messageforyou | For refusetofight

For refusetofight

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

Hermes hums happily, leaning against Achilles as he works and popping another apricot into his mouth. He eats slowly, but savors every bite.

"Nothing either of us make will ever quite meet her standards. But gestures matter to her. She's the sort who cares most about the thought and effort, really."

Hermes knows his sister. He knows her intimately enough to know what gifts and offerings she'll most likely pass on to her entourage, but one should give to her anyway.

He takes a strip of meat off the pheasant, savoring the crisp of its skin. "Maybe she'll spend more time with us now that Pop and Lady Hera aren't around. That'd be nice. She's better company than she thinks."

It does seem to be a recurring theme: mortals can offer anything, so long as it's given with gratitude. Achilles fondly recalls the story Hermes told about the worn toy a child offered in exchange for her father's safety.

"At the very least, she might appreciate the rustic charm," he says with a lopsided smile.

"I imagine she makes for much more pleasant company than her twin." He keeps his eyes on his work trimming feathers, a little ashamed even as he says it; Achilles knows how close Hermes and Apollo are. He really should try to bury the hatchet, if only for Hermes' benefit. "... Forgive me. I shouldn't speak ill of your brother."

Hermes gives a soft huff. If it hurts that his lover dislikes his brother so much, he doesn't show it. "Being in this family means that everyone has a bone to pick with one sibling or another. I love them, but they all have their moments."

Apollo included. Hermes loves his big brother dearly, but he can love his big brother while still recognizing he sometimes treats people terribly.

"Who's the better company depends on your temperament. Apollo is better at parties. He likes talking to people. Artemis takes a longer time to warm up. 'Specially with men." Hermes clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth before pulling a leg off the pheasant to eat. "It seems every few decades, there's some man trying to marry her, or carry her away, or peep on her bathing. She's killed all of them dead in very creative ways, and they still don't learn."

Hermes knows. He's had to escort most of them to the Underworld, much to his chagrin.

"So don't take offense if she seems cold whenever you talk to her. She'll probably warm up more once she realizes you're not interested in women." And also that Achilles is head over heels for her little brother instead.

"I don't blame her. Most women—mortal or immortal—suffer at the hands of men." Now, with all the time he's had to reflect, he knows he was careless at best, callous at worst when it came to women. Deidameia was an awkward, youthful dalliance. Briseis and countless other women were simply the spoils of war. If he'd lived a longer life, he doubts he would have been a good husband. "I admit, I wasn't much better than the rest, at least where it concerned mortal women."

Achilles is quiet for a moment as he concentrates on setting the feathers in place and securing them with wrapped sinew. Along with gratitude for the shelter and supplies, he infuses the clumsy arrows with an apology for how he treated the women under Artemis' protection.

"Actually ... I have both Lady Artemis—and Lord Apollo—to thank for my own education. They taught Chiron, after all." He ties off the sinew with a firm knot and cuts it with a flick of the knife. "If I see your sister at a feast, I'll ask if she's visited him recently."

"She probably has. There aren't a lot of people she likes, and she holds them close in her own way. Chiron's one of those people."

Hermes himself remembers Chiron fondly, though he's always too busy to drop in on too many people when he doesn't have business directly with them. Hermes leans his head on Achilles' shoulder, focusing on the way the muscles of his arms flex with the motion of fletching, the way his fingers work.

Hermes takes another bite of pheasant.

"Last I heard, he took in Medus as a student. Jason and Medea's son, if you remember them." Achilles likely does. He imagines Jason and Medea weren't subtle guests when they visited Peleus. Hermes clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Not sure if you've heard, but Jason and Medea had a pretty nasty break up. He went behind her back to marry a Theban princess. It didn't end well."

Speaking of doing women wrong in supremely stupid ways, Jason two-timed a homicidal witch. Even Hermes was speechless when he heard.

He smiles. As much as he knows Chiron enjoys the quiet solitude of his mountain, it pleases Achilles to know he has no lack of students to keep him company.

"Nearly every month my father had one of the heroes of the Argo as a guest." As a boy, he remembers struggling to stay awake while his father and one or another of his visiting brothers in arms would talk late into the night. He remembers tales of sirens and bronze automata and vicious birds. They made for strange dreams. "However, we saw very little of Jason after his exile to Corinth."

Achilles takes up a fresh piece of wood and begins whittling it down to a second shaft.

"Medea must not have killed him; we would have seen him pass through the gates." And Elysium would have had a massive party.

"Oh no, she's much more creative than that." Hermes says it lightly with the air of gossip. Because for him, it is gossip. This is the sort of situation where he really struggles to have any sympathy for the people involved. "She feigned that she was okay with the marriage and gave him a wedding dress for his new bride as apology for being such a spoilsport when she first heard. Surprising no one but Jason, the dress was poisoned and the Theban princess died in front of the whole wedding party. Took her father with her, since he tried to take the dress off. Thebes wasn't too pleased about the whole thing."

Hermes shakes his head as he takes another bite of pheasant leg. "Medea pretended to murder her sons so Thebes wouldn't come after them and she could twist the knife more in Jason, and Helios sent down a chariot to carry her and the boys off to Athens. Aphrodite and Lady Hera were so angry about the whole thing that they both swore off blessing Jason ever again, so I don't see any happy relationships in his future."

Hermes clicks his tongue again as he finishes off the leg, tossing the bone into the fire. "Jason was never really the smartest hero out there."

Really. Hermes can't think of any other hero that has ever so blatantly disrespected his patron god's gifts. Jason will be lucky if Hera doesn't march into the Underworld and demand he be left in a hole in Tartarus for offending her so badly when he dies.

This, too, is familiar. Between their reminiscences, Peleus and his friends would often lament Jason's poor choices, past and present. Retired heroes are not above a bit of gossip (in fact, Elysium is positively rife with it).

"A shame others paid the price." Achilles sighs and shakes his head, probably in the exact way his father did on hearing this latest news.

"And poor Chiron; it must be disheartening to watch so many of his students succumb to foolishness and tragedy." He finds the length of wood has a flawed, twisting grain and exchanges it for what he judges to be a better piece. "Perhaps Medus will fare better."

Achilles wonders if his own story has been added to Chiron's lessons, just as the centaur once told him about the fates of Actaeon, Asclepius, and the many other Greeks sent to his mountain.

"Being an immortal that loves mortals means understanding that you will lose them one day," Hermes says, tone suddenly more serious. "Especially heroes. Heroes usually find tragic ends."

Hermes' voice brightens again. "Except for me. I get to visit the Underworld, so I don't really have to say bye to anyone, do I?"

At least not for a reason as petty as death.

Hermes, having eaten his fill and feeling somewhat restored (or as much as he can be), rests his hand on Achilles' wrist to gently lower his fletching work. Then Hermes swings a leg over Achilles' lap, straddling his hips and wrapping his arms around his neck.

His eyes are soft as he runs a thumb across his lover's cheek.

"Thank you for coming back to me, darling."

Hermes would never admit it, but he really, really needed the company of someone who cares about him.

For a moment, Achilles has to wonder if Hermes' psychopomp assignment was a strategic choice on his part to evade loss. Especially losing the mortals he loves so dearly. After Hermes' early years, Achilles wouldn't blame him for holding on tight. For never letting go.

His arms silently, instinctively coil around his lover's middle. By now, any lingering dampness has retreated to the deep folds of Achilles' tunic and the thicker heaps of his curls. He savors the meager, golden warmth returned to Hermes' body, and draws him into a long, generous kiss that seems to say you're welcome.

When he finally parts, he exhales through a grim smile. "I won't leave those I love to fight difficult battles alone. Never again."

Hermes savors the kiss, humming softly into Achilles' mouth. There, held firmly in his lover's lap, he's never felt safer.

When they part their lips, he sighs softly, bumping their noses together before smiling, brushing his fingertips against the arch of Achilles' cheeks.

"I don't think any of this would have happened without you."

Who would have helped him when he was injured? Who would have inspired him to seek out his mother? Who would have sought him out in dreams? And who would have been here, right now, holding him at what might be the hardest time of his long life?

Hermes loosely wraps his arms around Achilles' neck. He glances at the cave entrance, at the roaring storm outside.

"I'll have to put them to sleep soon. I know you won't stay in the cave, even if I ask." Hermes looks back to Achilles, his eyes serious. "So I won't ask, and in return I hope you respect this request: if you come with me, blindfold yourself. Because they might be in their true forms, and looking at that would vaporize you."

Achilles would *probably* just reconstitute in the Styx. Probably. But Hermes doesn't want to risk it.

"All the more reason to make sure this ends well. I don't like to think I urged you to your destruction." Not that he would survive long enough to regret it. If Zeus maintains his rule, Achilles fully expects to be obliterated; by now, his repeated defiance of Zeus and complicity in Hermes' schemes must be obvious.

With that sense of acceptance, he has no qualms about showing himself before the king and queen of Olympus. He follows Hermes' eyes to the mouth of the cave. Whatever form they might take.

He can guess at what the "truth" might be; he's seen glimpses of the ineffable vastness of a god through Hermes and, very briefly, through Hades' boon. But that doesn't stop him from seeking elaboration.

"So be it." He meets Hermes' eyes and tips his head. "But tell me about this true form."

Hermes shakes his head, frowning in thought. "It's hard to explain."

But he thinks about it, trying to put it into words. It is, after all, all that his lover asks in exchange for not looking upon them.

"It's... all that they are. Thunder and lightning, marriage and childbirth. It's more than I show you. It's enough to destroy anything mortal that looks at it." Hermes carefully curates what he shares with Achilles for that very reason. He wants the intimacy of letting Achilles see more than what mortals know, but he doesn't want to crack his lover's mind. "That was how Semele, Dionysus' mother, died. She saw Pop, and all that was left was dust. Even her shade was wrong when I delivered her to the Underworld. She couldn't talk straight anymore."

And that's how Hermes decided he'd never, ever swear on the Styx to a mortal that he'd give them anything they asked. Not even if he loved them. Especially if he loved them.

He shudders at the thought. "Don't look at them. Please."

The idea that a simple blindfold could spare him from destruction seems odd. About as odd as the fact that gods choose to spend much of their time in more defined bodies. Is it for the benefit of lesser beings? Is it to enjoy the unique pleasures of a human form? Who can begin to guess at a god's motives?

"I won't look at them." Achilles raises a hand to stroke a wing, reassuring. "I'll do as you say."

He reasons that Hermes must, on some level, want to have him along. Otherwise he could have simply whacked him over the head and left him safely asleep here. Maybe he would have if Achilles didn't accept his condition.

Achilles will agree to most anything to stay by his side. Bound as they are, Zeus and Hera probably can't hurt Hermes physically, but words can be as sharp as blades. They can cause wounds that could take centuries to heal over. Regardless of what harm they might inflict, Achilles will be as sturdy a shield as one shade can be.

Achilles rises to his feet, lifting Hermes with him. "Lead the way, my love."

Hermes allows Achilles to pull him up to his feet. His wing stretches into Achilles' touch, and he laces his fingers with his lover's. Hermes reaches out his free hand to the air, and then suddenly he's wielding his caduceus. It's tall and radiates power, a mix of Hermes' warmth and Apollo's brilliance in its golden glow and the light of the ruby eyes upon the winged snakes.

Hermes shakes himself out. He forces a healthy gold color back to his skin, and then forces a blase smile. He won't show any weakness to Zeus or Hera, even if it's extra effort he really doesn't want to put in right now.

"If you go with me, they'll know that you helped," he says. It's one last opportunity for Achilles to back out from bringing all of their wrath down on his head, because even if they aren't king and queen of Olympus after this, they are still gods with the ability to inflict curses on mortals. Though Hermes knows that Achilles won't take advantage of it. Achilles' hubris and love wouldn't allow it. "And they'll probably guess why. Or Pop will, at least."

As far as Zeus is concerned, the only reason anyone does something against their interest is because they are currently or want to be sleeping with someone in particular.

His eyes close for a moment and he takes a breath. He knows them well: his indelible, dangerous instincts. A hero's instincts. Still, Achilles finds he has one qualm: whether this might reflect poorly on his master and sow distrust between brothers. It's much safer if this remains an Olympian matter.

Achilles opens his eyes to Hermes' impressive facade of vitality. It might have tricked him if Achilles hadn't been witness to his exhaustion. He squeezes his hand firmly.

"I have but one wish: that it's made clear to Zeus that my presence here has nothing to do with his brother. I am not here as Lord Hades' servant." He reaches for his cloak and spear. "Any retribution should fall on my head, and mine alone."

“You’re free to tell them that yourself, if that’s what you like. I won’t tell you to be quiet and polite.” Hermes chuckles softly at the thought, both at the idea of him telling Achilles how to behave and trying to preserve manners in the middle of a treasonous coup.

Hermes waits for Achilles to ready himself, then holds his hand as he walks to the mouth of the cave. Outside, the storm rages, wind howling as if someone were screaming through the bending and fallen trees. Hermes takes a deep breath, then he steps out into the rain.

Normally it’d be effortless to stay warm and dry, but that’s just a hair more effort than he can put in right now. He pins his wings to his head, grimacing as he steps lightly to avoid sinking in mud.

“He couldn’t have had a less wet power, no. Just the power to shake the heavens when he’s mad, of course.”

The world smells like rain and ozone, like the air itself is electrified and every droplet of water is another sharp shock. Once Hermes drops his facade, he knows he’ll be covered in little burns from this.

Achilles nods, pleased. He's had enough of keeping his head down—especially around gods like Zeus.

With a practiced motion, he wraps the thick cloak around his shoulders, but when he moves to pin it with Hades' emblem, he stops himself. His lips set in a flat line, he rubs the clasp with a thumb and tucks it safely among the the cave's supplies before joining Hermes.

He raises his cloak like a wing to give his lover some meager shelter as they walk into the storm; the last thing he wants is for Hermes to face his father and step-mother looking like a drowned rat. "A waste of such incredible power—to use it on tantrums."

Grimacing at the charged droplets hitting his brow, Achilles wonders if the storm is worse this way, contained and concentrated by Hermes' own power. While they navigate sucking mud and step over washed-out trail, he says, "Tell me when the approach becomes dangerous, and I'll bind my eyes."

"You'll probably be able to tell yourself once it's getting dangerous."

Hermes, grateful for his lover's consideration, does his best to hide from the rain behind the cloak. He keeps his feathers smooth, doing his best to lock out the moisture. His caduceus, for all its great power, also makes for a very good walking stick as they hike up the mountain. The smell of ozone grows thicker, and they reach a point where some of the trees ahead are visibly wrong.

The trees ahead are charcoal, standing tall in the shapes of the living things they once were, but wet and crumbling in the rain. At their roots, the land is burnt completely black too, leaves and underbrush destroyed and embers still glowing. Even the rocks and dirt beneath the ashy remains of leaves has turned to glassy, hot obsidian. In the wind, the howls of wordless outrage, so bright and furious that it burns the ears to hear, are audible.

Hermes grimaces. "Cover your eyes, my love. This won't be pretty."

Hermes is right; it's glaringly obvious. If Zeus and Hera's rage can raze the land, there's no telling what it might do to a mortal, much less a shade whose presence on the surface is already tenuous.

Achilles tears a long, damp strip from the hem of his cloak. The wool is thick enough to block all mundane light—whether it's sturdy enough to hold against the ineffable essence of divinity, that's yet to be seen. Maybe, he thinks, like offerings of pheasant and forest-foraged food, it's the intent—the belief—that matters.

Once the blindfold is tied firmly in place, Achilles grips his ash spear in one hand—like a mirror to the caduceus—and reaches for Hermes with the other. A part of him cringes at this weakness, this admission that he can't so much as look at two gods as they truly are. But better this than to let Hermes suffer alone. "Lead me to them, magpie. Let's give this poor mountain a bit of quiet."

Hermes takes a moment to double-check the blindfold--not out of distrust of Achilles, but just the fluttering anxiety one has when they're bringing a loved one into a dangerous situation.

Satisfied with Achilles' work, Hermes takes his lover's hand, lacing their fingers together. "Yes, let's."

It's clear when they step past the blackened border. The squish of mud gives way to hard, slippery obsidian. Hermes leads Achilles carefully, both from care not wanting him to slip and reluctance to move further. The closer they come to the heart of the destruction, the more painfully charged the air is, and the thicker the smell of ozone.

And the more distinct the yelling is.

Until they're somewhere the air hurts to touch, hot and humid with the crash of thunder as lightning hits repeatedly places close enough to feel the shooting electricity in the ground. And Hermes gives a cheerful, "Hello there, you two. Feel like making any oaths on a river in the Underworld yet?"

"YOU!"

The children of Kronos talk over each other, but the gist is still audible.

"You ungrateful swine, after I ignored your bastard blood and fed you from my breast when you were hungry, when your own whore mother wouldn't--"

"I will rip off your wings and hang them on my throne, and I will break your arms and legs and hang you from the entrance of the Underworld to tell everyone what happens to traitors--"

"Who is that with you? Hades, the damned traitor--"

"No, Hades would never, that's the shade who defied me."

"And you didn't vaporize him?!"

"I don't need you pointing out the folly of my mercy, Hera. What then, hero? Do you think you'll get special favor for treason?"

It's hard to get a word in edgewise.

With his vision obscured, Achilles relies on his other senses: the warmth of Hermes' hand as he draws him along; the hard stone under his sandals, a welcome but jarring reprieve from the mud; the thrum and burn of electricity coiling through his spear; the caustic scent in the air, and the equally acrid words taking shape through the storm.

Achilles has seen the gods express their wrath—Apollo's merciless plague and the fury of the river Skamandros are still fresh in his memory—but these are two children of Kronos, rich with the blood and power of Titans. He feels as if he's made of sand and being shaken apart by their booming words, grains dragged away on the wind.

Achilles turns to face the gods' tangled voices, and declares as clearly as he can: "My only goal is to deliver peace to those who suffer under your rule. I seek no recompense."

His words have no right to be heard over the howling wind and crashing thunder, but the gods hear him nonetheless.

“Typical hero! Convinced of his own righteousness.” The voice of Lady Hera, even in her unhinged rage, is sharp as a spear. Full and wrathful, it tastes of miserable marital strife and the rage of all scorned women in the world, burning hot and clear. The pain of childbirth itself cuts through the air as she speaks, cracking the glassy obsidian ground. Hermes’ fingers flicker in Achilles’ hand, the pain even hitting him, though he holds in any noise of discomfort. “I remember you, ungrateful boy. If it weren’t for me, the Trojans would have crushed all of you on the backs of Olympus’ favor! And for the kindness I show boys neglected by absent mothers, I’m betrayed twice over. Go home to the Furies and see how righteous they judge your ingratitude!”

Her anger hits much more concretely. The pain crawls up from the ground through their legs, clenching the muscles in their abdomens. Hermes tightens his grip on Achilles’ hand, but his voice remains light as he says, “Now, that doesn’t sound like a sworn oath to me, Lady Hera. Many apologies, but I think it’s time for you two to take a little nap—“

“I know now where the shade’s courage comes from,” Zeus says. The thunder roads, but the force of his rage does not hold a candle to his wife’s. “Another mortal who thinks a divine parent and some impressive heroism will make more than passing novelty for an Olympian. You’re just a toy, boy. And my flighty son will leave you when he’s bored, and no one will save you or your mortal friends from the rest of us.”

For refusetofight

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject