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Medea was only a young woman, barely marriageable age, when Jason and his Argonauts came to her home and Aphrodite bewitched her to love him. (It's easier to blame it on Aphrodite, rather than her own poor judgment.) So she was younger than the Argonauts, now mostly dead and gone. But even she is starting to get to an advanced age.

Her witchcraft and divine blood keeps her spry. But her black hair still now has streaks of steel, and the lines in her face have grown deep, showing the shadows of all her frowns and tears in the past. She'd thought that her years of adventure were behind her, and then she received a vision from none other than Lord Hermes. He came to her as a magpie with the first fingers of dawn, telling her that she was to summon the shade of the hero Achilles to discuss a matter of great import--the education of a new hero. One of Hermes' own blood, so her discretion was appreciated.

Medea isn't stupid. A polite request for discretion from a god is a command. So she's silent about her vision, instead retreating into her innermost chambers, usually reserved for magic done on behalf of the king, and orders the servants to bring her a hardy, healthy adult goat.

She's sure to dress in a fine peplos, dyed a rich green to complement the gold snakes she wears as earrings and a necklace at her throat. She lines her eyes with kohl and arranges the room to greet company, remembering the old dignity of growing up as royalty in a rich and magical kingdom, and her responsibility as a host, even hosting the dead.

She sets up the room with a comfortable chair covered in cushions and furs, with a table besides it piled high with food and an amphora of wine. And then she gets started on the ritual.

It's a complicated and delicate process. She feeds the goat herbs and wine to lull it into a sedated stupor, and then hangs it upside down by the legs and cuts its throat. She takes the first blood and paints a summoning circle around the chair, wine, and food, giving herself a healthy amount of space outside of the circle so she is never forced to share space with the shade. She remembers Achilles from when he was a boy and she visited Phthia with Jason--he was a sweet boy, but she knows too well how sweet boys grow to terrible men, and she's not giving the dead any opportunity to seize her and drag her down to the Underworld.

After painting the circle, the goat is still alive, but stupefied and dying, drop by drop of life blood falling to the stone floor. Perfect. The time she can keep a shade in the land of the living is directly tied to how long the sacrifice hovers between life and death.

She sits in a chair outside of the circle, far from Achilles' reach, and folds her hands together, focusing on the ritual. "Achilles, son of Thetis, slayer of Hector of Troy, Greatest of the Greeks. I call your shade from the shadow of death to attend to the living once more."

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"I raised two boys. Bold and energetic, I can deal with," she says with the slightly exasperated tone of a woman who had to wrangle two boys with divine blood for years with no help from anyone. "A little cleverness to pair would do me well."

Maybe if the girl is clever, Medea will be spending more time teaching and less time doing weird things like pulling the kid's hands out of jars and explaining why people have to wear clothes when they go outside.

"If she doesn't need me to explain the importance of not sticking her hand in a fire, no matter how pretty it is, she'll surpass my boys when they were young." Medea loves her sons very, very much. They were not smart children. "As for when she gets older--"

Medea holds up her hands and gives a shrug. "I expect young people to be trouble. It's how they learn." She's sure that the girl will carelessly fall in love, rail against the adults in her life for not believing that the love is forever, and then get her heart broken when the adults are proven right and need to cry in Medea's lap. It's nothing that Medea's own mother didn't do for her. "If she's eager to learn, then I will teach her."

“She will be very eager, of that much I’m certain.” Achilles hasn’t known his daughter long, but this much is obvious. She’s hungry for knowledge. “I only worry that she might learn too quickly—her curiosity might lead her to dangerous things beyond her abilities.”

He thinks—he hopes—Lyra wouldn’t do terrible things on purpose, but on accident? Maybe … If she was taught this summoning spell, is there a chance she could call the wrong shade? A fiend from the depths of Tartarus?

“Can you … Would you teach her this?” He waves a hand at the goat, the symbols scrawled. “To call me to her? Safely?”

"That is why we have mentors," Medea says, just as comfortable with the idea of a pupil summoning something dangerous as she is with the idea of teaching her. "So that I can intervene if she makes dangerous mistakes. And I can teach her how to keep herself safe."

Medea gestures to the circle. "I've stayed outside this circle. If you attempted to reach for me, you'd find your limbs dissolving as they pushed against the circle's circumference, so I am quite safe. This is true of anyone or anything I could summon from the Underworld."

There are safety precautions one can take when tampering with power. And Medea has lasted long enough with this volatile art to know what they are.

She looks to the goat as Achilles gestures to it. "If she is in my care, I will teach her this spell. It's not one I'd usually recommend beginners do, but I suspect she'll be a quick learner if Lord Hermes is her father. And with the promise of conversation with you, I expect she'll be motivated to practice diligently." The goat twitches. Its tongue lolls out, its eyes blinking sluggishly. "The sacrifice hovering between life and death is what allows me to pull you through here. Once it's bled out completely, the spell will end naturally. I might suggest that your daughter try this with a hen first, since it's much easier for a child to subdue than larger animals."

And while Medea is willing to cast this spell again on the girl's behalf, she's still going to make her contribute according to her skill level. Subduing a hen with the right mix of herbs and wine and then cutting its throat will be a good place to start.

"What is the girl's name?"

Curious, Achilles reaches outward, fingertip extended. The moment it hits the invisible border defined by the circle, his shade evaporates like incense smoke. He withdraws his finger, examining the dissolved tip of it. She certainly wasn’t lying.

It’s a little disappointing to know each of his visits will be accompanied by such an unnerving ritual, but far better than to go without. (And if the dead were more easily summoned, Hades would be livid.)

“Her name is Lyra, as given by her foster parents.” Achilles rubs his burned fingertip against his thumb. “We only just discovered her. It won’t be long before others mark her divinity—hence our eagerness to find a worthy guardian.”

"I see." Medea nods her head, closing her eyes for a moment in thought. She taps her fingers on the arms of her chair, thinking, before she opens her eyes again.

"There will be no hiding that she's a demigod. People can tell these things. And a life hidden in my home away from the world isn't one that will prepare her well for anything at all."

But also, having a highly sought after girl in her care will cause suitors to come knocking. And suitors aren't always willing to be politely turned away, even by a king and queen as powerful as Aegis and Medea. Outright refusing any advances would be considered insulting. If Lyra grows up to be half as beautiful as Helen, suitors could resort to trying to attack Athens for her.

Medea hums as she thinks of a solution, crossing her wrists over her lap. Right. Take a leaf from her old enemies' book and give the suitors impossible tasks to force them away. "Once she's marriageable age, I can tell the world that anyone who has designs on her hand must go on a quest to seek out Lord Hermes' approval as well as your own. Either they publicly shame themselves by saying that it's beyond their abilities and admit their unworthiness, they try to venture into the Underworld or Olympus and suffer the consequences, or they leave her alone. Your son will hear of it, but by then, she'll have her own protection as well as mine." And Medea would rather control when that particular bomb goes off, rather than trying to hide Lyra's parentage forever and inevitably see it revealed at the worst time. That's how these things tend to work, she's found. "And perhaps she will have Lord Hermes'."

She cocks her head, watching Achilles carefully once more. "I assume you know Lord Hermes better than I do. Will he protect Lyra? And should I fear what might happen to her if she ever defies him?"

“I already expect she won’t abide a life of hiding. She wants to see the world, not shrink from it.”

He recognizes the time-honored tradition of setting suitors nigh-impossible challenges and nods his assent. “Whatever keeps her safe until she can defend herself. I’m certain Hermes would delight in setting all manner of dangerously impossible tasks.”

And things that would be entertaining to watch. Defeat Dionysus at a drinking contest? Steal Hades’ favorite quill? Beat Hebe at hopscotch? Achilles can only imagine.

“I know him well.” The softness in his voice should dispel any doubt that the relationship is consensual. “He will protect her fiercely, but he is not Zeus. He doesn’t expect her absolute obedience.”

Achilles meets Medea’s eyes with his own—bright and honest, even in death. “Neither do I. She may forge her own path, I only ask that she do it wisely, safely, and kindly.”

Medea picks up on that softness, on Achilles' confidence asserting how Hermes will behave. It piques her curiosity, but moreso does Achilles' tender desires for his daughter. This doesn't sound like the man of legend, who petulantly hid in his tent over a stolen slave and destroyed an army over the death of one man.

"Death has changed you," she says simply. Perhaps that shouldn't be surprising. Why shouldn't death change a man, when every other major transition in life does? And Achilles died young. He didn't have a chance to grow old and set in his ways like Medea has.

"What little occasion I've had to speak to Lord Hermes has been brief and professional." The god strikes Medea as the sort who wears breezy yet professional charm like a mask, impossible to see through to his true intentions. It would be enough for her if their interactions were confined to the professional, but she suspects that if Achilles is right, then she will see more of the god if she takes in his daughter. "What is he like?"

She wants to know what she should expect. If he might stir up trouble in the court for fun, or abuse her servants, or otherwise cause harm. Not that she really could do much about it if he decided to, but knowing what might be coming gives her a chance to arm herself against it.

Death has changed you. How many people have told him that, now? He’s lost count, and he’s almost ready to believe it, finally.

Achilles glances away at her question, as if he expects to see a suspicious mouse snooping around her workbench or a bird perched in the rafters. He isn’t sure how much he should reveal about Hermes’ true character; he knows how guarded his lover is with those he doesn’t know well. A long, thoughtful pause allows the surrounding sounds of Athens to fill the silence.

“He is unlike other gods I’ve known. He shows mortals more genuine care than most,” he finally begins, carefully. “There is much more to him than meets the eye. He is not to be underestimated, but he does not abuse the power he has.”

He tilts his head. “Are you worried about him?”

If there's an animal about watching besides the dying goat, it's nowhere visible. Medea waits patiently for Achilles' answer, watching his reaction carefully.

Showing care towards mortals and not abusing power is more than Medea expected, but she also can't entirely trust Achilles' perspective on the matter. He's a man, and more than that, he was a prince. Who's to say he would know or care if Hermes treats women and common people so well?

But still, his word is better than nothing.

"I want to know if I should be worried," she says, still unflinching and straightforward. "Struggling against the will of gods is a futile matter, but working around their worst tendencies is easier. Lord Hermes' worst tendencies aren't as well publicized as his father's."

A little-known story, one that Medea has taken care to not spread around, is that once upon a time Zeus himself came onto her. It was Medea's own quick-thinking that allowed her to think of how to invoke Hera's attention without insulting Zeus, and that was what saved her from the worst of both of them.

“When compared to Zeus, Hermes’ ‘worst tendencies’ are miniscule.” Is he biased? Absolutely. But it’s hard to be worse than Zeus. “There’s no need for worry. As long as you are honest, faithfully provide mentorship, and cause Lyra no harm, there will be no trouble. From Hermes or myself.”

Achilles sits up straighter in his chair and his fingers thread once again. He gives Medea another once over with fresh eyes. The more they’ve spoken, the more she’s defied his expectations. “Given what we’ve discussed, is this a duty you would accept?”

Maybe coming from an Olympian, this arrangement should be an order and not a request, but Achilles wants to confirm her willingness. He wants to know that Lyra’s education will be a privilege, not a burden.

Medea nods her head in acknowledgment. Alright. Achilles thinks she has nothing to worry about. His word may not mean as much as a woman's or a slave's, but it's definitely something. And to be fair to Hermes, Medea has never heard tell of him being cruel or fickle.

She arches an eyebrow at the question. "It's a choice?" Medea sort of assumed that if an Olympian wanted her to mentor his daughter, she'd be mentoring his daughter. But she supposes that Achilles wants to know that she'll treat the girl well, and not as a burden thrust upon her.

She leans back in her chair. "I confess, while I love my boys more than life, I've always regretted never bearing a daughter." Maybe that's weird to hear in Greece, but there are some things that one just can't do with a son that they can do with a daughter. "I had resigned myself to my magic dying with me. I would be glad for the chance to pass it on to someone deserving."

And she expects the girl will probably be deserving. Curious, clever, and bold. Medea can teach anything else she needs to be worthy.

“If you resented the task, I would question the wisdom in leaving her in your care. I want Lyra’s tutor to be a willing one.”

It’s strange indeed to hear someone lament their lack of a daughter. Suddenly having one himself has shifted Achilles’ thinking on the matter. Son or daughter, a child is a child. Full of promise and possibility.

The world is what threatens to strip Lyra of value and force her down a narrow path. He thinks of the spark in her eyes as she described a future full of adventure and travel. He doesn’t want to see that fire extinguished. Achilles doesn’t get the sense that Medea would stifle Lyra’s potential as so many other mortals might.

“You’ll find her deserving. Teach her well, and she may surpass your skill.” He might not boast about his own ability anymore, but Achilles is more than happy to brag about his daughter.

Another question springs to mind: “What will your husband make of this arrangement? What is he like? Will she be welcome in his house?”

The corner of Medea's mouth twitches, almost a whisper of a smile at Achilles' boasting. In her later years, she's learned that it's a good sign when parents brag about their children. It's a sign of love.

"My husband is an intelligent, practical, fair-minded man who knows that, even with my witchcraft, his time will come to an end soon." Medea's second marriage isn't one of love--she learned her lesson the first time--but it's one of mutual respect. Both of them were too old for new children when she married, and she wasn't interested in bearing more besides. But Aegeus recognized the asset Medea could be, and offered her protection and comfort for herself and her boys for the rest of her days in exchange for her hand and magic. It's a fair agreement, one that's served both of them well.

"He is too tired by his day to day duties to entertain young children anymore, but he will treat her as a guest with all the honors and comfort befitting, and he won't object to me taking her in and seeing to her care." Especially considering it's on the request of a god. Aegeus is no fool, and he'll be no more eager than Medea to anger Hermes. But even if it weren't for Hermes, Aegeus mostly leaves Medea to her work, trusting that she will inform him as needed of anything that may affect the court.

Achilles nods his understanding. It doesn’t seem like something Medea would bother lying about, and Hermes can always check in on King Aegeus, if he doesn’t already know his character. Athens itself can also attest to the quality of its ruler.

“I would not ask the king of Athens to entertain my daughter,” he says with his own brief smile and a quiet laugh. Though if Lyra has half a chance, he can imagine she’ll hound him with questions. She’s certainly not shy about that.

“And what about your sons? Are they still about?” Given Medea’s experience with men, he can’t imagine she would raise brutes, but parents can also be blind to their children’s shortcomings.

"I sent Medus to Chiron. His dream is to go and reclaim Colchis from my father." She says it smoothly and without hesitation. There's no love lost between her and her father, and she won't stand in the way of her son seeking out his birthright. "Tisander remains here and prefers a philosopher's education. He is a faithful young man who honors my husband as his father, and tends well to the court as Aegeus needs."

As Medea's advisement, of course. She has no doubt that Medus will win the kingdom of Colchis, which means Tisander must be tended to. Aegeus has no living children, so Tisander can become his heir by acting as a son. Aegeus is well aware of this implied agreement, and has raised no objections, provided Tisander proves himself worthy and wise.

"If you wonder at how Tisander may influence your daughter, don't. He prefers to play music and discuss law than fight or carouse." If Medea were less savvy, she might have suggested a match between Lyra and Tisander. But Medea is quite savvy, and not only is the age difference between the two far too large, but Medea has no desire for her son to have in-laws that outpace Medea's own power and cleverness. It needlessly threatens her ongoing control over matters in Athens, and might threaten war with Epirus when Neoptolemus inevitably discovered his sister exists and was betrothed without his consent. No, no, better to leave that headache for someone else. "He might be willing to discuss his studies with her, should the interest strike her."

They sound like nothing to worry about. Medus has a clear goal in Colchis, Tisander is scholarly, and Medea obviously wouldn’t allow any man to harm a girl in her care. Certainly not the daughter of an Olympian.

Achilles brings a hand up to rub his jaw and glances at the offered food he’s left untouched. Rude, he thinks, and takes a date from the platter as a show of gratitude. As he chews, his eyes shift to the goat. Its lips and ears have gone ghastly pale for want of blood.

If he had his reservations about the idea of Medea’s mentorship, this conversation has largely laid them to rest. As much as it still pains him to admit such a thing, Apollo was wise to suggest her. She’s a formidable woman, quite unlike any Achilles has met.

“I think you are well-suited to this task, Lady Medea, but this is not my decision alone. I will speak with Hermes—and Lyra as well.”

Medea dips her head. She never doubted that she was worthy of the task, but she's a little surprised that Achilles recognized her as such. But perhaps death humbled him enough to see the value of people the world taught him he was above in life.

"I look forward to hearing the decision." She watches approvingly as Achilles partakes of her hospitality. She's actually not really sure if the dead still crave food and wine like the living, but it's polite to take a little.

She nods towards the goat. "You're welcome to stay as long as you can, but if you wish to return to the underworld quickly, I can speed along the goat's death." She's not trying to rush her guest out, but she doesn't know if he's planning on discussing their conversation with someone waiting for him.

“Thank you for completing the ritual as requested.” It’s no small thing to ask a mortal to summon the dead. He waves a hand at the laden table. “And for the offering of food and drink. Forgive me for enjoying so little—we had much to discuss, and the dead have little need for such pleasures.”

Achilles shifts his weight forward in his seat, hands on his thighs, as if returning to the Underworld is a simple matter of strolling out of the room. “Unless you have any further questions for me, I should take my leave.”

He’s eager to report back to Hermes and, hopefully, for him to confirm that she’s speaking the truth. Achilles wants to believe Medea, but he’s not about to trust his own instincts when it comes to Lyra’s safety.

Medea dips her head before standing up. She takes a dagger from her work table, black gleaming obsidian. It shines with a wicked glint in the light. "Thank you for privileging me with your conversation." It's not sarcastic. She thinks it's only right to thank the dead for leaving their eternal rest for a moment to speak with her.

She walks to the goat, its skin pale, its eyes starting to roll back and forth. "Please remember to send Peleus my regards. The day I can meet him again will, with any luck, be long hence."

Then she cuts the goat's throat again, this time to kill. The slice has a practiced air to it, and she's almost decapitated the creature.

And just like that, the spell's over, sending Achilles back to the land of the dead.

“I’ll convey your greetings to my father.” Though he isn’t sure that Peleus will be thrilled that Medea is being considered for his granddaughter’s guardian.

Achilles stands and gives Medea a parting bow. As much as she’s proven herself more nuanced than the stories would suggest, the moment she takes up the knife, she has the dangerous look of the rumored, vengeful witch.

As soon as the goat’s throat is cut, so too is the tether binding him to the surface. The Underworld pulls him back with greedy force, as if it was waiting to reclaim him the entire time. Medea’s room, the sound of Athens, the tang of blood are swept away, replaced with Elysium’s muted light and the Lethe’s numbing mist.

His first instinct is to summon Hermes, and he extends his thoughts in a prayer: Hermes, I’ve spoken with Medea. Come when you’re able. And while he awaits a response, Achilles wanders through Elysium’s glades, turning over everything he’s learned about Medea.

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