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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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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.

Maybe he should feel ashamed for his hand in this. Maybe Achilles should feel grateful to Hera for her allegiance to the Greeks, but he can't help but feel that it wasn't given for the sake of principles or generosity—that maybe she was simply using them as a means to settle her grudge with Paris and the Trojans.

And who's to say she didn't have something to gain by raising Hermes as her own? So many of the gods expect some kind of quid pro quo, even from their own children.

"The rest isn't true," Achilles says with greater fervor.

"I know I'm no 'toy' to you, and I'm not after your favor as an Olympian." Maybe this doesn't need to be said, but he says it all the same. As if the words are an antidote to Zeus and Hera's gall.

"I love you—" Achilles pulls on Hermes' hand so he can brush his knuckles with a quick kiss. "—for who you are, not what you can give me."

Hermes lets out a soft but harsh sigh. Heavy and relieved. Like maybe he hadn't really realized what he needed to hear until this moment.

"And I love you too. So much." Hermes pauses long enough to press a soft kiss to Achilles' lips. "You're no flight of fancy to me."

Hermes isn't sure that his reassurance was necessary, but he wants to give it all the same. His father (and to some level, his siblings) have given Olympians a reputation as fickle lovers. He never wants Achilles to think that he's another novelty to enjoy and pass by.

When they reach the edge of the black circle, Hermes doesn't say anything. Instead, he leans his caduceus against the charcoal remains of a tree to pull Achilles' blindfold off himself.

Hermes looks much the same, but significantly more tired. Weary eyes, sallow complexion. It may be the light, or the ash in the air, but it almost looks like there are flecks of gray in his hair that weren't there before.

"If you have to go back to the Underworld now, I understand," Hermes says. It's implicit permission, an assurance that Achilles can return to his duties and Hermes won't hold it against him. Hermes won't ask him to stay, won't tell him that he desperately wants him to stay. He knows that Achilles would do as he asked, regardless of what he needed.

Edited 2023-02-07 03:12 (UTC)

His eyes blink against the light's sudden return. When Hermes comes into focus, Achilles is struck by how mortal he looks—like any of the young men at the Troad when, after consecutive days of fierce warring, their strength was utterly sapped.

Achilles doesn't look much better: his hair is tousled and frizzed by static and some of the color has leached from him—skin, eyes, hair—like a garment left too long in the elements.

He pulls Hermes into a hug. Tight, as if holding him close will wring out all his exhaustion. Achilles can't begin to imagine leaving Hermes alone looking as spent as he does.

He murmurs against Hermes' ear. "I'll stay. I want you to rest without worry."

Hermes sighs softly in relief. He buries his face in Achilles' neck, wrapping his arms around his lover's waist and sagging in the embrace. Even his own weight feels like too much right now.

"Thank you," he mumbles into Achilles' skin. His wings fluff his feathers and smooth them out, some attempt at straightening his appearance. But even his feathers look diminished, grayer, as if just this confrontation has brought him closer to molt.

This high on the mountain, without the raging storm clouding their view, the lands across Greece are clearer. Beams of light, almost solid, shine from Olympus down to the valleys below. It seems that the rest of the family has rallied and is descending to assist the mortals.

Hermes tries to muster enthusiasm about that, but all he can manage is a wobbly step away from Achilles.

"We ought to go back to the cave, or I'll just take a nap on the ground."

"And I'll carry you if I must." Achilles passes Hermes his caduceus—not without taking a moment to appreciate its power humming against his burned palm—and then winds his arm behind Hermes' shoulders, inviting the tired god to use him as support.

As they turn a switchback, Olympus comes into much clearer view. The sight of it, strong and bright, makes Achilles feel better about his decision to stay. Hopefully that's a sign things are under control and Zagreus is safe among his cousins.

He lifts his chin towards the divine light. "Should I take that to mean Prince Zagreus and Lady Hestia have succeeded?"

Hermes takes his caduceus in hand, leaning against Achilles as they walk back down towards the cave. At the switchback, he squints out towards Olympus and the gleaming beams of light.

"Seems like a safe assumption to me," Hermes says. "I don't think it'd be nearly so pretty if they were still fighting up there."

He should be happy about this, but he's too tired to muster 'happy.' So instead, he settles for 'pleased'.

Hermes heaves a sigh. Everything feels exhausting. Even the pressure of his own skin on his body.

"Would you mind if I turned into an animal?"

Maybe a cat. Maybe a hummingbird. Anything that can turn off higher functions easier and just rest.

The confirmation gives him permission to relax. The Underworld should have powerful support until the pact is restored.

And then Achilles' brows raise at the sudden question. It's the sort one never hears in a mortal relationship. But he grew up with a mother who would spend much of her time as any number of creatures. It's nothing new.

Achilles was always envious and—when he was very young—he remembers asking her if he could change his shape. His child's heart was broken to hear such things were beyond him. That was when he began to understand the limits of his mixed blood.

He's since made his peace. It was more than enough to enjoy speed and strength and a certain heroic magnetism.

"Not at all, love." The path is still a ruin, and it would probably be less trouble as almost any other creature. Achilles stops, feet sinking in the mud, gives him a tired but honest smile, and steals a kiss while Hermes still has the lips for it. "Do what you like."

Hermes hums into Achilles' mouth, rubbing their noses gently together with the hint of a smile.

"You indulge me so kindly."

And then the caduceus is gone, put away wherever it goes when Hermes hasn't conjured it. And then Hermes is gone too. On the ground is an orange tomcat, short-furred and lanky like a street cat but with tufted ears that almost resemble wings. And the cat is not in the mood to walk--he rubs the side of his body against Achilles' legs, rubbing his cheeks against his knees before standing on his hind legs to dig his claws into Achilles' cloak, urging for him to pick him up.

Life is easier when one is a cat. Not all of Hermes' mortal lovers have been so willing to embrace this part of him, but he's grateful that Achilles allows him the peace of an animal form without abstaining from love and affection. It can be hard to explain how peaceful it is to be a well-loved animal. The change in perspective does wonders.

The smile stays on his face when he sees the familiar orange cat. There must be something comforting about the shape, he decides. The last time Hermes appeared this way had been difficult, too: they'd been made to fight at the arena and Hermes had found his mother's letter.

Well, cats are lazy things, perfect for a long rest.

He hooks his hands under the tom's armpits and hauls him up onto his shoulder. Achilles' cloak is still cold and soaked, but it's far better than navigating the mud. He gives Hermes' chin an affectionate scritch and says, "Make yourself comfortable."

Once Hermes is settled, Achilles resumes the descent to the cave. Gouts of smoke still puff from trees as if their lightning-split trunks were chimneys. Still, the view beyond is stubbornly beautiful and Achilles drinks it in with a fond sigh. "How I missed this place ..."

Hermes settles against Achilles' shoulder. He rubs his cheek against his lover's neck, his little body vibrating with purrs. He even manages to playfully flick his tail against Achilles' nose. Already, the new form has put him in a better mood.

The tomcat stays easy to carry, purring softly in Achilles' arms as he walks down to the cave. He turns his head, ears flicking as he takes in the view.

Yes. This is why Hermes is fighting so hard. It's easier to remember when he can see the expanse of beautiful Greece, from the rolling green mountains to the glittering ocean. There is a wide, wonderful world out there, but Hermes' heart will always belong to this land.

The tomcat meows. The meow probably translates to something in agreement, or in compliment to the view, but it's hard to tell. And it's hard to tell if his purring got louder, because he already sounds like a running motor.

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