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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Prometheus should see this, Pat thinks. How delighted would the titan be? Or does he already know that his strange, flawed creations will flourish in time? Maybe he designed humans this way intentionally.

“When?” Pat blurts. There’s a notable spark of energy in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “When will mortals live like this?”

Thetis has also been watching the students’ antics with her own mild curiosity. She can’t imagine how gods and humans could drift so far apart. Usually they’re in lock-step where it comes to values. Is this because Zeus and Hera were deposed and Athena rose to power? Men come to treat women with respect, as equals?

Thetis dares to derive her own tiny morsel of hope from this vision. If not for herself, then maybe for her son’s descendants.

“Many, many generations after you. Little by little shall life improve, and then all at once.”

Charlotte starts to doze, eyes drifting shut. Liam smiles before shrugging off his cardigan to lay on top of her, and everyone else allows her to sleep. At least until pizza arrives.

The vision fades, but there’s the lingering warmth and camaraderie of young scholars at peace. The Morrígan parts her hands, revealing the cold beach once more, the greasy black snow and her glowing green chest wound.

“Humanity must go through its own struggles to achieve this. You shall flourish more and more upon the cumulative efforts and work of generations. Never perfect, always improving, to your very end.” She rests her hands back on the sand. “And now you know, little shade.”

A staunchly pessimistic part of Pat can’t help but wonder what that very end looks like. Is this here—where they’re standing—the aftermath? He winces at how easily the grim thought arrives. His mind is so chronically fixated on darkness.

He clings to the lingering warmth of that safe, easy future instead. He holds it close like the cloak he left with Kelly and thinks of the way Hermes transformed her fear into awe. Maybe this is what gods are truly meant to do: reframe mortal understanding, for better or worse.

“This is why Neoptolemus should return, isn’t it?” Patroclus ventures. “He can still contribute to this shared struggle.”

The Morrígan’s smile is slightly amused and enigmatic as she says, “He already has. More than you know.”

She lets out a soft puff of air. It smells like gunpowder and woodsmoke.

“And you have contributed yourself more than you know. More than you will ever know. The ripples of your life will carry far into the future. One day, perhaps you will see the waves they become.”

She relaxes her hands on the sand. Her flaming nails melt the snow around them.

“This is true of all who fought at Troy. The impact of the war will be greater than any of you know. And one day, you may look upon the ripples it has, and you may think it was worth the pain and blood.”

Patroclus doubts that. What could the group of happy scholars hope to gain from an ancient battle, fought over a stolen wife? Maybe they would sit around and laugh at how stupid men were in the past. That’s the best he can hope for—that they learn from those mistakes.

Thetis’ posture straightens ever-so-slightly. She’s more inclined to believe the Morrígan—at least where it concerns Achilles. Her son didn’t sack Troy, but he still fought magnificently. She’s positive future mortals will praise his tenacity and heroism while the rest of his unworthy peers fade from memory.

Pat watches the snow melt and steam around the goddess’ fingers for a moment before his eyes wander back to the mound on which Troy once stood. “When will we know if he has succeeded?”

“You will not know until you have left Tír na nÓg.”

She spreads her hands, resting them on their sides and creating a path towards the mound of what was once Troy.

“You may go now, if you wish, little shade and little sea creature. Your guides will await you after you have purified yourself of my miasma. But you may stay if that is what you prefer, and speak with me longer. A long life whets the appetite for conversation.”

The Morrígan almost sounds disappointed. Maybe even a little lonely. Or Pat is just projecting on her. He’s not sure gods can feel those things the same way mortals do. If she was truly upset, she has the power to hold them here and talk indefinitely.

“Thank you,” Pat says with a bow. Because he is grateful that the goddess indulged Achilles’ clumsy negotiations and for the hopeful vision. “I’ll seek my mother in Asphodel, as you asked.”

Thetis only gives a polite bow in obligatory deference before she moves for the offered path. She feels no sympathy for the goddess. The Morrígan is like a blue whale to Thetis’ tiny krill; she could swallow her up on a whim. Thetis needs to know her son hasn’t said or done anything foolish that might bind him to this realm as surely as Neoptolemus.

If the Morrígan feels any type of way about them leaving, her face doesn’t betray it. She maintains an enigmatic smile, slightly tilting her chin towards the mound.

“Thank you for the interesting conversation, little shade. And you, little sea creature. Go in peace.”

Through the thick miasma, there is a steaming hot spring and two fae creatures that resemble humanoid crows, bearing soap and strigils. There is no passage beyond them without a bath.

Pat gives another awkward nod and a muttered farewell, like a child might offer a grandparent they barely know, before following Thetis along the path.

When he arrives at the spring, Thetis is in the middle of repelling the creatures’ attempts to bathe her. “I need no assistance,” she hisses, the spring water churning at her feet. She stabs a finger at Patroclus. “See to the mortal. He will not be so fastidious.”

Patroclus is used to the barrage of insults, and if he can help divert the fae servants’ attention, so be it. He silently turns his back to the goddess and shucks off his contaminated tunic.

One of the crow fae breaks away, approaching Patroclus with soap and a strigil like the grim reaper. But the second stays with Thetis, clicking its broken beak impatiently.

"Fastidious, fastidious," it croaks, mimicking Thetis as a crow might mimic a person. It will not be so easily dissuaded from its sacred duty.

The one with Patroclus, on the other hand, seems happy to work with a more pliable victim. It takes his tunic, bringing it far away to a deep pit with sour smoke curling out of it. The fae drops the tunic into the pit, and then is quickly approaching Patroclus once more with soap and a determined gleam in its beady black eyes.

Likewise, Thetis isn’t about to back down in this test of wills. (Achilles comes by his stubbornness honestly.) She won’t be touched by any creature—mortal or immortal, fae or otherwise—with the exception, it seems, of certain granddaughters.

Her power here is somewhat weakened, but she lashes the crow with a whip of spring water with enough force to knock it prone. Thetis takes the strigil for herself and tosses her tunic to the creature in what she considers a fair exchange.

Patroclus doesn’t trust these creatures anymore than Thetis, but he knows she has much better reasons to guard her privacy. Even if she hates him, Pat feels some obligation to help the goddess—for Achilles’ sake, at least. He reaches to grab the corner of her discarded tunic and holds it out of the crows’ reach. Not so pliable now!

The crow fae falls on its back. It squawks its outrage, doubly so when the tunic is yanked away. Both the crow fae fluff out their feathers in outrage and squawk, leaping at Patroclus to get the tunic.

"Fastidious! Fastidious!" one squawks, climbing on Patroclus' back to nab the offending tunic. The other crow fae takes a lock of Patroclus' hair in its beak and pulls it like an angry animal. They will not be negligent in their duties! They will nip and grab and scrub as needed! Do not test them, for they will scrub off an extra layer of skin in retaliation!

Thetis sinks into her side of the spring and begins scrubbing the miasma from herself in relative peace. If she recognizes Patroclus’ act of chivalry for what it is, she doesn’t show it.

Pat balls up the tunic and throws it into the trees where it snags on a bough and billows in the breeze. That should buy some time, assuming these crow fae are flightless.

“Fine. Do what you must,” he snaps, tugging his hair free. They can take as many layers of him as they like; he’s a shade, after all.

One of the crow fae squawks in outrage, flapping its broken and clipped wings before scrambling to the tree to get climbing towards the tunic. The remaining fae keeps clacking its beak in disapproval, pushing Patroclus into the hot spring. It gets the soap and aggressively rubs it into a lather over his skin.

It doesn't spare any bit of him. There's no delicacy, no concern for modesty, no embarrassment, the crow fae will have this man clean. Clawed fingers even get into the folds of the ear and creases of the knees and between the toes. Cleanliness is this fae's quest, and it's going to complete it whether anyone likes it or not.

Pat’s satisfied with that outcome. He keeps himself faced away from Thetis while he allows the crow to do its terrible, thorough work. Surely they could just kill him and his shade would form clean and anew in the Styx after a while … ? He’d much prefer that to this scrubbing.

Thetis honors the importance of stripping away the miasma with equally rigorous cleaning, but she can’t reach her own back and shoulders. Grudgingly, she turns to the disappointing mortal; she trusts him more than these fae.

“Patroclus. I need your assistance,” she says curtly, tapping the strigil on his shoulder.

After a moment’s wordless hesitance, he takes the tool and begins scrubbing the goddess’ offered shoulders and back. Her flesh is a cool, fish belly white that has the pearlescent sheen of tiny scales or the inside of an abalone shell. Pat could swear Achilles’ skin had the same mesmerizing quality in certain light.

The fae sent after Thetis' tunic is clacking and croaking out what's surely bird swears as it tries to claw its way up the tree. The one working on Patroclus doesn't seem to object to him helping the goddess at all, but it's not taking the moment to stop its sacred work. Oh no, after the scrubbing, it has its strigil, and it's practically stripping a layer of skin off Patroclus as it vigorously scrapes away suds and dirt.

Thetis pulls her hair over her shoulder to continue cleaning it. She can feel the miasma clinging on her body in a way the mortals don’t. After a few curt instructions for Pat to check his work (shoulderblades, upper spine), the goddess is cleaned to her own satisfaction. She emerges from the water and brushes hands over her arms, chest, and waist, dressing herself in a graceful cascade of divine fabric.

Meanwhile, Patroclus feels like he’s been flayed alive. “Are you quite done? Or are you going to whittle me down to my bones?”

"Whittle, whittle, whittle," the crow fae croaks, clacking its beak before seeming to judge that Patroclus is sufficiently clean. Then he's shooed out of the spring. By now, the other fae finally got the clothes from the branch and, probably still cursing in bird, throws it in the pit.

The one that cleaned Patroclus climbs from the spring, fluffing out its feathers before shaking off the water. And then from nowhere, it pulls a neatly folded pile of Patroclus' clothes and personal possessions he left with Hermes and Lugh, presenting it to him with some disapproving clacking.

Patroclus takes the offered clothes and dresses in the plodding, mundane fashion of a mortal. He’s never been so relieved to have his own clothes back … Well, maybe with the exception of the time he wore Achilles’ for a day, but he’d rather not dwell on that situation.

Finally, he’s dressed in everything but his cloak—presumably still being enjoyed by Kelly. Which reminds him to check for the special knife she gifted him in return.

“Where will we find our guides?” Thetis asks the crow fae, though she has exactly zero expectations for a useful verbal answer.

The knife is with Patroclus' things, still pristine in red and silver. The crow fae clacks its beak, spreading its wing to gesture in one particular direction into the woods. The trees slide apart, as if building a path in real time for them.

And down that path after a few minutes of walking is Lugh and Hermes. Both of them look relaxed at a glance, but Hermes' wings are pinned so tight to his head that they'd need to be scraped off with a chisel. He still manages a smile at Thetis and Patroclus as they approach.

"Good, good, glad to see you both in one piece." And he is. He just really wishes that Achilles were with them, also in one piece. "How did the negotiation go?"

“Not terrible, but about as well as it could have, considering,” Pat says on a sigh. It’s a relief to see normal-sized gods.

“Neoptolemus cannot return to Greece. The Fates will not allow it,” Thetis adds matter-of-factly, more concerned about the danger this presents to the divine world than one lowly mortal and his family. “It will place the future of Greece and Olympus at risk.”

“He can’t return while his son still lives,” Patroclus corrects. Of course Thetis glossed over the caveats. “Predictably, Achilles wasn’t satisfied with that. He’s undertaking a trial to secure Neoptolemus’ freedom. He might yet be given the chance to rejoin his wife and daughter.”

If it's possible for Hermes' wings to pin harder, they do.

"Of course it was something like that. Can't let anything be easy, now can we?" He lets out a soft sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. It feels naked without his scarf, but he hopes that Achilles finds comfort in it.

And gods, he knows Achilles didn't take it well when he was told his son couldn't return immediately home. And Hermes can't blame him. He knows the guilt for his failings as a father eat away at him, and any subsequent misfortune that befalls his son is further injury.

"What are the details of his trial? And what did she demand if he fails?"

“Achilles must convince a set of Neoptolemus’ peers that he should be allowed to take his son home—that this will be better than keeping him here.” Patroclus says, pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s a tall order for someone like Achilles; the man has his own firmly-held beliefs and maybe on a rare occasion he’s inspired others to adopt them, but this isn’t a battlefield. The glow of his heroism isn’t as bright as it once was. “They must believe it.”

“If he fails, he may never come back to Tír na nÓg and he must inform Neoptolemus’ wife that her husband will not return,” Thetis adds. The first part is no great loss, but Achilles doesn’t handle failure well. It will be difficult to face Ophelia.

"Of course it was a challenge in diplomacy and persuasion." Hermes pinches the bridge of his nose as well, not even noticing how he's mirroring Patroclus. "At least it wasn't cunning and trickery."

That had been Hermes' greatest fear--that she would tell Achilles to trick and deceive his way to saving his son. And it's hard to think of anything Achilles is worse at than that.

"I assume that no matter the result of his trial, he's to return on his own?" Lugh says, leaning on his spear with his signature mildly amused smile. "Or else I'd expect the land to bend so that he's already arrived with his result."

“Yes. He’ll return alone,” Thetis confirms. “Should he succeed, Neoptolemus will be given the opportunity to decide his own fate. If he chooses to leave the Morrígan’s service, he will remain exiled from Greece until his son has died.”

“He might return to his family before then, but the Fates will strike him dead,” Pat clarifies. He still doesn’t have high hopes that Neoptolemus would survive until Molossus’ death; he’s more likely to die by his own hand or by breaking his exile.

Patroclus worries at his lip and looks to Hermes and Lugh. “Is there anything you can do? Can you at least sense if Achilles is safe?”

He’s also not confident that Achilles will remember all of the idiosyncratic fae rules, particularly in moments of anger.

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End it here?