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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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.

Achilles blinks and cocks his head in a moment’s surprise. Should he really be shocked by his daughter’s uncanny insight? Hermes is her father, after all. (Achilles is positive she didn’t get it from himself.)

He scrubs at his jaw, contemplative. “I did. Yes. I am not at all proud of my actions at Troy.”

That his son is still sowing the seeds of violence is like knowing the worst part of himself lives on. He heaves a sharp sigh. “Neoptolemus picked up where my rage left off. All the tales that reach me speak of his brutality.”

His voice drops low and serious and he locks her eyes. “Do not seek him, Lyra. I fear he may hurt you, too.”

"Maybe there are other tales that don't reach you." But Lyra isn't about to challenge her daddy on this. There isn't something worth challenging in her mind. Even if she did make up her mind to seek out Neoptolemus (and she hasn't), she doesn't have any of the resources or knowledge to find him.

She holds eye contact. She shakes her head in response. "I won't look for him, Daddy. Right now. But when I grow up, I'll ask again. I like my brothers, even the dumb ones."

And maybe she'll like Neoptolemus. Or maybe she'll despise him. Or maybe he'll be cruel to her. She's not sure, but she's not willing to write him off indefinitely without ever meeting him.

She snuggles her head against Achilles' side, contemplating the conversation as she thinks of the large family she's found herself in. "Papa has a lot of mean siblings. Does he love them all?"

“Mmm. That may be.” He’s not optimistic such tales exist. Achilles has come to see Neoptolemus as part of his punishment. Not a person.

Lyra is entirely the opposite. He looks at her, so loving and innocent, so willing to accept everyone, regardless of the depth of their flaws. That’s Hermes coming through again.

“Your papa cares about all of his family. Even Ares, who is so cruel to mortals, and who wounded him very gravely.” Achilles keeps his voice even, despite the residual anger fanned by memories of the assault on the Underworld. “I could never forgive Ares for all he did, but Hermes knows that—as long as there is war and vengeance—there must be a god of such things. Ares did as his nature demanded.”

Maybe Lyra's openness to people is a product of Hermes. Maybe it's her youth and naivete. Maybe it's a little bit of both. Either way, she can see the tension underlying Achilles' talk of Neoptolemus and Ares.

"The stories don't make Ares sound very smart," Lyra says with the calm gumption that would have Eu-Eu scrambling to shut her up and pray at a temple for forgiveness, lest the gods smite her. "You can't blame people if they're too dumb to change."

That's all Ares' behavior seems to be to her. Like her dumb big brother, he's just not smart enough to realize how dumb he is and change.

Achilles laughs at both the audacity and the truth in that observation. “You’re right. Asking Ares to change is about as futile as trying to teach Méli tricks.”

But if Ares is destroyed, sent to the stars, is there any guarantee that the god or goddess who takes up his mantel will be any better? Any different at all?

“In Ares’ case it makes sense—when someone is swept up in rage and revenge, they abandon all intelligence.” Achilles is speaking from first-hand experience, of course. “Compared to Lady Athena, who is deliberate and wise in war. Though I admit, she can come off as cold.”

Achilles’ smile returns and he squeezes Lyra tighter. “That is why I love your papa so. In a way, he’s a bit of both: he is passionate, but still intelligent and kind.”

It's interesting hearing Achilles talk about gods like people. Lyra hopes to one day know at the very least Hermes like a person. Maybe more gods.

She smiles as Achilles tells her of Hermes. It's nice to hear her daddy loudly and proudly declare his love and talk about the traits he loves in her papa.

"Bards talk about him like he's very tricky, but he doesn't have mean stories like so many of the others. I think sometimes people assume that being tricky must mean you're mean." But it's clear to Lyra that it's not so with Hermes. If it were, surely there'd be stories of him striking down people who insulted him.

She cocks her head, smiling a little, wrapping her arms around her daddy. "Thoth said that his own biggest temple is in a city that the Greeks call Hermopolis. He thinks Greeks sometimes think he's Hermes too. Maybe it's the feathers."

Coyote and his canine laugh comes to mind again—the kind of trickster Hermes could have been.

“Not all tricks are mean, no,” Achilles agrees. He used to be of the opinion that deception was cowardice. As much as he appreciated the cunning of men like Odysseus, ultimately it was much better to handle matters head-on. Hermes helped change his mind. “He used trickery to bring King Priam to my shelter at Troy. It was necessary. Useful.”

He rubs Lyra’s back and enjoys just how cuddly his daughter is; Zagreus wasn’t accustomed to physical affection—didn’t seek or offer it—at least not from male role models. Which wasn’t at all surprising given his father.

“The feathers, yes. They don’t seem very alike otherwise.” Achilles remembers his earlier concern and adds, “How did Lord Thoth find you?”

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