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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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.

Words from wiser gods undermine the instinctive hubris that still lives deep in Achilles’ heart. He knows how his heroic pride takes hold of him like a madness.

Achilles’ jaw sets as he remembers: he’s not doing this for his own pride. He’s doing this for Pyrrhus and his family. To change the course of a bloodline doomed by absent fathers and misplaced priorities. Hubris is what robbed Pyrrhus of his family.

Achilles finds Patroclus’ hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze as he finally meets the concern in his dark eyes. He brings his knuckles to his lips. “I’ll take care. You have my word.”

And Pat relaxes. A little. There’s a visible shift from Achilles, proud hero of Troy, to Achilles, patient tutor and house guard. He’s always pleased to see the latter.

“Hold him to that promise, Hermes,” Pat says, not missing a beat. “Keep him safe. If not for me, then for Lyra.”

"Oh, I will. Even if I must sew his mouth shut to make it happen," Hermes says lightly with the barest lilt of dry humor. His caduceus appears in his hand, a mark of his station for company so mixed, and he twirls it in his hand. "Bad news: Lugh confirmed the Morrígan took Neoptolemus. Good news: he's willing to act as a guide. Bad news again: I have to negotiate a deal with him, which might take some time."

He lets the butt of his caduceus rest on the dirt. "Tuatha Dé. You always have to make sure all the fine details are accounted for before you make a deal." Which Hermes can respect as a professional. Their people are born tricky, and they see it as a matter of a failure of skill to properly account for tricks than it is a mark of integrity. "We should be able to work something out in a day or so. Maybe two at most. Gives Lady Thetis here time to make an appearance in Epirus and send a request to Lord Hephaestus."

At the mention of her, Hermes gives a polite bow of the head with a small, theatrical flourish. It's his usual buoyant but impersonal friendliness.

Prometheus gives Hermes a small nod of acknowledgement, which is more than he gives to most gods. This one has the benefit of being a nephew, and being one who seems to adore humans much as he does. But he turns his eyes back to Achilles.

"Ah, before I forget. Don't ask her to make eye contact. Even dead, I don't think your eyesight would come away intact."

"Covers her eyes to be kind," Epimetheus mumbles.

"I asked the three of her to uncover their eyes once, and I don't recommend it," Hermes says dryly. "Worse than staring directly at the sun."

Achilles gives an impatient hum at the delay. He imagines Pyrrhus enthralled by the Morrígan, forgetting more of himself with each passing hour. Even if they negotiate his return, will he be forever changed?

Thetis is quick to reassure her son in the way she can: “As Lord Hermes said, I’ll see to it that Epirus is secure in Neoptolemus’ absence. Mortals are easily intimidated.”

Patroclus knows that to be abundantly true. Thetis’ presence is as mutable as the sea: beautiful and serene or dark and turbulent. That’s one of the many gifts she passed on to her son.

This new warning about the Morrígan piques Achilles’ curiosity. He arches a brow at Hermes. “Why did you ask that of her? Is there anything to be gained by it? Or is it part of her trickery?”

Hermes twirls his caduceus, keeping his eyes opaque. “Diplomacy. It’s hard to get a read on her because she splits into three parts, and it’s more polite to ask for eye contact than for someone to shapeshift for your comfort.” And eyes are an easy way to get a sense of what someone is thinking. Not so with the Morrígan, though. “Her husband’s easier to read, but the Dagda doesn’t do politics and he’d rather spend his time stuffing you with food like an excited grandmother.”

Hermes’ wings fluff for a moment. “Ah, that’s another thing to think about. Don’t eat or drink anything fae give you. Other humans giving you food is fine, but fae food traps you in their land. Actually, just don’t interact with fae at all, let Lugh or me do the talking.”

Hermes would love to sit down and teach Achilles all the ins and outs of the fae’s Byzantine culture and etiquette, but it would take too long and he doesn’t think Achilles would be able to play along anyway. The fae prize cunning, and Achilles has none.

Hermes rocks on the balls of his feet, his opaque mask faltering for a moment as he frowns. “You’ll also probably see a lot of other humans in bad shape. You’ll want to help them. But you can’t if you want to come home intact with your son.”

Hermes doesn’t like how so many of the fae torment humans. They can be exceptionally cruel. But there’s no saving all of them, especially not when you have to prioritize one human or one’s own pantheon.

The more rules emerge, the more Patroclus begins to fret. Maybe Achilles will be angry enough to refuse food as a guest, but he has a strong sense of justice. If he sees vulnerable people tormented by these foreign gods …

“Hermes is right. You can’t save everyone, Achilles. Promise me you’ll abide by the rules and stay focused,” Pat says sternly.

“Do you take me for a child, Pat?” Achilles snaps, immediately regretting the indignant bite in his tone.

“No. I worry that you’ll care too deeply in an uncaring place.” Patroclus turns Achilles’ chin and repeats with more force: “Promise me.”

He’s forced to see the genuine concern in Patroclus’ eyes and his stubborn pride relaxes on a breath. If it wasn’t so dangerous, he’d ask Pat to come for this very reason. Achilles raises a hand to clasp the one now resting against his cheek. “You have my word, love.”

He kisses Pat’s palm before he turns to Hermes and Thetis in turn. “I’ll await your return here, Hermes. And mother, when you petition him, please extend my gratitude to Hephaestus.”

“Of course.” Thetis inclines her head in acknowledgement, then performs a similar gesture, this time in deference to the more powerful gods. “My lords. I must be off to Epirus.”

Epimetheus and Prometheus barely acknowledge her exit with a nod, but Hermes gives her a dramatic bow. “Until next we meet, Lady Thetis.”

He waits until she’s gone before he rests his caduceus against the ground. He doesn’t leave immediately, his opaque smile falling in a thoughtful frown.

“I can help you deal with the fae, but once you face the Morrígan, I can’t help you negotiate. I’m a representative of Olympus, and I’ll be taken as an extension of Athena no matter what I say. When you meet her, it’ll be without me.”

Which Hermes haaaaates. He can’t stand the idea of letting Achilles handle this on his own.

“Lady Thetis will come with you. But it might be helpful to also bring someone who can cool your temper and approach her with caution.” Suggesting that Patroclus accompany them without suggesting it. Hermes knows that if faced with a deal he doesn’t like, Achilles’ instinct will be to demand a better one and insult her for not giving it, and… “The Morrígan isn’t like Loki. I can’t beat her in a fight if you get in trouble.”

Not that Hermes wouldn’t try, but he recognizes when he’s outmatched and outclassed.

Thetis isn’t offended by the Titans’ disregard. Yes, as a nymph being ignored is one of the better outcomes in these scenarios. She takes to the air again, bound for Hephaestus’ workshop and Epirus.

Meanwhile, Achilles picks up on Hermes’ suggestion and his face hardens. “I won’t allow it. I won’t put Patroclus in danger again,” Achilles says vehemently.

“As it happens, you’ve no say in what I do,” Pat responds cooly. “I would sooner spend my eternity by your side enslaved to these fae than be stuck in Elysium alone.”

“Pat …” Achilles huffs before turning to petition his other lover. “Hermes. My mother is perfectly suited to advise me in these negotiations.”

Patroclus merely shakes his head. “Object all you like, Achilles. I’m going with you.”

“Frankly, darling, I think he’d be in less danger than you.” Hermes, still on his stump, perches his chin on the top of his caduceus, dropping his more businesslike manner and arching an eyebrow at Achilles. “Patroclus is cautious, distrustful of things with a track record of disregarding humans, and thinks about what he says before he says it.”

All things that are very useful when it comes to fae. And negotiating, honestly.

“Besides,” Hermes sighs, closing his eyes briefly. “I’ve never stood in the way of you making your decisions. I won’t stand in his, either.”

Prometheus rubs his beard, which is considerably more well kept than his brother’s. “You all should be safe, if you listen to Hermes and Lugh and exercise due caution. Fae can’t break their own rules, and the Morrígan is usually reasonable. At least, if she isn’t insulted first.”

Patroclus glances away, made self-conscious by the characterization. Hermes isn’t wrong, it’s only strange to be complimented(?) by Achilles’ other lover. “Hermes is right. You’ll be no better than a bull in a potter’s shop.”

Pat has half a mind to keep Achilles bound here and go in his stead, but that would drive him mad with worry. Or Achilles is likely to break free and find his way to the Tuatha Dé Danann by sheer force of will.

Achilles, for now, crosses his arms and frowns magnificently at being voted down by both of his lovers. “The both of you are impossible.”

“My lords,” Patroclus ignores Achilles’ sulking and turns to the titans, “A final question: is there any boon you can grant us? Some ward against fae trickery?” He hopes that Prometheus, at least, will want to see his new scribe safely returned.

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