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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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.

Pat takes the woman’s hand and scrutinizes her face. A fever, maybe. Or she’s been poisoned by the fae. Is this what would happen to Achilles if he managed to swallow those offerings?

“Come.” Pat gathers the cloak modestly around Kelly and loops an arm around her waist to help her up from the wet filth of the street. “Don’t fret. Let’s get you dry, my dear.”

Achilles pockets the stone. It revealed that this place is Hermes warned—a bit like Elysium, or maybe like the dream realm. He grimaces in sympathy and begins gathering what he assumes are Kelly’s discarded clothes.

Thetis feels the two other gods drawing nearer, thank the Fates. Achilles and Patroclus’ hearts are far too soft for her liking. “There’s no saving her.”

“She deserves a moment’s comfort, at least,” Achilles says, hushed and harsh. He knows his mother has little interest in mortals, but she could show a little tact.

As Patroclus examines Kelly closer, he may notice that her skin is unusually hot, but she doesn't seem to notice, and there's no sign of sweating or panting to cool herself down. It's feverish, but without the awareness of any discomfort associated with fevers.

The cloak around her is a different fabric than she's used to. Sturdier. Rougher. Warm. It scratches her bare skin. She feels the pressure of the man's arm around her waist. The scrape of asphalt on her knees and feet as she shakily stands. The asphalt is slick with the remains of rain, and a thin layer of oil, the build up of so much exhaust.

Neon lights shine on the puddles. There's still a party happening at the club, thrumming, but not with the same supernatural pull it had before. It's a memory now, enchanting in the mundane way parties are to young people.

The clothes Achilles picks up are clubbing clothes. A sequinned mini-dress, perfect for reflecting all the lights in the party. She must have undergarments somewhere, probably, but they're not with the dress.

Kelly turns, eyes still wide, and just rests her face in the crook of Patroclus' neck. There's no self-consciousness in the gesture, no sense of how inappropriate it might be to tuck herself so intimately against a strange man. She just wants to feel his skin, and her face is the most sensitive. He smells like loam and moss. Like secret lakes in underground caves. Like safety.

"The universe is so big," she mumbles. "I don't understand. It's so big."

The memory communicates what she can't. Kelly had been raised Catholic, religious observances held only in ostentatious or boring buildings, administered by boring old people, with a doctrine that never made any sense to her, where she was expected to tell all her secrets to a boring old man who'd judge her for them and say how she ought to punish herself. She stopped going to church as soon as she was out of her parents' house. But now for the first time, she's having a spiritual experience, and she doesn't know what to do but to tremble and weep at its enormity, at how unlike anything she imagined it ever was. The world has fallen out from under her feet, and now she grapples with the nothing she understands.

The memory bends. Gentler, this time, not quite so manipulatively. Just the wrist tethers tightening, enough space being created to allow more outsiders inside of this pocket of the world.

Edited 2025-04-20 05:55 (UTC)

Patroclus wonders what this woman was like before she became trapped here—when she wasn’t sick and lost and terrified. Does her family miss her? She reminds him of the countless women the Greeks enslaved as their geras. Who benefits from her misery?

He doesn’t balk at her closeness, but it does make him more aware of her worrying fever. This, combined with the intensity her awe, makes him worry she might be dying. When the familiar boundaries of his own mortal flesh were gone, the enormity of existence made itself terrifyingly obvious.

“It is,” he agrees soothingly. “It’s not something we’re made to understand.” Patroclus maneuvers Kelly under a bus shelter, if only to shield her from the oppressive vastness of the sky.

Achilles watches, the strange dress held loosely in his fist. His empathy heats into a simmering rage at this injustice. “What keeps her here?” he asks Thetis. “Is it here with us? Can you summon it?”

“No.” Thetis shakes her head sternly. She knows that righteous anger in her son’s voice. “This realm belongs to something far larger and more powerful than I am. Something that must not be trifled with.”

Kelly allows him to move her, grateful. She's not in the right mind to question a strange man caring for her, but she is in the right mind to appreciate the safety for what it is. And this man feels like safety. She slides her arms around his waist, giving him a tight hug, aware of his skin, aware of the sturdiness of his clothes. She clings to him, a thread of human connection to anchor her in the enormity of the universe. With how big everything is, suddenly that human connection seems so much more important, the only thing that serves to give meaning to the vastness.

"It's not what church said," she murmurs against his neck. "It's not at all like church said. Did we hurt the sky?"

The world twists just slightly... and then Hermes and Lugh emerge from nothingness. Hermes zips forward immediately, flitting between Patroclus and Achilles but mostly focusing on Achilles, his anxiety clear in the fact he can't seem to stop from flying and hovering.

"No one ate or drank anything, right? Nothing? At all? Even a little?"

Lugh, meanwhile, looks unbothered as he looks around. He touches his spear against the ground "Yes, apologies for wrecking all your hard work." This portion of the spiderweb knits back together. The club is alluring again. Your Friend is at the entrance, sucking on a lollipop as it stares reproachfully at Lugh.

"Oh, don't give me that. You'll have your fun, just not with these ones," Lugh says, waving off the glare Your Friend gives him.

Thetis matches Your Friend’s glare with one of her own, cold and dark as the deep abyss.

“No, I don’t think we hurt the sky.” Mortals didn’t, anyway. Pat keeps an arm around Kelly’s shoulders and allows her to keep clinging as long as she needs; there’s no telling when she might meet another human again. At least, one of sound mind an an ounce of empathy.

Achilles loosely catches Hermes’ wrist when he zips near. “No, magpie. We’re all safe,” Achilles says quickly, but his brow is still furrowed as he nods in Kelly’s direction. “But for this young woman.”

He leans in close and lowers his voice. “I know— I know you said we would encounter people like her. But … is there anything at all to be done?”

Hermes still hovers like a bee, too worked up to properly touch down, but he does stop zipping when Achilles catches his wrist. He leans in to listen to what his lover has to say, and glances over at the young woman clinging to Patroclus. His eyes soften.

"Oh, darling. She's not the worst off you may see." Hermes very much wants to keep Achilles and Patroclus from seeing the worst of the worst, but he can't guarantee it, and he can't pretend it's not there.

He forces his wings to stop fluttering, forcing his feet to touch the ground again.

"But I can make her more comfortable."

He presses a brief kiss to Achilles' fingers before letting his hand go, putting on a friendly smile as he approaches Patroclus and Kelly, all the gently friendliness one might hope for in a psychopomp.

"May I?" Hermes raises an inviting hand towards Kelly. She shifts her face a little, her cheek dragging on Patroclus' neck, staring at the incomprehensible. Just as she sees the sky for what it is, just as she sees the face of God, she sees the face of this one too. The dizzying abstractions, the vastness of connections and so many things she never thought hard on. Her breath quickens, her grip on Patroclus tightening.

Hermes' smile gentles. "I won't hurt you. I promise."

Achilles breathes his thanks as Hermes draws away. He wishes there was something he could do himself—would that he could take a blade to the creeping spider’s silk that binds these tiny prisons together and usher this woman to her freedom.

At his approach, Patroclus raises his focus from Kelly to Hermes. His eyes are flinty, but more protective than mistrustful. He knows Hermes’ capacities as a psychopomp, and maybe that’s what he intends? Some deep wounds and wasting illnesses simply can’t be mended. Living only guarantees more agony. Death is the only way she can know peace.

“He’s right. He won’t hurt you.” Pat sees how her eyes reel and he finds her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Look at me if it’s more comfortable.”

She turns her eyes back to Patroclus, nodding, breathing heavily and unblinking. Yes, yes, it's more comfortable to look at him. "I like you," she manages. He's nice. He's gentle. He's safe.

She lets her free hand go, holding it out to the dizzying whirl of abstractions beyond her, and Hermes takes it gently.

And then there's just a little... nudge.

It smears the entire memory. A touch of creeping curiosity. The seed of learning something new. The world is so big, how frightening shifts to how exciting.

Kelly loosens her grip on Patroclus. She turns her gaze up to the sky, and as her eyes widen, the trembling fear melts away into thrilling awe. Past the bloated scars of the sky, she sees the stars. Endless, beautiful stars, cradles of creation, so many stories that the world will end before she knows a fraction. And the stars are so much greater than any eyes, any scars, anything here on the ground.

She lets out a trembling breath. She sobs, but it's more of a laugh this time, her lips turning up into a smile as her eyes start to stream once more.

"Look. Look. Do you see?" She squeezes Patroclus' hand, pointing up at the sky, at the endless vastness beyond their tiny pinprick existence. "It's beautiful."

Hermes lets her go, smiling as he backs away. Yes, this memory should be much more comfortable for her now.

Patroclus is used to this—being the steady one. Achilles inspired people, but people came to Pat for comfort. Someone who would listen quietly, even if he came off as a little grumpy about it at times. Pat doesn’t hate it when he can help people like this woman, or Briseis, or even Zagreus.

He sees the shift in Kelly’s face and feels her body relax. Pat relaxes in kind, now that her pain and confusion is lifted … and Hermes’ mercy didn’t involve easing the woman into death.

“I see it. I do,” he confirms with a smile. He’s less enamored with the stars than she is, but pleased all the same. “Will you be alright now? My friends and I need to find someone we’ve lost.”

Kelly squeezes Patroclus' hand affectionately, like he's a lifelong friend. And he is, isn't he? This moment seems to stretch out infinitely, and he's standing by her during it.

"Who did you lose?"

A flicker of awareness. A shift. This is a memory Kelly has, but it wasn't the last thing she remembers from Before. After this night, she quit business school and took all the inheritance from her grandmother to find answers. The people who she would have dismissed as insane or quacks earlier in life told her that she had traces of Sybil in her, just enough divine blood to see Truth every once in a while. She hadn't believed them, really, and she went to Ireland to find answers. But that was long ago.

She tears her eyes from the stars. She looks at the man beside her. At his sad, get gentle eyes. So much kindness, borne of knowing pain. It almost makes her want to cry.

"Tell me. Maybe I can help you."

“His son.” Pat nods his head towards Achilles. “Neoptolemus … or Pyrrhus, to some.”

“Have you seen him?” Achilles eagerly chimes in. “He—” A pause, as he considers Kelly’s sequin dress, still limply glittering in his hand like fish scales. And about as wet.

Where or maybe when the woman is from is still beyond him. It’s a wonder they can understand one another, but maybe that’s an effect of this place. Or part of Lugh’s assistance. “Pyrrhus would have been dressed like us.“

“We’ve journeyed from Greece, if you know it?” Pat adds, taking his cloak pin to gently secure the cloth at her collar.

"Big name. Neo like the Matrix?" she says, allowing Patroclus to pin the cloak before leaning against him again, draping her arm around him. She can't seem to really stop touching him, not for any interest in him but because she's just so fixated on feeling. Why don't people pay more attention to touch? Human skin feels so nice. And so does cloth. Fabric. All sorts of things feel nice to touch.

But she turns her eyes to the stars. If Achilles and Patroclus pay close attention, they may notice that the stars look almost completely different than the ones they're used to in Greece.

"I know Greece. Went with my friends one summer. Don't know how they managed before cars--got out of breath just walking from the beach to that big temple everyone likes." The Parthenon. But the name quite escapes her right now. But oh, they're looking for someone, the pretty man's son, how sorry for him to go missing.

Kelly tips her eyes up to the stars. They swim. It's hard to tell if that's because they're actually moving, or the memory is from a woman not quite in her right mind.

"There's a blond man dressed like you. Curly hair like yours too," she mumbles, her words starting to slur as her eyes unfocus, still pointed at the sky. "He's part of the Wild Hunt."

Lugh, previously happy to just observe this exchange, perks suddenly. Hermes' feathers fluff in surprise before smoothing again. "It means the Morrígan keeps him in her hunting retinue. It foretells war when it appears in the mortal world," Hermes supplies, furrowing his brow. Oh, he doesn't want to think about the Morrígan picking him as one of her favorites. That means she'll drive a harder bargain.

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