Hermes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
messageforyou) wrote2024-07-14 09:14 pm
messageforyou) wrote2024-07-14 09:14 pm
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.
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.
no subject
Regardless, Achilles feels buoyed by that warm adoration, leaving him certain that he’s done well.
It takes but a thought to shift into wakefulness, where his eyes open to a familiar guest chamber in the House of Hades and Hypnos half-dozing beside his bed.
“Have a good visit with junior?” Hypnos asks through a luxurious yawn.
“Yes, thank you. I think— I hope he remembers the dream and is better for it,” Achilles answers, sitting up and adjusting his chiton.
“I don’t have a dad, so I dunno … but it’d probably be nice to hear from him if I did,” Hypnos muses. He’s quietly grateful he only has a mom to worry about; from what he’s seen of Hades and Zeus, dads (especially the divine kind) can be a real pain. He draws his quilted cloak tight around himself and adjusts his sleep mask half-way down. “It’s hit or miss whether people remember dreams, but I’ll put in good word with Mnemosyne.”
Achilles gives a grateful nod, rolling out of bed to leave Hypnos to his slumber. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem, Mr. Achilles,” Hypnos mutters with a weak, parting wiggle of his fingers. “G’night!”