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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"Thanks. It's warm." Kelly smiles, then goes on her tiptoes to kiss Pat on the cheek. She leaves a red lipstick mark. Behind her, the club's music changes to a more upbeat tune.

Lugh gestures for everyone to follow him, and Kelly waves, holding the cloak cozy and close. "Bye! Good luck finding your son!"

Let's make the most of the night like we're gonna die young!

And then Lugh and Hermes pull them out of the memory. It's like slipping through a tight tunnel, out of a pocket and into the open air. Suddenly, there's no Kelly, no club, no music--just a fork in the woods. Woods that seem almost too vivid, like all the colors are more saturated than they ought to be, and the air is thick with a verdant smell. It's twilight, casting a moody glow over the sky, and at the three roads crossing each other, there are three humans facing away from each other.

One is a white-haired man with closely cropped hair and a bushy mustache wearing a tweed suit, sitting at a desk and typing noisily on a typewriter, a stack of freshly printed pages on one side and blank papers on the other.

The second is a young man wearing a red doublet with puffy sleeves and tights, long brown hair pulled in a loose ponytail as he delicately paints an illuminated page on a desk with an angled stand like an easel. His work station is covered in different inks and quills and a stack of parchment already illuminated.

The third is a woman with a half shaven head and bright blue and green hair, bobbing in a tight T-shirt and jeans as she works at a desk with incomprehensible contraptions.

All three people are affixed to the ground, roots and wood growing around their legs until they're half tree and person, but they don't seem to mind, absorbed as they are in their work. The typist are swallowed up to the waist by the tree, but the woman is only swallowed to the calves, moving and bobbing at her work station.

"The land has a way of changing where things are," Lugh says as way of explanation. "So it's always best to consult those who live at crossroads before making your way to a goal."

Pat isn’t used to the idea of kisses leaving lipstick, so that will definitely stay on his cheek, entirely unnoticed, until Achilles can’t stand it anymore.

The mortal Greeks and Thetis are all relieved to leave the thump of bass and the smell of wet pavement behind. The forest is more to their liking, even with its garish palette.

First, Achilles takes in each of the three humans through the hole in the river stone. The older man’s contraption reminds him of something out of Hephaestus’ workshop and the woman looks like she would be more at home in the memory they just left behind. The man at the desk is the only one performing a task Achilles recognizes, even if he’s still dressed strangely.

This is reason enough to address the scribe first. He pockets the stone and steps up to the desk. “Forgive the interruption, my friend, but we could use your assistance.”

The river stone reveals a reality that's similar, but less polished than what's visible to the naked eye. The trees growing up their legs have torn through the flesh and bone. If they were to be separated, it could only be through amputation. Their bodies through the stone are withered, atrophied from an unknown amount off time without food or drink or movement, leaving them skeletal and wispy. All three are alive, but only because the land keeps them alive.

Tiny humanoid creatures, invisible to the naked eye, scurry across the humans' desks or bodies. One giggles as it pulls the pages of the typist's pages out of order. Another sits on its belly, kicking its legs in the air as it watches the artist paint. Yet another dangles playfully from the musician's hair, climbing it like rope.

The artist glances up from the page he's painting, putting a brush aside and picking one with a thinner tip. He delicately dips the bristles in a pot of vivid blue paint. "God bless you, stranger."

"Stop blessing people when they talk to you," the typist grunts impatiently, slamming away at his machine. "You sound like a fanatic."

"Oh mind your own business, he's not hurting anyone," the musician says, keeping her eyes on her work. "...But Andreas, it does make you sound a little pompous. Maybe hello instead?"

The artist--Andreas--sighs through his nose in the resigned way of someone who knows he's stuck with current company and has had this exchange many times. "How may I be of service, stranger?"

Hermes, for his part, is fascinated. He starts hovering, zipping between the different craftspeople, peering over their shoulders at their work, feathers fluffed with curious delight.

Blessings are a perfectly valid greeting to Achilles. The singular ‘god’ throws Achilles, but he’s not sure if he simply misheard.

“May the gods bless you as well, my friend,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back. Hermes’ sudden joy sets him at ease, even knowing what the stone revealed about the truth of the situation.

“I understand that this land is mutable … but we seek two things within it. The first is the river of knowledge, and the second is my son, who I’ve learned is among the Morrígan’s hunting party.” Achilles pauses, admiring Andreas’ work for a moment. He’s never seen text treated so lavishly. “Anything you—or your compatriots—know about either of those goals is greatly appreciated.”

The plural 'gods' throws Andreas for a moment, but the musician spares him from responding immediately.

"Oh, did they steal your son and replace him with a changeling?" The musician does her best to twist to face Achilles, or as well as she can with her feet fused to the ground. "You need to take the changeling and throw it into a fire. And do it fast, or else they'll cut your son's thumbs off and keep him as a pet."

"They only do that to babes and toddlers," the typist says, not even bothering with trying to turn to face anyone he's speaking to. "No one's bringing toddlers to a hunting party."

"How would I know?" The musician scowls at the typist's back, but it's the sort of scowl worn by someone used to this kind of friction. The banter has familiar equilibrium to it. "When I come from, no one hunts except weirdos who think it's fun to kill animals and put their heads on walls."

"They do hunt when I come from, and no one brings a child who is too small to know where they are," Andreas says patiently, readjusting himself as best he can to allow Achilles to see his work. It's always nice to have his art appreciated. "They'd scare the game crying, and who could hunt if they're thinking of cleaning and feeding them?"

"ANYWAY!" The musician shakes herself off, trying to remember the original question. "Yeah, the mouth of the river is down my road this time. You got a description of your son?"

Achilles watches the bickering unfold. He’s used to this sort of thing after standing guard at the house as long as he did. There was no end of arguments and ribbing among the various occupants. Who knows how long these three have been at it?

“My son looks rather like I do, with some small differences.” From what he’s seen so far, the Greek manner of dress should stick out like a sore thumb. Assuming the Morrígan hasn’t seen fit to give him a change of costume. “Neoptolemus is his name.”

Or at least the one the Morrígan has taken. He’s made it a point to avoid using “Pyrrhus” now that he knows it might give them some small leverage. Better it’s not spoken where fae ears can hear it.

While Achilles engages the three humans, Patroclus idly fiddles with Kelly’s gift. He manages to turn out the corkscrew and puzzles over what kind of use it might serve.

"I don't believe we've seen him, then. I'm sorry, stranger," Andreas says, seeming sincerely regretful they can't help more.

"No, no pretty blonde men in togas besides you." The musician leans, looking at Lugh, who's content to just observe and smile as the exchange takes place. "But looks like you got good company to find him!"

Her eyes drift, about to look back at her desk, when she spots Patroclus fiddling. It's hard to miss the vivid red of the utility knife in his hands. "Is that a Swiss Army knife? Where did you get that?"

Who's going around giving Swiss Army knives to men from toga times? That seems like a bad idea. Maybe? Well, hopefully it turns out okay. She should probably explain to him how it works so he doesn't cut himself and get some terrible Roman infection that kills him before he's forty. She gestures Patroclus closer so she can do so.

"Neoptolemus." The typist pauses his work, bushy brow furrowed as he stares at the paper in front of him. "Interesting name. 'New war.'" The typist finally turns from his work stiffly, peering at Achilles skeptically from the corner of his eye. He wears a pair of spectacles perched on his nose, and he adjusts so he can see Achilles through them. "I suppose that was intentional on your part?"

Swiss Army knife. Right. That’s the idea that only half-formed in the eternal afterimage of Apollo’s burning insight. The madness from that really has a long tail; like Pat is doomed to half-remember a million different things for eternity.

“A woman gave it to me. We found her in another place … One I can’t begin to describe.” Patroclus steps closer to the musician and offers the trinket for her inspection. The lipstick is still a bright red on his cheek, lending some credence to his story. “She said it might be useful.”

Meanwhile, Achilles gives a soft, disappointed ah when the humans admit to no knowledge of his son. Well. Kelly’s lead is still a good one, and they know the way to the river.

His expression turns bitter as he shifts his attention to the typist. “I didn’t— I don’t call him by that name. It was suggested by my former tutor, and it took hold.”

The musician looks at Patroclus' chest and waist, where there's the unmistakable glimmer of rubbed off body glitter. She's no history buff, but she's pretty sure they didn't have body glitter in Rome. She gives an amused smile. "Wherever you were seems like a party." She looks at his cheek, where the unmistakable kiss mark sits. "I can tell that lady liked you a lot."

She takes the knife from his hand, turning it to show the little divots on the side where one can pinch each attachment. "It's a multi-tool. You can unfold a bunch of things from it and each has its own use." She pulls each attachment out one by one. "Here's a knife, a wood saw, pliers, a metal file, scissors... oh hey, a magnifying glass, I bet they haven't invented that yet where you came from."

As she unfolds the magnifying glass, engraved around the edge are the words, To Kelly with love, from Dad. The musician ignores it as she levels the magnifying glass to look at the edge of her desk, highlighting all the little details of the woodgrain. "See? It makes little things look bigger."

Hermes is tempted to hover over this fascinating demonstration, but Achilles' change in mood pings him. He hovers closer, not reaching out or intervening yet, but keeping a careful eye. He doesn't want his lover to deal with more upset on top of everything.

The typist, for his part, arches a single bushy brow. "Seems you don't like the name. Didn't know there was ever a time when a tutor's chosen name held more authority than a father's."

Patroclus follows the musician’s eyes and grunts in surprise and embarrassment when he sees the sparkly dust Kelly left behind. He tries to brush it off, but he gets the sinking feeling that he’ll be finding bits of this on his clothes for weeks.

He quickly gives up on that and focuses on the musician’s demonstration, in awe of how perfect and delicate each of the tools is and how they fit together so smoothly. The impossibly tiny letters etched into the metal are familiar shapes, but he can’t understand the words they form. Maybe some kind of blessing?

He holds a glittery index finger under the magnifying glass, enchanted by its effect. “What about the curly one? What use is it?”

Like Hermes, Pat still keeps one eye on Achilles. The typist is clearly prodding some sore spots.

“My son was a newborn babe when I went off to war.” He shakes his head grimly. “I had little say in what men chose to call the lad when he took up arms after my death.”

Achilles twists the shell bracelet on his wrist. “Neoptolemus. The name has only brought him more suffering.”

The musician smiles at his clear awe and interest. This is one thing she does enjoy about being trapped at a crossroads like this. It's nice to show people from other times cool things from her own.

"The curly one is a corkscrew. Dunno how you deal with wine where you come from, but in my time, we keep it in these glass bottles with a narrow neck and a cork plugging them up, so you need something curly to drive into the cork and pull it out." The musician tugs Patroclus' hand gently, encouraging him to touch the blunt tip of the screw. "But they're good for untying knots. And a lot of these knives will have extra things that you can attach, so if something pops out while you're playing with it that isn't connected to anything, it's supposed to to be twisted onto your corkscrew."

She offers the Swiss Army knife back to Patroclus. "There's a bunch of things in there that's probably only intended to be used with stuff from my time, but I'm sure everything could be useful for you if you're creative. Just make sure to dry it off if it's wet and clean it up if it's dirty." The musician winks playfully. "If you see Kelly again, tell her she's right about it being useful."

She assumes, of course, that Patroclus knows the name of the woman who gave it to him already. It seems like a very meaningful gift to give before even exchanging names.

The typist scoffs. "So you left the boy when he was newborn, and by the time you died, he was old enough to go to war himself?" He twists as best as he can to face Achilles, face flinty. "What were you doing all that time? Having tea with the queen?"

"Hey, don't be an ass, Walter," the musician says, looking away from Patroclus to frown instead at the typist. "It's none of your business."

"Travel was much more difficult for those of us alive before machines could carry us," Andreas says, putting his brush aside to frown at Walter as well, or as best he can without twisting his body too much. "We couldn't just go back and forth if we were far apart. A man away at war could be gone for years before returning."

"Seems a stronger argument for staying with your family, then," Walter says, narrowing his eyes at Achilles. "Why are you here, if you're dead and gone to him already?"

"Walter, seriously?" the musician purses her lips before grimacing at Achilles and Patroclus. "Just ignore him. The river's down my end of the crossroads."

Kelly. The woman’s memory had whispers of that name, but it’s the first time Pat has heard it said aloud. He wonders how the musician knew this, but attributes it to her station at the crossroads. The three seem like some sort of oracles.

Pat nods his thanks and takes the knife back. He rubs his thumb over the bright red surface before placing it in his pocket with the iron ingot. Another tool in his arsenal.

But the old man with the annoying machine seems keen on pushing his lover’s buttons and it’s about time to intervene. As Achilles opens his mouth to respond, Pat grasps his hand and tugs him towards the musician’s road. “You don’t owe him any answers, Achilles. Let’s keep moving.”

Hermes is more than happy to usher Achilles onward with Patroclus, since nothing can be gained from having a fight with a half-man, half-tree. Walter grunts, looking back at his typewriter and pounding a few keys.

"I saw your son."

The musician and Andreas both pause, turning as best they can to frown at Walter. But as may be evident from how they twist, it's clear how he could see something that the other two don't.

The typist pushes the platen back in place over the typewriter, pulling his freshly typed page from it and laying it delicately on the pile besides him. "He was with Ember's gang."

Andreas and the musician react visibly to the name. Both cringe, the musician grimacing and Andreas making the sign of the cross over his body. Lugh, on the other hand, doesn't react at all, still smiling very slightly.

"If he's like the rest of them, the world is better off without him. And he's better off without the world." The typist takes a blank page and rolls it into the typewriter. "Go home."

“The world is not better off. His family needs him, and he needs his family.” Achilles breaks from Pat’s hold and returns to plant his hands on either side of the writer’s desk. He’s like an eagle being mobbed by a crow, proud and sharp but obviously ruffled.

Patroclus sighs and keeps close to Achilles, still ready to keep him from doing anything he’ll regret.

“What do you mean he’s with a gang? We were told he was among the Morrígan’s hunting party. Which is the truth?” Patroclus asks the writer in a more measured, if still mildly irritated tone. He’s not sure who is more credible: Kelly or this other trapped human. “How long ago did you see him? Where was he headed?”

Walter leans back in his seat, somehow managing to look down his nose at Achilles despite the hero towering above him.

"I'm sure you're very intimidating to your peers at home, but in my time, you're just petulant."

"Well, why don't you talk to us instead, then?" Hermes exudes easy charm as he crouches by the desk. He smiles, fluffing up his feathers. As he does so, he rests a hand on Achilles', trying to ground his lover before he reacts. "What was this about a gang? We'll be out of your hair in due course, just want a few directions first."

"Ember's band is part of the queen's hunting retinue," Andreas says softly. He's twisted uncomfortably to look at them, but he's doing his best. "The hunt is large enough that there are many bands within it. The queen will summon and dismiss her retinue at will, and they'll break into their own parties. Ember is the leader of one of them."

"They're the most dangerous," the musician says. When previously she was bubbly, now she's dead serious. "Not bullies, exactly. Or the most combative. But the most dangerous."

"The time I saw him is irrelevant." The typist leans forward to start working again. "Time doesn't pass in this place as it does elsewhere. He may not have even experienced this road yet. Oh perhaps it feels like he was here centuries ago. Regardless, no one could tell you exactly where he is in a given moment, least of all himself."

Petulant. Achilles inhales sharply, almost bull-like. The nerve of this stranger. “And you sit here and cast judgment upon—”

“Achilles,” Pat whispers harshly. “Be calm.”

“Why?” Achilles still glares cold daggers at the typist. “He has nothing of value to add. The other two are far more gracious and helpful.” A shame the scribe and the musician are trapped here with such a bitter old man.

“What does Ember’s band do when not serving the Morrígan?” Pat asks quickly, trying to steer them back on track, away from Achilles’ rage. “And why are they interested in recruiting Neoptolemus? Because he’s a strong warrior?”

Hermes, rather than saying anything, just squeezes Achilles' hand. A little tighter than normal. Don't rise to the bait.

The typist lets out a bitter laugh. "A strong warrior? No one needs those anymore."

"They have guns." The musician frowns, nibbling her lip as she tries to think of how to explain it. "They're these metal weapons that kill people from a distance. A lot of them are small enough to hide in a pocket, and most don't really need any effort to use."

"Horrible things." Andreas draws himself up, frowning. Of all the topics of conversation, this one clearly gets under his skin the most. "They use tiny explosions to propel lead faster than the eye can see. They kill people so fast they don't have a chance to hear the sound of the explosion before they're mortally wounded."

"Your kind, warriors born into warrior classes with spears in your hands and groomed for battle and conquest from birth..." Walter makes a dismissive gesture towards Achilles. "Obsolete. A toddler can kill a grown man with a gun carelessly left in their reach. And many have, to terrible effect. No, no, Ember didn't take your son in because he can hit things hard."

"She probably took him in because she likes him." The musician shrugs helplessly. "And she probably likes him because they have something in common. Don't really want to think of what, though. I don't know anything about her besides she's terrifying."

Guns. Those were a primary feature of Apollo’s maddening visions. Patroclus remembers the field of Troy twisting itself into prophecies of new horror: the Greeks and Trojans became filthy men huddled in trenches exchanging hot slugs of lead, choking on gas and buried by explosions. The walls of Troy became the bomb-blasted ruins of cities. With a gun in hand, every man, woman, or child became a god of death and destruction. No divine blood needed.

“Mortal weapons are no threat to shades and gods,” Thetis says with a confidence that matches her son’s.

“But Neoptolemus is still a mortal. He can still die to these guns,” Achilles reminds her.

“Ember has no claim to him. Only the Morrígan does. We should keep to the plan and negotiate with the goddess herself,” Patroclus says, glancing at Hermes for confirmation. His eyes have the distinct look of a man haunted by prophecy.

When Thetis speaks, Walter scoffs a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he starts typing once more. Andreas and the musician cringe and grimace, glancing at each other. But none say anything outright.

"Patroclus is right. The Morrígan is the only one whose word matters." Hermes straightens, keeping a grip on Achilles' hand and tugging him towards the musician's road. Without thinking, he lightly touches Patroclus' back, a guiding hand to gently pull him out of the familiar haunting and towards the path. "We should get moving. Think of what you want to ask the river."

Lugh bows his head towards the artists, smiling. "Thank you for your guidance, wayfinders. We'll away now."

"Good luck finding your son," the musician says, giving a weak wave.

"Godspeed," Andreas wishes them, still looking troubled.

Patroclus didn’t expect to encounter this particular challenge during their journey. In the Underworld, there’s little to remind him of the maddening visions that preceded his death. Here people talk about things, ideas—both benign and terrible—that didn’t exist in Greece. Or rather, not yet.

He flinches instinctively at Hermes’ touch, but the cold dread in his gut disappears, replaced by fresh resolve to continue their journey. His feet feel lighter as they move along the musician’s road.

As he follows Hermes, Achilles’ simmering fury pauses long enough to give the musician and Andreas his own distracted thanks.

Once they’ve left the crossroads behind and they’ve all fallen in step, Achilles turns to Lugh. “What do you know about this ‘Ember’? And the ‘guns’ she wields?”

Hermes notices the kiss mark on Patroclus' cheek. He briefly considers just letting it sit there, but that seems petty, and he's trying not to be petty. Hermes shakes a cloth handkerchief out of nothing, offering it to Patroclus as they walk.

"It seems that the woman at the party was wearing something on her lips," he says by way of explanation, gesturing to his own cheek with a small smile. Despite his own feelings about Pat, he thinks that the man did very well by the poor woman, and he thinks it's sweet how grateful she was.

Lugh, meanwhile, rubs his chin at Achilles' question, humming softly. "I don't spend much time with the mortals here, so I wouldn't say I know much about her. But I understand that she died an old woman in a profession men usually die young, and that makes her formidable."

He smiles at Achilles, but it's an opaque one, similar to Hermes' when he's being professional. "As for guns... humans come up with all sorts of ways to more efficiently kill each other, given enough time. Guns aren't the most devastating weapons humans can make, but they suit the purpose of killing a person across the room in a blink perfectly well. Or across a field, if you have the right kind. They're not invulnerable, but they might as well be if you fight them with a spear. So I don't recommend picking fights with people who have them."

In the air, there's a scent that cuts through the verdant greenery of the land. It's crisp and cold, the smell of winter and mountains. Achilles might recognize it from Valhalla.

Patroclus’ brow furrows in surprise, but he takes the handkerchief and the hint. A little scrubbing and he examines the vivid red smear left on the pristine white cloth. He might have mistaken it for blood if Hermes hadn’t explained it.

Pat gives Hermes a quiet thank you and awkwardly offers the soiled kerchief back. Ironically, Hermes has been more attentive than Achilles on this quest.

But it makes sense. It’s a familiar situation. Achilles is once again embroiled in his own emotions and driven by stubborn purpose.

“Such a weapon must remove all skill and honor from battle,” Achilles huffs. Bows were already toeing the line of cowardice, but at least a man needed to draw and aim a bow with strength and mastery. “If Ember relies on such a thing, I doubt she can be so formidable …”

He trails off as the air shifts and his skin prickles with memories of danger. How far have they traveled? Was Valhalla already another stop on the honey road?

Hermes takes the kerchief back with a small amused smile, shaking it into nothingness again. But the smile drops, wings pinning against his head when the crisp mountain air cuts through the forest.

He catches himself, taking a deep breath and putting an opaque smile on again before looking to Lugh. "Tell me that isn't what I think it is."

Lugh has his own mildly amused smile as he looks to Hermes. "You didn't expect we'd just leave the body in a corner somewhere just because Odin took the head, did you?"

And then the trees part, revealing the mouth of the river of knowledge. The hulking headless body of a god is held in place by an old tree growing around it, the stump of its neck bowed forward. From the wound pours clear water, pooling at the feet of the body and roots of the tree, then forming a river that flows through the forest. The water smells of crisp mountain air, smells of a pantheon of gods far, far away from this place.

"Allow me to introduce you to Mimir, the god of knowledge in the far north." Lugh gestures to the body with a little bow. "Or most of him, at least. If his head were here, he could give you counsel on the best kinds of questions to ask, but I'm afraid we must work with what we have."

It takes both Achilles and Patroclus a moment to process what they’re seeing. Both of the mortals wince. Thetis looks unperturbed; she’s used to divine brutality and the remains thereof. The bodies of gods persist in all manner of strange states. It’s less of a corpse than a feature of the land.

“I have met Lord Mimir in Odin’s court,” Achilles says with a touch of grim reverence. And Patroclus, of course, heard the story in full and was vindicated to learn that the northern gods are every bit as brutish as their own.

“We can ask anything?” Pat approaches the water’s edge, surprised by its clear freshness given the gruesome source. “We will need to know about the Morrígan, and how best to negotiate. What can we offer of value?”

Hermes pins his wings. He gives a small nod of respect towards the body, then clasps his hands behind his back to smile at Lugh as he explains.

"You can ask anything at all. I don't recommend you do, though." Lugh crouches at the edge of the river, using his spear to gently stir up the water. The ripples from his spear bend the space oddly. Like the water no longer shows the river bed, but the trail of stars across the night sky in stunning detail. But the effect is gone as the water returns to its own undisturbed current. "Mimir's knowledge is great, and he's always been a generous sort to mortals because they're incapable of asking for any significant amount of his wisdom. You won't have to give him anything, so long as you don't ask a question beyond your ability. But if you ask too large or broad a question, it will give you that information even if it destroys your mind, and it will seize whatever price it sees fit."

Lugh looks at Patroclus and Achilles. For once, he's not smiling. His face is dead serious. "Listen well: I recommend you form your question based on who, what, where, how, or why. Then make sure to think of it narrowly, like 'how can we best negotiate the freedom of Neoptolemus from the Morrígan', not 'how can one best negotiate with the Morrígan.' If Mimir's head were here, he would coach you on how best to ask for the knowledge you seek, but all we have is his power and the remains of a generous spirit. And it will be generous to your doom if you're not careful."

Lugh looks to Thetis and Hermes. "And I don't advise either of you try, either. The river can get... temperamental when gods try to take knowledge. I'm not sure if it's part of Mimir's influence or that we grab at more information than mortals do."

He looks back to the mortals, still not smiling. “When you know your question, drink from the river and ask.”

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Not me forgetting about Exagryph …

Pffff Well it's different when it's used by gods

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