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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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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.

Achilles listens with genuine interest as he casts the herbs into the pot. But he also recognizes the babbling for what it is. Once again, Hermes is doing the difficult, thankless work. Mortals have no idea what misery they've been spared. Many of the Olympians probably wouldn't have bothered holding back the storm at all; who rises to power is of much greater concern.

When he stops speaking, Achilles reaches to wipe the sweat from Hermes' forehead and cup his face. This is the most tired and wan he's ever seen the god. Achilles locks his eyes—his own face as soft as its hard lines and planes allow. He kisses the space between his brows.

"I'm proud of you, Hermes," he says, quiet and earnest.

Hermes is ready to keep babbling, but there's something significant in Achilles' touch, his look. Hermes blinks, his cheeks taking on a golden color with an anemic but present flush.

He opens his mouth to deflect with a joke, or to make light of it somehow, but instead he just says, "For what?"

Maybe it's the weight of betraying his father. Maybe it's the pressure of holding the storm in. Maybe it's just the cold, cold enough that fire can't seem to penetrate, and his exhaustion with his whole life being turned upside down in the last couple months. But for a moment, Hermes can't quite see why he's worth any pride.

"I'm saving my own skin," he says hollowly. His siblings--many of them did a selfless thing by helping him, putting their necks on the line. But what did Hermes do? He's overthrowing his father because he's left with no choice. "It's the only way I could live peacefully. It's the least I can do to stop things from getting worse for the mortals than they already have on my account."

None of this would have happened if he'd just kept his head down and avoided the Titans. He'd been cocky and overconfident and now everything is falling apart, the dead are walking the earth, and Hermes is overthrowing his parents because apparently he really was as disloyal as his father always feared. Or maybe it's just cowardice that he's spent all this time under his father's thumb, passively allowing his siblings to bear the brunt of his wrath, and then turning Olympus on its head when it's his turn to do the bearing.

Edited 2023-01-24 07:06 (UTC)

"It's the only way most of us can live peacefully." He pivots his seat to better face Hermes, and his voice takes on a fresh vehemence. "How many of your siblings labor under Zeus' judgement? How many must quash their better instincts to avoid his wrath? Even Apollo was afraid to assist you, his beloved brother."

Achilles grips Hermes' knee. "In doing this, you protect your mother and others like her. You save your cousin and other young godlings from incurring Zeus' wrath.

"And most commendable of all: you do this without bloodshed." Achilles knows how simple it is to kill, and how difficult it is to cultivate compassion and forgiveness. He recalls Hestia's words—how each generation of gods labors under the enduring legacy of Kronos' cruelty. To employ violence would only carry that curse forward.

The hand at Hermes' face slides down to his shoulder and squeezes the tension there. "Don't you see it? You create space for kindness to flourish."

Hermes is taken aback by the vehemence, but maybe he shouldn't be. Achilles is renowned for his devotion, and he loves Hermes fiercely. He's proven it over and over with every new rebellion against more powerful gods.

His throat grows thick. He manages a smile, not because of any real cheer but because it tends to be his default expression, so it's easier to push through.

"I don't see it, I'm afraid," he says honestly. All he sees is his own selfish motivations, and all the time he spent saying and doing nothing in the face of his father doing things he knew was wrong. And he sees how his own siblings, who he'd figured would also quail at their father should the sword turn to him, still helped him when he needed it most. "But I'm glad you do, my love. Maybe it'll be easier to see after this is all over."

He trusts Achilles. If Achilles sees something, Hermes trusts that it's there. He sets his tools aside and leans forward, tucking his face in the crook of Achilles' neck. "I'm sorry. I'm not my best right now." (Even after all this time, he still feels self-conscious being anything less than his best in front of his lover.)

It makes sense, he thinks. How long has Hermes been living under the assumption that he's every bit as irredeemably selfish as his father? Since he was born to his mother's fear and revulsion? Since he sought shelter with his Olympian family?

Mortals are stubborn enough about changing their opinions of themselves; after centuries of life, Achilles knows a god isn't about to promptly rearrange his sense of self because a mortal lover challenges him.

No matter.

"Even if you can't see it, that doesn't change how I feel," Achilles breathes against his ear, hugging him close. "This is difficult and painful—that's also plain to see—but you're far stronger than your father ever could have imagined. Strong as mighty Atlas."

Edited 2023-01-25 03:17 (UTC)

Hermes huffs softly against Achilles' neck, something almost approaching a chuckle. "Stronger. Because Atlas doesn't have someone like you."

He curls his fingers in Achilles' hair. Just being held right now, with the smoke of the fire and smell of roasting fowl, makes it so much easier to keep it together. This is why he's holding the storm back, after all--because he sees so much in mortals, and he's loved some so fiercely that he can't bear the thought of letting them all suffer if he can help it.

"Maybe after all this, I'll talk to him again. And Prometheus, too. I think they just wanted conversation more than anything else."

And unlike Zeus, Athena isn't afraid of Hermes' kindness. Exasperated sometimes, and occasionally worried for him, but not afraid.

Achilles gives a quiet laugh in return and strokes his silky feathers. He remembers what Hermes said—that Atlas once had wings himself. He wonders if it pleased the Titan to see his grandson has what he lost.

"Hah. You see? Your efforts benefit them as well." There's a knowing smile in his voice, even if Hermes can't see it. "Without Zeus presiding over Olympus, you can deliver messages and speak to them, free of fear. A small thing, but it must make their punishment more bearable."

He kisses the top of his head. "Just hold strong a bit longer, love."

Achilles would be content to stay that way, were it not for the cooking food. He leans to turn the spit again—the pheasant has begun to brown, the chestnuts' golden meat strains against their shells, and languid steam rises off the pot of ironwort tea. Not the most lavish feast, but it's the best the storm-ravaged mountain has to offer.

At the moment, it smells like a lavish feast. One of the best Hermes could have, when he's so cold and struggling in the middle of his parents' storming rage. He shifts to be closer to the fire, abandoning his fletching for a moment so he can just try to warm himself. He fluffs out the feathers at his skull and ankles, trying to hold as much heat as he can.

He rubs his own arms, trying to get them warm again. He watches the pheasant brown, the fat beginning to sizzle and drip into the fire. It makes the fire spark and smell of rich game meat.

"You know," he says, "I see why Pop was so put off by Prometheus. He's smart in that way where you know he has ulterior motives, but you do what he wants anyway because he knows how to get you what you want while getting what he wants."

Otherwise known as, smart in Hermes' way. Cunning and clever and masterful at manipulating people, to the point where he's still able to reach his goals even when people know they're being played.

"I think he knew I'd probably have to overthrow Pop one day. So he told me what I needed to know, even before I knew I needed it. Probably wouldn't have known he was pulling anything if it wasn't, you know, what I do."

There's a touch of respect in Hermes' voice--like recognizing like--but also thoughtfulness. He's still figuring out how he feels about that side of the family.

"What are the Titans like?" Achilles has never met one, only heard grim tales of the Titanomachy and its aftermath. But surely not all of their generation were as terrible as Kronos; they must be just as varied and complex as their descendants.

And clever Prometheus must have recognized Kronos in Zeus. Maybe even a bit of himself in Hermes. But whether or not he armed his great-nephew with knowledge out of generosity, or a desire to land a vindictive blow against Zeus, Achilles has to trust that Hermes weighed those motivations with care.

He passes a hot chestnut between his hands to cool it and then hands it to Hermes. "I imagine there's much to be learned from them. At least, those who don't resent your generation's rule over Olympus."

"Big. And I thought our parents were tall."

It makes Hermes wonder what it is that has caused gods to get progressively smaller over generations. Maybe it's the dilution of divinity over time? Or maybe it's just that the older the world becomes, the more comfortable it is to be small enough to be on the level with mortals.

Hermes accepts the chestnut with a grateful nod. He pulls one peeling triangle of shell back and bites into the flesh. The heat, the flavor, just having something solid and real and cooked with love in his mouth--he moans softly, swallowing with relish.

"Prometheus is chattier than Atlas. He really wanted to play games, and he's not able to move very much while strapped down, so he suggested playing riddles. Didn't even try to bet on it for something good--just wanted something to do besides wait for an eagle to eat his liver again. Good riddler, I'll tell you that. Might've beat me if I wasn't so good myself." Really, meeting him makes his fate seem ever more tragic. Hermes fancies himself a decent judge of character, and Prometheus, while tricksy, didn't strike him as a bad sort. Just someone who wanted to be kind, and was punished for it. "Atlas doesn't talk much. But he asked questions about my mum, and about me. Didn't like Pop much, obviously, but seemed okay with the others. Turns out the Hesperides told him about me. Who knew?"

And that feels flavored with tragedy too. Hermes wonders what it'd be like to find out he was a grandfather while pinned under the sky. Worse, that the father was the one who put him there.

Achilles can't help but smile at the image of the massive Titans visited by Hermes, a tiny chatty bird by comparison. Hermes has provided him much the same gift—a welcomed connection to the world beyond his captivity, a bit of hope in the midst of a relatively dour routine.

"If— When she comes to power, do you suppose your sister would consider their release?" He removes the pheasant from the fire, slides the meat onto a clay dish, then dusts it with salt. "Or maybe even revisit other punishments Zeus meted out?"

Achilles genuinely can't decide: would Athena be committed to upholding her father's precedent? Or would a sense of order move her to reconsider harsh sentences made at the height of his fury?

Edited 2023-01-27 20:20 (UTC)

Hermes pauses, looking at the rocky ceiling in thought as he considers. He snags a gorgeous strip of meat from the pheasant, popping it into his mouth. He moans again, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

"Thank you, darling. I didn't realize how much food would help." Even when he has no need for food, there's something restorative about it, especially about something hunted and cooked and prepared with love.

He snags another strip of meat, looking forward again at Achilles to answer his question. "I'm not sure, honestly. She's got her merciless side. And she might decide to just go along with what's been working as far as the Titans go." He nibbles thoughtfully at the meat. "But she always strives to be fair. She might be open to the idea of letting them earn Olympian trust back. We don't like letting people think it's okay to steal from Olympus, but it's not like we all haven't enjoyed the results for this one."

All their mortal heroes, acolytes, children, friends, lovers--none of them would be around if it weren't for the theft of fire. Humans would have withered and died out without it, and Hermes really can't imagine a world like that. "'Thena would probably want to talk to all our Aunts and Uncles about it to get their opinion, since they know the Titans better than us. If any of them think it's worth giving them a shot, I think she might." And if not even Hestia will entertain the idea of mercy, then they probably aren't worth it.

"It's the least I can do." The meal is like the symbolic offerings he made in life: libations, blood, burned fat and bones. But it's also the same generosity he would bestow on Patroclus, or a tired guest after a long journey. Neither shades nor gods have much use for food, but the care and respect carried in a meal is still nourishing.

Achilles heaps the remaining chestnuts, apricots and morels around the dish, like a cozy nest for the roasted meat. He judges the tea to be sufficiently steeped—fragrant and golden yellow—and decants it into a chipped but sturdy cup. Heat quickly suffuses the clay, and Achilles presses it into Hermes' cool hands as he tucks himself close beside him once more.

"It would be a shame to let their wisdom go to waste." He pauses and breathes a laugh. "Or is that a uniquely mortal sentiment? Our lives are so short, we cherish our elders; they've learned the patterns in the world, and they teach us to avoid their mistakes."

Achilles shrugs and reaches to add another log to the fire. "But maybe one learns all there is to know in a matter of centuries."

Hermes sighs in soft delight as he holds the cup of tea, his skin gaining more of its usual golden undertone. It's still not his usual color, but it's better. He drinks deeply of the cup, humming softly into the flavor of ironwort.

"I wish I learned everything there is to know." He lowers his cup so he can snag an apricot, nibbling that thoughtfully. "Actually, I take that back. It'd be very boring to know everything. But yes, I think it'd be a pity to lose what they know. And maybe I'm a softy, but I'm not so sure about eternal punishment for things like taking the wrong side of a war. It seems... unsportsmanlike."

And as the god of athletes, Hermes believes in sportsmanship. At least in the context of contests of strength and skill, and that's what war really boils down to, isn't it? Although he might be naive. This is the closest he's come to living through a war among gods.

"But I'm no god of war. What do I know?"

"Your father would be very disappointed to hear you say such things," he chides, giving Hermes' side a playful pinch. "A son of Zeus shows his enemies no mercy."

Achilles lets Hermes enjoy his meal and takes up the arrow where he left off. First, he holds it up to an eye to check that it's true. He notes a slight curve and heats the shaft in the fire for a moment before giving it a gentle, corrective bend. Artemis deserves the best in return for such valuable shelter.

As he works, his eyes wander to the mouth of the cave. His thoughts shift from old wars to the simmering threat of fresh ones. "I hope the prince and Lady Hestia have cooled tempers on Olympus."

Hermes is happy to leave the fletching to Achilles, nibbling at his food with the slow but enthusiastic pace of someone who really needed comfort more than they knew.

"I haven't heard anything explode in Olympus' general direction, so I'm guessing they did."

Hermes pauses in his eating to frown at the entrance of the cave, at the howling wind and sheets of rain. "Normally you'd be able to have a good view of Greece from up here. If they keep up their tantrum for much longer, I may just whack them over the head with my caduceus to make them sleep it off for a while. Then we'd be able to see the situation."

Hermes wanted to avoid putting them to sleep because it could invigorate them in the short term, but this may turn into a long term battle even without that.

Not the most definitive answer, but he'll take solace from it still. Achilles hasn't known her long, but Hestia seems plenty capable of wrangling her family, and if things do turn sour, she won't let her newest nephew come to harm.

He hums and runs the knife blade along a rough spot on the shaft, then blows the curled shavings into the fire. Smoothing his thumb along the wood, Achilles pauses to watch Hermes eat. It warms him to see the meal has bolstered him a bit, but ...

"You should do it. You need rest as well." As much as the words themselves are a suggestion, his tone is a bit more stern; there's no point in Hermes completely exhausting himself. "I can keep watch and let you know if they stir, or if there's any sign of trouble elsewhere."

Leave it to Achilles to tell a god what to do. And leave it to Hermes to take it in consideration.

"I don't want them to be refreshed for more fighting," he says wryly, biting into another chestnut. "But you're probably right. It'll be easier for me to keep up if I can rest. And eventually... well, they'll realize that either they swear, or they're put in eternal sleep."

Maybe thrown to the bottom of the ocean so no one has to worry about them escaping. The prospect makes Hermes' stomach turn. His father may have been willing to do that to him, but a part of him still recoils at the idea of doing it to either his father or his foster-mother. For all they've done, he's never wanted to hurt them.

"But after eating. I don't want to deal with their yelling on an empty stomach."

"Of course. Eat your fill, magpie." He leans over and places a kiss on the ball of Hermes' shoulder. "I'm happy to gather more, and it will be easier still if the storm abates."

Achilles tosses his hair over his shoulder and sets about cutting lengthwise grooves to inset the fletching. The hero much prefers a spear to a bow, but he was around enough skilled archers to absorb some know-how; Teucer in particular would talk his ear off about the merits of various fletching styles, feathers, and arrowheads.

Archers, Achilles finds, are very particular. Not that he's any less opinionated about the proper construction of a spear.

"Hopefully these arrows meet Lady Artemis' standards. I'm a bit out of practice," he murmurs, selecting a set of choice feathers from the same wing. "Though ... I wonder if this camp will see much use with the mountain razed as it is."

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