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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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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?"

Hermes nods as Achilles speaks. It's good to hear that his lover has been thinking on the matter. Hermes would hate to intervene so they can spend more time together, just to see Achilles unhappy with his new role.

Hermes sets his mostly whittled arrow shaft aside so he can look at Achilles, a small smile on his face. "What I usually do is just pick up more jobs the second I start getting bored with the ones I have. Picking up new skills, making new friends, hearing new stories--novelty and work go a long way filling the time."

But he's also the Olympian with the most jobs, so maybe his tolerance for idleness is just diminished compared to everyone else. Hermes is the sort of man who thrives best when he always has something to do, and little is more torturous to him than boredom.

"That's the neat thing about the Underworld. There are always new people coming in. You haven't really seen it yet, but the kinds of people who come in change over time, and their stories get weirder and weirder compared to what you remember in life because the surface keeps changing. I've always found the process very interesting to watch."

"If I had half your speed, I could serve both roles at once," he jokes. Not that he'd actually want to careen through his days at Hermes' frenetic pace, the same way he imagines Hermes wouldn't want to spend his days patiently standing guard. How long the god and his hummingbird heart could tolerate waiting here without company, Achilles can't begin to guess.

"I've already noticed things changing. Some of the shades mention kings from lineages I've not heard of, and lands far beyond my knowledge." On the one hand, it feels as if he's being left behind. Like he's listening to voices through a thick wall, but only hearing snippets of their rich conversation. On the other, it's a treat to hear anything at all—how familiar stories end and fresh ones begin.

"Of course, there are plenty of shades in Elysium who hail from ages past, and talk about people and places long forgotten." Achilles watches the chestnut shells begin to expand and curl in the heat. "Mortals must have changed quite a lot in your lifetime."

"Oh, they've changed loads. It's fun to watch, really."

Hermes moves to pick up his whittling knife again, but there's an earth-shaking clap of thunder outside, the lightning so bright that it momentarily lights up the whole cave. Hermes cringes, clenching his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut, his wings pinned rigid to his skull.

"...What really sneaks up on you..." He tries to start again as if nothing happened. He forces his eyes open again as he picks up the knife, but his wings are still pinned back. Clearly, even if he's still got control of the situation, it's very painful for him when the king and queen of Olympus thrash like that. "...is when you find you've changed with them. You start thinking some things are okay that weren't before, or other things aren't such a big deal even though they used to feel like they were. Marriage customs, military service, child-rearing--mortals change their opinions on those sorts of things a lot over time, depending on where you look."

When he starts his work again, it's slower than it was before. He has to dedicate more focus elsewhere, keeping a tight grip on that invisible net holding the storm in, even as his hands make themselves busy. Sweat beads his hairline, his warmth diminishing as more and more of his energy is diverted. Ugh, even the fire doesn't feel so warm anymore. "Art is one of those things that changes loads too. You should have seen how excited artists got when they figured out purple dye."

The massive peal of thunder takes Achilles by surprise, but he still catches the spit before it can tumble into the fire. He sets it back in place, adjusts the heaped kindling, then scoots beside Hermes, hip to hip, shoulder-to-shoulder, shoring him up against forces Achilles can't see.

He reaches for the clay cook pot and fills it with water, propping it to heat on the fire while he tears the ironwort into smaller pieces. It smells verdant and lemony. Chiron taught that it could treat a cough. Not that Hermes would ever suffer such a mundane affliction, but hot tea must still comfort a hale god.

But he takes his lover's cue and does his best to keep the conversation going. Whatever will distract him from pain and effort.

"Do you suppose that change has been for the better? Or worse?" It's a question he'll probably have to pose to multiple gods when he has the chance; Hermes will surely have a much different opinion than say, Hades or Aphrodite.

Hermes clears his throat, taking a steadying breath as he leans against Achilles' side and works slowly on his fletching. Just keep busy. One more arrow, a little more conversation, Achilles is here and he'll be fine.

"It's a mixed bag, really. The new art, you know, it's always fun to see what humans come up with. But sometimes that means they forget how to do the old things, and that's always a shame." Breathe in. Breathe out. Fletch. Talk. "Same with customs, really. Sometimes mortals come up with something new or interesting, or just a better way to do the old things. Educating children--that's been a pretty good thing. Used to just toss them into the fields soon as they could walk. Meant none of them were really good conversation, you know, unless you were interested in the weather. But women, you know, they've got a raw deal in marriage in a lot of states these days, and they didn't always. Up north, there are folks where the women are the only ones allowed to do math and manage money. Lovely women up there, and have a tendency to cut parts off men who get too fresh."

His mouth runs away with him, but that's how he likes it. Just babble, fast talk, do anything but think about how much effort it takes to hold the damn storm in. And it'd be so easy to let go, so easy to just let it wash over Greece and still wait quietly for his parents to give up, but he can't bear to just let all the mortals suffer more than they already have.

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