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Hermes is very tempted to dub this the most exhausting time of his life. And considering how long he's been alive, that's saying something.

He'd pulled off his most daring trick yet. He found the prettiest nymph he could and asked her to loudly tell her river god father that she would touch no man, no mortal nor god. Hermes knows his father well, and his father can never resist something he wants that someone else says he can't have.

Of course Zeus stole away to the surface to have his way with the nymph. And Hermes tipped off Hera without giving himself away--it was easy just by telling a peacock and letting the bird decide on its own that it wanted full credit for discovering the imminent infidelity and telling its mistress. Hera came roaring down from Olympus to find her philandering husband, and with the nymph as bait, Hermes sprung his trap.

The net that Hephaestus made for his wife, golden and impossible to break or escape from, sprung on Zeus and Hera together as they argued on the top of the mountain Hermes lured them to. Hermes spirited the nymph away with greatest gratitude and the sort of boon usually reserved for children of Olympians for her trouble.

That was when Hermes and Athena revealed themselves. The rage of the king and queen of Olympus was legendary. Hermes hadn't expected that Zeus and Hera could still hurt them, but some of the things said got under his skin like a thorn, and clearly did for Athena as well.

But nonetheless, they laid out their demands. Predictably, both Zeus and Hera refused. Hermes settled in to watch over the net and wait them out and Athena went to Olympus to grab control before the other Olympians had a chance to learn of what happened and possibly react negatively.

As Hermes predicted, they had the implicit support of Hephaestus, Hestia, Poseidon, and Dionysus. Ares, Demeter, and Apollo were angry and gearing to challenge Athena's authority, Artemis pulled awkwardly between Apollo and everyone else. Aphrodite cleverly abstained from declaring allegiance to anyone.

Olympus could have gone to war if Athena hadn't sent Apollo to speak to Hermes. With the wrath of their parents as distant background noise, Hermes grimly pointed out that their family had a terrible history of sons violently deposing fathers. As long as Apollo held power, he'd fear his children. Athena would never have children, and was the only hope to end this terrible family tradition.

Apollo didn't quite support Hermes' decision, but at least he laid down thoughts of declaring war on their sister. Hermes could only hope that Hestia would have the same success with Demeter, and Ares would languish without any conflict but his own.

So now, Hermes can only wait. The sky over the mountain is dark and stormy, almost nighttime at noon. The wind is cold and the ground shakes with the rage of two gods held together by netting. Hermes sits out of seeing range, tired of being the subject of verbal abuse for now and happy to let them torture each other with their shrieking.

It'll be worth it, he's sure. The hard part is over. He just has to wait them out, however long it takes.

So now hovers in the air, zipping in circles to burn energy, fighting the ever-present threat of being bored waiting for his father and foster mother to exhaust themselves.

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Zagreus dips his head a little, abashed by the honesty. It's still a novel concept, after a life wrapped in lies. Albeit, lies meant to protect him, but still.

"It's strange to say it, but it's refreshing to hear all of this explained without having to dig and pry. It's truly more helpful than you know." He cracks one of his genuine smiles; the kind he inherited from his mother. "Thanks, Auntie."

Terrible as the surrounding situation is, Achilles is glad that it's brought Hestia to the Underworld. He's done his best to teach the prince; yes, he knows some of the Olympian history from Hermes, Thetis, and the myths passed to mortals, but it's much better for Zagreus to hear such things from family. Someone who was there.

The Temple of the Styx looms near and the prince hisses in frustration. "Damn, there's so much more to talk about! Once things settle down a bit—when we're not in a rush—I'm going to need to know more. Everything you can tell me, Aunt Hestia."

Hestia smiles warmly at Zagreus. She has the sort of face that doesn't seem to ever quite reach cheerful, but there's so much love in there that it's easy to miss.

"I will tell you everything, dear nephew." Hestia squeezes his hand. "Just bully my brother into inviting me properly for a visit, hmm?"

She gives a playful wink before Charon stops the boat. Hestia rests a grateful hand on the boatman's arm, bowing her head in thanks before stepping onto solid land again. Outside, the mountain that holds Zeus and Hera at its peak has a heavy churning black cloud around it, the tempest only growing fiercer with rage. Hestia's smile fades at the sight, shaking her head.

"This could have been avoided," she sighs, eyes sad. It's necessary, as she said to Hermes and Hades. But it still pains her.

But she shakes it off, looking to Achilles. "Will you be able to get to the mountain? I imagine Hermes is using his own power to contain their tantrum, but the terrain will be treacherous there."

Although she supposes someone who's already dead doesn't have to worry so much about that.

"I think all of the House will be bullying my father to have you back," Zagreus assures as he helps his aunt disembark.

Meanwhile, Hestia's gratitude gets another mysterious groan from the ferryman and a parting tip of his hat. Zagreus gets a shorter grunt from Charon, which, if one squints, could maybe pass for friendly ribbing.

"Thanks for the lift, mate," the prince says as he joins his aunt on shore. "With any luck, things will calm down before long, and Hermes will be along to help get the shade situation in order."

"Hrnnn ... Hhohhhhhhhh ..." Charon breathes in cryptic agreement before tossing the mooring line to the house guard. Achilles catches it easily. As he secures the rope to a tree, he looks up to say:

"Don't fret, Lady Hestia. I'll find my way back to Lord Hermes unscathed. Please, focus on getting the prince an audience with his cousins."

Hestia dips her head to Achilles. "Then go with my blessing. And may the chill of my siblings' anger not reach you."

And with that, she has blessed him. Her cozy warmth infuses his shade, creating a protective barrier against the elements, divine and mundane. She turns to Zagreus, smiling as she takes him by the hand.

"Hold on tight, Zagreus. I'll bring you to Olympus."

There's the sound of a crackling fire suddenly starting at her feet, and it grows in a blink, consuming her and Zagreus before it disappears just as fast, taking them with it. All that's left are the scorch marks on the grass.

And in the distance, the barely contained storm flashes with lightning, and thunder rumbles audibly even from the Underworld.

Achilles considers his options for return: call on his mother once again, or send a quick prayer to Hermes? Ultimately, though, he decides to travel on his own power; time on the surface is a rare luxury, even while it's in such bitter turmoil.

And he moves fast. His token feather is spent from his last trip, but he still has the poultice from Hermes' plucking months ago. It doesn't take more than an hour to reach a small port town with a dozen moored ships. Most of them are smaller fishing vessels bobbing in the harbor, but one larger galley stands out, grand and laden with cargo.

Hestia's blessing imparts a lively warmth that negates anything unsettling about Achilles' presence among the living. The sailors and fishermen gathered at the docks don't notice anything is off with the newcomer. In fact, they're quite ready to fold the him into their idle conversation.

"You're looking for passage north? Nobody's keen on sailing that way right now, stranger. Not with the storm," says a bearded old man repairing a net. He doesn't even need to indicate which storm at this point.

"Not just that. Everything's been off for weeks. Months, even," a sailor adds, his skin dark and wrinkled by a life of sun and salt. "Ships lost at sea, fields gone fallow. A whole villages taken by plagues."

A third, younger man, chimes in, "It's not all bad now, is it? Alkaios' daughter finally returned after all these years."

The other men give him a sidelong look and the old man counters, "She disappeared twenty years ago and when she turns up, she's not aged a day? That's not good fortune, boy, that's an ill omen."

The men continue chatting—speculating as to what could have caused the gods such offense and about how the priests make daily sacrifices at the temples in hopes of appeasing them. Maybe, they reason, this is the end of the mortal world as they know it.

Achilles listens somberly, until a fourth man strides up. His brightly-dyed linen robes are a shock against the drab, threadbare tunics the first three wear and he's distinctly better-smelling. He addresses Achilles, "Are you looking for work? I desperately need a replacement oarsman, but all of these superstitious bumpkins are afraid to go to sea! Even with the promise of good pay!"

The tanned sailor sneers at the merchant. "What good are riches when you're dead? The boatman only needs one obol for his fare."

"Maybe the boatman likes a bit of gratuity," he snaps.

"I'll happily row," Achilles says quickly, ignoring the shocked looks from the dock workers. "You can keep your coin. I only ask for passage north."

"Finally, a brave man among you!" The merchant declares with a broad smile, and claps a hand on Achilles' shoulder. "Right this way, friend."

And so the Greatest of the Greeks joins the merchant's men at their oars, and once underway, finds joy in the grueling work: the spray of the sea, the passing squalls, the songs the men sing—both old and new. During rare moments of rest, the men commiserate about the dire state of the land. They argue over the cause of wars brewing between city states, lament the wild beasts decimating herds, or their poor luck in love—far less grievous, perhaps, but still deeply frustrating for the crew of mostly young men.

For their sake—for all mortals' sake—Achilles hopes Zagreus and Hestia are successful, and that Hermes can finally persuade Zeus and Hera to abdicate the throne. Accordingly, Achilles keeps watch on the storm-obscured mountaintop. It remains unchanged, like a dark bruise upon the sky.

As the ship draws nearer, rowing becomes all but impossible against a powerful headwind and the vessel is forced to drop anchor in a sheltered bay while the merchant argues furiously with the ship captain. Achilles judges that he's reached the end of his sea voyage and quietly slips over the side of the boat to swim ashore and finish the journey afoot.

Somehow the wilderness is torn even more asunder and Achilles has to pick his way over the snarls of landslides and scramble over boulders that threaten to give way under his weight. But between Hestia and Hermes' blessings, Achilles is still warm and exceptionally nimble.

Night is falling when Achilles finally approaches the cave. After the journey and in the middle of this storm, the humble shelter looks as inviting as any palace. He stoops to peer inside, calling: "Hermes?"

The storm strains to burst out and sweep over the countryside, but it's held back, almost as if by a thousand invisible strings. There's a hard boundary where the storm stops, and within, it rages with impunity.

Hermes is exhausted. Physically and emotionally exhausted. He knows that the best thing he can do right now is wait and just contain the storm until his father and foster-mother have run out of energy, but it's a lot for one relatively young god to restrain the power of two children of Kronos.

But Hermes is an Olympian. He committed to this already. He knows he'll win. He just has to wait and endure. He endures by keeping the fire going in the cave, letting it keep him warm as his glow diminishes with all the effort he's putting into just containing the storm.

But, embarrassingly, he almost wants to cry from relief when he hears Achilles. Hestia was frustratingly right. Hermes could really use some company.

But he does his best to put on a brave face as he stands to greet his lover. "Achilles! I'm still here."

He smiles as he walks to the mouth of the cave, taking his lover by the hand. "Come in, you're soaked. What happened in the Underworld?"

In the firelight, Achilles sees the stark depth of Hermes' exhaustion. His brow furrows with concern and he gathers him into an instinctive embrace. Even after the rinse of rain, the smell of the sea still clings in his curls and the folds of his cloak.

But Hermes is right; he is soaked and the tender hug comes with an incongruous squish. Achilles pulls back and straightens Hermes' chiton, now stamped with damp marks. He breathes a soft, "Sorry, love."

As he unfastens his cloak and tosses it over the tanning rack, he answers Hermes' question. "It went about as well as it could have. Your uncle was displeased, but relented. Grudgingly."

He pauses to squeeze the worst of the rain from his hair. "Lady Hestia and Prince Zagreus will be on Olympus by now."

Despite the water, it’s still comforting to be pulled into this arms. And the squish followed by the sheepish apology even squeezes a giggle from him, his nose wrinkling in amusement.

“Felt like sharing the rain, darling? How generous.”

Hermes shakes himself off, but otherwise just draws Achilles close to the fire once he’s done wringing out his hair.

“Really? I didn’t know anyone but Persephone could convince him of anything. But Aunt Hestia’s always been hard to say no to.” Hermes looks up at the ceiling, like maybe he could see Olympus. “The rest is up to them, now. I hope everyone can get it together up there.”

He takes a seat by the fire, rubbing his arms to get the warmth back in them. His own divine warmth is withering with all the power he’s exerting, making his skin look sallow without its usual glowing undertone.

The toll this is taking on Hermes makes Achilles' heart ache. He peels one of the softer hides from the crude bed, shakes off the dust and dead leaves, and wraps it snug around Hermes. Only then does he settle in beside him, scooting close to share what remains of Hestia's warm blessing.

"She knows her brother's heart. You did well to send her." He finds Hermes' hand and threads their fingers together, tight and reassuring.

"You know, you're very much like her." Achilles strokes his knuckles with a thumb and watches the firelight play over Hermes' face. "So protective of your family."

Hermes lets out a soft, relieved sigh at the soft, warm weight of the pelt, drawing it closer around his shoulders. He squeezes Achilles' hand, leaning against him and savoring the press of his skin more than the lingering blessing on him.

A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Aunt Hestia's always been my favorite aunt. Don't tell the others." He fluffs his feathers before settling his wings comfortably in place, loose against his head and ankles. "Her and Uncle Poseidon--I think they both decided they wanted to be softer because of what happened to them, not harder. But Aunt Hestia's better at the follow through."

Hermes has love for his ocean-ruling uncle--possibly more love than most of his brethren--but he's a mercurial man whose moods sometimes swing as hard as the sea's. Hestia isn't prone to the same fits of temper as all the rest of her siblings.

Hermes' wings twitch. He turns his head so his nose rests against Achilles' shoulder. "Is that the ointment from my feathers? You still had that?"

Achilles' nostrils flare as he sniffs. The residue does smell like Hermes—dust raised by footraces and crowns of fresh laurel, packed markets and billowing sailcloth. "I'd squirreled it away for an emergency. If this doesn't qualify, I don't know what does."

He looks down at his crossed legs—his feet, greaves, and the skirt of his tunic are still spattered with drying mud. But it won't be there long; his shade's form will slowly reject all debris from the surface to resume his eternal state.

"I took the long way back to walk among the living." He doesn't want to heap more worry on Hermes, so he adds, "Mortals are made of sturdy stuff. Merchants are still keen to sell their wares. Oarsmen sing songs for a safe journey. They'll weather the storm."

That news does relax Hermes, even if only a little. It's good to know that his efforts to keep the mortals from being brutalized by their fighting mean something.

"I'm glad you got a chance to wander among them again." Hermes sighs softly, ignoring Achilles' damp clothes and shuffling closer to rest his cheek on his lover's shoulder. "I know why shades miss the surface. It's brighter here. I wish I could talk my uncle into making the Underworld more cheerful. Maybe my cousin will, one day."

It's nice to think about a better future right now, when he's struggling to get past the hard part of just waiting for his father and foster-mothers' energy to be spent. He doesn't know how long it'll take. But he knows he's the grandson of Atlas, and if he has to dig in his heels and do this indefinitely, then he will. Endurance is his birthright.

"Maybe a light source that isn't an eternally tormented demigod on fire would be a good start."

"Mortals need the threat of the Underworld as it is. It motivates us to make the most of our lives—to appreciate the surface and do what little good we can while we still walk upon it." Then his mouth twists, equivocating, as he remembers the villagers and the rumor of the young shade returned to her home. She didn't escape to reclaim fame and earthly riches; she was only grasping for the comfort of her family. "But maybe an exception could be made for those who didn't live long enough—the children who pass through the gates deserve a bit of light and cheer."

Achilles rests his cheek against the crown of Hermes' head and breaks their clasped hands to run a palm over his back in warming circles. "You look exhausted, my dear."

The storm rages outside the cave, rattling the mountain to its very foundations. The shelter feels small and precarious. Achilles runs fingers through Hermes' hair and guides short locks gingerly around a wing. He worries about his lover's own light and cheer. "Can I help you bear this weight?"

Hermes closes his eyes, focusing on the feeling of his lover's hands. To him, just that feeling is louder than the crash of thunder outside.

"You already are," he says, resting a hand on Achilles' knee. "Keeping me company means a lot right now."

Hermes had expected this to be a grueling process. He hadn't realized how lonely it'd be, though.

"I'm lucky. Hephaestus' net stops them from escaping without me letting them go. All I have to worry about is their temper tantrum spilling off the mountain. I just have to keep it contained until they exhaust themselves." Hermes takes a deep breath, then lets it go, putting on a smile. It's one of his trademark smug smiles, but it doesn't have the same effect when his skin is so dun. "You know, I never really liked thinking about all the titans on my mum's side of the family. It was always an awkward open secret we all danced around. But now it's pretty comforting to know I'm Atlas' grandson. If he can carry the sky for eons, then I can surely manage this until they're sick of stomping their feet."

Hermes takes more after his great-uncle Prometheus and aunt Hestia, with his kindness and trickster streak, but he's still the grandson of the strongest and most enduring Titan, and he's going to pull on that legacy for all its worth.

To think, months ago Hermes was filled with trepidation about opening a letter from his mother. And now? He holds his father and Hera captive, armed with pride and strength from his mother's family. An adoring smile pulls at his lips and he presses a kiss to Hermes' forehead.

Achilles' years spent in death haven't completely wiped away his hero's sensibilities; simply being present for Hermes still doesn't feel like enough. He wishes he had the power to hold the storm himself—even for an hour—or that he posed enough of a threat to pressure Zeus and Hera to give up. He wants to end this, so Hermes doesn't have to toil like his grandfather.

"You're certain? I could bring you food? Drink?" As soon as he says it, he realizes it's a silly offer. Not only for how mundane it is, but given the state of the mountain and its distance from even the smallest town. Still, he could flush out some cowering game or gather fresh rain water. "Something to bolster your strength?"

Hermes huffs a soft, amused noise. "I'll be alright, darling. No need to fuss."

Really, the Greatest of the Greeks has a strong fussy streak over the people he loves. Hermes would tease him more about it if he felt up to it. Although, Hermes supposes that it's cruel to tell a hero to just sit and wait while his lover endures hardship.

Hermes shifts his head to nuzzle against Achilles' neck. "Food and drink wouldn't go amiss. I'm sure the hunting is good here, if my sister likes it. But don't trouble yourself if all the game is hiding."

Glancing at the fire, Hermes tuts softly. "...Might want to bring in some firewood so it has a chance to dry before we need it."

Hermes doesn't want to admit it, but all the exertion is making him cold. He will be extra miserable if the fire goes out. Luckily, there's still a stash of wood that will keep them going for a while from his sister.

(If they do get game, Hermes ought to sacrifice a cut of it to Artemis. She'll be a lot less grumpy about him taking over one of her hunting spots if he does.)

The words have barely left Hermes' mouth and Achilles is already energized with purpose. He pulls Hermes into a proper kiss, tugs the pelt tighter around him and says with resolve: "I'll bring you a feast."

After some snooping around, the cave provides all the tools he needs; Achilles transforms from house guard into a well-outfitted hunter with a serviceable bow, arrows, a water skin and a length of rope. He leans down to give Hermes another quick peck on the cheek, like a husband leaving for a day's work. "I won't be gone long."

If Achilles were offered a return to life, he'd like to spend more of it deep in the wilderness, far from kings and battlefields. Sometimes he daydreams about what it might be like to recreate those years on Mount Pelion, welcoming fresh pupils to share his knowledge.

He finds a side of the mountain sheltered from the worst of the storm to do his foraging. It only takes a moment to recall the forest's secrets: where grouse and pheasants roost, which plants are safe to eat, the wood that burns best and longest. He breathes a quick thanks to Chiron, for his patient lessons so long ago.

Not more than two hours pass before he returns to the cave with his bounty: a pheasant, a bundle of firewood, a full water skin and an armload of foraged plants. He's soaked to the bone, but smiling and unbothered; clearly happy for the chance to contribute to Hermes' comfort.

Achilles' naked joy at being given something he can do to help is infectious. Hermes finds himself grinning into the kiss, and waving like a happy wife as Achilles leaves.

And perhaps a task beyond 'endure' and 'wait' is something they both need. Hermes forces himself to his feet, holding his pelt tight around him as he pokes around Artemis' hideout for cooking equipment. He finds a few lovely knives, a spitroast, and a pot alongside a small but generous sack of salt. It's been a while since Hermes has cooked anything, but he's always believed that one should learn all the skills one can, especially the mundane ones.

He has the spit set up when Achilles returns. And his lover just looks so pleased, so proud that he could take care of his lover in his time of need, that there's a moment when Hermes forgets about the stress of the world and he just grins. And in that moment, the glow of his skin returns like a candle flicker.

"What took you so long?" he jokes, because frankly he doesn't think anyone but a hero or a god could find game in this weather. He reaches out his arms to take the skin and the firewood. "Let me help, love. If we fletch some arrows with the feathers, that could be a fine gift to leave for Artemis."

"Your feather balm must have worn off," he quips back as he hands over the requested items. "I'll need a fresh batch."

In the meantime, he dries off as best he can and begins processing his foraged plants by the fire—ironwort for tea, a few morels, wild apricots and chestnuts—before dressing the pheasant. The quiet domesticity of it all keeps a small smile on his face while he works.

When it comes time to pluck the bird, he discreetly turns away before he begins; he vividly remembers how painful it was, ripping out Hermes' ruined feathers. It's probably not something he wants to be reminded of.

"I didn't realize how much I missed this," he says with a contented sigh. "Simple things. Making a fire and a meal."

"You'll have to wait until I molt, darling. No way I'm giving up that many feathers at once again."

It really was horribly painful. But Hermes can't be sorry it happened, because that was when he decided he could trust Achilles. Not to be a friendly face, or to look out for his cousin, or to provide a hospitable place to land, but to know him.

Hermes whistles softly as he peels the bark off the wood pieces, exposing the more dry insides and leaving the wet bark aside where both pieces can dry faster. He takes a sip of the water, and really, it perks him up to just have a little of it. It almost tastes like nectar after the day he's had.

"Auntie always says that the simple pleasures are the best ones." And despite Dionysus' great protests, Hermes is inclined to agree. This--the warm fire, the company of his lover, the promise of food--this is like a balm on his soul right now. "Auntie's usually right about whatever she says."

"Looking back at my life, and I wish I'd enjoyed more moments like this." He did have some: clumsily making his first poultice under Chiron's quiet tutelage, lazy afternoons spent swimming in the sea with Pat, learning the steps of a dance in Lycomedes' court ...

And there have been more since his death, he only needs to remember they're just as worthy as his living memories: chatting with Zagreus while he waits for a fish to take his bait, quiet hours in Elysium spent writing in his codex while Pat re-teaches Méli to shake hands, and now this—keeping Hermes fed and warm during a terrible storm.

"I knew I would die and still, I squandered my time chasing glory," he examines a banded feather and deems it worthy of fletching, "And allowing myself to be wounded by petty slights."

Athena hadn't exactly helped with that; she'd played a large part in driving him to greatness. And for a while, it felt exhilarating, like being lifted by a mighty wave ... until it crashed against the rocks of his hubris.

He straightens the line of choice feathers before he resumes plucking. "I could have used Lady Hestia's wisdom back then. Maybe she'd have convinced me to go home and grow old by the hearth."

Hermes hums softly in acknowledgement, making sure the wood is distributed as well as it can be for drying, before he takes the feathers from besides Achilles. He can get started on the fletching so his sister can't accuse either of them of being ungracious guests.

"You probably would have had a longer, happier life if you hadn't gone to Troy," Hermes says. "But then after you died, you'd go to Asphodel with Patroclus. Uncle Hades would've had no reason to recruit you, so you never would've met my cousin, and you probably wouldn't have met me. As I am, that is, and not as Demetrius."

Thanatos deals with natural deaths of old age and related illness, and Hermes has no reason to talk to shades minding their own business in Asphodel. He would have set aside his memories as Demetrius as fond, but unremarkable and leave Achilles to think he just happened to have a fast-talking friend who occasionally dropped in on the Myrmidons.

Hermes clicks his tongue as he sits down with a knife and a piece of good wood to work. "I'm selfish. So I'm glad you made the choices you did. I'm happier with you in my life."

"True," he concedes. "As much as I treasure the many gifts that death has bestowed me, I still dwell on what may have been."

He selfishly fantasizes about his own longevity, but more often, his thoughts turn to the happier lives others might have led—Patroclus, his mother, his father. All of the men of Troy he killed in his rage, and the grieving families they left behind.

He smiles sardonically. "Perhaps a few more decades will purge the last of my chronic melancholy."

Achilles carefully removes the pheasant's head and entrails, pausing to wonder what an oracle might read there. Would Hermes succeed in subduing Zeus? Who would rise to power in his place? He sets them aside; maybe it's better not to know one's fate.

"Your company is also a fine balm for those old wounds." He skewers the pheasant on the spit and sets it to roast over the fire, then begins scoring chestnut shells with his knife.

After a moment, he glances up at Hermes. "You were right—I think Hestia knows. And Zagreus is beginning to suspect there's something between us."

Hermes focuses on fletching. He works quickly and elegantly without any of the usual tools that a fletcher would need, and he makes it look easy. Maybe that's a side effect of divinity. Or maybe it's just that he's lived long enough to learn how to be good at many different skills.

But the corner of his mouth does pull into a small frown when Achilles gives him that news. "If my coz figures it out, the whole House will before long. He has the discretion of a drunk Spartan." Said with affection, but no exaggeration. Hermes is honestly shocked that his cousin managed to keep it to himself that Hermes was helping him before Hermes was supposed to have been helping him. "All the more reason to move fast after this mess is done. Lucky that moving fast is what I do best."

Hermes hesitates. Then he sets his knife aside just as he's finished whittling an arrow shaft down to a fine rounded shape.

"Are you sure you're willing to give up being the house guard?" Part of Hermes isn't sure if he believes that Achilles wants to, or if Achilles is just afraid of losing Hermes after almost losing him so many times recently. "The children could use someone like you. But it'd mean you wouldn't see the friends you've made in the House much anymore."

Achilles assembles the chestnuts close around the fire, like an audience at an amphitheatre. Before long, their fragrance joins that of the cooking meat.

He raises a knee up to prop his elbow and rest his chin. For a moment, he watches Hermes—hypnotized by his practiced, handsome hands at work—and considers the question.

"I suppose it depends on what comes of all this. Whether Lord Hades will allow me to serve elsewhere. Whether the House needs me at all," he muses, slowly turning the spit. "Zagreus doesn't need a tutor anymore, and he's more than able to handle matters of security."

But that wasn't Hermes' question. He asked him about friends and how he feels. Not about relative usefulness. "I would miss it, but I have an eternity stretching long ahead of me. Why not try my hand at all the work a shade can do?

"And ... should the House call me back—maybe to tutor Zagreus' sons and daughters—I will happily return."

He tilts his head. "But you're the one who's lived for centuries. How does a man best use such an excess of time?"

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