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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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"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.”

It's a rare shock to feel such rattling pain—few things can harm a shade quite like divine power. It tears at his very essence. The old sting of living nerves feels superficial by comparison. He braces himself with his spear, even as it burns his white-knuckled fist.

If the assault on his being wasn't bad enough, Hera's well-aimed barbs sink deep, and Achilles scarcely has time to shake off their sting before Zeus fires off his own volley. He returns Hermes' grip and Achilles thinks, loud and vehement, Don't listen. Don't listen to him.

He focuses his blindfolded eyes on Zeus' voice.

"You know so little about your own son. You assume he's like you—that everyone is like you." He takes a sharp breath of the hostile air to deliver his words with more force—and quickly, so Zeus and Hera don't trample over them. "And there is the root of your folly: you worry that—given the chance, given enough power—everyone will treat you as terribly as you treat them."

Hermes squeezes Achilles’ hand back, tighter than he’s ever held it. Now is the time he needs the most strength.

“I never wanted to hurt anyone.” Next to the howling wind and thunder and pain, Hermes’ voice is small. But it cuts through it all, clear and painfully, utterly sincere. “Especially not either of you. No matter how much you hurt me.”

The elder gods are shouting, but perhaps it’s the netting or his clarity of purpose, but Hermes’ soft voice still overpowers them. “That’s why I’m doing it this way. We’ll do this forever if we must. I’m not you.”

The wrath loses words, just pure nature. The pain of childbirth twists the organs within, the lightning cracks the ground open to superheated shards—and then there’s a hard thwack.

And then it’s over.

All is quiet. The rain stops.

The clatter of metal on obsidian as Hermes drops his caduceus. His hand slips from Achilles’ as his knees buckle.

“Malakas, no one can hurt like Hera.” His voice is thick with pain. Whether that’s the physical pain of his body attempting to expel a small creature that isn’t actually there, or the emotional pain of being confronted with betraying her after all she did for him, it isn’t clear. Either way, he clutches his abdomen, breathing heavily. “Give me a moment. Give me a moment.”

In the black of his blindfold, Achilles sees swirling flashes of light and in the abrupt silence, he wonders if he's about to feel the cold embrace of the Styx. The cumulative pain is easily strong enough to wrench his shade back to the Underworld where it belongs.

But no. One of his knees has fallen hard against the obsidian and he's still clutching the haft of his spear as if it might calm the deep, violent twisting in his core.

And there's Hermes' voice, still close.

Achilles paws the air until his hand lands on the curve of Hermes' back. He shifts closer to provide some dazed comfort, but only ends up tipping his entire weight against him with a grunt. For a moment, he feels the hitch of Hermes' labored breaths, then he asks raggedly, "They're asleep ... ?"

In some ways, Hermes thinks that Hera's power is most terrifying. Hades, Zeus, Poseidon, Demeter--they bend forces of nature to their will, but Hera twists the body. There is no escaping from her power, no finding a place where her influence is diminished, because her fiercest weapons are within, and it's impossible to fight against them.

Hermes barely notices the weight of Achilles against him. He focuses on breathing, on deep, heavy breaths as his organs remember where they're supposed to be and what they're supposed to do. (And maybe, also, he needs to remember where he is. What he is supposed to do.)

Hermes' voice is rough when he finds it again. "They're asleep. But don't look. Not yet."

Hermes swallows, struggling to get a full breath. Or maybe struggling to muster his strength. Or maybe struggling to set aside the sting of his parents' rage. Or maybe all of it at the same time.

Finally, Hermes manages to take Achilles' hand again. His palm is slick with rain. He stands slowly, his legs unsteady.

"I'll tell you when it's safe to look. Just let me lead you a little longer."

He manages an mmm in acknowledgement and rises with Hermes. If he wasn't in so much pain, Achilles might laugh at the situation: a god and a hero, both well-known for their agility, rendered graceless as newborn foals.

Not that he'd expect anything less after facing the furious children of Kronos.

Achilles can't see Hermes' face, but his last words to Zeus and Hera were loud and clear. He can hear the pain in his breath, his voice. Hermes wasn't made for this, but he's also the only one of his siblings who can do this.

"I hope you know how wrong they are," he says, wincing as he forces himself to his full height. "Their words hold no more truth than the desperate baying of cornered beasts."

For Hermes' sake, Achilles hopes they tire soon—that they realize their howling has no power here.

Hermes holds Achilles' hand tight as he leads him away from the epicenter of destruction, leaning heavily on his caduceus. Apollo's power, radiant and healing (though not gentle) is louder when Hermes is so diminished.

"It holds some truth," he says, voice still rough. "Hera's right. She took me as her own when she didn't have to. I'm the only one of my siblings who wasn't hers that she took in. I finessed it out of her, but she was good to me most of the time."

That thorn of guilt has clearly dug deep. He knew that there would be no way to overthrow Zeus without overthrowing Hera as well. He knew that Hera is responsible for just as much pain and destruction. And yet now, standing with the consequences of his actions, he just feels horrible.

He clicks his tongue. "I suppose that's what she gets for fostering a god of mischief."

He tries to force humor into his voice, but it comes out bitter and acrid. Hermes could never be mistaken for Hera's biological child with how she treated him, but she had still fed him and sheltered him and allowed him to be welcome in her home in a way she still didn't welcome Apollo, Artemis, or Dionysus. In a way she didn't even welcome Hephaestus, who is hers. He doesn't relish throwing it back in her face any more than he relishes fulfilling his father's worst expectations of him.

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