Achilles, Best of the Greeks (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
refusetofight) wrote2025-02-08 09:11 am
refusetofight) wrote2025-02-08 09:11 am
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.
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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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?”
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“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.
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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.
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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!
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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.
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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.
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Meanwhile, Patroclus feels like he’s been flayed alive. “Are you quite done? Or are you going to whittle me down to my bones?”
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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.
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“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.”
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“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.
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“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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He shouldn’t worry too much. The Morrígan will release Achilles regardless of whether he fails or succeeds. All he has to do is not give his name to the fae, eat their food, or bind himself with a strange contract. Easy.
However …
Pat scrubs his face. Achilles might come back safely, but not unscathed. If he fails his trial and Neoptolemus remains here, his shame and regret will only double.
Thetis’ mind goes to the same place, though she wishes her son would forgive himself. Men have done far worse to their sons—beat them, kill them, devour their flesh … to name but a few. Achilles should focus on Lyra and beginning fatherhood anew.
She looks expectantly at the lone mortal—the only one among them who might object to Lugh’s question. He shakes his head, but agrees. “Yes, let’s return.”