refusetofight | For @messageforyou

For @messageforyou

Thetis wings slow circles above the shore in the shape of a humble gull. Of all the many shapes she could take, this is the most unremarkable to mortals. They’re a common nuisance, curious and daring.

This isn’t the first time Thetis has watched her unexpected granddaughter play on the shore. She’s been a seal, watching from the safety of the surf, a keen-eyed osprey roosting at the top of a tree. In animal shape, her emotions are no less turbulent.

The girl’s hair shines like flax in the sun as she delights in the waves and warm sand. Thetis might as well be watching a memory: those peaceful, lazy days with her son, bookended by the pain of his conception and the grief of his death.

Every time she visits, she promises herself that this will be the last. The same as she did with Neoptolemus. But she finds herself gripped by guilt. She could have saved her grandson from the vile mortals who would use him like they used Achilles. She could have hidden him away again, perhaps this time in her father’s realm. But what would be the use? They would still find him. Neoptolemus is still mortal. He would still die.

What do the Fates have planned for this child? Lord Hermes’ divinity shines bright within her. She’ll be coveted by mortals, yes, but not as a weapon—as a beautiful lover and mother to powerful sons. Thetis knows the special agony of that life.

But for now, Lyra is a happy child, delighting in a beautiful day. Thetis pulls her wings in to stoop lower until she can hear the girl’s laughter on the breeze. Lower still and she can see her smile. Against her better judgement, the aching protest of her old wounds, she finally lights on the sand a few yards away.

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The Morrígan has told Achilles the truth of his son's fate, and all that's left is for him to accept it. With that in mind, she ignores his anger and pointed question, instead paying attention to the goddess speaking.

"Adversity--being used, injured, killed--that has ruined them in your estimation." She sighs. The wind it kicks up is greater than a breeze, enough to blow the hair from one's face. "Disappointing, but not unexpected of a sea creature."

Her body shifts in the water. The surf sloshes against the sand, every tiny movement enough to create waves. "Your kind has a bad habit of luxuriating in the ocean, mistaking stagnation for perfection. And when adversity comes to you, you look to more powerful gods to remove it for you. And if they don't, you simply suffer and wait for the adversity to go away or for it to consume you. So convinced of your superiority to those who struggle, and so utterly helpless when it's your turn."

Her words are condemning, but her voice is more... bored? Like she's making a dry observation, something clear and obvious to her to the point of tedium. It's a pattern she's seen in many sea goddesses. And why not? Being born in the ocean means one doesn't even need to learn how to swim before the current is moving them about. They don't have to even put in the effort to stand from the start like the creatures of the land. Many women stolen from the sea by mortal men have prayed to the Morrígan for her assistance, but she won't help anyone who doesn't even try to help themselves first.

"It's no surprise you see the scars of struggle and mistake them for ruination. Your kind often don't even know how to fight against adversity."

“That is not true.” Thetis’ voice finally betrays some indignation at the accusation. “I am no stranger to adversity.”

The sea water displaced by the Morrígan’s movements churns around Thetis’ feet like a small storm. Her lips and brow set in the same way as her son’s. Achilles’ fists ball again, offended on his mother’s behalf.

“I was bound by a mortal and taken as his wife,” Thetis argues. If not for the prophecy, she might have had a divine husband and children who would not die to time or injury or illness. For all the pains Zeus took, Achilles still had a hand in deposing him. “I did everything in my power to protect my son, to grant him immortality.”

The heat of the Morrígan’s breath brings to mind a forge … and her foster son. “I cared for Hephaestus when he was cast from Olympus, broken and lame, until Zeus and Hera would allow his return.”

The Morrígan hums again. She doesn't seem offended at all that the goddess before her is bristling. "You were bound by a mortal and taken as his wife against your will. And I'm sure once he slept, you took off his head and fed it to the fish? Or when mortals came for your son, you drowned them in the sea? Surely, if any raised a hand against your foster son again, you fought them?"

The corner of the Morrígan's lip tugs upward. It's hard to tell if she's deliberately goading Thetis, if she's amusing herself, or if she's making a point. Either way, she seems... pleased with the reaction she's getting?

"Or do you lie down and let bad times roll over you like so many waves, and hope they may cease?" Her scratching against the ground stills. It makes the white light of her burning nails steady. The greens, reds, and whites of the light from her hair, chest, and nails cause a strange effect on the ground and the steam. "Your son and grandson have had a fraction of your time, but they've made their lives their own. Have you?"

Thetis did dream of those things. She would have liked to see the cold, bloated corpses of those mortals picked apart by hungry fish. But they were the Olympians’ favorite playthings. If those heroes were to die, it would not be by a lesser sea goddess’ hands. Certainly not in retaliation for her rape, or kidnapping her son.

What kind of retaliation would she suffer for such a thing? How would Achilles suffer?

For that same reason, the suggestion of raising her hand against Zeus and Hera is completely absurd.

“You are a goddess of war. I understand that it is your nature to value struggle above all else. You are like Ares in that regard.” Thetis cocks her head in a pantomime of curiosity. “Shall I attack any mortal or god who crosses me? Will that make my life worthy?”

The Morrígan chuckles. It's a genuine one, like Thetis said something funny, and the wind kicks up and the sand slides and shifts with the motion.

"Do not ask me if you're worthy. In my estimation, Neoptolemus is greater than any of the three creatures before me." She smiles down at Thetis. It's not a cruel smile, but it's not a kind one, either. "I did not ask if your life is worthy. I asked if it is yours."

Those giant hands flatten against the land, and she begins to push herself upwards. The sea sloshes like bathwater, the ground trembling. "You think I am a goddess of war, but that's a crude human summary of me. War requires life to exist. I am something before life." Her hand lifts, and then her flaming nails plunge into the sand. The ground under Thetis, Patroclus, and Achilles shifts. She's scooping up the land under them, lifting them from the ground. "I will show you what I am. We will see if you can comprehend it."

Patroclus crouches to keep his balance on the dislodged hunk of earth, feeling very much like an ant under the baleful gaze a giant. Grimly, he wonders how exactly this form of the Morrígan is better to deal with.

As ever, Achilles’ feet are sure and steady, and he takes a backwards step to grab Pat’s upper arm. His mother is similarly confident in her stance, even as she begins to bristle; she knows how quickly a mortal mind can shatter when shown the infinite breadth of the divine. There are few ways to damage a shade, but this is one of them.

“If that is what you wish, show me, but I will not allow you to harm these mortals.” Thetis shoves both men from the rising handful of earth with the force of a crashing wave. This takes Achilles by surprise, knocking him off balance; he barely maintains his grip on Patroclus as they stumble over the crumbling edge.

The goddess makes no attempt to grab the shades from the air before the hit the ground. Both edges of the Morrígan's lips turn upward, though it's hard to see how sincere the smile is when her eyes are covered. "This will not harm them. Confuse, perhaps. But not harm."

She keeps shifting. Her elbow rises from the sea, only to dig into the earth as she props her weight on it, her head high as she lifts the handful of dirt level to her chin, tipping her face as if looking at Thetis.

"I was not born on Gaia like you, little sea creature. I arrived from very far away, a long, long time ago."

There's a jerk in the air, just as there was when transitioning from Troy to ruin, but backwards this time. There's a blur of color, of smell, of sound, the light returning to the world and the shore warping and the plants and animals and sky changing so fast that it's spinning.

And then it stops abruptly. What is around them now is completely alien. The sky is black, the sun fully visible as a ball of fire and the stars completely visible across, but no moon anywhere to speak of. Things are moving in the sky, comets and meteors, zipping past. But the earth--it's nothing but dry, rocky ground, not a trace of life, not even a trace of water. And everything feels lighter than it should, like if one jumped hard enough, they could fly off the ground entirely.

There's also no air, and it's freezing cold. The cold, airless void pulls on one's skin and hair, making it swell, as if trying to expand a person to fit the emptiness. The airless void boils the water without heat in Thetis, trying to turn it to vapor, but the Morrígan makes a sharp gesture with a flaming nail. Air returns, at least immediately around each creature, and the stretching, boiling effect of the void is gone.

"This is Gaia when I met her," the Morrígan says, sweeping her hand out at the barren wasteland. "This is her, new and pristine. Do you know what had to happen to create the Gaia you know?"

She only holds Thetis, but the question is addressed to all three of them. She knows none of them are likely to know, but she's giving them a chance to guess anyway.

As they recover from the fall, Patroclus is momentarily baffled by Thetis’ decision—until he compares the Morrígan’s apparent power to Apollo’s. If he could so easily inflict prophetic madness, what could this goddess do? Achilles similarly understands; Hermes has shown him glimpses of his true being, and only with great care.

He doesn’t trust the Morrígan to take any care with them.

Thetis spares the mortals from answering the question. She would be happy if they didn’t speak to the Morrígan ever again. Would that they would abandon this errand as folly, but she knows her son. He can’t retreat.

“Gaia was born of Chaos, along with the underworld and love.” It’s probably not the answer the Morrígan wants, but it’s the history she knows. “And from Gaia came the sky, the sea, and the mountains.”

The Morrígan hums softly. Sound doesn't carry very well here in the emptiness before time. "Chaos created many things, and those many things led to Gaia. And many creations just like her. Most of them do not amount to anything at all. They remain barren rocks, floating in nothing."

The Morrígan raises her hand and gestures to the alien void above them. "Gaia only became what she is through cataclysm."

And then something rises on the horizon. It almost looks like a moon, but significantly larger. And getting larger. And larger. Too fast. It's coming right towards them.

The other barren rock, almost equal in Gaia's size, crashes down. Dust clouds fly upwards, the ground cracks to reveal red veins of magma, and the thunderous impact spreads through the land and would throw any creature right off of it or bury them in the burning hot fallout.

The Morrígan casually slips one massive finger underneath the mortal shades on the ground, lifting them up before they fall into a splitting crevice of lava. A piece of Gaia breaks off, glowing hot in the sky, and is battered until it forms a familiar circular white shape.

More rocks fall from the air. Each one, world-ending if there had been any life. The ground splits apart in apocalyptic rivers of lava, the dust flying in the air creating a thick, gray blanket that traps heat and leaves the air feeling acidic. And the heat would vaporize anything living--hotter than fire, hotter than fire, hotter than anything that exists in the time of Achilles and Patroclus. Hot enough to make any living man to disappear in a puff of steam and ash in moments.

"She was in agony. Agony that makes most creatures of her kind split apart to batter other stronger-willed creations. But she endured. She endured for ages you are too young to comprehend, little sea creature. She endured not because there was no way to escape, but because she had the strength to survive and the tenacity to become something more after the suffering."

The Morrígan’s tiny audience watches this display with the awe it’s due. Achilles gathers Patroclus close; as if he could guard against planetary calamity with a simple embrace.

Thetis has witnessed numerous disasters in her life: Gaia shuddering and writhing, massive waves carving off entire swaths of her land, volcanoes erupting below the sea to form new lands in turn. She knows Gaia is restless, even as mortals conceive of the earth as solid and enduring.

The scale of this upheaval is shocking, but at the same time it brings to mind something familiar: the violence of birth. The terrible agony of a body bringing forth new life.

Once the cataclysm settles into its aftermath, once the moon finds its stumbling orbit, Thetis waves her arm at the scene stretching before them. “This is you? You shaped Gaia?”

"There were others. But yes. I was the one who delivered calamity to Gaia." The Morrígan smiles out at the churning, writhing land. "She was the one who chose to grow from it, rather than shatter."

Another sharp change in time. Blurs of sights and sounds and smells. They're back to the dark, cold, desolate beach they started. Gently, the Morrígan lowers the shades, giving them a chance to hop off her fingertip onto the ground.

"Gods aren't as permanent as we like to think ourselves. I've seen many little gods and goddesses just like you extinguish because they could not conceive of changing. If you were so inflexible, do you think you'd look upon how you spent your time and be satisfied?"

The Morrígan doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, she lowers the handful of land that Thetis stands upon, gently putting it back in the hole it was pulled from.

"I love Neoptolemus and others like him because calamity touched them before they were ready, and they grew through it into something strong and beautiful that never could be made without their struggles. In their survival, they achieve what many gods far greater than them in power could not. Other gods may not see their value, but I do, and I cherish them."

“I doubt my grandson would be satisfied with his own life,” Thetis muses. “He survived the crucible, bending himself to the expectations of other men, only to emerge with no sense of himself.”

The shades are more than happy to return to solid ground and once he’s satisfied Patroclus is settled, Achilles steps forward again to glower defiantly at the Morrígan. Following his mother’s train of thought, he frowns.

“And what will you do with him now that he’s part of your collection?” Achilles demands with obvious exasperation. “In Greece, he had a kingdom, a family, a household that relied upon him. This was the hard-earned reward for his growth. Is he happy here, or do you continue to subject him to the calamity that you hold in such high esteem?”

The Morrígan doesn't rush to respond. Instead, she settles back down, slipping most of her body into the sea so that she can comfortably rest her head on the ground again.

"Stubborn, stubborn hero," she says softly, allowing her flaming nails to relax on the sand. She's not going to entertain his questions intended to make her reflect on herself or justify her actions to him. She knows why she does what she does, she has answered the questions she's decided matter, and she doesn't care to get distracted from the heart of why they are here. "So fixated on convincing me to give you what you can't have, that it doesn't occur to you to ask what you can have."

But she doesn't sound annoyed, really. She has more patience for the foolishness of mortals than of gods. Being angry at a mortal for being foolish is like being angry at an infant for crying. And besides, she much prefers the foolishness of a mortal fighting too hard for what they want than not fighting at all.

"Neoptolemus will never see his wife and son again. His son will grow into a man, have a son of his own, and perish without ever seeing his father again. If you try to force otherwise, you will fail and Neoptolemus will die, doomed to lonely misery." The corner of her lips upturns. "But, should you play your hand well, he can return home one day to reunite with his wife and meet his daughter. And perhaps, even, have a chance to raise his grandson."

Achilles’ face hardens at the Morrígan’s evasion. He wishes he had his spear, even if it’s for no other purpose than to feel its weight in his fist. Patroclus is equally annoyed; this encounter has not improved his opinion of gods and their arbitrary whims.

“How? What must be done?” Achilles asks sharply. If he can’t have his spear, he’ll throw his words like one. “And why must he wait so long? Is it vitally important that he remain in your hunting party for decades?”

“You would return his name and the memories of his past life?” Thetis adds, recalling that particular warning about the power of names. It would be useless to return Neoptolemus to his family as an incomplete person.

"Yes, I would return his name to him, and anything else he has given me," the Morrígan says, her lips upturning at Thetis' question. Not only does the Morrígan like survivors, but she likes it when they're smart too.

"How? You pass the trial I set for you." The Morrígan scratches a long, flaming nail into the sand. "As for why? If I tell you why, would you accept the answer? Or would you spend eternity here in my little pocket out of time, arguing why you should be able to have everything you want if you try hard enough?"

She draws a lazy spiral around them in the sand. The trail glows hot white as she does so.

"I will tell you why... if you promise to accept you cannot re-unite him with his son while he lives." The air smells verdant green, the charge of magic ready to bind Achilles to a deal.

“Anything else?” Thetis asks, a single eyebrow arched. “What else has he given you?”

Achilles picked up on that, too, but he’s distracted by the Morrígan’s next proposal. Thetis meets her son’s eyes. She can see the thoughts churning behind them like waves against a stubborn cliff.

What she says about his destiny is true, she advises. Neoptolemus has defied his fated death once. The Moirai will not abide more evasion. He is only protected while he remains apart from time—that is what I suspect.

He closes his eyes, still burnt by the bright afterimage of the Morrígan’s molten fingertip. Even if his mother feels no obligation to Neoptolemus, Achilles still trusts her wisdom. With closed eyes, he can better sense the binding magic and he reexamines The Morrígan’s words carefully. There’s danger in ambiguity; he’s careful to respond with greater specificity: “I accept that Neoptolemus cannot be reunited with his living son, the boy who was borne by Hector’s wife.”

The Morrígan smiles at the questions, at the specificity. She likes watching people try to do things that are hard for them. And these people, Greek by birth and knowing only the ways of thoughtless speech, are trying. She can think of many ways she or they could take advantage of the way it's phrased, but she chooses to go easy the same way an adult chooses to go easy on a child in a game of chess. Better that the child be encouraged to learn further, than have their progress shut down as not being enough.

There's a snap of verdant greenery, and then it's gone again, replaced by the Morrígan's smoky scent.

"Fate is a construction made by gods, not an unerring force in the world." The Morrígan raises one finger, tipping it to the right and left. There's a sense of the world being turned in different directions, different possible times laid over the devastation they occupy, the shadow of people playing in the surf, of great metal beasts, of craggy dry rock. "The future can change based on our choices in the now. All Fate really is, is a fight by gods to avoid the worst possible timelines. And the smallest change can ripple into massive differences, so gods must be very meticulous planning and implementing Fate."

She rests her finger on the ground again. No more shadows, only the dark cold once more. "The Morai allowed a grave diversion, one that has put all of Greece on a collision course with catastrophe. Catastrophe that I won't elaborate on, for you having more knowledge will only lower your gods' chance of victory. The change?" The Morrígan drags a flaming nail into the sand once more. The sand glows flaming red as it melts. "They allowed the lord of the underworld to have a living heir."

She scratches glass designs in the sand, her smile sharp. It's hard to tell if it's cruel or thoughtful without her eyes visible. "Were this not the case, Olympus would be strong enough to destroy a threat that will grow the longer they wait, the Cannibal of Gods, but they cannot handle that threat now without crippling themselves in the fight to come. Now they must rely on mortals to shore their strength as the Cannibal grows. The Cannibal will rise to power one day and send its humans to destroy any trace of other gods, burn our followers alive, rewrite the stories of our mortal champions, and wipe our names from history. The best way for the gods of Greece to survive the calamity is through mortals. Your distant descendent, Alexander the Great, a man so hungry for victory that he sows seeds of Greek stories and culture across so much land that no fire can burn them all. Alexander the Great and many mortals like him are instrumental in the long term survival of Olympus and all her people." She lets her hand relax again. Her mouth softens. It might be in compassion.

"The Morai risked the future for the prince of the underworld. Alexander the Great being born into a tradition of abandoning families and conquering nations is a loadstone they cannot afford to risk after their diversion. Neoptolemus cannot see his son again, for his son must learn this tradition and carry it on to his own. Nothing you do will stop the Morai from ending him if he ever steps foot on Greece again while his son is alive."

The Morrígan’s explanation contains so much of what he knows to be true, Achilles can’t argue against it. He looks stricken.

Of course. Lady Nyx defied the Fates to give Zagreus life. And by the Fates’ accounting, Olympus paid the price? Surely it was stronger though; bonds with the Underworld had been mended. Lady Athena had risen to power. Allies alienated by Zeus had returned. The God of Everything should be no match for seasoned divinity.

Or is it?

It’s one thing to hear the trickster Coyote worry over a strange new god, quite another to have this all but confirmed by a goddess of the Morrígan’s stature.

“The prince of the Underworld’s defied death has opened the path for this ‘Cannibal of Gods,’ and the eventual downfall of Olympus.” Achilles pauses, swallowing. “Because of that, my son’s own life is forfeit. Is that correct?”

Pat can hear the tension in Achilles’ voice, pulled tight by love for his wounded son and his beloved pupil. It feels as if the Fates have bound those two threads together for the express purpose of tormenting Achilles.

“How can you be certain the Fates won’t kill my son, even if his return is delayed?”

"Put simplistically, yes." The Morrígan isn't going to fuss about the complexities of timelines with the shade of a warrior. He already understands what he must.

"Once his son is dead, his potential for diverting events from the birth of Alexander the Great is much diminished. And, at that time, the Morai will be kept busy by something more pressing."

She hums softly. Her breath smells like wood smoke. "He need not stay with me all that time. Should you pass my trials, I am willing to release him at the time I took him. But he will only be able to return to his homeland when his son is dead."

“He will live in exile, then?” Achilles wonders if a life apart from Neoptolemus’ new family will be any life at all.

Thanks to Mimir, Pat knows that this could very well break the man. “Take care, Achilles. He may well return to Greece, even if warned otherwise. He is your son, stubborn and devoted.”

Achilles drops his gaze; he knows full well that he would do the same if he was parted from his family. Fates be damned. He would sooner die than live apart from them.

He raises his head to address the Morrígan: “If I undertake your trials, if I pass them to your satisfaction, Neoptolemus must be given a choice in these matters. Whether he’s released to his own time or not. Whether he wishes to return to Greece after his son’s death. I cannot make these decisions for him.”

The Morrígan hums softly in acknowledgement. "I accept this proposal, on the condition that you inform him that his bride carries his daughter, and his son will leave behind a grandson."

If Neoptolemus is to make a choice in his own life, it might as well be a fully informed one.

"Will you commit to my trials?" The Morrígan's lips upturn slightly once more. "Know that if you do, you will walk from here and go through them alone."

She wants to test him when he's by himself, without his kinder and more clever lovers guiding him, without his divine benefactors' wisdom, and without a chance to consult others. The Morrígan's path to growth is grueling and often lonely, but the way she sees it, it makes one all the more grateful for the connections they have on the other side.

“Of course,” Achilles agrees. Maybe a possible future with his daughter and grandson will be reason enough to honor a commitment to stay out of Greece. “And I agree to your trials.”

“Love …” Patroclus approaches and cups Achilles’ jaw, leaning in close until their faces are curtained by their respective manes of hair. “I don’t know what these trials hold, but this may be of use: Mimir showed me the depth of Neoptolemus’ pain. I can’t begin to describe it …”

“I know. I’ve seen his dreams—”

“No, that’s only part of it.” He meets Achilles’ eyes, tears pooling at his lower lid as he remembers the sharp, raw edges of Neoptolemus’ heart. “You need to choose him. Show him he’s cherished. Again and again and again. I don’t know if it will ever be enough, but you need to keep showing him you care. I can’t go with you, but please. Be your terrible, stubborn self if you must, but keep choosing him.”

Achilles rests his hands on Pat’s shoulders, presses their foreheads together. “I understand,” he whispers.

The Morrígan hums once more. She spreads her flaming fingers, as if making a path up the beach, beyond the mount that once held the city of Troy.

"Your son is split into three, so there will be three trials. You will meet three peers of the boy, two peers of the warrior, and one peer of the king. Convince all of them that you should be able to bring Neoptolemus home."

Her feathers ruffle. It makes a small breeze, like the blowing of trees. "It will not be enough for them to agree to allow it. You must convince them that it is better for you to do so, than for him to stay here. And they must remain convinced until he has crossed the threshold of Tír na nÓg back to the land of mortals."

Her voice has none of the vaguely amused edge softening it that it had before. "Only once all are convinced will you be able to meet your son in his entirety, with the names and memories he gave to me. It will then be his choice whether or not to follow you out of Tír na nÓg. If you fail, you shall leave this place, you shall inform his wife of your failure, and you shall never again return here."

Achilles draws back from Patroclus to address the Morrígan with a defiant nod. “I understand. I will convince them all.”

Patroclus watches Achilles with a knit brow. The hubris. Proving his love for Neoptolemus is one thing, but convincing others that his son should return home may well be an impossible task. Achilles is accustomed to settling debates with weapons, not words.

Thetis’ gaze also follows her son as he strides in the direction of what was once Troy. She’s not convinced herself that Neoptolemus should return home. Perhaps it’s better to be cherished by this formidable goddess than struggle endlessly for the conditional acceptance of mortals.

Before he walks further, Achilles pauses and turns back. His eyes move from Pat to Thetis, to the Morrígan. “I put forth one more condition: whether I succeed or fail, my companions leave Tír na nÓg safely at my side.”

The corner of the Morrígan's lip tugs upward again. She can't help but find it amusing when a mortal talks to her like they're on even negotiating ground.

"At your side, no. This last portion of your journey, you make with your son, or alone." She tips her head slightly. It almost looks like the direction of the horizon tips with it. "But should they wish it, they will leave here safely with Lugh as their guide."

She could make a fuss to keep them. But why? Neither of them are interesting to her as portions of her collection.

But they might be interesting for further conversation after this dead hero goes on his quest. She's curious especially about the sad shade, who would wander so far on behalf of his lover and not dare to speak directly to the goddess he has approached.

Over the mount of what was once Troy is the thick miasma they had to cross to enter this pocket belonging to the Morrígan. Whatever is past that is completely obscured by the smoke.

Edited 2025-06-14 06:19 (UTC)

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