messageforyou | For refusetofight

For refusetofight

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

“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.”

Hermes snickers at Achilles' joke, scrunching his nose. He smiles affectionately, stroking the knuckles of his lover's hands cupping his face.

"Of course. I'm sure she'll ask me when I see her next." Hermes turns his head and presses a kiss to Achilles' palm. "I love you. I'll try to visit soon."

And then he's gone. The orange glow recedes, and the void returns. Prometheus clears his throat, offering his arm to Achilles.

"Is there anyone else whose dreams you'd like to visit before we return to the land of waking?"

“I love you, too,” Achilles says to the empty dream space Hermes has left behind, trusting that his words will carry. Then Prometheus’ question breaks the spell. He blinks, then bends his arm around the Titan’s, muttering a soft apology.

“Ah … well, if it’s not too much trouble, Lord Prometheus,” he starts sheepishly, “Might I visit my daughter?”

Achilles will take any chance he can get to see Lyra, even if it’s just a moment to check in. “But I don’t wish to keep you, of course. You’ve far more important work than ushering a shade between dreams.”

"Nonsense, dear boy. This is the most fun I've had in thousands of years." Prometheus smiles warmly, patting Achilles' hand. Then he starts walking, gently tugging Achilles along until they pass into somewhere new.

Lyra's dream is unlike Aspasia's or Pyrrhus'. If anything, her dream seems brighter, happier than the real world, with colors far more vivid than in life. They're underwater, with brightly colored happy fish swimming about, but the humans walk and breathe on the ground as normal, like the dream gave up on making the underwater realistic. Lyra is tending to garden beds that are growing lovely glowing flowers and luminescent sea kelp, and her blond hair floats around her as if she's really in the water, though she moves as if she's still on land. This underwater fantasy world has many beautiful glowing fish and flashes of glowing blue throughout the water, and up above, the bones of a whale tower over everything, encasing the garden safely in its ancient corpse.

Lyra notices immediately that someone has entered her dream. She perks, putting aside the pot she was using to 'water' her plants, and looks in the direction of the intrusion. Her eyes light up as she sees Achilles.

"Daddy!"

She barrels towards him, fully prepared to take a running leap and attack him with a hug.

Achilles immediately wonders if Lyra, with her preternatural insight, knows this is a dream. He doesn’t have long to wonder, though, as he reflexively braces himself to receive Lyra’s aggressive affection.

“My lovely little fledgling!” he laughs, easily catching her in his arms. It hasn’t been long since Anthesteria, but he kisses her cheek and sighs, “By the gods, I’ve missed you.”

For a moment, Achilles admires his daughter and how perfectly she fits into this scene. He tries to tame one of her wayward curls and finds a few tiny fish hiding in her locks. They dart away, scales flashing silver. Her dream, her energy couldn’t be any more different from Pyrrhus’.

Achilles turns her to face Prometheus and asks, “Do you know who this is? Can you guess?”

"I missed you too, Daddy!" Lyra says, grinning and throwing her arms around his neck. She giggles as the fish escape her hair, and she holds up her hand, letting them slip between her fingers before darting away.

But at his question, she turns her curious eyes upon the man next to him. The god, surely. Prometheus' face creases with a smile as he holds up a hand and gives her a little wave.

"You're hurt," she says, looking at the ichor that bleeds from his side, making ribbons of glistening gold in the water. "Even in a dream, you're hurt."

Prometheus bobs his head, still smiling. "Some wounds linger, even after they've healed. Please don't worry yourself on my behalf, little one."

Lyra reaches out a hand to the Titan. He catches it in one of his, smiling as he allows her curious fingers to feel out the calluses on his palm.

"And you're nice." Lyra says it out loud as another data point, another fact that can help identify which god this is. Most gods aren't eager to allow mortal children to play with their hands. And she can't help but notice that his wound seems to be around his liver. "You're nice, but... you feel really big."

She's more aware of her dream than Pyrrhus or Aspasia, more aware of the great size hidden from her. She frowns, looking between her father's face and the Titan's.

"Aren't you... supposed to be on a mountain?"

Prometheus laughs, smiling. "No longer, lucky for me. And lucky for the birds. I can't imagine I tasted good after so long."

Achilles smiles, every bit a proud father pleased by his clever daughter and maybe a little entertained by Prometheus’ dark humor. He’s not sure how someone could laugh off centuries of confinement and torture, but if anyone could, it would be a god.

“Lord Prometheus has been a great help—both to me and your papa.” He turns his smile back on the Titan, all gratitude, then returns his focus to Lyra. “Before we came here, he guided me to a very special, very important dream. It belonged to someone who you’re very worried and very curious about.”

Sure, Achilles asked Hermes to fill Lyra in, but better she hears it from his own mouth.

Lyra perks, eyes brightening. She holds Prometheus' finger and tugs him gently closer, keeping an arm around her father's neck, eager to soak up as much affection as she can as always. Prometheus is perfectly happy to be dragged around, admiring the gorgeous dream around them, admiring how bright and curious this tiny creature is.

"Pyrrhus? You went to Pyrrhus' dream?" She wiggles in place. The water around her shifts. The flashing currents make small, effervescent images. Seeing his blond hair in the distance in the crowd of Anthesteria. Hiding under a window and peaking out to see him say goodbye to her Mistress and the king before leaving. She wasn't close enough to see his eyes or hear exactly what he said, but she heard his voice, and it sounded like he'd be a good singer. She wondered if he ever sang lullabies or poetry. She'd had to shrink under the window and bite her tongue until her eyes watered to resist the urge to crawl outside and find an excuse to talk to him, hugging her knees and reminding herself that she could be patient like she said she would. At least for a while. "What was it like? What'd he say? Did he say anything?"

Achilles gives Prometheus an apologetic look. He’s possibly one of the safest gods to cling to, but someday Lyra will need to be taught boundaries. Her brother is an obvious case for that.

He is pleased, however, to see that Lyra kept her distance from Pyrrhus, even when it tested the limits of her patience. He decides to reward her with some tidbits of particularly juicy information, at least by a child’s standards.

“I learned four very important things, fledgling,” Achilles says, adjusting Lyra’s weight in his arms. He holds up a hand and counts them on his fingers: “Pyrrhus’ favorite color is green, he’s fond of seals, he loves to eat figs and make jewelry from seashells.”

Lyra thinks herself beyond boundaries. She's too aware of how cute and charming she is, and no one she's encountered yet has been able to teach her the dangers of her demanding affection and blind faith in the goodness of others.

She brightens at the information, drinking it in hungrily. Green! Yes, that is a good favorite color! And seals, yes, a good favorite animal! And figs, a good favorite food! And--

"He makes jewelry from seashells? I didn't know you could do that!" She bounces in Achilles' arms, her grin threatening to split her face. "What do they look like? How does he make them? Can I have one? Please?"

She's so excited about all this new information. None of the stories about her brother say that he likes green, or seals, or figs, or making jewelry. Prometheus can't help but smile fondly, his eyes warming at her enthusiasm.

“Yes, you can carefully knot them together. It’s a lovely way to carry the ocean wherever you go.” He leans in and whispers, “I think he’s drawn to the sea like we are.”

It cheers him to share something so innate with both of his children. Even if he’s long gone, they still live on, carrying echoes of him through the world.

“Someday you’ll have a nice bracelet from Pyrrhus, I’m sure of it,” he assures, but he also does his best to temper her expectations. “I’ve learned a great deal about your brother, but please be patient, my love. Lord Prometheus revealed the nature of his wounds, but they’re very difficult to treat.”

Lyra is delighted to hear that she has something in common with her brother. She wants to be near the sea all the time too. It's uncomfy to be away from the sea too long.

But the news of her brother's injuries causes her smile to dim. "They're hard to treat?" She looks to Prometheus, because surely, if anyone knows how to fix her brother, Prometheus can. "How's he hurt? How do we fix it? Can I help?"

Prometheus hums softly at her questions, looking at her thoughtfully. He doesn't look at her with the same naked adoration as he looks at Patroclus--he looks contemplative.

"You're very smart, aren't you, Lyra?"

She nods.

"Smarter than many grownups?"

She nods again, unabashed to confess she thinks so.

"Grownups can be pretty easy to predict, can't they?"

The water flashes with her thoughts. Yes, grownups can be easy to predict, because they're usually very easy to see and understand. The current swirls with the grownups in her daily life--Mistress Medea, King Aegeus, Tisander. Their portraits in her mind are kind, but hold an uncomfortable amount of detail. People are scared of Medea, and she likes it like that, because she's scared of people too and doesn't trust herself to know which ones will treat her well so she doesn't want any of them near her. King Aegeus is resigned because he wanted his own family, and he doesn't really consider Medea and Tisander his family, but he had two wives before and neither had babies so he decided he couldn't have babies and thought Medea would be a good queen and Tisander could be mentored to be a good king, but he's not really sure. Tisander doesn't really like the idea of being a king because he hates his father and doesn't like the idea of getting back into the sticky world of kings and thoughtfully arranged marriages and broken hearts, but he doesn't say that because he's scared of disappointing his mother so he keeps going along learning about king things because he wants to make her happy, because he loves her but he's also scared of her.

Prometheus hums softly at her images of the people around her, heavy with far too much insight for her age. "You're very good at knowing grownups and what they do and why they do it. But the way your brother is hurt makes him unpredictable. The tricks you know to fix grownup problems might not work on him, and he's very strong like you're very smart, and he may hurt you if you try to use your usual grownup tricks."

Lyra's face falls in understanding. Prometheus takes the hand holding his finger, giving it a little squeeze. "The best way you can help is to listen to your parents, little one. If they tell you to be patient, be patient. And if they tell you to approach him a certain way, do that. Your daddy wants you to meet your brother, but he wants you to meet him safely."

“Lord Prometheus speaks the truth,” Achilles says with a somber nod.

“Pyrrhus doesn’t trust easily. He’s suffered a life of rejection and judgment.” Achilles’ brow pinches, and his eyes settle on Lyra’s tiny hand held in Prometheus’. “I know. I did the same, I am ashamed to say. I put too much stock in the words of other men.”

He watches the shifting figures, the cast of Lyra’s childhood sketched so astutely. They share some traits with Pyrrhus, but none suffered such profound scars in their youth.

“Pyrrhus was still just a boy when he went to war. And like you—like any child—he was very curious about the world. He wanted to learn all he could, but no one took the time to teach him. They recoiled from his skill in battle, and when he didn’t act how a warrior should. But why would he? Pyrrhus was not a man, he was a child. They didn’t even carry armor to fit his size …

“Now the injuries he suffered cause him pain every day.” It’s difficult to describe such profound and lasting pain to a child. Harder still when that child has a lot of divine blood keeping her very healthy. “Has your head ever ached, fledgling? Maybe you played in the hot sun too long, or you had a fever? Did it make you tired and irritable? Were your thoughts foggy?”

For refusetofight

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject