refusetofight | For @messageforyou

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.

The river stone reveals no trickery in the environment. If Achilles sweeps the river stone past Hermes, he may glimpse something familiar—networks of connections, an orange hummingbird, the glow of adventure and competition—but Lugh similarly looks different. Rather than a man, he looks like a towering elk greater than any living deer, with antlers the size of two and a half men lying down made of light, shining like a crown upon his head. The light of his antlers almost resembles Apollo’s.

Lugh huffs a laugh through his nose, giving a playful nod towards Achilles. It looks like a human gesture without the stone, but with it, the elk is the one nodding his head. “Glad to see you already have a stone and you’re savvy enough to use it.”

He doesn’t seem at all concerned with Achilles gazing upon him through the stone, either.

“If you want to determine if you’re being enchanted or not… I recommend asking yourself if you remember how you got where you are.” Lugh’s smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “And ask yourself if you really recognize your surroundings, or if you just have the impression that you do.”

Lugh gives a shrug, glancing with his amused smile at the poor disoriented shade behind the blond. That one looks particularly vulnerable right now. “But some things, you will not resist even if you realize what is happening. Those are usually the fae that make you go mad with desire or fall in love.”

“I know which is which,” Hermes cuts in, nodding to both Achilles and Patroclus. “Just listen to me if I say to keep your eyes on the ground or plug your ears. They’re like sirens—they can’t ensnare you if you don’t give them a chance.”

Achilles is pleased to see the stone working as promised. Lugh’s true form is surprising, but not totally shocking; he knows often assume a deceptively mortal shape, and the elk is less dizzyingly abstract than Hermes’ true form. (In a way, it reminds him a bit of Chiron.)

For a moment, he considers letting Patroclus see, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm the poor man. Instead, Achilles only gives Pat a reassuring nod that the stone has revealed nothing concerning and returns it to his pocket.

Both shades have heard plenty about sirens—from Peleus, Orpheus, and Odysseus on various occasions. Seduction, at least, is more easily thwarted than a more insidious enchantment.

“And this river of knowledge will be of some help?” Pat idly finds the cold iron ingot in his pocket and worries it with his thumb. “Is it not better to spend as little time here as possible?”

“It’d certainly be safer to spend as little time there as possible, yes,” Lugh says with a nod. “And it’s safer not to partake in the river. It will grant you the answer to any question you ask, but that means asking too broad a question could break you with the vastness of the answer.”

Lugh gives a little shrug. Still, he smiles. “But you are going to negotiate with a force older than the earth and ask her for a gift, so any extra advantage you can get would probably be helpful.”

Lugh nods his head to Hermes. Hermes returns it. “After all, you’re all the ones who make the final call on these things. I can only advise what I think is best.”

“He’s correct,” Thetis says, breaking her silence. She may not know the Morrígan, but she’s asked favors of powerful gods before. She had to carefully frame her requests so as not to be ignored or rebuked by the likes of Zeus. “Arms and armor will be of no help in this endeavor. Knowledge will be your best defense.”

“Then if we must take a detour, let us be quick about it,” Patroclus grudgingly concedes.

“Indeed. Bind us with your tethers and lead on, Lord Lugh,” Achilles says with a bow of his head and a sweep of his arm. “And I will carefully consider my question for the river.”

Achilles remembers Hermes’ own “vastness” and how carefully he shared only small glimpses of it. Unlike Apollo who used knowledge and foresight to torment him—and Patroclus at the walls of Troy.

Lugh nods at the decision, reaching into the pocket of his rich green clothes. “As you wish. The final decision of how to proceed is, of course, always yours.”

He pulls out rope that doesn’t look quite like rope. It writhes green, as if alive, and it smells strongly verdant. Like a geas.

“Hermes, you take the humans and I’ll take Lady Nereid. You have more practice not accidentally ripping off mortal arms.”

Lugh tosses two of the ropes to Hermes. Hermes catches them in the air, their power mixing strangely with his, squirming against his hand like they’re not quite sure what to do. “Comes with psychopomp territory,” Hermes says lightly.

As Lugh approaches Thetis, Hermes lines up his right arm with Achilles’ left, the one bearing his ring, and looses a rope upon their wrists. The rope is soft, sturdy, and it seems to know what to do on its own.

It wraps itself like a snake around their wrists, conjoining them in a complex and oddly beautiful knot, the pattern such that it’s impossible to tell where the rope begins and where it ends. Then the rope seeps into their skin, leaving a greenish outline on the inside of both wrists, conjoined in spirit. Achilles might feel the lightest psychic tug on his wrist as Hermes steps back, humming in satisfaction.

“Good, good, that’ll hold.” He offers his left arm to Patroclus, holding the second rope still squirming in his hand.

Thetis allows Lugh to complete the same binding process on her wrist. She’s silent, although she projects a bristling, forbidding aura easily palpable to other divinity. Lugh needs to know she will not be taken advantage of.

Patroclus eyes the proceedings with his own overt skepticism. He was expecting a literal rope … not whatever this is. He also doesn’t enjoy watching Hermes bind himself to Achilles with such ceremony—the ring and Achilles’ easy willingness to participate doesn’t help matters.

And now Hermes expects him to consent to the same.

“There’s no harm in it,” Achilles says, raising his wrist for Pat to see … as if that was the issue at hand. “Like Lord Lugh said, it’s for our safety.”

Pat silently considers the alternatives: ask that he be bound to Lugh (absolutely not), or go without and risk being led astray. He tentatively steps next to Hermes. “This can be broken after?”

Lugh, for his part, seems a little amused at Thetis' bristling. After the binding ceremony is done, he gives her wrist a little pat. "Have no fear, my lady. I'm here purely on business."

And Lugh is not one to mix business and pleasure.

Hermes, meanwhile, has to swallow the urge to be snide and tell Patroclus he has no interest in being eternally bound to him either. No, Hermes, you don't need to be rude. You're the one who suggested that Patroclus come along, and the only thing that matters right now is saving Neoptolemus so Achilles doesn't have to stew in more guilt for eternity. And besides, you specifically suggested Patroclus to come along because he tends to be cautious and distrustful.

Instead, he smooths his feathers, consciously relaxing them against his head, and says, "It can be broken, don't worry. I just want to be able to save you if the fae draw you into something you can't leave by yourself."

Hermes offers his arm, spreading out his fingers. It's a conscious gesture, reminding Patroclus of the fact that Hermes once trusted his own salvation to him.

"Trust me, okay?" And now, asking for the same trust in turn.

Thetis appears wholly unconvinced by Lugh’s assurance. She immediately begins to feel out the binding’s composition and how easily it might be broken with her own power.

Patroclus hasn’t forgotten carving away frostbitten flesh to reveal Hermes’ golden heart. The sight will burn bright in Pat’s memory for the rest of his eternity.

He’s pulled form the thought by Achilles’ grip his upper arm, pleading.

Pat exhales and aligns his wrist with Hermes’. “I trust you,” he says haltingly, fighting every one of his instincts and every past experience with the gods.

The bond between Lugh and Thetis is like a mesh net, holding them together with complex knot work. It's the sword of thing that can be cut through, but it would take a moment to unravel until fully free once it's cut.

Hermes, for his part, hears how big that is for Patroclus. They have this in common, at least: trust doesn't come easy. It's almost humbling.

His aura warms, a piece of Greece in this verdant foreign land.

"Alright then, let's take care of this." He releases the rope upon their wrists, allowing it to tie its knot.

By now, the sun is halfway over the horizon. Its light draws a long glittering stripe of gold down the sea.

"And now we're ready to walk the honey road," Lugh says. He looks out to the sea, walking to the edge of the cliff, and steps off the rim.

But he doesn't drop. There's a strange bending in the air. Rather than falling into the water, he's standing on the light cast by the sun on the sea. He gestures with his spear for everyone to follow him. "Come along while the passage is open. We're walking towards the sun."

Gods, what have I agreed to? Pat thinks to himself, jaw set. As soon as the binding twists into place, he drifts back over to Achilles—for his own comfort as much as a reminder of why he’s here at all.

Thetis is the first to follow Lugh, if only to satisfy the tingling tug at her wrist. She peers at the sea rolling below and wishes she had dropped. The sea’s dangers are familiar, at least.

Achilles takes a cue from his mother and follows next, pausing a few steps along the lit path to turn back to Pat. He extends an inviting hand. “It’s not as if we can die again.”

“No. I suppose not,” Pat concedes, joining Achilles and tightly threading their fingers together.

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