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 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."

For once, Patroclus is genuinely curious about what the Morrígan has to show him. In the future, mortals kill one another with greater efficiency—that much is inevitable—but this is the first time he’s seen a glimpse of hope. He watches the woman’s struggle and can’t help but share her despair and triumph.

And then the Morrígan makes another request.

“My father’s love. I was not the son he wanted.” He spent his entire childhood in pursuit of his father’s approval—pushing himself to meet impossible standards—but he never ran the fastest at footraces, never threw as far or as accurately, never pinned his opponents in wrestling matches. After a while, his father barred him from participating in games at all to avoid further embarrassment. It was probably a blessing when Pat gave his father cause to banish him.

“I finally won it, I suppose, but only by winning a hero’s favor.” Cleaning wounds and mending bones would mean nothing. Glory and honor were the only currency that could buy his father’s pride.

Pat snorts and rolls his eyes. “And he must have been proud to learn I killed a son of Zeus.”

As he speaks, the visions keep going. The woman's shape screams and cries in frustration, but she keeps working. The first time she fully paints within the lines, she cheers too loudly, but no one minds and they cheer with her. The first time someone says something rude to her on the street and she's able to make a rude gesture without thinking of it, she laughs and does a little dance of joy, and the rude person thinks she's making fun of him. The first time she holds a pen and scratches out a legible sentence, she collapses against a wall and laughs and sobs and screams in joy and relief, pumping her fists in the air. Just as her struggle suffuses the Morrígan, so too does that sweet triumph of succeeding.

She hums softly at Patroclus' story of his father. She gently scratches a glass spiral in the ground.

"I'm too long lived to understand why humans value what they do with the short time they have. I knew your father, though not your mortal one. Prometheus." Her smile stays warm, almost fond as she reminisces. "When he set about creating you, I warned him that if he did, you would one day break his heart. And he asked me if there's a reason to have a heart at all, if one never allows it to break."

She flicks her nail very carefully in Patroclus' direction, clearly conscious of not accidentally splashing him with flaming debris. "Do you think so? That it'd be worth having a heart if it doesn't break?"

“Prometheus is a much better father than my own,” Patroclus mutters under his breath. And quite probably one of the only gods Pat will tolerate.

“You should have asked him that question,” Pat jerks his head in the direction of Achilles’ exit. “He enjoys ruminating on the nature of love and the wounds it inflicts.”

Indeed, Achilles is more romantic, more poetic than he’ll ever be. Maybe because Achilles grew up surrounded by so much love. His heart is raw and tender. To Pat, affection is still a novelty, largely undeserved; barely a balm for the thick lattice of scars on his own heart.

“What do you think?” At a guess, Pat assumes the Morrígan finds great pleasure watching people struggle through the pain of heartbreak. “Is there such a thing as a heart that can’t be broken? Are love and loss not inextricably bound?”

"I prefer to hear answers from those to whom life has not been kind," the Morrígan says. She rests her flaming nails carefully on the sand. Pools of glass form around them.

"There are many hearts that have never broken. They remain pristine, from birth to death, because their owners are too precious to ever risk them." She angles her head a little bit up at the sky, as if looking at it through her wings tightly pressed against her eyes. "There are so many gods like Gaia. Gods that could hold so much wonder if they endured the agony she has. But they do not, because they would prefer a life unlived than a life that includes pain."

She tips her head back a little bit, as if to look at Thetis and Patroclus once more. "Nothing is permanent. One day, Gaia shall die and be consumed, and so will I. As will all others. And from our destruction, new things will form. New gods, new life. Those who passively swaddle themselves in safety and allow themselves to be passengers in their own lives shall be no different, and they shall have existed without living."

Whether the Morrígan intends it or not, Thetis hears a note of accusation in that response. She can’t deny there’s truth in it; for a time she worked hard for Achilles’ immortality. First, the rituals when he was a babe, and when those failed, she tried to secure his legend and perhaps his apotheosis.

Why? Because his death would break her heart. It did break her heart. Such that she couldn’t stand to look at Neoptolemus. Such that she’s too deeply scarred to love either of her mortal grandchildren.

The goddess shifts, her hair drifts in an invisible current. Just enough to catch Patroclus’ eye. "My life was not kind, it's true, but it could have been much worse. I may never have known love at all."

If the Morrígan notices Thetis' offense, she doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, she listens to Patroclus. Listens, and stays smiling. Warm, like a distant relative listening to a child tell them about their year.

"True. You may have." She lets out a soft breath. It smells like a bonfire. Far less bitter and acrid than when Achilles was confronting her.

"I know what you need, something you yourself do not know." She lets her hands rest on the ground. She's not fidgety or agitated, just peacefully watchful. "I will give it to you, if you agree to do a task for me. It is not a task you will enjoy, but it is one you will be glad to have done."

For a moment, the Morrígan almost reminds him of Prometheus—a little bit adoring. But Prometheus doesn’t abduct the humans he finds interesting. Not as far as Pat knows. (He would end up with a lot of stolen mortals if that were the case. Prometheus is much less discriminating.)

Pat knows what he needs: purpose. Something to occupy his eternity. Or, if Epimetheus is to be believed, some kind of corrective tincture for his chronically bad mood. Or … maybe another dog?

Yes, he’s positive another dog would make him feel better.

“First tell me the task. Then I will decide if the knowledge is worth the effort.”

The corner of her mouth tugs. Her smile takes the slightest amused quality.

"Seek your mother out and speak to her. She rests in Asphodel. She's a simple woman, but not so simple that she does not wonder and worry about her only son, and not so simple that she doesn't wish to know what became of him."

Her feathers rustle. It sounds like wind rushing through leaves.

"Swear to do this when you return to Hades, and I shall give you this thing you I know you to need."

Edited 2025-06-26 22:00 (UTC)

It sounds like a simple task, but guilt and old wounds make it a daunting proposition. When he was a boy, Patroclus didn’t fully comprehend his mother’s limitations. He remembers seeking her for comfort. She mutely held him like a child might hold a doll, but she had no calming words for him. No assurances of love. He resented her for it.

Pat found more comfort among the goats and horses and dogs.

It wasn’t until Pat was older that he realized how ill-suited she was to the role of wife and mother. Her simplicity was an affliction&mash;either from birth or after suffering illness or injury. Her family was probably eager to marry her off. His father all but ignored her after she gave him a (disappointing) son.

Patroclus’ anger at her was unwarranted, he now knows; he can’t imagine how lonely and miserable her life was after he left. He never said good-bye. (How did she die?) That shame has sat heavy at the back of his mind, stacked amid the clutter of his grief.

“You have my word,” he finally agrees, even as he’s afraid she’ll only meet him with blank confusion. “I will find her.”

The Morrígan never asks for the impossible, but she never asks for the easy, either. She's still smiling as she says, "And in exchange, I grant to you what you need."

She moves her hands. They tilt upward, cupping around Thetis and Patroclus, closing around them like a child capturing an insect.

"I grant you hope."

Her hands close, and in that darkness, transportation to another time and place, as if observing a dream that one cannot intervene in. It's based in a time that, long ago, Apollo primarily drew from for his psychic attack against Patroclus.

A group of young adults sit in a loose circle in a brightly lit room, flopped on beanbags and couches with notecards notebooks and a long problem set on a whiteboard. College students, working on prepping for a test together. Mixed sexes and genders and appearances. One of them brings in cupcakes, grinning proudly as he passes them out, assuring one that there are no nuts inside, and asking another if she should be checking her blood sugar before eating one.

"Pass me the serotonin plush, I neeeeeed it," a woman with a pierced eyebrow whines. A man with green hair tosses a wool stuffie that resembles honeycomb in her direction, and she catches it, giving it a hug.

Each of the people in this room would have died before reaching this age had they lived in Patroclus' time. Olivia, the woman with the pierced eyebrow, has a disorder of the blood that would have caused her to fall into a coma and die when she was eight, but now she only must wear a small patch on her arm with a needle. Olivia will go on to found an organization that distributes this medicine to the poor and destitute around the world.

Liam, the man with the green hair, would have died when he was four. It would have been blamed on choking, when in reality he simply has a reaction to eating nuts. Now he carries a syringe to save him in case he eats nuts, but otherwise lives his life as anyone else. He will go on to become a doctor that specializes in caring for the elderly.

Brian, the man who made the cupcakes, would have taken his life when he was fourteen due to a disorder of the brain. Now he only swallows two pills every morning and lives a normal life. He will go on to open an animal sanctuary for wild animals too injured to survive in the wilderness.

Charlotte, a woman grumbling over her note cards, would have died of polio before she reached the age of ten. But she, like every other person in the room, had received preventative care while an infant, and it made her immune to the virus. She will go on to become a lawyer specializing in managing child welfare. Such is a similar story for every person in the room.

Every person in the room has only ever experienced the death of a grandparent. Not a parent, not a sibling, not a friend. Medicine has advanced so far that women rarely die in childbirth, and a child not reaching adulthood is a shocking abnormality. All the people here have all of their teeth, all of their limbs, full function of every sense, and the suffering of their ancestors is so far away that they don't even think any of their health and good fortune remarkable.

This is the Morrígan's gift: knowledge, irrefutable knowledge, that for all the suffering and terror of the future, there will also one day be equal prosperity and enlightenment. A day when death is a rare event, and crippling degenerative disease even rarer. A day when women need no marriage to support themselves and can make their own way, a day when everyday people gain an education greater than ancient kings did, a day when children are saved from cruel parents, a day where all the suffering Patroclus witnessed in life is uncommon. A future that is beautiful, even for all the horrors it holds.

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