you help that thing get a foothold on our side of the ocean, Athena will take that as an act of war," Hermes says sharply.

Achilles doesn’t know who “One-Eye” is—only that the Cyclopes come to mind. He looks for an answer in the visions—the blond men who, frankly, look like they could be his own kin and the ghastly figures that seem fit for the darkest regions of the Underworld.

Hermes has been keeping his calm, but the pinned wings and the talk of war put Achilles back on high alert.

“Then there are two gods who worry you. The ‘God of Everything’ and …” He pauses. Achilles wants to keep up with this conversation, even if it shows his mortal ignorance. “… this ‘One-Eye’? Who is he?”

Hermes scowls at Coyote. He really hadn't intended this romantic getaway with his lover to turn into a lesson on the geopolitics of gods. Coyote, for his part, just looks very smug.

"I would never help the Wendigo infect your shores," Coyote says in a tone that doesn't sound reassuring at all. "Just thought you should be on the lookout if One-Eye sends more Vikings, and maybe they come back."

Hermes takes a breath and fluffs up his feathers again. He looks to Achilles, deliberately turning away from Coyote, just to snub him. "Coyote's being insulting. He's referring to Odin, King of the Aesir."

Hermes waves his hands. The smoke around them coalesces to create visions. First is an old man with a spear. He has a somewhat haggard appearance, with a white beard and thin white hair, and a sagging void where his right eye should be. He's draped in the pelt of a white bear, and the decapitated head of a male god hangs from his belt. "The Aesir are a very war-hungry group of gods far to the north of Greece. Odin traded his eye for wisdom, and carries the head of his local god of wisdom and knowledge so he can always consult him." Hermes arches an eyebrow. "In other words, he's a dick."

Coyote laughs loudly, tail wagging in clear agreement.

"This God of Everything--or as they seem to prefer to be called, 'God'--" Hermes says, waving his hand again. A new vision forms, and it's just a shadowy mass. "Showed up in the desert of Egypt and isn't interested in talking to anyone, but has been really toeing the line with acceptable divine intervention. They gave their chosen the ability to turn all the water of the Nile into blood, among other plagues. Like I said, we know the situation, and we're leaving it for Egyptian gods to sort out amongst themselves."

"They emerged when a whole pantheon disappeared," Coyote says sweetly. "And they have no identity, no domain, no name. Probably because it ate up too many gods and too many thoughts rattle around its head."

"And the Wendigo," Hermes says, ignoring Coyote, "is a blight. An evil spirit that possesses humans, makes them near-immortal, and destroys their shades, then sends them off to infect more humans. Worse, even if you destroy all the infected humans, the Wendigo still lingers in the land they died to infect new ones. If there's a way to purge the thing, I don't know it."

"You're not sharing the best part," Coyote sing-songs. The smoke twists around him. Visions of ghastly creatures hunched over a pot. "The Wendigo can't possess just anyone. It can only possess humans when they eat a special meal. Other humans." Coyote snaps his jaws for emphasis. The smoke twists. One blond man, bigger and broader than the others, tearing his teeth into the flesh of one of his comrades-at-arms. "Winters are harsh here, and the Wendigo feasts on lost little foreigners."

Achilles has heard rumors of the northern mortals, and that their gods are strange and barbarous—clearly it’s true if at least one of them chose to birth an eight-legged horse. He’s also heard that the northern lands are dark, cold and miserable. A far cry from fair, warm Greece and further still from the desert where they sit.

He hoped they could enjoy a time of peace and stability, especially for Lyra’s sake, but with warlike Odin and the Aesir to the north and this amorphous “God” to the south … maybe Hermes and Olympus should be worried.

Achilles doesn’t want to give Coyote the satisfaction of being right, so he only squeezes Hermes’ hand on his knee and asks again: “Lord Coyote, you consider a single boat of men and a god revered by slaves to be credible threats? Evidence of impending chaos?”

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