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It's not long after Anthesteria that the vulture arrives. It has the same rattling rusty call, the same ugly plucked red head. It finds Achilles wherever he is in the Underworld, and it bears a message written on parchment.

Told you need to hear about human minds!

Happy to chat :) Meet me at the mouth of the Styx

Bring an adult mortal with as little divine blood as you can, who you don't mind hearing what we have to discuss

- P

Prometheus has set up outside the Temple of Styx. It'd be rude for him to invade Hades' realm. Rude--how interesting to consider through the lens of his work, knowing that it's a territorial response. Gods are just as humans, just as animals. They dislike it when those who don't belong wander in their territory.

He looks a sight better than he did when Achilles last saw him, but still not particularly good. His salt and pepper hair is pulled back, his beard now trimmed neatly, and his clothes not quite so ragged (though they're still streaked with clay). His hands are still too thin, gnarled like tree roots with bulging arthritic knuckles, and his joints are swollen and muscles withered.

His chiton is pulled up and clasped so that the scarring over his liver isn't visible anymore, and he might look to all the world as an elderly, arthritic man, if it weren't for his shadow. It spills out behind him, cast by the campfire he's built, and it is so large that it fills the whole clearing.

He's boiling water over the fire. He has a bag full of things, sitting by his side. A cheetah, his newest creation, lies languidly over his legs, keeping his joints warm and keeping pressure on them to cease their aching momentarily.

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Achilles frowns at the memory, trying to glean some clue from it. The Furies might have business with Pyrrhus—but this vision feels too subtle.

“Zeus and Hera’s retreat to the stars has left things in disarray, as you can well imagine.” But while Athena and Hermes have been doing their best to settle Greece, there are looming threats beyond their borders. (Ironically, Achilles might know more about the divine state of affairs than Prometheus himself.) “And a new god is causing trouble to the south, while the northern gods are still clamoring for the end of the world.”

Could the vision be the God of Everything? But why would it bother? Could it be Loki, seeking revenge? But that would mean breaking a binding oath. (Not that Loki would particularly care.)

“I doubt foreign gods would have any business with Pyrrhus. It must be one of our own. Perhaps someone who took umbrage with his conduct at Troy.”

Prometheus hums, impressed. Yes, Achilles definitely knows more about current divine affairs than he does.

"If by the gods of the north, you mean the Aesir, I don't think it's any of them. They have a... chilly influence." Prometheus brings up a much more vivid part of the memory--the smell. Something bright and verdant, and entirely foreign to Greece. The smell sticks fast in Pyrrhus' memory, penetrating through the damage to his brain like a burrowing insect. "This doesn't feel like them."

If Achilles recalls, it smells like Freya, or Freyr. Or a geas. Prometheus scratches his chin, frowning. "If you know about the Aesir, does the term 'Tuatha Dé Danann' mean anything to you?"

Even if he didn’t remember the strange words exactly, he knows their foreign sound. He doesn’t try to pronounce the name himself, but says, “Yes, Odin’s queen and her brother—those are their people.”

And now that Prometheus has enhanced the memory and drawn the connection, it’s obvious. Still, Achilles shakes his head in disbelief.

“But that makes no sense at all. Pyrrhus has had no contact with them.” At least none that Achilles is aware of. And as far as he knows, neither he nor Hermes caused Freya or Freyr any insult during the incident at Valhalla and Folkvangr. “Unless, perhaps, this god appeared to other mortals and their interest is in Greece at large, not just my son.”

That makes more sense. Loki ventured into Greece because he knew the Olympians were vulnerable after Zeus’ deposition. Another opportunistic god might well do the same.

"I wouldn't venture to guess at motive, myself. They're a strange bunch over there," Prometheus says, shaking his head as if shaking off an insect with a grimace. "Strange. And very infrequently friendly when it comes to my creations."

"But Hermes would know better than either of us. It's part of his job to keep abreast of divine foreign politics." Prometheus scratches his chin, frowning as he looks away from the memory and towards the void. "I wonder if I could call his attention for a moment. He's not too terribly busy, is he? Certainly not so busy that he can't divide his attention for a moment."

Prometheus isn't really one to respect other gods' work when one of his precious creations is in need.

He’s not too terribly busy, is he? Achilles winces. Hermes is very busy. More so than ever. He’s Athena’s right hand. He’s keeping an eye on numerous threats both domestic and foreign. He’s a psychopomp, messenger, and father besides.

Achilles pinches the bridge of his nose. Hermes will divide his attention immediately, particularly if it involves him, but he hates to heap another concern on the pile. Hermes has already given him so much help with Pyrrhus.

Keeping this from him would be a mistake, though. What if this god is a broader threat to Greece?

Achilles relents with an exhale and a nod. “Hermes is perpetually busy, but he’ll want to know about this, my lord.”

Prometheus gives a cheerful hum, mostly because he was already planning on calling on Hermes whether Achilles agreed he was busy or not. There's a tug in the void, like a pulled string. There's resistance at the end. And then the void fills with an orange glow, Hermes emerging fluttering like a particularly stressed out bee.

"What? What? What do you need?" he says to Prometheus before spotting Achilles. He's momentarily surprised, but does tip over in midair to press a quick kiss to Achilles' cheek. "Hello there, darling, fancy seeing you in dreams again."

"Little Pyrrhus saw his mother washing his bloody armor at the shore, and I think it's someone from the Tuatha Dé Danann. What do you think, Hermes?" Prometheus says, blithely breezing by Hermes' clear stress.

"Bloody armor?" Hermes only turns his head towards the memory for only a moment before he says, "That's the Morrígan."

"What?" Prometheus seems genuinely surprised. "No, it can't be her. She can't shrink that small."

"She started splitting herself into three so it was easier to interact with everyone else, and one piece will manifest as warrior's mothers to wash their bloody armor as they go to battle to mark them as fated to die--wait wait wait." Hermes' mouth was just running, and his brain has only just caught up with the implications of what he's said. "What is she doing in Greece? And what does she want with Neoptolemus?"

Achilles shoots Hermes an apologetic look and says a quick, “Sorry to disturb you, love.”

He listens to the two gods discuss the matter, but his focus narrows to only one piece of it: to mark them as fated to die. His otherwise still shade’s heart twists in his chest.

“He can’t die. Not yet,” he blurts, as if Hermes or Prometheus have any say in this matter. But this isn’t the first portent of his son’s doom: Apollo showed him as much in his first journey through a dream. Achilles had hoped it was only a cruel vision, intended to hurt him, but …

Achilles shakes his head. “You must be mistaken. Why would a god from the north bother with a Greek mortal?”

Hermes' face twists in sympathy. He doesn't relish suddenly being pulled from his business to accidentally break it to Achilles that his son has divine eyes on his imminent death.

"I don't know. The Morrígan is... well, she's unpredictable."

"She's one of those gods who can see the future," Prometheus supplies. "But not like Apollo. More like the Fates. Sometimes she's motivated by forces greater than we know, and sometimes it's pure pettiness."

"She marked him as fated to die in an upcoming battle, so Orestes must have been fated to kill him if he carried on to capture Hermione," Hermes says, resting a comforting hand on his lover's shoulder. "But you turned him back. Maybe that will satisfy her."

Achilles lays his hand over Hermes’, ready to cling tight to that explanation. “Yes, of course,” he agrees forcefully, persuading himself. “He was on that fool’s errand before I warned him against it.”

And if that’s the case, he spoke with Pyrrhus just in time. The Fates granted father and son a second chance, the Morrígan be damned.

“This god … this Morrígan. She was mistaken.” Achilles looks hopefully between Hermes and Prometheus. “There’s no need to worry. Pyrrhus will pick his battles with more care. I’ll make sure of it.”

His son will live a longer life than he did. Achilles is determined to make it so.

Hermes pets Achilles' hair with his free hand and presses a kiss to the crown of his head. He knows that Achilles' relationship with his son is complicated at best, but he's also not shocked at all that he wants his son to live a full life.

"That's all that particular omen means. That a warrior will die in the battle he's going to. If he doesn't go to that battle, then he doesn't die." Hermes is eager to latch onto the explanation too, but he's wary. He furrows his brow. "I'll ask Iris to send a message to Athena about the Morrígan sighted on our shores. It's not common for her to wander outside of her own land."

And the fact that she is worries Hermes. She's not as prone to picking fights as Loki is, but if she does choose to pick a fight, it'd be much harder to win.

"But in the meantime... let me know if you see anything else out of place. She usually splits herself into three girls--the maiden, the mother, and the crone. Which maiden, mother, or crone she appears as depends on who's viewing her, since usually they'll project an image of the important women in their life who fit those archetypes. Don't approach her if you think you see her, alright, darling? Just tell me."

Hermes is agitated, not just by being pulled away from his work but by the news. But he's doing his best to keep a lid on it. Prometheus looks troubled as well, humming softly as he furrows his brow, scratching his chin.

His relationship with his son has gotten even more complex after this journey into Pyrrhus’ dream and the thought of losing anyone he cares about makes him tense. Achilles looks for comfort in Hermes’ touch, leaning into him.

“Then Pyrrhus is safe,” he says firmly. “When next we speak, I’ll advise him to stay out of battle.” Though he can’t imagine Pyrrhus will heed that advice any better than Achilles himself did.

“I doubt I will see her. A god of fate has little use for me. My thread is already cut.” Achilles grasps the hand at his shoulder and meets Hermes’ eyes, beseeching. “But if I write a warning to my son, can I ask you to deliver it?”

It will take some doing to figure out how to convey that warning. Watch for maidens, mothers, and crones doesn’t feel like actionable advice.

Hermes is already swamped with work, but he can't bear the desperate look in Achilles' eyes. This is tearing his lover up, and Hermes can't just let Achilles languish stressing about his son when he can do something.

"I'll make sure it's delivered to him," Hermes says, gently bumping their temples together. He takes a moment to glance between Achilles and Prometheus, picking up the context clues.

"Did you visit him in his dreams?" That wasn't what Hermes expected when he asked Prometheus to advise about whatever sickness had seized Neoptolemus' mind. "How... did that go?"

Hermes wants to know, but he also worries that Achilles has put himself through something that'll leave him in anguish when Hermes can't spend a lot of time taking care of him.

“Thank you, love. It would put my mind at ease.” He presses a kiss to Hermes’ cheekbone.

“The visit went far better than I expected,” Achilles says with a tired smile and a nod to the Titan. “It was most clever of you to suggest a dream, Lord Prometheus.”

His report begins matter-of-factly: “We visited one of his servants who viewed him favorably. Pyrrhus treats her well and she’s grateful for it—and fiercely protective of him.”

Achilles rubs a hand along his jaw, his emotions beginning to churn again. Sadness and anger and regret begin plucking at his tone. “And Pyrrhus himself … the poor lad. He’s suffered far more than I ever imagined. They didn’t prepare him for war.”

His teeth set and his eyes smolder with an old, familiar rage. “By the Styx, Hermes, the bastards didn’t even give the boy armor or a helmet.”

Hermes isn't sure what he expected. Anguish that he wandered into his son's dreams and saw fantasies of terrible violence? Somehow, Hermes thinks that Achilles going into his son's mind and seeing reasons to admire and pity him seems like it'll only cause more turmoil than if Neoptolemus were only cruel.

"They didn't give him armor? Or a helmet?" Hermes furrows his brow, recalling the end of the war. After Achilles died, things moved quickly. After losing the best of both armies, it seemed like everyone was ready for the war to be over. Neoptolemus wasn't there for long before Odysseus convinced everyone to break camp and build the horse. In the rush to end things, it would have been easy for each Greek to assume a different man was taking care of Neoptolemus and focus instead on their own battle preparations and thoughts of home. Wildly irresponsible, but easy.

But Achilles is rightfully angry. Neoptolemus was taken from his home at a terribly young age and each Greek should have been more attentive, if not for him then at least in Achilles' memory.

Hermes pets Achilles' hair, ceasing his flutters to settle on the ground and properly be there for his lover. Prometheus bows his head, suddenly becoming interested in the void in an attempt to give them some semblance of privacy.

"What else happened?" Hermes asks, draping his arms around Achilles' neck. He sees the familiar rage in his lover. Maybe after this he'll be rampaging through Elysium.

Achilles arms find their familiar place around Hermes’ waist. “The Greeks regarded him as a monster, but he was only a boy. He knew nothing beyond Skyros. Certainly nothing of war.”

But he was blessed— no, cursed with his father’s affinity for it.

“He suffers still. It’s as Lord Prometheus suspected—his brain is deeply injured.” He spares a glance at Prometheus’ turned back. “Pyrrhus’ memory is poor. He’s forced to note everything on tablets. Terrible headaches leave him bedridden …”

Achilles clutches at the back of Hermes’ tunic. “I wish I had been there to protect him. All he ever wanted was my love. But I … what kind of father am I? I believed my own son was a monster. I took men like Odysseus at their word and I was made a fool for it.”

None of this news jives with Hermes' existing understanding of Neoptolemus--he knows that the boy beat King Priam to death with his own grandchild on an altar of Zeus at a disturbingly young age, that he conquered the land of Epirus practically single-handedly at an age when burgeoning men usually only just have picked up their spears in earnest. He knows that keeping the man's temper under control felt like holding back a pack of wild dogs with a rope made of broken glass.

But Achilles of all people was most shamed by his son's monstrous reputation, and if he now says that it's unfair, then Hermes believes him.

"Oh, darling." Hermes curls his fingers in Achilles' hair, petting it gently. He feels the anguish and guilt radiating from his lover. And if it's true that some childhood war injury debilitates Neoptolemus, and the world has unfairly written him off as a monster... Hermes pities him. "You didn't know. You didn't have any way to know, not if everyone who came to Elysium said the same thing. What he did to Astyanax and Priam--the Greeks didn't lie about it."

Hermes vividly remembers the death of Priam and Astyanax. It was a rare moment to see his father gobsmacked, speechless at the gall of such brutal murder on his altar. Hermes remembers peeking from the sky, and seeing Odysseus yelling at Neoptolemus for his foolish impiety, yet Neoptolemus had seemed entirely disinterested in Odysseus' scolding, contemplating the spattered gore and tissue on his hands instead. The sight was chilling.

“I should have known! Would I not have done the same were I taken to war so young and with no mentorship? No one to show me the unspoken rules of battle?” Achilles thinks that he might have been worse; his demigod’s blood was less diluted, his abilities more deadly. “They only brought him as a token, a sacrifice, but his divine heritage saved him—and turned him into a weapon.”

He takes Hermes’ reminder as an attempt to temper his grief and Achilles shakes his head. “I know. I know he did unforgivable things. Many people suffered at his hands, but …

“In the dream, I glimpsed the boy he was … and still is, deep down. He was hungry for love and acceptance. From his mother, from me, from his grandparents. All he wanted was a family.” Achilles buries his face against Hermes’ wing and catches a hitching breath. “Gods, Hermes, I traded so many precious lives for my own pride and glory.”

Hermes has no clue what he would have done in Pyrrhus' sandals, because Hermes was born knowing how things work. So many unspoken rules, never taught to him because they never had to be. Does he really know what it's like to not intuit all the social rules of what's before him? Maybe it's wrong of him to judge human children for what they should and shouldn't see as obviously wrong.

"Oh, my love." Hermes fluffs his wing to make for a more comfortable resting spot and holds Achilles tight. He pets Achilles' hair, turning more of his attention to this sliver of dream, embracing him with the aura of his divinity. He knows how Achilles' guilt tears at him, and this has ripped open all those old wounds.

"We can't change the past. We can't take away any pain he's already suffered." Hermes turns his head to kiss Achilles' hair. "But we can help him now. I spoke to Aphrodite, and she has a woman in mind for him, one she assures me would make for an undramatic and very loving, constructive match. A daughter of a merchant, great-granddaughter of the god Aeolus. She'll be sending her and her father to him. That will go a long way giving him companionship." Hermes nuzzles Achilles' hair gently. "You have my support, darling. You don't have to do this alone."

Experiencing Pyrrhus’ most potent feelings, unfiltered within the dream, has left Achilles particularly raw and tired. Like he weathered a storm at sea.

But now Hermes’ aura feels like lying on a hillside in the sun under a perfect blue sky, melting into the soft grass and the solid earth. It’s the sense of a moment, a present truly felt without worry or threat. It dulls the sharp, piercing edges of his chronic guilt.

Pyrrhus needs someone to hold him like this, and he hopes Aphrodite’s match can be that partner.

“Thank you, magpie. You’re far too generous.” He nuzzles a kiss into the base of Hermes’ wing. “There must be more I can do for the lad. I can’t simply rely on you—or Lord Prometheus. You’ve far more pressing concerns than a single mortal.”

Hermes feels Achilles relaxing. He keeps petting his lover's hair. He knows that Patroclus will take care of Achilles when he returns to the waking world, but Hermes doesn't want to send him there raging and grieving if possible.

"Speaking as one who knows complicated relationships with fathers..." Hermes sighs, nuzzling his lover's hair. "Showing interest and just spending time with him will go a long way. I would have given anything for Pop's undivided attention." For his father's unconditional love, really. But he doesn't want to say that with Prometheus present.

"You can visit him in dreams for as long as you can convince Hypnos to help you sleep. And you know how easy it is to charm Hypnos." Hermes tucks Achilles' hair behind his ear. "And come next year, you can see him in person, and meet your grandson in person as well. And, if you think it's safe after talking to him for a while... we can talk about introducing him to Lyra."

Hermes is protective of Lyra, but he knows that however protective he is, Achilles is ever more so. He trusts Achilles to not risk putting her in harm's way, even if he regrets how he treated his son.

Achilles hums his understanding. Attention doesn’t feel like enough. Not after thirty-odd years of neglect, but between lived experience and divine insight, Hermes should know what counts as valuable connection.

Dreams feel like a poor substitute for a waking visit, but as Achilles saw today, they’re an easier way to reach past Pyrrhus’ defenses. Assuming Pyrrhus remembers his dreams, it could make meeting in the flesh go more smoothly—without Hermes’ intervention. And he dearly hopes his two children can meet. Pyrrhus desperately needs family and Lyra has plenty of love to give.

Achilles squeezes Hermes tight with affection and gratitude before he leans back to better regard his lover’s dark, clever eyes. “What do you make of all this? Is it a fool’s errand?”

Hermes pulls away just enough to see Achilles' face, humming softly as he considers. He curls a finger in his lover's hair, twisting it into a perfect ringlet before laying it delicately on his shoulder.

"I think that you've been stewing in guilt and shame since you died. And you only recently started to believe that perhaps you don't have to do that for eternity."

Hermes drapes his arms around Achilles' neck, making eye contact. His eyes are kind, understanding, and in this moment, old.

"But part of putting guilt and shame to bed is doing what you can to fix your mistakes. You can't give him his childhood back, but I think you'll never be at peace if you don't try to make it up to him now, fool's errand or not. And I'm happy to help you how I can so you can earn your peace in your own eyes."

“It’s true. Pyrrhus is my final regret. I have little to give him, but if you believe my attention is enough, he’ll have plenty of it.”

Achilles meets Hermes’ eyes for a few long beats—a length of time only comfortable between lovers (or between a demigod and a god.) In moments like these, Achilles remembers that Hermes isn’t human. Not only are there centuries of experience behind those eyes, they perceived the truth of the world from the moment they opened.

It’s still difficult for Achilles to fathom how such a being has any interest in him as a partner, not just a silly pastime. But the look in Hermes’ eyes is unequivocal; just as true as Prometheus’ unconditional fatherly love.

“You’re a blessing, magpie,” he whispers before pulling Hermes into a kiss. “One I don’t fully deserve, but I’m grateful regardless.”

Hermes returns the kiss, warm and slow, before smiling and bumping their foreheads together.

"You've helped me with my fair share of family drama. Only right that's my turn now." His eyes sparkle with a playful light as he smiles, nuzzling their noses together before pulling away again. "Artemis is going to notice I'm not paying attention. I'll come back to visit as soon as I can so we can properly talk. In the meantime, please, let Patroclus take care of you."

Hermes knows that Patroclus will tend to Achilles' wounded heart, but he doesn't know if Achilles will allow him to rather than stew in his guilt. Hermes presses an affectionate kiss to Achilles' knuckles.

"And if you avenge Pyrrhus on the Greek veterans of Troy, please try not to kill them all at once? I think Uncle Hades would have questions if they all washed up at The House at the same time."

“And if killing them all at once is a means to ‘earning my peace’ … ?” he asks, head cocked and smiling in jest. Hermes has cooled his rage … somewhat. Achilles isn’t confident he can keep that in check when he sees Odysseus and the other Greeks again.

“Please, return to your duties, my love. Greece and Olympus need you more than I do.” He cups Hermes’ face in his hands and smooths thumbs over his cheekbones. His eyes are soft with pride—that Hermes is so selfless, so hard-working. “But I won’t object to a visit when things quiet down.”

Achilles pauses for another beat before making a final request: “And … if you visit Lyra, will you tell her what measures we’ve taken to help her brother? It would put her mind at ease.”

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