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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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.

Prometheus hums in thought, furrowing his brow as he leans back and crosses his arms. Epimetheus scratches his beard, humming identically to his twin.

Hermes, on the other hand, crouches on his stump, eyes flashing. His knowledge is much more recent, much easier to summon. “Iron and a river stone with a natural hole worn through.”

“Ah yes! How could I forget?” Prometheus claps. “River stones allow you to see through illusions, and cold iron burns through fae flesh in an instant. They can’t stand to be even near the stuff.” He leans forward again, now smiling. “I can send my fish to find a stone that fits. My brother’s roots can find enough iron to give you both something to protect you.”

Achilles perks at this revelation. Weapons and physical wards are things he can understand and wield effectively, unlike carefully-chosen words.

This is what Patroclus was hoping—that it would put Achilles at ease—but … “This doesn’t grant you license to use iron against every one of these fae we meet, love. I doubt you’ll get Neoptolemus back by force.”

“I’m aware,” Achilles says with a soft huff. “I’m only comforted that we have means to defend ourselves if negotiations should go awry.”

“Then you won’t mind if I carry the iron, what with your worry for my safety. You can hold the stone,” Pat says decisively, then bows to the titans. “Thank you, my lords, for your help.”

“We have our plans, then. Pat and I will remain here at the ready.” As much as Achilles abhors the thought of waiting any longer. He paces a few agitated steps, then meets Hermes’ eyes, earnest and imploring. “Please be swift, magpie. I worry that Pyrrhus loses more of himself with each passing hour.”

Hermes leans his head against his caduceus, flashing both Achilles and Patroclus a pleading look. “Please don’t threaten them with the iron unless you absolutely must. This is how dangerous they are when you’re a passing curiosity. They’re much worse if they see you as an enemy. And they hold grudges like a rat with its last crumb.”

He stands, twirling his caduceus, and puts his game face back on. “I’ll work as quick as I can. We’ll take care of this together, darling.”

And then he’s gone, only a breeze marking his exit.

Epimetheus grunts, not even acknowledging Hermes’ exit. “No need to worry. It’s a place outside of time. No matter how much passes, he’s been there just a moment, and an eternity.”

“You’re not helping,” Prometheus says sharply to his twin. “Besides: time on this side of the honey road still matters to the boy’s family.”

Three days pass … which feels as nothing to both immortal gods and shades facing their eternities, but tasks are still addressed in Hermes’ absence.

Thetis visits Hephaestus’ forge first, where she explains her grandson’s family’s plight. Hephaestus supplies a canine automaton to defend Ophelia, Molossus, and anyone else who has pledged themselves loyal to Neoptolemus’ house.

This alone proves ample deterrent for would-be usurpers, but Thetis makes a show of the automaton’s delivery. She emerges from Epirus’ shore clad in the sea’s most terrifying trappings: all shark’s teeth, rending barnacles, and binding kelp, cold and dark and unforgiving. She makes her way through Epirus’ thoroughfare, confident and chilling as a natural disaster, Hephaestus’ guard dog at her side.

Thetis’ edges soften behind closed doors once she meets Ophelia, Molossus, and Lykos. These mortals are still strangers to Thetis, but they project a gentle honesty that puts her at ease. It reminds her of Achilles at his best. Thetis assures them that Neoptolemus is not gone and that efforts are underway to retrieve him.

But as with Lyra, she doesn’t linger long. She’s quick to return to her son, where she awaits Hermes’ return.

She finds Achilles and Patroclus both putting pen to parchment: Achilles expanding his codex to include what he’s learned of the Tuatha Dé Danann, and Patroclus recording information about a newly-minted creature called a ‘pangolin.’

Thetis settles by the two shades, observing their work before asking, “Lord Hermes has not yet returned?”

Of all the adults in Epirus, Ophelia is the only one who manages to keep her quietly dignified demeanor, and she asks the servants to greet and tend to Thetis as is due in the house of her grandson.

It’s only when Thetis reveals that Neoptolemus is alive and they’re going to bring him home does Ophelia’s composure crack. She sinks into her chair, holding her hand to her mouth as her tears overflow, and she asks in a soft voice that the goddess forgive her outburst, because she is so relieved she’s not a widow.

Molossus, being the young age he is, doesn’t understand the gravity of the situation. But he does understand he has a metal dog now. He spends the visit gently embracing it and petting its head, insisting its name is Fluffy.

Once Thetis returns to Achilles and Patroclus, there is a new little pangolin, still smelling of clay and fire, peering over Patroclus’ arm at what he writes. With its little shovel-like claws crossed, it looks like a nervous little man requesting Patroclus make him sound nice in the writing.

All this is disrupted as Hermes appears with the wind almost moments after Thetis asks her question. He shakes out his feathers like a bird that just left a dust bath.

“Sorry I’m late. Lugh tends to drag things out. But he’s waiting for us if we’re all ready to go.” Hermes pauses, looking down at the pangolin. “Well, hello there. Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Achilles blows the ink dry on his last penned lines about the fae’s weakness to cold iron. Who knows—Zagreus may encounter them someday if the Morrígan is confident enough to range so far south. “How is Epirus, mother?”

“It will be safe for a time. Hephaestus generously granted them one of his clever automata as a guard.” Barnacles still bristle along Thetis’ arms, hissing and popping softly. “Most mortals are baffled by it. Molossus thinks it’s a fine toy.”

Achilles nods his satisfaction. He folds the leather cover back around the codex’s parchment folios and stashes it away as he stands. “Then I am ready.”

Patroclus scratches the pangolin’s chin—one of the few places not entirely encased in scales. It makes him think of a soldier clad in armor. A perfect beast for battle, were it several times as large. He cleans up his own scribing work and adds, “All that remains is the stone and the cold iron.”

The pangolin half closes its eyes as its chin is scratched. It rubs its claws together, which almost looks like a pleased version of wringing one’s hands.

Hermes’ wing twitches as he looks towards Prometheus’ hut. Already, the door is swinging open. Prometheus walks out with his cane, grinning as he hobbles across the clearing and holds out his hand.

“Our roots and animals brought these.” In his palm, he holds a stone and a small, rough ingot of metal. The stone is much like any one could pluck from the edge of a river, save for the fact that an uneven hole has been worn through the middle. The ingot looks like the sort of thing a subpar blacksmith would use as raw material.

“Then we’re ready.” Hermes shakes his wings out before holding his arms out. “Everyone who’s coming with, hold on tight. We’re going north.”

Achilles politely hides his disappointment at the sight of Prometheus’ offering. He was expecting ‘cold iron’ to take a more threatening shape. A blade, at least, however crude. The stone looks equally mundane. Not even a unique color to suggest its properties.

Patroclus takes the items from the titan’s work-worn hand, pocketing the ingot for himself and handing Achilles the stone. He brings it level with his eye to test its properties, but there’s no apparent trickery to reveal. Or perhaps the stone is a trick unto itself; something to force Achilles to be more observant.

Either way, he stashes it in a pouch at his belt and loops an arm around each of his lovers’ waists. Thetis grips Hermes’ shoulder while Pat grudgingly takes his hand to complete the awkward configuration.

“Best to close your eyes for this, Pat,” Achilles warns.

Prometheus cheerfully waves them off. “Good luck!”

Hermes slings an arm around Achilles’ shoulders and squeezes Patroclus’ hand tight (ignoring, for a moment, how awkward it feels and how he has no one to blame but himself for Patroclus coming along in the first place), and then they’re off. A dizzying kaleidoscope of temperature and colors and smells and sound.

And then they’re somewhere new. They’re on the edge of a sharp drop into the ocean, but it’s far from the Aegean. The earth under their feet is covered with brilliant emerald green grass, and behind them aren’t the rolling mountains of Greece, but thick forests just as brightly colored as the grass.

And there’s a man here. Tall, wearing green cloth suited for a king, with brilliant red hair pulled back, and pointed ears. His arms are too long, hanging past his knees when loose at his side, and he leans on a spear with a mildly amused smile on his face. Of the Tuatha Dé so far, he’s probably the most human-appearing of them.

His eyes are human, but not quite. They most resemble the eyes that the onlooker trusts the most.

“Welcome, welcome to Ireland, lady and gentlemen. I understand I’m to escort you safely to and from some dangerous environs.” He nods politely, still smiling. It’s not the opaque smile or Hermes, but a small smile like he’s thought of something funny. “I am Lugh, your happy guide. I’m told that you’re eager to go, so I won’t take much time, but for your own safety, we’ll have to go over some things before we set off. Kindly listen closely.”

Pat closes his eyes right in time to feel a spinning vertigo. The sensation reminds him of falling through a dream, never hitting the ground. When he feels the chaos around him subside, his eyes fly open with a gasp as if suddenly waking.

Achilles is accustomed to this kind of divine travel. He steadies Pat’s weak-kneed stagger. “Apologies, love. Could have given you more forewarning.”

“Styx,” is all Pat can manage while cupping his forehead. Being outside the Underworld—outside of Greece—is a shock unto itself. It feels wrong, like the days he spent at Troy unmoored from his body while Achilles grieved.

“Take your time,” Achilles whispers, rubbing Pat’s shoulders, then turns to their guide. “Thank you, Lord Lugh.” His eyes consider the fae’s unusual traits and he pauses to spare a cautious glance at Hermes. “We’ve been told about the dangers we may encounter, but I’d prefer to hear you tell it.”

Hermes, for his part, seems as at ease as he can be before a dangerous operation. He stretches his wings before stretching his neck from one side to another, like an athlete warming up before a competition.

“Happy to do so,” Lugh says. He’s not nearly as fidgety as Hermes. He’s right in his element, and he speaks slowly and clearly so that anyone paying attention can hear what he has to say. He’s not trying to hide any balls here. “We’re going to the home of the fae. They’re as varied as fish in the sea. You’re wandering into their home, and as outsiders, you’re expected to be polite. You won’t be, because their etiquette is complex and completely unintuitive to anyone but them.”

Lugh shrugs like this is a given, because clearly he takes it as one. “You’ll offend them, and they’ll retaliate with little things like asking for your name, pulling your hair, or putting rocks in your shoes. I advise you just take that as the price of business and don’t react.”

The sun is getting low on the horizon. Lugh checks it offhand.

“I’ve promised to give you due warning of danger I foresee and advise you on safe conduct to the best of my ability. However, if you make a choice counter to or sans my advice that causes you harm, I am not responsible for the consequences.” Lugh makes a gesture with his hand, which comes off as unsettling and insect-like due to his long limb. “I’ve also been promised extra consideration if you’re successful in your quest, so I’ll take you to the river of knowledge before I deliver you to the queen. Maybe you’ll learn something to help your negotiations.”

Lugh takes a moment to look properly at each of his new charges, still appearing vaguely amused. “Fae will try to enchant you. Some do it out of malice, some do it because it’s their nature, and some because they believe it to be kind. We’ll tie enchanted knots connecting you all to either myself or Hermes so we can pull you from any illusions they may take you in. Questions so far?”

While Lugh speaks, Achilles fishes the stone from his pocket and holds it to his eye once more. He scrutinizes the verdant land around them and Lugh himself for illusions and trickery. “How does one know when an enchantment is upon him?”

If Pat weren’t on the verge of a sour mood, he’d find the sight of Achilles and his rock endearingly childish. But he still wears a half-wince as he already begins questioning the lengths he goes for his lover. “And are gods immune to such things?”

Thetis watches, calm but suspicious, eyes like an osprey. “Not wholly immune, but much less susceptible. Mortal senses are dull and easily confused.” About as easy as hypnotizing a chicken, but she keeps that thought to herself.

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