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 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.”

Hermes covers his mouth, staring at nothing, trying to grapple with what Thoth is saying. All the firstborn. All of them. How? How does any one fresh-faced god wiggle their fingers and execute all the firstborn of an empire without any of the older, more established gods in the area being able to stop it? And it even got the children of gods?

(Hermes thinks of Lyra.)

The only indication at first that he's heard Achilles is a twitch of his wing. He takes a deep breath, struggling to bury his horror, instinctively trying to cover how shaken he is by the news.

He can't say no. Even if this God of Everything has demonstrated just how vindictive and indiscriminate its anger is. If gods forsake vulnerable humans, they're not worthy of worship.

"Right. Yes. Okay. I'll help gather the firstborn, and I'll deliver them to the Duat, and then you just take credit for everyone I grabbed, okay?"

Thoth nods, shoulders sagging in relief. Hermes is pale as he looks to Achilles, taking his hand and squeezing it. "I have to attend to this immediately, and then I have to tell Athena what happened. Tell Lyra that I'll visit her when I can, alright?"

There’s still the nagging worry that the Fates might twist this into another long and terrible ordeal, but Achilles understands Hermes’ conviction. Understands the parents who have suffered unthinkable loss. He remembers the child shades Ares conscripted for his war and denied the release of their afterlives.

If Achilles had the power to help, would he decline? Absolutely not. He has no business talking Hermes out of this.

“Be quick, and be safe.” Achilles brushes a hand over Hermes’ pale forehead and kisses his temple. “I will see to Lyra.”

"Thank you, darling," Hermes says, bowing his head at the kiss. "I'll be back when I can."

Hermes doesn't promise fast. For once, he can't guarantee fast. But he'll be back.

And then he pulls away from Achilles, taking Thoth by the arm, and then they're gone in a gust of wind that smells of sand and feathers.

It's not too long before Lyra returns. She carries a bouquet of flowers, but it's pretty self-evident that the gods are gone. She frowns, pouting a little as she looks around.

"Did they go without saying goodbye?" she asks, disappointed.

Achilles visibly deflates when the two gods disappear; he sags against the broken column and scrubs his face with both rough palms. Gods, let him be safe, he thinks, and then laughs to himself at the futility. Who is he supposed to petition for help when the gods themselves are in danger?

Lyra’s arrival startles him from his thoughts, and he does his best to sit up straight. Compose himself.

“Apologies, my love. Your father was so eager to see you again, but there are urgent matters in Egypt. He’s volunteered to help Lord Thoth.” Achilles hopes that’s enough detail to satisfy her—no child needs to hear about such tragedy.

“Come here,” he says, waving her over. “Show me your flowers.”

Lyra is still pouting as she approaches, holding her flowers. "He didn't even say hi."

It's a childish disappointment, she knows. Gods are supposed to be distant parents. But still, she's sad that he didn't say hi, or hug her, or kiss her head, or say goodbye before he left. But maybe she should just be grateful he acknowledges her at all.

But she tries to move past it, instead presenting the flowers to Achilles. She's gotten a large variety of wildflowers, a bouquet fit as a child's gift to a god.

"I got the prettiest ones I could find," she says, presenting them to Achilles. "I figured they don't have many flowers in Egypt, if it's all sandy like a beach."

Achilles smiles and hums approvingly at her bouquet, turning it in his hand. He points to each bloom as he names it: “Poppies, daisies, lupin, yarrow … Very pretty indeed. You’ve done well!”

He won’t leave her disappointment unaddressed and he pats the space next to him on the fallen column. “Hermes loves you just as much as I do. But he’s having trouble showing it. No one showed him how to be a good father.”

Certainly not Zeus. Athena and Apollo probably did their best as surrogate parents, but neither of them seem particularly suited to it, and Hermes was still their little half-brother. Not their child.

“He wants to be a good father. You and I—we have to teach him, and we have to be patient for a little while.” He dips his head down to bump her forehead. “Will you help me with that, fledgling?”

She does brighten moderately at her daddy's praise. Maybe her dad left, but her daddy still sees and appreciates what she's done. She climbs up the pillar and sits where he pats, leaning against his side. He's not warm like a living body, but he's still solid and present.

Lyra looks up and listens with wide, attentive eyes. It's strange to hear someone talk about a god like they're a person and not a distant ruler or force of nature, even now.

She thinks about how Hermes seems so very sad sometimes, even though he's good at hiding it. She thinks about how his mom and his dad went to the stars, and now he doesn't have either. And Patroclus said that Zeus hadn't been nice to him.

"Hmm. Okay. I'll help." She bumps her head gently against Achilles' back, thoughtful. "I didn't know that people need to be taught how to be parents." It's odd to think of being loved by a god. The stories don't make most of them sound like very loving parents. But maybe that's because they don't know how.

Lyra hugs Achilles' arm, resting her cheek against his bicep as she looks up at him curiously. "Hermes knew how to show love to Eu-Eu. Why not me like that?" She thinks of the vision of a kind, charming god taking her foster mother up by the hands, healing her hurts and embracing her with a cloud of divine love. She doesn't get how practiced Hermes is in giving divine love, and how different it is from the love of a parent for a child.

“We learn how to be parents from our own parents, and sometimes no one ever taught them. It can go on for generations.” As much among mortals as gods, it seems.

“And love is a complicated thing. Your foster mother knows Hermes as a god, not as a person. Most people know him as a god.” A concept. Someone to worship or fear. A being with the power to bless or curse them at his whim. “It took a long time for your papa to feel comfortable enough to show me who he truly is.”

Achilles carefully sets her flowers aside so he can stroke her hair. “Not to worry, though. I don’t think it will take nearly so long with you.”

Achilles will do his damndest to make sure of that. Lyra only has so much time on the surface; he wants her to enjoy it with Hermes while she can. “You’re so much alike. I think you will teach him a lot about himself.”

Lyra nods thoughtfully as she listens. Yes, this makes sense. She supposes that being a god is different from being a person. It must be different. He was comfortable being a god to Eu-Eu. But he hasn't really tried to be a god to her.

"Papa has been really nice to me," she says, almost as declaration. "Most grownups get tired of me asking so many questions. He let me ask questions until I fell asleep, and he never seemed tired of answering. And he showed me cute animals."

It's the sort of things that she doesn't think would make it into a bard poem. Maybe other gods do that with their children too, and the bards don't talk about it.

Lyra traces her fingers along the calluses of Achilles' hand. There's a comforting familiarity there already. "How am I like Hermes, Daddy?"

It's strange to think herself similar to a god. It's the sort of thing that bards warn against. But also, she likes the idea of having traits of both her fathers, as great and kind as both of them are.

“Where shall I begin?” he laughs. “The both of you are insatiably curious, for one. When he was a boy, Hermes was just as full of questions. That’s why he’s so happy to answer all of yours.”

Achilles hums and draws her into an embrace. He’s beginning to learn her smell: she’s steeped in her foster family’s home—their food and hearth and hard work, but also a little of the sea. “You’re both wonderfully clever, of course. And you look after your siblings so well, just as he does with his Olympian kin.”

They both crave affection, he knows, but where Lyra seeks and offers it freely, Hermes is cautious. Guarded. Achilles doesn’t mention that part. Instead, he says:

“But most importantly, you have the same nose.” He boops said nose with his index finger and a smile tugs at the lines of his face. “The kind that scrunches when you’re happy.”

Lyra happily allows herself to be embraced, slinging her arms around his neck and leaning her ear against his chest. When he boops her nose, she scrunches it, giggling.

"I didn't notice he scrunches his nose too!"

She laughs, because what a funny thing to have in common with a god. Curiosity, that makes sense. Clever people must be curious to be clever, she thinks. The stories don't talk about how Olympians might look out for each other, but maybe they don't want to tell those stories to mortals.

She pulls down a lock of Achilles' hair, twisting it around her finger, smiling at it. That's something she has in common with her daddy. Their hair.

"You had a god parent," she says, considering. Thetis the ocean nymph, a goddess who didn't like Patroclus and loved her son so much that it broke her heart. She wonders if she's ever heard of a male god who loved a mortal child enough for their heart to break. "Do you think we'll ever be like a mortal papa and daughter?" She twists the curl of her daddy's hair around her finger, then lays it on his chest. It glimmers a little in the sunlight. "Or... will I not count because I'll die one day? And join you?"

The question is casual to her. Curious. Where it'd be deeply painful for Hermes to hear her ask, to Lyra, it's just a part of sussing out the boundaries of this new relationship she's discovered with two different parents.

Achilles is quite a moment as he thinks about his relationship with Thetis. Sometimes she felt distant and unknowable. She lived in a world that was beyond him—the deep realms of the sea, or petitioning the court of Olympus. He couldn’t follow her there, only ask her to describe it.

But she was always around. He need only call to her, even when he was across the Aegean on the shores of Troy. She would come and offer him words and comfort.

If Hermes can manage that for Lyra, Achilles would be satisfied, but it’s a lot to ask. Thetis is a nymph and Hermes is an Olympian with a vast domain and countless responsibilities.

He exhales, feeling her weight press against his chest.

“I will be honest, fledgling. It won’t be the same.” He can’t imagine a family further from the norm: a hero’s shade, a god, and their child born of the sea. A home where they all work and play and rest isn’t part of their story. “But that doesn’t mean it will be lesser or worse. A god as a parent has so much to offer. Hermes can help you live a life of adventure no mortal father could.“

And keep her safe while doing it. How many mortal fathers would allow their daughter to travel alone to the next city, much less beyond Greece’s borders?

His throat tightens at talk of her death, as if this little girl will be the one to die, but if the Fates will it, she won’t. She’ll be an old woman with a long life worthy of song, ready for Thanatos to usher her to the Underworld.

He swallows back the thought of future grief and squeezes her tight. “When the time comes, this will be our home, and I’ll be here to welcome you. So will Patroclus and your grandfather, your foster mother and father. And Elysium, of course.”

It won't be the same, but not worse. Lyra can live with that. Hermes still feels like a strange mystery for her, a playful and indulgent but somehow unknowable person, but maybe she just needs to wait and get to know him. Not everyone is as easy to get to know as Achilles. And even if she never knows him like Achilles, she still has Achilles, and Hermes will still love her in the way he can.

One day she'll grieve the normal family experiences she'll never have. Today, she only knows what she's gained. She's gained two fathers, a hero and a god, and they love her. That's pretty great.

"It'll be nice to be with you and everyone in Elysium. But I'll stay up here for a while, if you don't mind," she says gently, as if perhaps she might disappoint him for not rushing to join him in the Underworld permanently.

She considers for a moment, the big wide family she's been given. That she's been lucky enough to have. "Pat said that he thinks Thetis will like me. Do you think she will? Do you think I'll ever be able to be friends with Neoptolemus?"

Now that she's had time to sit with the revelation about her blood, she's thought more about the different family members she has. She can't help but be curious, hoping that perhaps she can have the same kind of relationships she has with her foster siblings, but with her blood sibling. Siblings? Hermes didn't have more children, did he?

“I don’t mind in the least. I hope it will be a very long time before I see your shade in the Underworld,” Achilles assures her with a smile. “Enjoy the sunshine. Fall in love. Raise your own children.”

He moves an unruly curl from Lyra’s face. “Pat is right. Thetis will adore you, I’m certain of it. I think she’s done with boys who foolishly run off to war the moment they grow a few hairs on their chin.”

He rocks in his seat a bit, considering her second question with taut lips. How does he phrase this? He decides to go with his instinct: tell the truth. “Do not look for friendship in Neoptolemus. He isn’t a kind man. The cruelty he showed the Trojans disappoints me. There was no honor in it.”

Lyra smiles to have her daddy's approval of her living her life, and to know that her grandmother will like her. At the discussion of her half-brother, her smile falls into a thoughtful, contemplative frown.

Her first instinct is to just take her daddy at his word--he just wants what's best for her, after all, and he knows so much more about the world than she does--but something nags in the back of her head. Something that takes a little mulling over before she knows how to articulate it.

"You disappointed yourself too." There's nothing accusatory or judgmental in her voice. Lyra doesn't know the reality of war or the pain her father inflicted on others in his rage, arrogance, and grief. She only knows that Achilles is ashamed of it. "But I love you. And you're nice to me."

What she's trying to get at, the nagging feeling in the back of her head, is that she doesn't like the idea of discarding the idea of there being good in her relatives out of hand because they acted like monsters at war. Because to do so would be to condemn her daddy, and she already loves him too much to contemplate it.

In her naivete, she could be contemplating giving a chance to a man who doesn't deserve it, who could hurt her very badly. But where she stands, as a little girl who just learned of a big wide family she has, she struggles to write any member off offhand.

For @messageforyou

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Wrap up here?