Achilles, Best of the Greeks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
refusetofight) wrote2023-11-23 09:22 pm
refusetofight) wrote2023-11-23 09:22 pm
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 …
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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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.”
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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.”
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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.”
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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.”
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“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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“It’s a fine thing Lord Thoth is a friend.” He idly plucks a daisy from Lyra’s gathered flowers and tucks it in her curls behind one ear. It suits her—a sunny, happy thing.
“If you ever want to treat him, your papa enjoys having his wings preened. Run your fingers along his feathers like so—” He takes a long daisy leaf and runs index and thumb up one side, then the other, illustrating the technique. “And sometimes he molts like a bird. Then he needs help with his new feathers.”
Achilles also wonders if Thoth was telling the truth. And whether that means he uses his long ibis beak to preen, or his human hands. Hmm. Something to rib Hermes about later.
no subject
“Perhaps if he visits you as a bird, you can show him how good you are at preening. He’ll want you to do it all the time.” He tickles her nose with the leaf, pausing for a moment just to admire her.
“How is your other family? Faring well, I hope?”