refusetofight | For @messageforyou

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."

Achilles swallows hard at Epimethius’ description. Withering from lack of care. Both Patroclus and Thetis note this, well aware of Achilles’ pressing guilt.

“It doesn’t sound as if Neoptolemus is in immediate danger,” Patroclus offers hopefully, giving Achilles a gentle nudge. “We need not rush.”

“He may not be in danger, but in his absence, Pyrrhus’ family certainly is.” Achilles looks to Epimetheus, determined. “What would the Morrígan ask in exchange for my son’s return? Perhaps we can offer one of your creations, Lord Prometheus, if she’s so fond of them?”

He doubts a lesser creature is as valuable as a human life, but maybe has an exceptionally rare beast? Something new and novel he could shape into existence?

Edited 2025-03-24 04:24 (UTC)

"Nnm." Epimetheus grunts, drawing his flower closer to his chest. All the petals bloom once more. "No. She wants for nothing. There is nothing to give."

"Nothing physical," Prometheus cuts in before his brother's poor wording can upset poor Achilles too much. "It's always been the same thing when anyone wanted something from her. She'd give it to them if they pass a trial she sets."

"Fair. Always winnable. Never easy." Epimetheus places his flower to the ground. It grows roots, blooming there by the rock he sits on. "She doesn't test what it seems like she's testing. She tests where she thinks you're weak."

"I remember Coyote asked her for a boon, once. She told him to catch a butterfly she chose. He thought she wanted him to prove his speed and cleverness. Turns out he would have caught it easily if he'd just asked it politely to come to him, but she knew he was too rude to think of that and he failed to catch it." Prometheus gives a soft, amused and yet wistful huff at the memory. "The only way to win is to grow."

“I would overcome any trial she set for me, no matter how long it takes,” Achilles blurts. Challenges set by gods is what he was made for.

This confidence is worryingly familiar. Both Pat and Thetis know this is hubris speaking. Patroclus’ brow furrows. Thetis’ hands clasp tighter, knuckles white against white flesh.

“And if the test is failed? What is her penalty?” Patroclus asks, keeping his eyes fixed on the titans and carefully off of Achilles. “What happened to this ‘Coyote’?”

“I can’t fail him again. I won’t,” Achilles repeats, more adamant this time.

"Coyote was just publicly embarrassed," Prometheus says, brow furrowing. "But you may not get off so lightly."

"She could demand your name," Epimetheus says, staring at the ground. "That's how they do it there. Once you've given them your name, you forget all the life you had while you used it, and you're bound to obey them unless you can get your name back. Probably how she got your son. Asked for his name, and he gave it to her."

"She might not ask for anything. But she might ask for everything. It depends how much she likes Pyrrhus, and how well she takes a challenge to take him back."

"And on how much she likes you. Don't know if she'd like you or not," Epimetheus mumbles, scratching at his ratty beard. Bits of straw and dirt fall from it, but his clothes are already so dirty that it makes no difference. "Might like that you're accomplished. Might not like if it came too easy. Doesn't like it when people don't challenge themselves. Meaningfully."

The parchment in Patroclus’ arms rustles in his tightened grip. How many times has Achilles brazenly put himself in peril? By the Styx, how has Achilles managed to find so much peril as a shade? “Don’t go, Achilles. This isn’t worth the risk—”

But Pat immediately frowns, sighs, remembering that risk has never been a compelling argument. Achilles has never worried about his own wellbeing. Patroclus grasps Achilles’ arm and adds, “If you’re lost along with Neoptolemus, who will be left to protect his family? And what about Lyra? She needs you.”

“I’ll have assistance,” Achilles says tersely, only giving Pat a brief glance—as if looking at him too long might actually change his mind. “Hermes will help with the negotiations. He has a trusted ally, Lugh.”

“I don’t understand why you’re needed at all then,” Pat huffs.

In moments like these, Thetis has to concede that Patroclus isn’t a bad partner for her son. At least he has some sense. But she knows her son won’t be swayed—not when he’s driven by such deep regret. His face is as sternly set as a statue.

“If you insist upon going, I will join you,” Thetis says, every bit as decisive as her son. She has no sway with the Tuatha Dé Danann, but she can be another set of divine eyes. “My lords, what else should Achilles know about the Morrígan and her people?”

"Oh, Lugh, last I saw him he was just a lad," Prometheus says, eyebrows going up briefly as he's forced once more to contemplate how much time has passed, and how much he's missed. Not that he minds missing the progress of gods, really. He finds gods tedious much of the time.

"Competent trickster. Knows the ways of the fae." Epimetheus scratches his beard. "Hermes is clever. He'll strike a good deal with him."

Prometheus shakes his head before he can get too distracted. Right, yes, they've been asked a question. "The Tuatha Dé Danann live in Tír na nÓg. It's a place outside of time. The Morrígan created the void, and her husband, the Dagda, created the land within the void. It's a very disorienting place, and trying to go to or from there without a powerful escort is a recipe for finding yourself long away from the time you started."

"Like if Elysium and the land of dreams had a child with a mean sense of humor," Epimetheus mumbles.

"The people of Tír na nÓg are called the fae, or faeries," Prometheus continues, his voice changing from conversational to educational. It's like he's a teacher counseling his students. "They're like nymphs, but they're much more powerful and much more confined at the same time. They have to follow the rules that govern their kind. Breaking them is as impossible as a human sprouting wings. But they're very good at finding loopholes in the rules and will take liberal advantage if you don't know what the rules are."

"Can't lie," Epimetheus mumbles to the ground. "But very good at twisting words. Could say 'I can lie', knowing you'll think they're talking about mistruths when they mean lying on the ground."

"Their favorite trick is asking for your name." Prometheus gestures vaguely. "They'll say 'May I have your name?' And they mean that literally. They know you probably don't think it's literal, but it is. And if you say your name, you've given it to them, and you're enslaved."

"Harmless if you know all the rules. Helpful, even. Lugh would know them, maybe Hermes too," Epimetheus says to the ground. "But very dangerous if you don't know the rules."

Achilles has become well-accustomed to Elysium, and familiar enough with the world of dreams. Surely that’s prepared him for Tír na nÓg and if not … “I could ask for no better guide than Hermes. He knows both roads and trickery.”

He has half a mind to argue against Thetis’ help, but recognizes the determined set of her face as well as his own. She won’t be swayed by his objections.

“Promise me you’ll keep your mouth shut, Achilles,” Patroclus urges, hazarding a glance at Thetis for back-up. “The more you speak, the more words they have to twist against you.”

“There’s wisdom in that,” Thetis agrees cooly. She knows her son is too forthright, too trusting. He’s never had to be cautious. “Let Lord Hermes and I speak for you.”

Epimetheus nods his agreement, but he still stares at the ground. "Words are weapons there. Bear a weapon that you can't wield, and you've only given that weapon to the enemy."

Prometheus frowns. He's not really a fan of this plan, but he's not about to dismiss little Pyrrhus as unworthy of the risk. "Remember," he says, voice firming. "You are fast, and strong, and bold--so she will not give you any trial that tests that. She will test something you are weak with, especially if you don't realize the weakness. Think through whatever trial she offers carefully."

"She likes the flowers that bloom in snow," Epimetheus mumbles, half to himself. "If she puts snow upon a summer flower, it must learn to survive, even if it can't flourish. Doesn't like anything that only persists when it's easy."

There's a whiff of adventure on the air, a lightening of the world--and then Hermes is there, perched carefully on a stump, carefully a safe distance from the gaggle of shades and gods.

"Well, didn't expect so many people here," he says, his voice light and professional and unbothered. The voice he uses when he feels he must keep up some level of appearances.

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