refusetofight | For @messageforyou

For @messageforyou

Thetis wings slow circles above the shore in the shape of a humble gull. Of all the many shapes she could take, this is the most unremarkable to mortals. They’re a common nuisance, curious and daring.

This isn’t the first time Thetis has watched her unexpected granddaughter play on the shore. She’s been a seal, watching from the safety of the surf, a keen-eyed osprey roosting at the top of a tree. In animal shape, her emotions are no less turbulent.

The girl’s hair shines like flax in the sun as she delights in the waves and warm sand. Thetis might as well be watching a memory: those peaceful, lazy days with her son, bookended by the pain of his conception and the grief of his death.

Every time she visits, she promises herself that this will be the last. The same as she did with Neoptolemus. But she finds herself gripped by guilt. She could have saved her grandson from the vile mortals who would use him like they used Achilles. She could have hidden him away again, perhaps this time in her father’s realm. But what would be the use? They would still find him. Neoptolemus is still mortal. He would still die.

What do the Fates have planned for this child? Lord Hermes’ divinity shines bright within her. She’ll be coveted by mortals, yes, but not as a weapon—as a beautiful lover and mother to powerful sons. Thetis knows the special agony of that life.

But for now, Lyra is a happy child, delighting in a beautiful day. Thetis pulls her wings in to stoop lower until she can hear the girl’s laughter on the breeze. Lower still and she can see her smile. Against her better judgement, the aching protest of her old wounds, she finally lights on the sand a few yards away.

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Lyra smiles when Nona puts a hand on her head. But her smile fades at the question.

"Because I want a big brother," she says honestly. "And because I'm very sad for him, and I think things are more unfair for him than they are for me, and I want to make them more fair."

Lyra hugs her knees and looks over the horizon wistfully. She wonders what her brother is doing now. She wonders if Daddy was lying, if Pyrrhus really does hate her for existing.

"A bad thing happened to him when he was little. He wanted to make Daddy proud, and a lot of people came and told him how he could, so he worked really hard to do it. But then people got scared of him, and all his family decided they didn't like him or want to talk to him ever, even the members who hadn't even met him, like Daddy. Everyone who should've loved him decided he wasn't worth giving a chance before he was all grown up." Lyra tightens her hug around her legs. "And if it happened to him, it can happen to me too."

And that's scary. Lyra is smart enough to know that she can't see the future. The nebulous possibility that maybe something bad could happen, maybe she makes a mistake without knowing it's a mistake, and everyone decides she's too awful to love is a prospect too awful to contemplate. So she must defend her big brother against the judgment of the grownups, must convince them of his worthiness of familial love, because if she doesn't, then no one will.

But then there's a scent of adventure in the air. Lyra perks, instantly recognizing it. And in a moment, Hermes, dressed in foreign clothes but resplendent as ever, alights on the beach. "Papa!"

Thetis wants to tell her a lot of things: That brothers and male family aren’t always a blessing. Not among gods or mortals. That the Fates don’t deal in fairness. The sooner she learns that, the better off she’ll be. That sometimes people are so deeply hurt as to be beyond help.

But Thetis can only bring herself to pet Lyra’s hair for a long moment. She won’t burden her granddaughter with harsh truths, but she still can’t bring herself to lie. Lyra deserves honesty from her. “You can’t know the future, child. Nor can you change the past.”

Thetis feels Hermes’ approach well before he appears. Olympians still put her on edge, even under Athena’s new leadership; they’re capable of sowing great turmoil even without Zeus. She rises to her feet to greet the more powerful god with a deferential bow of her head. “Lord Hermes.”

Lyra gathers Leon into her arms and rises too, running with reckless abandon at her divine father. "Papa!"

Hermes crouches, feathers fluffing as he catches Lyra in his arms. "There you are, little bird!"

"Papa, Mistress gave me a puppy! His name is Leon!"

"Leon, hmm?" Hermes picks up Lyra and the puppy with little effort, giving the wagging dog a playful up and down look. "Hmmm. You're sure this one is a good one?"

"Yes, yes, he is!" Lyra says, hugging her puppy. "He's very good! And tried to protect me from a seabird! Even though I was safe the whole time, he just got scared of the bird."

"What a brave dog indeed. Yes, I suppose he's worthy of you." Hermes ruffles her hair, then turns his eyes to Thetis. He's smiling, as always, but his eyes are opaque. He gives a playful bow to her, still holding Lyra and Leon. "And greetings to you, Lady Thetis. Long time, no see."

He crouches again setting Lyra and Leon on the ground, and Hermes tucks the girl's curls behind her ears. "I need to talk to your grandmother in private for a moment, darling. Would you go find her a pretty seashell to bring underwater to remember you by?"

Lyra's smile falls. "Did something bad happen?"

Hermes still smiles, and his eyes are still completely opaque, even to his daughter. "Yes. But it's something for the grownups to worry about fixing, not you. Go find a pretty shell, would you?"

Thetis silently appraises the exchange between father and daughter. Most gods tend to ignore their mortal offspring—particularly if they happen to be girls. She’s surprised to see Hermes’ genuine fondness, but she wonders if it’s born of novelty. Once Lyra’s grown older, he could well abandon her. What could a mortal daughter hope to do to keep his interest?

She feels her hackles raise preemptively and the sea foam forms pensive swirls around her feet. Fates, is she already growing protective of this girl? Or is she only worried on Achilles’ behalf; her son can’t raise this child from the Underworld.

… She can’t get tangled up in this. She needs to go. Besides, Hermes clearly wants time with his child.

Thetis is half-turned to disappear into the surf when she’s addressed. She pauses stiffly at Lyra’s question and the answer to it. It’s Achilles, she thinks. Very little can harm his shade, but he could still be banished to the depths of Tartarus or reduced to the stuff of primordial chaos.

She keeps her voice and expression even. “Heed your father, child. You’ll find the best shells in the next cove.”

Thetis waves to a sheltered stretch of sand a short distance up the beach.

Lyra casts a concerned look between her father and grandmother, hugging her puppy. Leon, seeming to sense her discomfort, licks her face. Yes, he can battle bad feelings too, just let him at them, let him at them and he'll lick them to death.

"It's nothing that can't be mended, little bird. Go on," Hermes says, nodding towards the cove.

Reluctantly, Lyra nods. "Okay. But stay long enough so I can give Nona the shell."

She turns away and walks up the shore with her puppy still licking her face. Hermes watches her go, and waits until she's out of sight before his smile falls into a more serious expression, turning his gaze to Thetis. His business is serious enough that he's not being his usual glib self.

"Neoptolemus has disappeared," he says bluntly. No reason to beat around the bush on this one. "And there's reason to suspect the Morrígan took him."

He doubts Thetis has ever had cause to meet the Morrígan. Hermes is a diplomat, and he's only ever seen her split into three pieces. And he's always been uncomfortable around her, mainly because her aspects take the faces of Pandora, Maia, and Hera to him, and it's hard to keep track of what she's saying when she's speaking through three different mouths intermittently.

But somehow, she's been the queen of the Tuatha Dé Danann since before either of them were born. Since before Gaia was born, if some of the stories are to be believed, but Hermes has always been skeptical. Gods are prone to exaggerating their own legends, and the Tuatha Dé have always had an interesting relationship with the truth.

"Before you ask, I don't know why she would," Hermes says. "But Achilles is asking for your help to protect his family left behind."

Edited 2025-03-05 07:01 (UTC)

Thetis watches her granddaughter march across the sand with her puppy in tow. She looks so small against the sea and the surrounding bluffs.

She relaxes at the first half of the news. Achilles’ shade is safe. At the second half, her lips purse in confusion more than distress. Indeed, she doesn’t know why any gods would be interested in her grandson, broken as he is.

But the gods of the northern isles are strange and their motives are not always straightforward. She’s only ever personally encountered Fomorian raiders some centuries ago who coveted her sisters as brides. The monsters were quickly expelled by her father.

He will be in likeminded company, Thetis thinks, then remembers Lyra’s stubborn defense of her brother and feels a pang of guilt.

“His family in Epirus?” Thetis adjusts her himation and crosses her arms. “He has a son, yes? With the Trojan woman?”

"Yes, a little boy named Molossus. You may have heard rumor of two other boys, but they perished in infancy," Hermes says. His tone is factual, but not unkind. He doesn't imagine that Thetis is too invested in the lives of her great-grandchildren, but he doubts she'll rejoice at news they died either.

"Their mother--the Trojan woman, Andromache--he released her months ago and she's long gone from Epirus, so we don't have to worry about her. But he recently married a woman named Ophelia." Hermes crosses his arms, and he allows himself a sigh through his nose. "I just came back from blessing them on Achilles' request, and I believe that Ophelia is pregnant."

Hermes isn't as sensitive to this sort of thing as gods more aligned with children and childbirth, but he still sensed it. And it just adds another layer of tragedy to the whole thing that he dreads informing Achilles of.

"Achilles recently got in touch with Neoptolemus through dreams, and he's been wracked with guilt for leaving him as an infant. He'll be inconsolable if any further harm comes to Neoptolemus' family." More than inconsolable. Devastated. Achilles only just started forgiving himself for the mistakes he made at Troy when Lyra pointed out this glaring consequence of his ambition, and even if Neoptolemus hadn't disappeared, Hermes isn't sure that Achilles would ever forgive himself for leaving his son. But he's focused more on giving Thetis all the facts and relaying his lover's plea than impressing upon her how her son suffers from guilt and remorse.

She heard the stories, yes, whispered by the sisters who still had an interest in watching her mortal lineage play out. Mortal lives move so fast and they’re so full of drama—tantalizing entertainment for long-lived nypmphs. Thetis only half-listened to the rumors. What could she be expected to do about them?

Her son has a softer heart, though. That was his lasting weakness—not some proverbial heel.

“This is why Lord Hades is so adamant about maintaining his borders,” she says quietly. “Achilles should not be so troubled by the affairs of the living. He should be at rest.”

There’s the hint of an accusation there. She would never say such a thing outright. Not to an Olympian. But who else is responsible for keeping her son tied to the surface? She certainly can’t blame Patroclus for this.

In this respect, gods are easier to deal with than mortals. Hermes would never harm his lover's mother, and Hephaestus would break his hands if he did, but the difference in rank still allows for this civility that he can rarely manage with Patroclus.

The corner of Hermes' mouth rises, but his eyes betray nothing. "Has passive rest ever suited him?"

He hears the veiled accusation, but he has no intention to invite the conversation. He has his own guilt keeping Achilles so tied to the world of the living, but he also recognizes that Achilles has been significantly happier since he did. Achilles died young, after all, and he hasn't had enough time and experience to grow weary enough to rest.

"Neoptolemus' servant excused his absence by claiming you took him. Achilles asks that you make an appearance in Epirus to lend credence to the lie. His enemies will be slow to screw the courage to harm his family if they believe they're under your protection." Hermes crosses his arms. "He also asks that you request that Hephaestus give them a boon so that they may protect themselves."

Hermes can ask himself, and he will if Thetis refuses, but he knows that Hephaestus will do anything Thetis asks him to. He watches the goddess carefully, gauging her reaction, and her openness to the idea of doing anything for her grandson.

Hermes is right; Achilles was never content to remain idle. It was her hope that his duties as Lord Hades’ guard would keep him well occupied, but it seems even that wasn’t enough.

“A bold lie from a lowly servant.” Her brows twitch into a frown at her mention being uttered as some kind of protective talisman. It irks her that nymphs are invoked with such nonchalance. Would mortals have the gall to tell the same lie, but about Lady Athena or Lord Apollo? She thinks not.

The servant is fortunate that her beloved son put in this request, or she might have made an appearance for a different reason. “I believe I can manage a simple visit, and deliver Hephaestus’ boon.”

Thetis sighs. It’s a quiet, but forceful sound like distant waves cresting. “But that will only keep them safe for a time. I’ve no doubt that Neoptolemus is lost. Whatever the Morrígan’s designs are, she and her people are not known to relinquish stolen mortals.”

Hermes dips his head, still with that opaque smile. "Achilles will be relieved to hear it, and would want me to relay his gratitude."

He doesn't want to worry Thetis too much. But they may be beyond that. Hermes hesitates for a moment, weighing if he ought to respond to her statement honestly. But he honestly thinks she's right that it's most likely Neoptolemus is entirely lost, and if anyone would know how to talk Achilles down from foolishness, it'd be his mother. (Though it's questionable if anyone can really do that.)

"They're not. But Achilles has his heart fixed on negotiating his release from the Morrígan, and he intended to do it immediately when he learned of Neoptolemus' fate. I managed to talk him into waiting until I at least struck a deal for his own protection, if he insists on it, so he can meet and leave her safely."

If that sounds crazy, it's because it is. But Hermes also thought that standing up to Zeus was crazy, or finding a punished god in dreams, or having a child between a shade and a god. He's learned not to bet against Achilles.

“Death has changed Achilles in many ways, but it’s done nothing for his stubborn hubris,” Thetis declares. There’s no hint of resentment in her tone, only tired acceptance.

“Lord Hermes, my son is no diplomat. There’s no reason to take him on such an errand and risk his afterlife.” Her himation billows in the breeze and she raises her eyes to meet Hermes’. They’re the same stormy color as Achilles’. “Go negotiate on his behalf, but don’t allow him to accompany you.”

She glances over Hermes’ shoulder to find Lyra and Leon’s distant figures against the bright sand. “Please … If you love him, and if you love your daughter.”

Lyra will be heartbroken that her brother is gone, but she’ll be devastated if she loses her father at the same time.

Hermes doesn't allow his opaque smile to move, but his wings pin for a moment. Guilt flips in his gut. The thought has occurred to him, but... well, he doesn't want to tell Thetis how concerned Olympus is about the upstart in the south, but he can tell her about other complications.

"I'm the designated representative of Olympus to all other pantheons. If I do it myself, it'll be taken as Olympus negotiating with her no matter what I say. And she may demand something I cannot give." And then what would he say to Achilles? 'I'm sorry, but I can't sacrifice this for your son'? 'Now he gets to rot in a foreign land'? Achilles may well try to go himself if Hermes fails.

Hermes glances out at Lyra on the cove. Her hair shines in the sun. Leon is a bouncy blot next to her. He seems to have found a stick he's proud to carry around.

"Achilles feels he must be the one to go. He believes he failed Neoptolemus, and this is a chance to redeem himself." Hermes looks at Thetis from the corner of his eye. "You could accompany him. You wouldn't be taken as a representative of Olympus. And I trust you to listen to warnings and instructions more than I trust him."

Hermes loves Achilles, but he does not believe for one second that he wouldn't be tempted to barrel through the fae's obscure rules to get to his goal, and promptly get knotted in them.

“He would find redemption by staying in the Underworld, where he might one day greet his children on their arrival,” Thetis says, even if Hermes isn’t the one who needs to hear it.

Fates, her son inherited too much of Peleus’ foolhardiness. Or he learned it in his house. Given a second chance, she would have raised him in her father’s realm.

“I will speak to Achilles. If he won’t be swayed, I will join you and lend him protection,” her voice carries the same solemn certainty that Achilles’ does when making a vow. Thetis still doesn’t expect them to succeed—even with Hermes’ help—but she can’t allow Achilles to be lost in the process. “Will you tell Olympus about your errand? Or that the Morrígan is in our lands, taking mortals?”

"Olympus already knows all that it needs to," Hermes says lightly, still opaque. He's sent a message to Athena that the Morrígan has stolen a mortal, but it's not exactly a priority for her unless the Morrígan starts stealing more. No one marked Neoptolemus as their own, after all, and he was fated to die soon. It's barely a faux pas to take him, especially since the Morrígan's means don't technically count as kidnapping. Technically.

Athena wouldn't approve of Hermes having private dealings with another pantheon's trickster, but that's because she doesn't get diplomacy or developing relationships outside of work. Hermes sees no reason to let her in on that.

"You'll find Achilles close to the mouth of the Styx at the Temple of Hades. You may see Prometheus there too. I hear he's decided to stay there for a while." Hermes tips his head, watching Lyra on the distant shore. "Maybe he can tell us something useful about the Morrígan. He knew her before the fire-stealing incident, I understand."

Hermes doesn't get the impression that Prometheus and the Morrígan were exactly bosom buddies, but still, any information could be helpful.

Thetis nods, but doesn’t dig any deeper into Olympian business. Her previous involvement had mostly been about survival under Zeus’ rule—for her sisters, Achilles, and Hephaestus. A part of her is cautiously optimistic that the tides have changed.

“Thank you, Lord Hermes, for delivering my son’s message. With your leave, I’ll go to him now,” she says with a respectful bow of her head. The surf whirls and tugs at the bottom of her himation, sensing her intent.

She follows Hermes’ eyes back to Lyra’s distant figure and Thetis feels a strong urge to disappear without a good-bye. She knows how perilously easy it would be to love that child.

"I'll follow in time. I still have a few errands to run before reporting back to Achilles. And I ought to hear what Lyra has to say about her new friend." Hermes keeps his smile on, raising his arm and waving to Lyra. Her distant form perks, and she starts running back up the shore. Leon follows her, clumsy on the sand with a tongue lolling out, but there's something to his long gait that speaks to a day when he'll be far more graceful and imposing.

Lyra is quick. She approaches with a smile, sand and salt tangled in her curls. She holds up a spiraling iridescent shell, shimmering in greens and pinks and blues, proudly to her grandmother.

"Look, Nona! Look at how shiny the inside is! I picked the one with the best spiral and the most colors!"

Lyra grins, very pleased with herself that she was able to find a proper shell for her grandmother. Almost pleased enough to forget that there is mysterious, possibly alarming grownup business afoot. Almost.

Thetis has seen many shells like this, of course, but it takes on new significance with Lyra’s eager pride. In the marching centuries of Thetis’ long life, the world has lost much of its beauty and wonder, but children see it all with an infectious excitement. When he was a boy, Achilles brought her similar gifts, mundane but significant: a pretty stone, a fresh flower, a handful of sweet, ripe berries.

“Thank you, child. This is a fine keepsake.” She examines the way the sun plays off of the whorls of color before she stores the shell safely in the folds of her robe.

“Now … I must be off,” she says, bending to comb sand from one of Lyra’s curls. A cautious smile teases at her lips. “Show your lord father how well your pup can swim.”

With that, Thetis is replaced by a familiar gull. She gives Leon a last, goading chitter before flapping out over the waves.

Leon yips and barks at the bird, the terrible bird that replaced nice water lady, flying up into the sky. Lyra waves as her grandmother disappears. "Bye, Nona! Thanks for visiting!"

After Thetis is gone, Hermes crouches to look at his daughter, his smile warming into something more sincere. "Now, little bird. I can't stay long, but I want to hear all about your new friend."

---

At the mouth of the Styx, a little hut has been built a little way's away from where the prince and his father fight regularly. Smoke unfurls from the chimney, and there's the distinct smell of clay and earthy loam that lingers on it. And outside on a stump, two old titans argue.

"You're not using that, it's not an option!" Prometheus says, waving his cane for emphasis. His brother, Epimetheus, is holding a bright red poppy flower.

"Why not? He's dead, he doesn't need to breathe anymore!"

"You can't be happy if you're unconscious!"

"Bah, he'd only be unconscious sometimes, hardly any different from being dead normally."

Side by side, it's somewhat clear that the two are twins, but their differing experiences have made them look very different. Where Prometheus is withered with knobbly joints, a large scar, and salt and pepper hair, Epimetheus looks like he consciously decided to stop caring for his appearance one day. His hair, tangled with vines and streaks of mud and dirt, sticks out in all directions. His eyes are too wide, showing a ring of white around his irises that give him a permanently maddened look, and his hands and skin and clothes are carelessly stained with green and brown and bright flowery pigments. His fingers are stained black, almost like the tips are dead, but they're well able to gesticulate at his brother. The smell of mushrooms and sap and fresh wood lingers on him, like he'd been taking a nap in the woods for a few years and only woke up today.

Despite the many long years of having his liver eaten, Prometheus looks the more put together of the two. And the more well socialized.

Thetis, still a gull, wheels above in search of her son. First, she spies the smoke, the shape of the hut, and she doesn't need to see the titans to feel their divine stature. They're as present to her senses as an elephant might be to a rabbit, and she's about as uncertain about them. She continues soaring pensively.

Thetis knows very little about Prometheus, given his long imprisonment. What she does know is that he is (was?) no friend of Zeus, which is a point in his favor. He's also kind to lesser creatures, which can't be said of many gods. Epimetheus is equally mysterious, but a bit more worrisome in his carelessness and eccentricity.

She continues to observe as her son appears at the edge of the Underworld, in step with Patroclus. Achilles' hair is still a bit tousled from sleep and Pat cradles a stack of paper under one arm. The two shades stop at a polite distance from the argument.

"Apologies, my lords. Is this a bad time?" Achilles asks gently.

Epimetheus perks, sniffing the air like an animal, eyes darting to fix upon the gull. He doesn't say anything, eyes following it in the sky, darting, before losing interest and looking back to his flower. If he realizes another god is among them, he doesn't care to point it out.

"No, no, not a bad time at all," Prometheus says, voice warming as he gestures the men closer with his cane. "My brother and I are just bickering. Like no time passed."

Epimetheus doesn't look at the men, but he thrusts the red poppy in their direction. "For pain. It can be used for pain of the mind and body."

"Very dangerously," Prometheus adds, voice going back to the vaguely annoyed tone of a perennial sibling fight.

"Everything I make is dangerous at the wrong dose." Epimetheus gestures the flower at Achilles. "You. My brother said your son's head hurts because of a brain injury. I have moldy rye for him."

"Epimetheus, it'll make him hallucinate," Prometheus says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And it could give him gangrene."

"But it'll make the pain go away. Grandson of a god, warrior, his heart is probably in good health, good circulation, it won't give him gangrene," Epimetheus says, still waving his flower in Achilles' direction and still not actually looking at him.

"A pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Epimetheus," Achilles says kindly. There's a vague family resemblance underneath Epimetheus' disheveled features, particularly when Achilles compares it to his memory of Prometheus when the titan was freshly released from the mountain.

But he sighs at the dubious remedy. "I appreciate your suggestion, but my son presently suffers from greater problems than the pain in his head."

Thetis takes that as her cue, and stoops down from the sky, assuming her goddess' form as soon as she touches the earth. For a moment her flowing himation has the lingering sheen of grey and white feathers before it settles into a shifting lace of sea foam. "Lord Hermes tells me he was taken by the Morrigan. He thought you might have some ideas about her motives, Lord Prometheus."

Achilles relaxes at the sight of his mother, assured that Hermes delivered his request. Patroclus, meanwhile, looks decidedly on edge. He's warmed to the presence of a surprising number of gods since his death, but Thetis still isn't one of them.

Neither titan exhibit any surprise as the goddess appears before them. Prometheus leans forward, squinting at her a moment, before it seems he realizes she's a minor goddess and therefore infinitely less interesting than his humans and not really worth a proper greeting.

The message she bears is interesting, however. "The lad's been taken?"

"That's not a problem," Epimetheus says, still looking at the ground. "She takes good care of her collections. Pampers them, they say."

"It's a problem if he didn't want to go," Prometheus says, waving off his brother again. He looks to Achilles, frowning, and keeping his focus mainly on the two humans in front of him. "I don't know if I could tell you why she does anything. I haven't seen her in a long time."

"We've known her far longer than you were gone," Epimetheus says, turning his poppy flower in his hands. "As much as anyone could know her."

"Ach." Prometheus crosses his arms, furrowing his brow in thought. "I'm just not sure. Maybe there's some prophecy to be fulfilled or something. Do you have thoughts, Epimetheus?"

"Hmm." Epimetheus' eyes dart along the ground. He hums softly. "The humans call her a war goddess these days."

"War? I don't think that really fits her." Prometheus chews the inside of his cheek in thought. "Destruction or conflict, maybe. Not really war."

"She's always liked fighters," Epimetheus says. He keeps turning his flower, but his brow is furrowed. "Living creatures that struggle. She likes the flowers that bloom in snow. The birds that sing at night. Not much interest in things that only thrive when it's easy."

Thetis is accustomed to being dismissed by more powerful gods. She's grateful that the two Titans don't leer at her like a piece of meat, as many gods often do with nymphs. Her hands clasp primly at her waist, but her posture remains proud. "Indeed, Neoptolemus struggles, and he nearly matches my son in fighting skill."

Achilles nods and rubs his jaw pensively. "And he would not agree to be taken. He has a beloved son and a newly-wedded wife. He's deeply devoted and would never willingly leave his family unattended."

"She pampers her mortal captives ... but to what end?" Patroclus asks with a frown. He'll put this all to paper once this conversation is over. "Does she only collect and admire them like pets? Or does she have use for them?"

Prometheus looks to his brother, raising his brow. "Well? Seems you've kept in touch with her."

Epimetheus grunts, staring at the flower in his hand. "Not... pets. No, not pets. More like... a garden."

Epimetheus raises the flower, examining its petals. Half of it wilts, turning gray and drab. The other half blooms, red color brightening, striking, demanding attention.

"I think... it's like seeing a discarded exotic plant. Withering. It wasn't taken care of. Its stewards didn't care to learn how to take care of it. So she takes it instead, puts it in a place to thrive, coaxes the beauty out. You don't expect flowers to love you, or repay you, or serve any practical purpose. You just want to see them bloom."

Prometheus hums, furrowing his brow. "Come to think of it, she was always more interested in my creations than most of the others."

"She likes your tardigrades," Epimetheus says.

Prometheus huffs out a chuckle. "Right, can't believe I forgot that. She was fascinated forever over those."

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