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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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.

"Keep your wits about you, everyone." Hermes, rather than walking, flies over the honey road. He makes it look casual, but Achilles may recognize Hermes' typical need to burn off energy when he's nervous. "The road is shorter than you expect."

The road of light crosses over the sea. They're still walking as the sun sets, and the road fades below them, perhaps ready to collapse--

BUM BUM BEE BUM BUM BEE BUM BUM

The club is in full swing when ~~À̵̼c̵̝͠h̴͈͊í̶͍l̵̡̚l̷͍̃e̶̦̕s̶̲͑~~ and ~~Ṗ̴̱a̵̭̋t̷̥̅ṛ̴̎o̶̻͐c̵͔̿ĺ̵͖u̸̜̍s̵̼̈́~~ arrive. Techno music blares louder than thought, base vibrating the floor. The air smells like sweat and too-sweet booze. Strobe lights flash as multicolored stage lights turn the walls and sticky ground into a kaleidescope. People are already dancing in the cages, swinging glow sticks, LEDs blinking on their clothes.

"Heyyyyyy so glad you could make it!!" Your Friend greets them at the door. Your Friend has UV glowing hair extensions and lipstick and eyeshadow that glows sparkly radioactive green. Your Friend gestures to the dance floor, where All Your Friends are dancing, ecstatic and already starting the party without you.

"Come join us!!" Your Friend holds out two hands with two cheerfully colored stamped pills. Ecstasy in pill form, guaranteed to make everyone Your Best Friend. Go on and take it, you want to join All Your Friends, right?

T̴̥̉h̶̠́è̶͕t̷͑ͅis isn't quite put in the middle of the scene in the same way. If she really thinks about it, she might notice the world around her deliberately separating her from everyone else. But that's okay, because she's in the bathroom, holding back one of her Girl Friend's hair as she throws up. The drunk girl that appears in every club bathroom is perched on the sink, shouting advice as she digs in her purse. "Oh, I got some ginger, and some crackers, she needs carbs."

This is unlike anything Achilles or Patroclus have ever seen or heard in their Bronze Age lives, but it’s not the least bit concerning. It’s just a little Dionysian revelry, right? That transcends all eras!

And this is exactly where they were headed … wasn’t it?

But wait … why is that a question? Patroclus stops mid-stride and begins pulling on that anxious thread. Achilles keeps moving forward to pinch one of the offered pills between his fingers. (It’s only polite … and this friend is so nice.)

Ignorance buys him some time, though; Achilles doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with the little smiley-faced pill, so he holds it in his fist. “Thank you for the gift!” he shouts over the music. “Very kind of you!”

Patroclus loops his arm through Achilles’ elbow and drags him close. “We came here with someone else, didn’t we?”

“Our friends! They’re already here,” Achilles says with a wave. It’s been a while since he’s had so many people excited to see him. He missed this!

“No, not them. There was someone else. Did we lose them?” Pat insists, wracking his memory.

Back in the bathroom, Thetis slowly scans her surroundings with no visible surprise. She immediately senses something, like a blindfold drawn over her eyes, gauzy and transparent and somewhat ineffectual. She feels a surge of irritation at this. Thetis doesn’t like being toyed with.

She abruptly drops the first woman’s hair and gives the second a withering glare. “I’m no fool,” she hisses before pushing past toward the door.

Your Friend waves at a bartender. They pass over two glasses of bright blue drinks that smell like lemons and sugar, ice cubes bobbing at the top. Your Friend offers the glasses to ~~À̵̼c̵̝͠h̴͈͊í̶͍l̵̡̚l̷͍̃e̶̦̕s̶̲͑~~ and ~~Ṗ̴̱a̵̭̋t̷̥̅ṛ̴̎o̶̻͐c̵͔̿ĺ̵͖u̸̜̍s̵̼̈́~~. "You just need to swallow the pills and wash it down with this! Then the party can really start!" Your Friend shouts over the music. Put on your brake lights, you're in the city of wonder...

There's a sharp tug on Achilles' and Patroclus' wrists. Like someone yanking a rope to check the tension. Then the pressure grows. A smell that doesn't belong is in the air, a smell of adventure and the Grecian wind.

Meanwhile, at the bathroom, Girl Friend's forehead hits the toilet bowl and she yelps. The drunk girl jumps off the sink in alarm. "Did you just drop your friend in the shitter?" She rushes to Girl Friend, pulling her hair back and looking back at T̴̥̉h̶̠́è̶͕t̷͑ͅis. "That's not girl's girl behavior, bitch!"

At the door of the bathroom, a vast party floor is visible. Thetis is likely to feel and notice how the space twists in on itself to be bigger, artificially lengthening the distance between the bathroom and the front doors. This space isn't a creation of the land, but an imitation it has built, an imitation of something embedded in a mortal's memory. Most of the people here are humans themselves, completely convinced of the enchantment. The drunk girl in the bathroom is one of them. But many of the people here are Something Else.

Tiny fingers pull locks of Thetis' hair. If she looks to see, no one is there, and her hair is pulled again. There are high-pitched giggles. Girl's girl girl's girl she's not a girl's girl...

The land twists to add more distance between Thetis and the front door, bringing the stereos closer, spinning the bright lights on the floor in front of her. Play along it seems to be saying, demanding like a spoiled child who wants to play pretend. But the land can do far more damage than a tantrum if it's denied.

Thetis elbows her way through the crowd, disregarding all complaints and dirty looks. But she can’t ignore the land, and her annoyance gives way to a panicked anger. She can recognize the power underpinning this illusion, and she’s no match for it. Not alone.

Thetis knows how she got here, though, and she stops in the throng to bare her wrist. Using her own divine power, she finds the threads of the binding and gives them a tug. “Lugh, where are you?”

While Thetis tests her tether, elsewhere the drinks in Achilles’ and Pat’s hands slosh and spill over their own yanked wrists. Fresh, familiar air cuts through the smell of sweat and booze to clear the cloying haze around Pat’s senses. He drinks it in …

And then slaps a hand over Achilles’ drink to stop him bringing it to his mouth. “Achilles. Wait. How did we get here?”

“What do you mean?” Achilles frowns and gives a scoffing laugh, as if the question is absurd. “Our friends invited us, clearly.”

“No, no. I mean where were we before?” Pat can only draw a terrifying blank, as if the oppressive thrum of the bass rattled all of his memories loose.

“Pat, there’s no reason to be so out of sorts. Relax.” There’s a note of irritation in Achilles’ voice. So very like Patroclus to get worked up. He really needs this drink, he thinks, as he stubbornly raises the glass to his lips.

There's an answering tug on the other end of Thetis' tether. Someone pulling steadily, closing the distance between them. Don't panic, the binding seems to say, calm and gently amused. Just keep pulling.

The floor thrums with the bass in the music.

Watch out, you might just go under...

Your Friend waves À̵̼c̵̝͠h̴͈͊í̶͍l̵̡̚l̷͍̃e̶̦̕s̶̲͑ and Ṗ̴̱a̵̭̋t̷̥̅ṛ̴̎o̶̻͐c̵͔̿ĺ̵͖u̸̜̍s̵̼̈́ inside. "Yeah, relax. You can think inside. If you're not having too much fun!" Your Friend makes devil horns with its hands, giggling. Your Friend's glowing lipstick and eyeshadow makes for spots of strange faces in the strobe, like the only thing that's real without the lights on are its lips and eyes.

So if you must falter, be wise.

There's another sharp tug at both their wrists. Sharp enough to hurt. There's a sense of tearing, of glamour being ripped like gauze.

This is Kelly's memory. A night that changed the course of her life. The vagaries of the details, the soft edges that the land smoothed to make it easier to fit new people, melt away. The club snaps into its remembered shape, small and humid but brimming with light and music. Your Friend wasn't there, it was Sasha. Kelly took a tab of acid before arriving to the party, and Sasha gave her a hit of molly. All Your Friends weren't there. They're strangers. All of them, strangers.

Kelly is behind Achilles and Patroclus now, kneeling on the wet street. The world hums with her memory. The memory of how rough the asphalt was under her knees, how much she needed to feel the fine layer of oil on the puddles of the street, pulling off all her clothes so she could feel. And then looking up and seeing the corpse of the sky, and the face of God.

It's visible now in the memory. The open wounds and scars of the sky, the body of Ouranos laid bare to mortal eyes. And the eyes. Eyes. Eyes across the night, eyes in the condensation trails of planes, eyes on the buildings, on the ground, everywhere, everywhere, God is just eyes eyes eyes e̶̡͇͚͙̠̥̔̄̊̋̊̒̎͋y̷̛͚͔͕͔̋̂̆͊̊͆̄̀ë̸͕̻̻̘̱̘̱̳́͜s̷͈̞̩̝͚̯̬͖̯̗͈͈̟̖̀̄̋̌͗̌̎̆̇̔̈́͑͗͠͝ͅ e̵̢̢̛̹͖̳̩̋̽̄̈̃́̔̈́͗́͒̈́͐̆̉͑̈́͋͋̏̓̾͑̾̓̓̓͒̓̕͝͝͝y̸̛̛̮̜̺͙͖̻̻̏͊̔̈́̆̓̑̈́̽̆͗̏͋̃́̓̿͛͂͂̂̇̇̿̋̂̔̒͗͆̾̎̕͘ȩ̶̛̛̛͔̼̤͔̻̜̥̖̜͈̀̎̉͊͊̓̇̐͋̾̊̅͝͝͝s̴̤͍̘͔̦̰͇̖̳̿̒̎̀ ȩ̶̳̭̗̖̯̜̪̪̘̘͕̣̹͎̪͔͈͙̬̣̜̈́̂̒̌̊͒̅̾͆́̈̔̄̏̑̌̃̀̐̋̎̈́̑̈̍́̋̊͝͠͠y̷̡̧̧̧̛̛͙̥̗̺̺͕̹͇̩̣̜̹̣̰̞͉͉̬̱͎͒̽̔͐̔̀̐́̍̏͛̏͗̒̽̓̓̔͊̈́̂͊̄͐̇̉͑̚͘͘̕͘̕͠͝͠͠ͅͅe̶̢̢̛̖̳̦͚̦̘̯̩͉͚̖͔͚̟͔͍̖̞̞͇͖̥͙̻̗͓̭̜͔̪̻̳̪̼̳̠̽͒͑̈͂̿̌̐̈s̷̡̨̢̡̛̛͍̻̙͈͎̝͈̪̝͈͔͙͍̫̳̪͕̲̲̟̠̹͈̰̳̺͉͕̈́̾̍̈́̒̾̅͘̚̕͜͜͝

Kelly, naked and wet and incapable of feeling the cold, turns her face towards Achilles and Patroclus. Running mascara turn her tear tracks into macabre pantomime.

"I'm scared," she says softly, hugging herself.

Edited 2025-04-18 05:27 (UTC)

It’s like being torn from a dream into … well, another dream. Nightmare isn’t right, but the misery is oppressive. Achilles drops the cup and the pill as quickly as if they were venomous creatures clutched in his hands. Pat follows suit.

The weak plea turns them both around. Patroclus takes a few blinking moments to sort out his senses—what’s real, what’s false, what’s dangerous—before he comprehends the simple fact that this woman needs help. He unclasps his cloak and uses it to gingerly cover the woman’s nakedness. “Are you hurt? Can you stand?”

Achilles scans the surroundings, noting the all-too-familiar sky, then recalls the token in his pocket. He withdraws the river stone and holds it to his eye to perform the sweep again, lingering on Kelly.

“Leave the mortal be, Patroclus. There’s nothing to be done,” Thetis says from the club’s door. Silently, she continues to reel in the tether, leading Lugh back. “We need to find Lord Hermes and Lugh, then be on our way.”

Upon closer inspection, Kelly is trembling, and her pupils are blown so wide it almost makes her eyes black. She's hyper-aware of the feeling of cloth draping across her shoulders. Hyper-aware, too, of the slight dips and curves of Patroclus' veins and sinew as she rests a steadying hand on his wrist. This is her memory, and it sings with her impressions of the world right now. Touch is the strongest sense she has presently, magnified beyond normal mortal experience. The tip of her finger finds the divot between the two bones at Patroclus' wrist connecting to his hand. The familiarity of standard anatomy seems to steady her for a moment.

"The world is so much bigger than I thought," she says, voice soft. Her fear is mixed with awe and wonder, trembling before the things she sees. She sounds on the edge of sobbing. "It's so much bigger than either of us."

As Achilles sweeps the stone around, he'll see that the space around them isn't quite... all there. Simultaneously real and not, a layer of spiderweb built parallel to more and more layers of webbing, each one a delicately altered pocket of memory that was so vivid for the owner that it could serve as the foundation of an entire cage. Humans are trapped in each layer, and Kelly sits at the center of this one, still so very human in the hole of the stone. She has the strange, fragile quality of someone who isn't dead, but wouldn't likely last very long if released back to the land of the living either.

There's pressure on all three tethered wrists. It's trying to pull through each gauzy layer of webbing, through all the sticky memories and enchantment.

As if sensing it, Kelly clutches Patroclus' hand, eyes wide. "Please don't go," she begs.

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