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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"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)

Achilles gives the Morrígan a long, appraising look, trying to decide if he trusts her. Thetis whispers in his mind, like a breeze through sea grass, Go on. I will look after Patroclus.

Patroclus, meanwhile, doesn’t relish the idea of being left alone with a goddess who has never been very fond of him and another who could probably snuff his shade as easily as a candle flame.

Achilles nods to both his mother and his lover before continuing his journey without them. It’s difficult to imagine that Troy once crowned this rise, but he knows it to be true on a deep level—like he can still feel ten years of blood under his feet. The Morrígan must have delighted in that struggle; it changed many mortals.

He exhales and descends the opposite slope to enter the fog that obscures the goddess’ trials.

The Morrígan watches as Achilles disappears into the miasma. She lets her hands relax, turning her head slightly to face the remaining creatures in her home. Her black wings stay tightly covering her eyes.

"You came all this way, and you have not spoken to me once, little shade."

She leans her head down against the ground, making herself as small as possible without shrinking. She's still mountainous, swallowing the horizon behind her.

"Surely you have something to say."

This was exactly what Patroclus was afraid of. Now the full brunt of the goddess’ gaze is on him—he can feel it behind her wings—and ignoring her probably isn’t an option.

“I’ve nothing to say. I came here for his sake.” Pat nods in the direction Achilles disappeared. He pauses for the length of a breath. After the agony that Mimir showed him, he can’t help but ache for Neoptolemus. In some ways, he has more in common with the lad than Achilles. So he adds, “… And for his son.”

Thetis tilts her head, mildly surprised. She wasn’t sure what Patroclus made of Achilles’ son (in truth, she didn’t care), but that admission is still unexpected. Usually mortals are jealous creatures who want their lover’s full attention. Surely a creature as unremarkable as Patroclus would be no different.

"Hmm. A long, arduous journey to stand at a lover's side while he seeks his son." If the Morrígan notices Patroclus' discomfort, she clearly doesn't care. Or maybe she's just used to people being uncomfortable when she's in a singular body.

"You stand before a being older and more powerful than anything else you've seen. Have you no requests? Nor questions?" She scratches a long, flaming finger in the sand. The flames glow in the glass that forms around them. "If you fear I will harm you for what you have to say, I will not. It takes more than that to anger me."

It's hard for her to get too irritated at humans. They're so small, so quick to grow and die. They can't gain any of the wisdom or perspective of someone who lasts long enough to see the greater cycles of life they live within.

Pat watches the glass boil up and harden from the sand. He can feel the heat against his shade, as if he were standing at a forge.

“I didn’t make the journey in pursuit of your knowledge and I have no interest in striking a deal.” Gods never offer anything for free, of that much he’s absolutely certain. There’s always a price. “Are you skeptical of my motives? Is it so strange to help someone you love?”

He has the distinct feeling he’s about to be needled with questions. While Thetis listens and watches him, no less. It truly is a testament to his love for Achilles.

"Skeptical? No. Curious? Yes."

Her lips turn upwards in a small smile. It's not particularly sharp nor particularly soft, more... slightly amused. Although it's hard to judge her sincerity without seeing her eyes.

"My life is long and winding, and the end of it a longer time from now yet. If one loses their curiosity, they stagnate, and I've never liked stagnation. It is not every day that a man rises from the dead to visit me, and asks nothing."

She absently carves a glass spiral in the sand. "You'll indulge my curiosity, won't you?"

Curiosity doesn’t sound any better. Patroclus doesn’t like being observed by the gods like some idle amusement in their impossibly long lives. He’s spent enough time on the stage at Troy, manipulated by the Olympians.

“It sounds as if you have questions for me. Ask me what you will, and I’ll answer truly,” Patroclus says, the exhaustion apparent in his voice. “I am no demigod, no hero. Don’t expect to be delighted by such stories of valor and bravery.”

Thetis merely stands watch, the tide pooling around her feet as if it were inexorably drawn there. She expects very little from Patroclus, as she always has; Achilles’ interest in such an unremarkable mortal has only continued to baffle her. No doubt the Morrígan will find him equally banal.

The Morrígan's lips turn further upward, as if something about his answer is funny.

"You may exceed your own expectations. What most humans think of as valor and bravery is not what I think of them as." She stretches one arm forward, as if to lean more against the ground. It drags a deep crevice in the sand. "The stories of demigods and heroes tend to be quite predictable. I've heard enough of them."

She hums a soft huff of air, smelling of wood smoke and forges. "In truth, I tend to find heroes tedious. Usually born with such strong blood that they accomplish things with ease, and then celebrate themselves as extraordinary when they do the bare minimum their blood makes them capable of." And that's the antithesis of what she is. What is worth celebrating about a creature born able to move mountains, when they move a single mountain and are worshiped all the rest of their days? She's much more interested in the creature born barely able to move pebbles, fighting and learning and growing until they can move a rock. "But your blood is pure from Prometheus' clay. And yet you are here, speaking to me."

Her feathers fluff, kicking up a soft breeze.

"Tell me of something you labored for, little shade. Something you are proud of. I would like to hear."

Thetis’ lips press thin at the obvious disdain for her son and this surprising interest in a lesser creature, but she watches Patroclus with cool interest. What could he possibly be proud of?

Patroclus is clearly struggling to find an answer. Yes, he killed Sarpedon—he scarcely remembers how, the battle was such panicked chaos—but what does it matter? He died shortly after and set Achilles on his destructive path. That’s no source of pride.

Instead, he reflects on the many days spent treating the wounded beside Machaon and Podalirius. Pat rubs his palms together and recalls his first major victory. “I set a man’s broken leg and it mended clean and whole. He was able to walk and fight again.”

Her lips tug further, finally reaching a smile that seems warm, not sharp or amused or enigmatic.

"Impressive. Most humans have neither the skill to set a bone so well nor the stomach to learn." To learn, a human must fight through their urge to cringe from a fellow's pain, to endure the feeling of shifting bone and flesh under their hands as a compatriot screams, to trust their hands are steady enough to do the work, and to remain patient and attentive as the bone heals. And most of all, they must have the temerity to fail, to see the consequences of their failure, and try again nonetheless. That learning process is the struggle of growth, a facet of that base, constructive violence that creates her.

"There is a time beyond you, when humans can not only set bones, but sew severed limbs back to their stumps, and the patients can heal whole." There's visions rolling in the smoke of her nails and the steam of the water behind her. They're hard to make out, but there's people. Many people.

"One of the shades I keep lost both her hands, and they sewed them back on. But she had to work tirelessly to learn how to use them once more, lest they heal poorly." The visions take more shape. Someone sitting at a table. There are blocks on the table. They are struggling to pick up the blocks and build a meager castle, their grip and dexterity little better than a toddler's. "She swore that she would work so hard that she could write effortlessly once more. And she did. It took years of determination through frustration and despair. But she wanted it, so she did the work."

The visions overlap. The awkward building of blocks. The painfully awkward squeezing and turning of clay in hand. The long, careful process of practicing painting within lines someone else created. There are tears, there are moments of screaming despair, dark holes of anguish where the person is convinced they will never reach their goal, and yet throughout it all there are still the slow, frustrating activities, working to regain what was lost.

"Tell me of something you persisted through despair for, little shade," she says softly. "Something you doubted you could ever have, but you worked for anyway."

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