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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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?”

"Impending? The chaos is already here." Coyote stands up, shaking himself out once more like a dog, and pads towards Hermes, sniffing the air with a smile.

"It's not every day a major pantheon overthrows their king and installs a new ruler. If One-Eye dares to sniff at my shores, you can be sure he's sniffing at Olympus'. You're closer, and your recent instability makes you look weak."

Coyote's ears swivel to face Achilles, and he grins, showing his teeth. "And you know how much One-Eye likes big, strong warrior ghosts. You keep them all in one little place for him, don't you?"

"Thank you for your concern, Coyote," Hermes says, still dry as he squeezes Achilles' hand back.

"If you have to go toe to toe with God or One-Eye, beat them extra hard so they don't come bother me, hmm?" Coyote gives Hermes' cheek a lick. Hermes swats his snout, and Coyote dances away with a loud laugh. "Enjoy the desert! Try not to scare the wildlife too much."

Achilles watches Coyote leave, his face dangerously stony in a way once reserved for the likes of Zeus or Agamemnon. He doesn’t like that Coyote has made these shockwaves of divine upheaval—if indeed that’s what they are—seem like Hermes’ fault.

“A wicked creature,” Achilles mutters, dropping the wine skin to the ground and waving a hand against the lingering smoke before he shifts closer to Hermes. He loops an arm around his shoulders and asks, “Was he toying with us?”

Achilles wants assurance that this was only the work of a bored trickster, opportunistically harassing unexpected visitors.

Hermes leans against Achilles' side, eyes following Coyote as he leaves and the smoke clears. Once more, the desert seems empty, save for the few intrepid animals that find food in each other.

"Certainly. I don't think Coyote knows how to not toy with people. But that doesn't mean what he says doesn't have merit."

Now that Hermes isn't keeping a diplomatic facade, his wings pin and he frowns thoughtfully, a furrow growing in his brow.

"He's right that if Odin sent feelers all the way here, he's already sent them to Greece. Maybe mixed them up with the traders that come from the north. Coyote wants us to take that seriously so we can deal with Odin ourselves and spare him the trouble. Strange that he's worked up over what's happening in Egypt, though."

Hermes heaves a sigh, and for a moment, he just looks tired. After two days of some of the most intense personal stress of his life, he really didn't need professional stress added on top, and Coyote implicitly blaming him for it to boot. But that's his own fault for not considering the wider implications of messing with power structures before he did it. Here he thought he'd thought everything through, but really, he'd only thought about how it might affect Greece and the gods and people under Olympus' purview.

He smooths his wings, looking at Achilles and flopping his cheek on his lover's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I don't want to worry you with the machinations of foreign gods. It's all a real headache managing all the competing goals and personalities."

Achilles receives Hermes’ exhausted weight and combs fingers over a wing. He feels a surge of protective instinct, impotent as it may still be. “I’m sorry, love. I was hoping you would see a moment’s rest.”

He sighs and perches his chin atop Hermes’ head. “Maybe there is truth in what Coyote says, but it could be that he’s manipulating you—making this seem more dire than it is.”

The desert stretching around them no longer seems so beautiful. Not with Coyote in it. A god who laughs about making monsters from men. “Thank you for showing me this place, magpie, but let us return to Greece.”

"Yes. I miss home. And I'd like to greet Lyra again, before the day's too late."

Hermes has fondness for Coyote and fellow tricksters like him, but not for how they delight in unkindness, and not for how amusing they find the misfortune of humans who can't defend themselves. Tricksters aren't known for being straightforward and honest, unlike his love.

He wraps his arms around Achilles' waist, fluffing his wings. "Hold tight, darling. And close your eyes."

The pull to Greece is just as disorienting as before. The smells of salt and sea and tree and dust all about them, and then not. And then Hermes curses softly, because as they settle back at the mouth of the Styx, Lyra is there, and she's not alone.

She sits on top of a fallen pillar, swinging her legs as she gently pats the beak of a god. A tall, broad one with the body of a man, covered only by a ornate cloth folded at his waist, and the head of an ibis, beak long and black and delicate with iridescent green feathers about his neck and face. He wears a fancy headdress tipped with gold, and a gold necklace that sits on his chest, and his human skin is the color of wet sand.

"Hi!" Lyra says, waving with her free hand as she pets the god's beak oh-so-gently. "I made a new friend!"

“Lyra,” Achilles breathes and immediately loosens his grip on Hermes to stride toward her and the strange man—creature? monster? Whatever it is, he doesn’t want it near his child. His instincts are ignited for the second time that day; the stranger might as well be another rearing rattlesnake. Achilles gathers his daughter up in his arms and steps back, putting safe distance between her and the odd figure.

“Who are you?” he demands. The bird-headed person has an unmistakable divine presence, a thrumming power, but so did Coyote. Achilles has had enough of strange, meddling gods for one day; he and Hermes returned to Greece to be rid of them. “What is your business here?”

"Ope!" Lyra makes a little noise as she's picked up, but she's perfectly happy to be held. She wraps her arms around Achilles' neck, giving him a toothy smile. "He says his name is Thoth. He comes from a warm sandy place called Egypt. He wanted to talk to Hermes."

The ibis god--Thoth--cocks his head in a way that only a bird really can, eyeing Achilles. It's hard to discern expression on his face, but it seems like he's looking at Achilles with open curiosity.

"Easy. This here is a friend." Hermes perches on the pillar where Lyra was just sitting, folding his arms and arching an eyebrow at Thoth. "A friend who isn't supposed to be here."

"My not being supposed to be someplace never bothered you before," Thoth says, or rather thinks loudly enough to be heard, since his beak doesn't move. He has a deep, creaky voice, and there's playful affection there, but whether it's platonic or otherwise isn't clear. He folds his hands in his lap, turning his head to point his beak towards Hermes. "I wish we could banter a while like usual, but I'm afraid this isn't a social call."

He glances at Achilles again. Something seems to hold his tongue before getting to the point. "There's a flower that grows in Greece that I'm very fond of. Would Lyra like to find it for me before I leave?"

Lyra hugs Achilles' neck, blinking. "Are you trying to make me go away so you can talk about grownup stuff?"

Thoth blinks. "Smart child."

Between Hermes’ assurances and Thoth’s peaceful curiosity, Achilles relaxes. Somewhat. At least he didn’t sling a rock at the presumed threat this time. It’s one thing with a snake, quite another with a visiting god.

“Forgive me, my lord. I meant no offense.” Achilles can easily surmise why Thoth has sought Hermes, though it bothers him that the foreign god apparently approached their daughter to find him. She shouldn’t be any part of this divine business.

He gives Lyra a protective squeeze and a kiss on the forehead before gently placing her feet back on the ground. Before she can run off on her errand, Achilles kneels and rests a hand on her cheek. “Lord Thoth may be harmless, fledgling, but give me your word that you’ll be careful around strange gods. Not all of them will be friends.”

Lyra rests her hand over Achilles' on her cheek, looking at him with wide eyes. She's smart enough to recognize his concern and the valid basis for it, but she's still young and proud enough to be convinced that the world will always take good care of her.

"I'll be careful," she promises, because her daddy asked her to and she already loves him enough to give her word when he's worried. "But I promise, he's nice. He's a god of writing and math, so he said that if I work very hard and learn my letters and numbers, I can go to his temple and he'll give me a blessing."

Leave it to a god of knowledge to bribe children to take education seriously. She smiles and kisses Achilles' palm before waving at him and the gods, grinning like she's waving goodbye to her friends. "Bye! I'll go find a pretty flower and you can talk about grownup stuff."

Thoth follows her with his eyes until she's far out of earshot. He can't smile with a beak, but he still has an air of amusement. "She said she was Apollo's," he says in a tone that clearly indicates he doesn't believe it.

"My brother does get around," Hermes says in a tone that indicates he knows Thoth has seen through him.

Thoth shrugs his shoulders, as if shrugging away the question of Lyra's parentage. It doesn't really matter to him, anyway. "I'm sorry to bother you at your place of work, Hermes. But I need your help. I wouldn't ask if it weren't dire."

Sometimes Lyra is like looking in a mirror. Achilles remembers a boyhood version of himself that was so self-assured. So convinced that everything would go his way, even if prophecy said otherwise. He wants to save Lyra from those hard lessons, but he’s not sure how. “Don’t wander too far, my love.”

But he stands and watches her leave, palms pressed together to preserve the warmth of her kiss. Seeing her again, his worry over Coyote’s words rises anew. He can almost hear his canine laughter as he thinks of men eating flesh and turning to monsters. Yet another river turned to blood—this time not by his own spear and blade.

Achilles moves to Hermes’ side and addresses Thoth. “Is it true, then? There is trouble in your lands?”

Thoth would be well within his right to scold Achilles for inserting himself in a conversation between gods, but he just cocks his head, birdlike in his curiosity once more. His shoulders fall, and his feathers clench close to his skin.

"I wish I could describe it as only trouble."

"Before you ask--" Hermes holds up his hands, his wings pin, and he genuinely looks regretful. "I can't interfere. Not without Athena's word. Not even for you."

"I know. I'm not asking you to. All I'm asking is that you do what you always do." Thoth rests his hands on his knees. Without Lyra there, the air suddenly feels cold and thick as grief. "Hermes, last night, all the firstborn in Egypt died in their beds."

"What?" Hermes says, frowning, cocking his wings to hear better.

"All the firstborn. Across all of Egypt. Including cattle, and cats, and demigods, and royalty. All of them, except for the Hebrews," Thoth says, his voice growing hoarse. "Death-tenders can't keep up. Neither can Anubis. Everyone is pitching in to assist as psychopomps, but there are too many, and you're the fastest one there is."

"All the..." Hermes shakes his head, like he can't quite believe what Thoth says. "How--all across your territory, how could anyone--without you knowing? Stopping it?"

"I don't know," Thoth says, and his shoulders slump, and the air reeks of confusion and grief and heartbreak. "I don't know."

Edited 2024-02-27 04:06 (UTC)

“What sort of god would—” Achilles mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. But he knows. This must be the God of Everything. At least Coyote had the decency to target grown men, not babes in their beds.

Of course, Achilles can’t help but think of what it would be like to lose his own child—to lose Lyra to such a thing—and he shifts closer to Hermes, gently resting a hand at his back.

His first instinct is to urge Hermes to heroism: to go and help put those tiny souls to rest, but then he balks. What if Hermes draws the ire of that vengeful god? Achilles leans closer and says the same thing he said to Lyra, albeit at a whisper. “Be careful, magpie.”

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