There's a soft flicker. A perking of acknowledgement, Hermes hearing. Then a soft, ? in the back of Achilles' head. Then a ???!!!!. There's a vague sense of alarmed confusion as realization dawns that his dead lover is somehow in Athens.

There's a breeze. A whisper. Clearly, he needs a moment to disentangle himself from whatever he's doing.

Then he's there, in front of Achilles, buzzing in the air. "What's wrong? What happened? Tell me what happened."

He's not wearing his usual clothes. He's wearing loose-fitting but colorful robe worn by people in the south who live in the land of sand, skin covered in breathable fabric to protect from the harsh sun. But his wings are loose, and they're currently fluttering with his usual flurry of energy.