Hermes surrenders to Achilles' unforgiving grip, keening loudly as his teeth rake against his throat. He scrabbles his nails against Achilles' back. As Patroclus appears in the memory, Hermes reflexively digs his nails in Achilles' skin, as if to say mine. Hermes isn't usually a jealous person, but the throes of passion leave him possessive and feral. His nails dig in deep, dragging long furrows in Achilles' back.
But then he processes the emotional underpinning of the memory. The anger. The pride. The retrospective shame. The blurring identity, where did the people we used to be go?
It sparks a memory, one much more personal than the wide expanses of his domain. Olympus, gleaming, beautiful beyond mortal imaginings. And across the marble floor of their throne room is a trail of ichor. Hephaestus dragging himself on the stomach to his forge. It's a humiliating spectacle. All Olympus watches him go, cowed into silent observation by Zeus' thundering temper. Even Hera, on whose behalf Hephaestus defied Zeus, is silent.
Apollo rests a hand on Hermes', almost casual, but it comes paired with a soft, psychic snap that Hermes should remember the way of the world. The powerful are in charge because they can hurt the weak, and no amount of pleading or begging will change that. Don't be the next Hephaestus.
Hermes knows it's his big brother urging him to not end the spectacle, to not aid their brother in his moment of greatest need. But Apollo overestimated his brother, and needn't have worried. Hermes is too afraid to think it's even a possibility. Too afraid to even signal his disapproval with a frown. So he watches with an opaque smirk as his brother drags himself on his belly through their home, and he does nothing. Coward.
As he's entered, Hermes' breath catches. It hurts, but it's a good hurt. He wraps his legs around Achilles' waist, angling his hips to let Achilles get as deep as possible inside him. He whimpers in Achilles' ear, raking his nails across his back.
Achilles arches his back against Hermes’ clawing nails and he hums approval at his sounds of pain and pleasure. “Keep singing for me, magpie.”
As a mortal, it’s uncomfortable to see Hephaestus, a god, in such a miserable state. It’s worse yet to feel Hermes’ fear. Achilles can’t think of a time he’s known his lover to be so frightened. At least, not that he ever showed. But it explains why he—and the rest of Olympus—lived so long with the status quo. They need only look to Hephaestus for a reminder of what happens to those who defy Zeus.
What would he have done in the same situation? Is it better to keep the peace, or stubbornly defy authority? Achilles only knows he did the latter and suffered dearly for it.
The memory of consuming grief looms dark on the edges of his consciousness. It threatens to flood in, but Achilles refuses to inflict that on Hermes. He won’t let it sour this moment. It’s easier to think of the rage and vengeance that came in its wake. Rivers choked with bodies. Xanthus and Balius’ labored breath, their tack jingling as they pulled his chariot around the walls of Troy, Hector’s corpse dragging, desecrated in their wake. Such brutality did nothing to ease his pain.
He only began to feel any relief after Priam’s—and Hermes’—visit. He felt less like a witless, raging dog and more like a man.
Achilles rocks forward, further lifting Hermes’ hips in a bid to pin him tighter, get closer and deeper still. Through Hermes’ raking nails and the sweet gratification of his own greedy thrusts, Achilles can feel the soft flutter of feathers against his lower back—the graceful wings at Hermes’ ankles pressed close.
Hermes needs no encouragement. He cries out with every thrust, gasping and keening as he digs his nails hard into Achilles’ back, ankle wings fluttering spasmodically like he might be flying if Achilles didn’t have such a good grip on him.
Hermes remembers that night in the tent. He remembers the lead up—gods arguing in Olympus. Apollo furious, slamming his hand on the table and demanding that Hector be returned at once. Hector’s shade was forced to linger at the Styx without funeral rites to allow him to move on, and if his body was allowed to rot without the rites, he’d wander the earth forever. It was sacrilegious, and Apollo wasn’t about to allow one of his favored to be abused like that. Aphrodite, of all people, Ares, and Athena all pushed back when Apollo declared he’d smite Achilles there and then if he didn’t give back the body. Aphrodite because she wanted grace to be given to a grieving lover, Ares because he delighted in the violence Achilles had been feeding him, and Athena because she’s Athena. Athena was the one to ask Hermes to find a way to stop Achilles’ rampage, because she knew he was beyond her wisdom’s reach and she didn’t want to see her favored put down like a rabid dog. Hermes cooled tempers in Olympus, confidently declaring the body would be returned that night.
Hermes never doubted for a moment that Priam’s grief would penetrate the fog of Achilles’. Hermes remembered the over-confident and passionate boy, and he knew he was still there, just hurting so badly that he couldn’t appreciate the pain of others.
Hermes remembers the tent. It smelled of blood and sweat and overwhelming grief. He remembers standing aside, separate from the action as Priam collapses at Achilles’ feet. He sees Achilles, somehow looking less human at first in the light, almost glowing with violence, but all of it seeming to bleed out in the face of Priam’s tears.
Hermes stayed politely to the side, knowing that the enormity of both men’s grief would never be adequately salved by this, but maybe it would stop festering. And he didn’t want to distract from that by being a god in their presence.
It’s illuminating to see that moment from an outside perspective: to see gods quarreling over mortal affairs, to see how Hermes intervened, to see himself blazing with rage and how quickly the flames abated at Priam’s supplication.
His own memory of that time is foggy with grief and madness. Seeing it through Hermes’ eyes provides some clarity—even some needed compassion for himself in that dark, miserable moment.
Achilles shifts his hand to cup Hermes’ face. He meets his eyes for a moment, then captures his mouth in a kiss—deep with gratitude and love. His hips slow to a steady roll to match this careful adoration.
It’s impossible to say in words just how much he loves Hermes, so Achilles says it with his memories: Hermes with a real smile—one that wrinkles his nose and creases his eyes. Hermes laughing, bright and clear at a joke at Zagreus’ expense. Hermes savoring honey cakes by the hearth. Hermes quietly granting a mortal his blessing, with no expectation of thanks or praise. He shares these and dozens more, all saturated with Achilles’ affection.
Hermes whimpers in Achilles' mouth as the pace slows, but it's sweetly agonizing. He's ready to complain about it, when Achilles floods him with memories of himself.
Hermes wasn't ready to see himself from Achilles' eyes. He wasn't ready to feel how much Achilles loves the scrunch in his nose when he smiles, the way he laughs, the way he blesses mortals, the way he looks when eating honey cake with firelight on his face. He wasn't ready for how deep and sincere all that love and affection is. He wasn't ready for how... kind he appears in Achilles' eyes.
Achilles loves Hermes. He knows that. But Hermes doesn't always quite appreciate how much someone can love him. A part of him is always stuck feeling like love must be constantly earned, rather than freely given.
Hermes breathes shakily, his eyes stinging as he returns Achilles' kiss. His nails pry loose of Achilles' skin, his grip gentling as he twists his fingers in Achilles' hair.
He answers with his own memories. Achilles' rare smile and laugh. The way his brow creases when he's getting stubborn. But more than anything, Hermes remembers Achilles as courage. Hermes remembers fear as the background noise of his life. Fear of facing his mother, fear of defying his father, fear of revealing any kind of vulnerability to anyone in the family. It was so normal for him that he didn't even recognize it for what it was anymore when he was so carefully picking his words in his and Achilles' early conversations, calculating how to communicate his meaning without saying anything incriminating.
And he remembers how shocking it was for Achilles to choose to defy Zeus for him. And then he did again. And again. Achilles almost made it look easy. And that gave Hermes the courage to open his mother's letter. To stand up to his father. To believe that his siblings can have his back. Hermes can't adequately explain how much he loves Achilles, and how seismic his effect on Hermes has been in such a relatively short time.
Before he spent more time among them, Achilles assumed gods didn’t know fear at all. Not like mortals. He’s surprised to learn just how much fear Hermes hid under that charming, cocky smile. He moves so fast, it’s hard to imagine fear could even catch up with him.
But Achilles is even more surprised to see the positive impact he’s had on Hermes’ life. He’s willing to accept some credit for Zagreus’ upbringing, but other than that … what good has he done? He helped the Greeks defeat Troy, but was it worth all of the lives he took in the process? The pain he subjected Patroclus to? Would he have had a better, longer life without Achilles?
Achilles has long thought that nothing after death counts; his violent legacy is written in stone. But Hermes has just shown him proof that Achilles couldn’t be more wrong. His story continues. He’s improved the life of a god—a god who he loves.
He takes a sharp inhale, his breath catching with a wave of emotion and he becomes more acutely aware of his body, joined tight and hot with Hermes. His pace immediately redoubles with sharp, deep thrusts and his hands instinctively, possessively take Hermes’ hips in an iron grip. His back arches and muscles flex, pulling his skin tight against the lattice of marks Hermes has left. A pleasured moan thrums in his chest.
Hermes gasps as he's pinned and Achilles drills into him. He pants, keening as he scratches his nails into Achilles' scalp, pulling his hair into a fist. Hermes' back arches, and he bites the curve of Achilles' shoulder, digging his teeth in as his nerves all start to flare at once, tingling up his spine with every thrust. He's close, and he scratches and bites and holds Achilles for purchase.
The stars that make up the fabric of his body are visible. A constellation that would adorn the sky, should he ever consign himself there. They're bright and shimmer overlaid on skin. Memories shudder and blur with his pleasure--the blurry image of Achilles' face, his hands covered in Hermes' ichor as he methodically plucks damaged feathers and puts them aside; the reflection of glowing water on Achilles' skin as he pins Hermes down on the beach; the gentle acceptance of Achilles' arms when Hermes read his mother's letter, and he was almost fit to turn himself into stone from the pain and vulnerability; Achilles, kissing him and declaring his love in the land of dreams under the shade of whale bones; Achilles, still a toddler, chasing after a hummingbird he doesn't know is a god; Achilles, laughing at some joke Hermes doesn't remember making, but he remembers how all the weight seems to lift from his lover's shoulders as he laughs.
Hermes loves Achilles ardently. He's not a god of love, but it still threads through all the memories, treasured and warm and so real that it hurts.
Achilles gives a pleased grunt at Hermes’ bite and the desperate scrabble of his nails. It reminds him of one of the beasts Hermes so enjoys changing into. It’s primal, unrestrained, unabashed and leaves Achilles equally wild with lust.
But the scattered stars across his skin glitter in delicate contrast. It evokes memories of that night on the mountain, where Hermes blended with the black velvet of the sky during their lovemaking. Achilles shares the wonder and awe he felt in that moment, at the reminder that, for all their flaws, the both of them are made of something beautiful and eternal.
As his pleasure reaches its peak, Achilles floods Hermes with rapid-fire glimpses of moments he treasures. Achilles’ chest flutters, his spirits lift, when Hermes appears at the House gates in a flurry, bearing a message from Olympus. Hermes’ head rests on his lap, his brow slack and peaceful while he sleeps. The joy on Hermes’ face as they dance with mortals at Anthesteria, and the taste of wine on his lips. A jewel-feathered hummingbird cradled in his hands, tiny and indescribably precious, so very like those he used to chase in his father’s garden.
Achilles buries his face against one of Hermes’ wings, panting into his warm feathers as his thrusts reach a crude, frantic pace. The deluge of his memories comes to an abrupt halt, the slate of his mind wiped clean by his climax. He gives a gasping cry and his hips stutter with the last strokes of his release.
Hermes is overcome. He's never seen himself through the eyes of someone who loves him so much. And not because he's a god and can bestow blessings and achieve things no mortal can, but because he's... him. All the things that would be left behind if one day he lost all his status and power.
He's swept away by the combined weight of love and pleasure, the feral and the divine. He digs his heels into Achilles' skin, scratches long crooked lines in his back, and digs his teeth into his shoulder, screaming into his skin, into his own climax. He spills on his stomach, his mind splintering into stars, stars, stars.
And then he slowly comes back to himself. To the mossy ground against his back. To Achilles' face against his wing. He almost wants to cry with how much he loves this man, with the intensity of this long overdue lovemaking.
But instead, he pries his nails and teeth loose, leaving behind the rabid marks of a lover. And he strokes Achilles' hair, resting his cheek against his, and murmuring, "I love you so much."
“I love you, my dear,” Achilles whispers into his ear. They just finished sharing the depth of that love in mind and body, but the words still have their own affirming power. They deserve to be said, again and again.
Achilles props himself up enough to press the tips of their noses together. The warm glow of his orgasm hums in his core, but his skin is alight with the sting of Hermes’ amorous wounds. Achilles gives hin an exhausted smile. “Even if you happen to be a wildcat.”
He presses a soft kiss to Hermes’ nose and the corners of his mouth curl a bit more. “After all this time—after all this sneaking about—it was nice to hear you yowl. There’s no sweeter music.”
Achilles allows himself a bit of his old pride at that; it’s great to please any partner, but satisfying a god is extra special.
"And it was nice to yowl. And also scratch you up like a wildcat's prey."
Hermes giggles softly, scrunching his nose as Achilles kisses it. He relaxes into the moss, letting his heels drag down Achilles' calves and his ankle wings flutter against Achilles' skin. After all that, it's hard to believe he's ever doubted Achilles' love for him.
"I feel like I keep saying this, but let's not wait so long for next time, hmm? I've missed this."
Hermes can't help but feel it's mostly his fault that they haven't had more time together. First it was because he was too cowardly to face his lover after their fight and let himself be made too busy to do anything but deal with Ares' troublemaking, and then he was the one dumb enough to be outmaneuvered by Ares and wounded so grievously.
“Quite the bite, too.” He gently touches the arced set of teeth marks champed into his shoulder. That’s one benefit of taking up with Hermes after he’s died: if he was still alive, he’d be an absolute mess of scars by now. As it is, his shade more or less pulls itself back together. He shifts over to lay on the moss, still tucked close against Hermes’ side.
“Mm. I agree. The Fates have certainly conspired against us. Perhaps we should seek Aphrodite’s blessing?” he teases. Given her jealousy, Achilles can’t imagine she would ever grant it.
But Achilles genuinely hopes the worst has passed for now. Ares is imprisoned. Zeus and Hera have gone to the stars. The only lingering concern is Atlas, perhaps Gaia.
And … of course, the small matter of raising their relationship to Hades. Are they better off now that Achilles isn’t serving directly under his roof? He isn’t quite sure. Is there any precedent for gods carrying on with mortal shades? They could well be the first.
Hermes sighs in delight as Achilles shifts to lie next to him, turning to snuggle close. "She'd probably want to sleep with you in exchange, and then I'd have to fight her. I don't think Athena would be too pleased with me."
No need to pick more fights on Olympus if they don't have to. Hermes would like time to recover from all the other fights he had to pick.
Hermes tucks his nose against Achilles' neck, humming against his skin. "But we should have more time now. We'll be working together much more closely."
Hermes isn't thinking of Hades. He'd be more than happy to just never bring the matter up and act like Hades ought to have known after he one day discovers it, because Hermes intended to stop actively hiding the relationship after Achilles was no longer in Hades' House.
“Fine. We’ll avoid causing any fresh quarrels, and pray the Fates will reward us.” Achilles chuckles softly and combs fingers through Hermes’ hair.
“How has it been? The return to your work?” It feels like it’s been a very long time since Hermes has consistently fulfilled his psychopomp duties. Or his messenger duties, for that matter. “Do you suppose Lady Athena will be calling on you for counsel?”
Athena is a very competent ruler, but she’ll still need someone like Hermes to help with delicate matters of diplomacy and to keep an astute eye out for treachery. Delivering messages and souls seems much lower in priority while Olympus is stabilizing under a new queen.
Hermes hums, smiling and closing his eyes as Achilles strokes his hair. He slings an arm affectionately around his lover's waist. "It's been nice. I love my work, and I hate being bored."
And things like sitting around waiting for his father and foster mother to break, or waiting for his body to hurry up and heal enough to function again--all that is boring. The tedium of waiting drives him mad. But now he doesn't have to wait.
"Athena will keep me closer to her side than Pop did, I think. He liked me best to play tricks so he could hide things from Lady Hera, or maybe save one of his mistresses she was trying to destroy. Athena likes me best acting as her left hand. Apollo might become her right, if they work out their differences." Of which they don't have too many, by divine standards. Athena finds Apollo to be temperamental, and Apollo thinks that Athena is too consumed with maintaining a false image of being above it all. Just enough conflict to mean it's a process to learn how to work together with a new hierarchy, but not so much that Hermes expects violence.
Unsure if Achilles even knows the left and right hand analogy, Hermes elaborates, "The right hand is most visible. The left hand works in the background. But they're both just as close to the head." Athena knows that Hermes' best work is done when people aren't focused on him. When he's a mediator, when he's a trickster, when he's a spy. Apollo does his best work in the open, straightforward and unapologetic.
The gentle trickle of the fountain, the cool air on his bare (somewhat sore) skin, and Hermes’ loving touch sets Achilles utterly at ease. It’s almost as if the two of them could be normal lovers, basking in the glow of their lovemaking and discussing their lives. He moves his hand to stroke a wing, smoothing out feathers between the pinched pads of his fingertips.
Achilles hopes acting as Athena’s left hand will have the added benefit of making Hermes a less visible target for any kind of attack or retaliation from Olympus’ enemies. He selfishly hopes Athena and Apollo will take most of the blows, should it come to that. Hermes is fast and clever, but his older siblings have more raw power.
“And you’re a fine liaison with the Underworld. Lord Hades doesn’t seem to mind you as much as the rest of his family.” Hopefully it stays that way once he learns of Hermes’ dalliances with one of his shades. “He’s only beginning to warm to Lady Athena. And he barely tolerates Apollo. I suspect he’s too like Zeus.”
"Probably doesn't help that Apollo's all light and the Underworld is all dark. He's miserable when he has to come down here, and he makes it everyone's problem."
Hermes hums softly as Achilles strokes his wing. He stretches it out, inviting more touch.
"You think that Hades will ever more than tolerate the rest of us, or is he just eternally doomed to be a grump?"
Hermes genuinely wonders. He doesn't blame Hades for estranging himself from the family after what Zeus did with Persephone--Hermes was the messenger throughout the sordid affair, and then the secret-keeper after, so he had a closer view than most. But he knows that Athena has hope that one day the family might not be so stilted and strained, and perhaps the relationship can warm one day. He hopes for all their sakes that it happens. No one benefits from a cold family relationship among gods.
Achilles runs his pinched fingers along Hermes’ primaries, pressing the tiny, glowing fibers back into place. The feathers are still nice and fresh from his last molt; there’s not much cause for preening, but it’s a good excuse to keep touching Hermes.
He hums in thought at the question and looks up at Ixion through the thatched branches of the willow overhead. “Your lord uncle seems to change at a such a glacial pace. I’ve no idea if that’s typical for gods of his age, or simply unique to him.”
Hestia and Poseidon don’t seem that way. Or at least, not the same way. “But he is changing. I’ve seen evidence of it in my years of service.”
Zagreus and Persephone have helped that along. As have Hestia, Hermes, and Athena’s visits. Achilles sighs through a weak smile. “It’s not your nature, I know, but be patient. Maybe another century or two will warm him to Olympus.”
Hermes sighs, eyes fluttering as he relaxes into the preening, as unnecessary as it is.
"You know me. Patience doesn't come easy. You think it would at my age, but nope."
Sometimes Hermes wonders if he'll ever get old, or if he's a bit like Hebe and he will always have a young appearance and disposition no matter how much time passes. Age is strange for gods anyway--Aphrodite is older than Hestia, Hades, or any of their siblings, but she looks young enough to be a blood sister of any of Zeus' children. Hephaestus is close to Hermes' age, but he looks like he could be verging on being a grandfather, were he a mortal.
"I think that nothing is really typical for age, at least with gods. I think it's all about how we feel about ourselves and the world." And Hades has an old disposition. Hermes wouldn't be surprised if he always has.
“Mm. I suppose that’s true, even of mortals.” Ever since Patroclus’ death, Achilles has felt old, even if he was only thirty-some odd years at the time. He became so exhausted by his mistakes and the world that helped make them. Hermes is helping with that, though; Achilles feels like he’s slowly reclaiming some of his former youth.
“Maybe Hades will start to see the world differently now that power has shifted in Olympus. He won’t feel quite so taken for granted—maybe he’ll even feel his work is valued.”
Achilles pauses his preening to tilt his head and tuck a lock of hair behind Hermes’ ear. “Keep including him in Olympus’ deliberations and listen to his opinions. He may change more quickly for it.”
Hermes smiles as Achilles plays with his hair. He curls his fingers in Achilles', gently laying each curl out over his lover's shoulder reverently.
"Athena already wants to do it." Hermes pauses, almost as if in thought. "...You know, no one ever took his throne. Pop left it empty, even when Dionysus came along and Aunt Hestia gave up her throne so he could have one. I think Pop expected Uncle Hades might come home, one day."
Hermes doesn't know why. Had his father convinced himself that what he'd done wasn't so bad, and Hades would come to his senses? Did he think the allure of Olympus would be too great? Or did he have some love for his brother, and missed him? Whatever Zeus could feel that resembled love, at any rate.
“She is wise indeed.” Achilles gives a self-deprecating laugh that jostles his neatly-laid curls. “She certainly doesn’t need my approval, but she has it regardless. That’s the right approach with Lord Hades.”
Achilles wonders if Hades knows about his empty throne. Persephone might well have told him, but would he consider it a touching gesture, or an empty one? The latter, most likely.
“I’m surprised to hear that thrones on Olympus are finite.” Couldn’t Hephaestus make as many lavish thrones as they need? He gives a teasing smile and pinches Hermes’ side. “You should have given up your throne. It’s not as if you sit still long enough to use it.”
Hermes snickers, rolling away from the pinch. "I can't give it up to Dionysus, though! He'd never let me live it down. Besides, Auntie is happier next to the hearth anyway. I think she was looking for an excuse to shake the throne."
Hermes snickers again, putting his chin on Achilles' chest. "Besides, no one trusts Hephaestus to make more thrones. Last time he did, it was a trap for Lady Hera because he was still mad she disowned him as a baby, and she was stuck to it forever until Dionysus finally hunted Hephaestus down and got him drunk enough to agree to fix it."
Every god has a funny story about how they were elevated to Olympus, it seems.
Achilles barks a laugh. Who would have thought gods—immortal beings of such power and majesty—would play so many petty tricks on one another? Certainly, some of those stories trickle down to mortals, but Achilles often wondered how true they were.
He turns his eyes upward again, and imagines what Olympus must be like. His mother tried to describe it a few times; she spent most of her time in the sea, but often visited Olympus to petition Zeus or visit Hephaestus. But he feels like his imagination must fall woefully short.
“I suppose more thrones lie empty now. Will they remain that way?” he asks, and resumes stroking Hermes’ wings, well aware that this is a gloomy shift in topic. “Or do you suppose new gods will rise—at least to replace Zeus and Lady Hera? They’ve left so much behind … thunder, the sky, marriage, childbirth …”
Hermes snuggles close, closing his eyes and focusing on the gentle stroking of his wings. It’s a gloomy topic, but a legitimate question.
“Pop and Lady Hera had a lot of children they didn’t give a throne to, for one reason or another. Usually because they didn’t like how they looked.” Hebe’s childish appearance wasn’t impressive enough, or Eileithyia was too plain. Hephaestus only got a throne because he built it, and even their superficial leaders couldn’t dismiss the power of his work. “Hebe’s getting a throne, and my sister Eileithyia is too since she’s picking up marriage and childbirth. I don’t know what we’re doing for Pop’s power, though. Athena’s taking the sky, but she’s not temperamental enough for thunder.”
Perhaps other gods will rise. They probably will. Hermes hopes they’re stable gods, at the very least.
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As a mortal, it’s uncomfortable to see Hephaestus, a god, in such a miserable state. It’s worse yet to feel Hermes’ fear. Achilles can’t think of a time he’s known his lover to be so frightened. At least, not that he ever showed. But it explains why he—and the rest of Olympus—lived so long with the status quo. They need only look to Hephaestus for a reminder of what happens to those who defy Zeus.
What would he have done in the same situation? Is it better to keep the peace, or stubbornly defy authority? Achilles only knows he did the latter and suffered dearly for it.
The memory of consuming grief looms dark on the edges of his consciousness. It threatens to flood in, but Achilles refuses to inflict that on Hermes. He won’t let it sour this moment. It’s easier to think of the rage and vengeance that came in its wake. Rivers choked with bodies. Xanthus and Balius’ labored breath, their tack jingling as they pulled his chariot around the walls of Troy, Hector’s corpse dragging, desecrated in their wake. Such brutality did nothing to ease his pain.
He only began to feel any relief after Priam’s—and Hermes’—visit. He felt less like a witless, raging dog and more like a man.
Achilles rocks forward, further lifting Hermes’ hips in a bid to pin him tighter, get closer and deeper still. Through Hermes’ raking nails and the sweet gratification of his own greedy thrusts, Achilles can feel the soft flutter of feathers against his lower back—the graceful wings at Hermes’ ankles pressed close.
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His own memory of that time is foggy with grief and madness. Seeing it through Hermes’ eyes provides some clarity—even some needed compassion for himself in that dark, miserable moment.
Achilles shifts his hand to cup Hermes’ face. He meets his eyes for a moment, then captures his mouth in a kiss—deep with gratitude and love. His hips slow to a steady roll to match this careful adoration.
It’s impossible to say in words just how much he loves Hermes, so Achilles says it with his memories: Hermes with a real smile—one that wrinkles his nose and creases his eyes. Hermes laughing, bright and clear at a joke at Zagreus’ expense. Hermes savoring honey cakes by the hearth. Hermes quietly granting a mortal his blessing, with no expectation of thanks or praise. He shares these and dozens more, all saturated with Achilles’ affection.
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But Achilles is even more surprised to see the positive impact he’s had on Hermes’ life. He’s willing to accept some credit for Zagreus’ upbringing, but other than that … what good has he done? He helped the Greeks defeat Troy, but was it worth all of the lives he took in the process? The pain he subjected Patroclus to? Would he have had a better, longer life without Achilles?
Achilles has long thought that nothing after death counts; his violent legacy is written in stone. But Hermes has just shown him proof that Achilles couldn’t be more wrong. His story continues. He’s improved the life of a god—a god who he loves.
He takes a sharp inhale, his breath catching with a wave of emotion and he becomes more acutely aware of his body, joined tight and hot with Hermes. His pace immediately redoubles with sharp, deep thrusts and his hands instinctively, possessively take Hermes’ hips in an iron grip. His back arches and muscles flex, pulling his skin tight against the lattice of marks Hermes has left. A pleasured moan thrums in his chest.
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But the scattered stars across his skin glitter in delicate contrast. It evokes memories of that night on the mountain, where Hermes blended with the black velvet of the sky during their lovemaking. Achilles shares the wonder and awe he felt in that moment, at the reminder that, for all their flaws, the both of them are made of something beautiful and eternal.
As his pleasure reaches its peak, Achilles floods Hermes with rapid-fire glimpses of moments he treasures. Achilles’ chest flutters, his spirits lift, when Hermes appears at the House gates in a flurry, bearing a message from Olympus. Hermes’ head rests on his lap, his brow slack and peaceful while he sleeps. The joy on Hermes’ face as they dance with mortals at Anthesteria, and the taste of wine on his lips. A jewel-feathered hummingbird cradled in his hands, tiny and indescribably precious, so very like those he used to chase in his father’s garden.
Achilles buries his face against one of Hermes’ wings, panting into his warm feathers as his thrusts reach a crude, frantic pace. The deluge of his memories comes to an abrupt halt, the slate of his mind wiped clean by his climax. He gives a gasping cry and his hips stutter with the last strokes of his release.
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Achilles props himself up enough to press the tips of their noses together. The warm glow of his orgasm hums in his core, but his skin is alight with the sting of Hermes’ amorous wounds. Achilles gives hin an exhausted smile. “Even if you happen to be a wildcat.”
He presses a soft kiss to Hermes’ nose and the corners of his mouth curl a bit more. “After all this time—after all this sneaking about—it was nice to hear you yowl. There’s no sweeter music.”
Achilles allows himself a bit of his old pride at that; it’s great to please any partner, but satisfying a god is extra special.
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“Mm. I agree. The Fates have certainly conspired against us. Perhaps we should seek Aphrodite’s blessing?” he teases. Given her jealousy, Achilles can’t imagine she would ever grant it.
But Achilles genuinely hopes the worst has passed for now. Ares is imprisoned. Zeus and Hera have gone to the stars. The only lingering concern is Atlas, perhaps Gaia.
And … of course, the small matter of raising their relationship to Hades. Are they better off now that Achilles isn’t serving directly under his roof? He isn’t quite sure. Is there any precedent for gods carrying on with mortal shades? They could well be the first.
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“How has it been? The return to your work?” It feels like it’s been a very long time since Hermes has consistently fulfilled his psychopomp duties. Or his messenger duties, for that matter. “Do you suppose Lady Athena will be calling on you for counsel?”
Athena is a very competent ruler, but she’ll still need someone like Hermes to help with delicate matters of diplomacy and to keep an astute eye out for treachery. Delivering messages and souls seems much lower in priority while Olympus is stabilizing under a new queen.
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Achilles hopes acting as Athena’s left hand will have the added benefit of making Hermes a less visible target for any kind of attack or retaliation from Olympus’ enemies. He selfishly hopes Athena and Apollo will take most of the blows, should it come to that. Hermes is fast and clever, but his older siblings have more raw power.
“And you’re a fine liaison with the Underworld. Lord Hades doesn’t seem to mind you as much as the rest of his family.” Hopefully it stays that way once he learns of Hermes’ dalliances with one of his shades. “He’s only beginning to warm to Lady Athena. And he barely tolerates Apollo. I suspect he’s too like Zeus.”
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He hums in thought at the question and looks up at Ixion through the thatched branches of the willow overhead. “Your lord uncle seems to change at a such a glacial pace. I’ve no idea if that’s typical for gods of his age, or simply unique to him.”
Hestia and Poseidon don’t seem that way. Or at least, not the same way. “But he is changing. I’ve seen evidence of it in my years of service.”
Zagreus and Persephone have helped that along. As have Hestia, Hermes, and Athena’s visits. Achilles sighs through a weak smile. “It’s not your nature, I know, but be patient. Maybe another century or two will warm him to Olympus.”
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“Maybe Hades will start to see the world differently now that power has shifted in Olympus. He won’t feel quite so taken for granted—maybe he’ll even feel his work is valued.”
Achilles pauses his preening to tilt his head and tuck a lock of hair behind Hermes’ ear. “Keep including him in Olympus’ deliberations and listen to his opinions. He may change more quickly for it.”
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Achilles wonders if Hades knows about his empty throne. Persephone might well have told him, but would he consider it a touching gesture, or an empty one? The latter, most likely.
“I’m surprised to hear that thrones on Olympus are finite.” Couldn’t Hephaestus make as many lavish thrones as they need? He gives a teasing smile and pinches Hermes’ side. “You should have given up your throne. It’s not as if you sit still long enough to use it.”
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He turns his eyes upward again, and imagines what Olympus must be like. His mother tried to describe it a few times; she spent most of her time in the sea, but often visited Olympus to petition Zeus or visit Hephaestus. But he feels like his imagination must fall woefully short.
“I suppose more thrones lie empty now. Will they remain that way?” he asks, and resumes stroking Hermes’ wings, well aware that this is a gloomy shift in topic. “Or do you suppose new gods will rise—at least to replace Zeus and Lady Hera? They’ve left so much behind … thunder, the sky, marriage, childbirth …”
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