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"I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! He's not going to die, is he? I'm sorry Mistress, I'm sorry, please go help him, he didn't mean it--"

"Hush, girl." Medea doesn't like writing out runes of a summoning circle under pressure, but time is of the essence. The lamb she'd seized from the pasture hangs from its feet, bleating pitifully as she paints the circle with its blood. Lyra is shaking, her hair loose, her bright yellow curls smeared with her brother's blood. Her bracelet rattles with her trembles, and she rests a hand on it to stop the sound, and perhaps to check that it's still there. Her eyes are red and her face blotchy and swollen from tears, but unhurt. Medea made sure she'd be unhurt. "If you want a chance of repairing this, you'll be quiet until I summon your father."

Lyra sobs, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands and trying as hard as she can to be quiet. She didn't mean to. She didn't think he'd recognize her. She just heard him talking about his new wife, and she wanted to ask questions, and it'd seemed so nice at first, he'd seemed so nice, he was just answering her questions and treating her like a curious little girl, he even showed her his spear, but then she moved too fast and the bracelet rattled and he saw it and--

How dare you, witch? She's mine!

He'd sounded so scary, like if an angry, wounded lion could talk.

She's Lord Hermes', not yours. Now leave before I take your head.

He'd been bleeding really badly. The comb wouldn't let him go. It just kept sinking more into his hand like a burrowing rodent. And his eye was all wrong after Mistress struck him, and he looked ready to eat them all alive--

Medea finishes the circle, barely taking the time to wipe the blood from her hands before putting them together. Her inner sanctum isn't as put together as usual, rushed as she was to grab everything she needed, and she breathes, "Achilles, father of Neoptolemus, father of Lyra, I call your shade to visit the land of the living once more. Right now. Do not keep us waiting."

Where previously her call was a firm but polite tug, now it's like she's trying to yank Achilles out of the Underworld by his hair.

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“I don’t want him to carry such a heavy burden on his journey to the Underworld,” Achilles says softly. ”It’s weighed him down long enough.”

But Hermes is right. Death could ease Pyrrhus’ physical pain, reunite him with his mother and sons, free him from an unkind world. It could give him space to fuse those fractured pieces of his soul back into one.

He wraps his arms back around Hermes’ middle and clasps a hand over Pyrrhus’ shell bracelet, twisting it pensively. It’s not Achilles’ way to give up on the people he loves, but he doesn’t like to hurt them, either. “How can I reach him without causing more torment? I can’t bear to see him in such pain again.”

"You can't guarantee you won't hurt him again if you reach out to him again. But you can guarantee he'll hurt again if you don't. All it does is spare you from witnessing it."

Hermes sighs through his nose. He leans his head against Achilles', looking up at the stars above them, heart aching.

"My father and I destroyed our relationship as thoroughly as one can. If he came home tomorrow a changed person, I would still want his love."

He knows it'll never happen. Zeus isn't capable of loving anyone but himself, and he chose to leave forever rather than endure not having power over all Olympus. But knowing it won't happen doesn't stop Hermes from aching for the loving father he'll never have.

"He'll need time to write things down anyway, won't he? Give him space, and see how he feels after he's had a chance to think things over. Maybe write a letter. I'll make sure he gets it."

Achilles nods his head against Hermes’, echoing his sigh with the same ragged ache in his breath. This confirms what Lykos said. It must be the way forward.

“Thank you, magpie,” he whispers hoarsely, turning his head to give Hermes a kiss on the cheek. “You’re correct. All is not lost.”

Achilles leans back, arms still loose around Hermes’ waist. His eyes are still red and swollen with tears, but his cheeks are dry. His eyes wander to the palace’s windows glowing with warm lamplight. One of them must be Medea’s sanctum.

“Poor Lyra … she needs to know that her brother will survive. That this isn’t her fault.” And he doesn’t know if Medea is well-practiced at soothing inconsolable little girls. She’s not the one Lyra needs comfort from, anyway. “I need to apologize to her. I’m the one who put both of them in harm’s way.“

"Don't take all the blame, love. You couldn't have known he'd come back to Athens so soon," Hermes says, stroking his lover's hair. He follows Achilles' eyes, looking at the glowing windows. He now thinks on their daughter, probably just as distraught as Achilles and so much less able to handle her feelings.

"We can go together. Let her know that all is not lost. But take a moment for yourself first."

Hermes doesn't say it, but he doesn't want Achilles to be too obviously shattered when they see her. Lyra is far too insightful for her own good, and she'll pick up on it keenly. He fears her taking on her father's grief on top of her own. That, and he worries for Achilles, and worries how precarious his own state of mind is at the moment.

At the suggestion, Achilles takes a step back and sinks down on a stone bench. His shade has never felt so heavy. He scrubs at his face with his hands, as if this might dispel some of his inner turmoil. He sighs into his cupped hands fighting more tears.

“This moment will live with her forever.” How will it change her? What has her clever mind read into it? It feels like his words, his mistakes are hammers and chisels, instantly and permanently altering the shape of her.

“I doubt she will see her brother again. Not in life.” He slowly shakes his head with grim finality. “He’s too hurt by the idea of her.”

Hermes sits down on the bench next to Achilles, leaning against his side. "It probably will. We never had the power to shield her entirely from grief and pain. But we have the power to guide her through it."

Hermes reaches over and strokes Achilles' hair. "She'll be disappointed. But she knows better than most that life isn't all mortals have."

Hermes wonders himself how he would have gotten through life without his siblings. Not well, definitely. His siblings are probably the only reason he's halfway functional as a person. And his heart aches at the thought of Lyra, the little life he made by accident, being lonely and bereft of the love he had. But what can he do? Command Medea to take in a dozen children and hope they all take to the idea of being siblings to Lyra? Risk the fickle nature of his divine kin and ask some of them to step in?

(Maybe Hebe would have some idea of what to do.)

He lets out a soft sigh, leaning his chin on Achilles' head. "I'm sorry I haven't been around. I should have been here to help work some of this out. You're dealing with perhaps your hardest struggle so far and I've been across the sea."

“I suppose this is why a child needs two parents.” Achilles slopes his weight against Hermes. “Who could hope to manage this by themselves?”

He thinks of Deidamia and his lips press flat. She raised a bastard son surrounded by shame, only to see him taken and ruined by war. It’s a credit to her that Pyrrhus survived this long to see a hint of happiness.

He rolls his cheek against Hermes’ shoulder, feeling the strange fabric shift against his skin. “I’ll hear no apologies, my love. Your struggles are harder yet, and reach countless mortal lives.”

Some distraction would be welcome, and Achilles finds Hermes’ hand. “Where have your travels taken you?”

Hermes thinks of Deidamia too, but doesn't say anything. He knows next to nothing about what raising Neoptolemus must have been like. Hard, he's sure. It's always hard to be a single mother, especially without any evidence that she married the man she claims to be the father. Many such women become beggars and thieves, and Hermes happily takes them in as he can.

He squeezes Achilles' hand, turning his head to nuzzle Achilles' hair. "The Levant. Far from the Fertile Crescent. I've been learning more about the Hebrews and their god."

He moves his hand, stroking Achilles' hair, twisting the curls around his fingers. "I see more why the god would appeal to humans. They believe that any human, no matter who they're born to or how they're formed, can achieve love in the eyes of their god if they only follow a set of rules. The trouble is that their god isn't stable enough to settle on one set of rules, but they don't know that."

And Hermes understands that. He understands how a people enslaved for generations would want a god that doesn't prize noble births and divine bloodlines. A god that seems willing to give anyone a chance to achieve honor, no matter how weak or poor, if they only behave. How long had they watched their Egyptian masters cared for by their gods, craving that the divine would bless them half as much? How long had they seen Pharaohs blessed for little more than an accident of birth, and wondered why they could never earn half the recognition?

The concept is a bit odd to Achilles; he’s never thought of gods as a whole showing mortals love. There are some who show affection for all humans—Hermes, Prometheus, perhaps Hestia—but more often Achilles has known the gods to bestow favor on mortals they deem worthy.

Some gods can be fickle, too, but when offended they can be satisfied by an adequate sacrifice.

Achilles winces when he realizes these Hebrews remind him of Pyrrhus, desperately struggling to understand how he can win his father’s love. What a terrible thing to seek from a god. He forces the thought aside.

“Has this god threatened any others as it did in Egypt?” he asks, clearly only concerned about one nosy god’s safety.

Hermes picks up what Achilles is really concerned about. He gently, playfully tugs his hair. "Don't you worry, darling. It's well distracted."

He looks out at the middle distance, as if he can watch the unfortunate Hebrews from here. "It's a god that likes to be very involved with its people. I imagine it hasn't had an organized group of worshipers like this before, and the power can go to a god's head. I think all it cares about right now is tormenting the poor people for the next forty years, and then I imagine it'll be distracted for at least a century getting them settled in the land promised to them in the Fertile Crescent. So long as no other gods try to interfere with its people, I don't imagine it'll care much for anything else for a while."

For a while. Hermes isn't convinced that the god will be content with one little group of humans and one little kingdom for very long. But if it can be content long enough, that gives everyone else some time to learn about it and prepare for whatever it might do.

"Something I saw in Egypt, something I'm still trying to understand..." Hermes furrows his brow. "The god's chosen prophet went to the Pharaoh--that's what they call kings in Egypt--and requested that he let his people go. And the Pharaoh agreed. There wasn't any fuss because the Pharaoh and the prophet had been raised as brothers and loved each other very much." Hermes' mouth sets in a hard line. "But the god hardened the Pharaoh's heart so that he would renege on the deal, and the god could begin retaliating for his refusal to release the Hebrews. It wanted the excuse to torture the Egyptians."

And Hermes finds that very troubling. It doesn't make any sense to him, and it demonstrates a very disturbing sadistic streak in a very unpredictable and powerful god.

Achilles frowns, deeply bothered by the whole situation. It feels like the work of Eris, sowing discord for discord’s sake. But Eris is a lesser goddess. No one worships her, much less seeks her love.

“You understand it well enough. Does it need to be watched so closely?” Achilles toys with a hem of Hermes’ strange robes. He isn’t nearly satisfied by his assurances. The god could notice him, of course, but Achilles is also concerned about Hermes watching so much mortal suffering when there’s nothing to be done to ease their pain. “Can you let it be for now? Stay in Greece?”

Achilles feels selfish for asking, but he would feel better knowing Hermes is among his family of stronger gods. Apollo, Athena, Poseidon … they could easily destroy an upstart god.

Hermes sighs through his nose, giving his lover a rueful smile.

"I'd quite like to. The company's much better here." Hermes playfully tugs Achilles' hair again. He's trying to keep the mood light, though it's probably a lost cause. It won't due to make his lover even more unhappy now after his heart was pulverized by his son. "But it's not enough to understand its followers. I need to understand it if I have any hope of predicting it."

Hermes leans down, plucking a small flower growing at the base of their bench. He spins the flower between his fingers until the petals blur together. "That's how spying connects with everything else in my domain, really. All it is is learning about people. Understanding what they want, gauging what they're willing to do to get it, that sort of thing." Hermes' various domains all seem to come back to people. To understanding them, and knowing how to give them what they want... or take it away. "If I don't understand what this god wants, how can I guess when it might be a threat to us?"

Achilles watches the frilled petals spin into a single shape. He knows it as a Dianthus. Flower of Zeus. A humble little thing to carry such a name.

“Why not destroy it? It’s done enough to prove it’s a threat—how many mortal children did it slaughter on a whim?” Achilles huffs. His emotions are still raw and anger comes easy. It feels good. Better than more sadness.

“Olympus could easily cut down an upstart god. Why wait until it gains more power? Or causes more suffering?” Achilles has learned a very hard lesson about judgement, courtesy of his own son, but this is different. He remembers the terrible visions of the god’s incomprehensible form. It’s hard to have any sympathy at all for such a monstrous thing.

"That's what it did on a whim. What would it do fighting for its life?"

Hermes contemplates the flower between his fingers. He stops spinning it, nudging the underside of one of the frilled petals with his thumb.

"If we declare war, there will be casualties. Maybe even divine casualties. We already know it eats gods, and it had the power to subvert the whole Court of Osiris in the heart of their land." Hermes moves to gently thread the flower in Achilles' hair behind his ear. It's still a little warm with life. "The advantage we have that they didn't is we're forewarned, which means we have time to study and plan. If we aim for this upstart, we don't want to miss."

He knows that's Athena's ideal goal. One strong hit, one single blow to end the threat without giving it a chance to respond. Anything less, and Hermes is certain that many mortals will suffer for it.

The flower in his hair is an absurd contrast to his frown. Achilles grunts, annoyed by the complexity. Mortal warring was so much simpler.

He wants Hermes to be cautious, of course, but waiting also makes Achilles anxious. The Olympians are much older. They survived the Titanomachy. One new god could hardly match their combined strength …

“Promise me you’ll be extra clever. Extra vigilant. Find its weakness quickly and end this.” Achilles presses his forehead to Hermes’, imploring. “It won’t be long before our fledgling flies the nest and travels the world. Make it safer for her.”

"I will, darling." Hermes closes his eyes, nudging their noses together and draping his arms around Achilles' neck. "I'll hurry back as quick as I can. I miss the company here, after all."

To put a point on it, Hermes cups Achilles' chin and turns his face into a soft, lingering kiss. Then he draws back just enough to see Achilles' face, studying him for signs of his earlier devastation.

"We'll salvage things, love," Hermes says softly, gently. "All is not lost. We'll take care of everything."

Pyrrhus, Lyra, Medea, everything. Hermes earnestly believes that with enough time and patience, all can be mended. Perhaps not in this life, but there's an eternity for the next.

When he parts from the kiss, Hermes will notice the swollen redness around Achilles’ eyes has receded. He still looks haggard and worn by emotion; the lines around his brows and around his mouth look more chiseled. “I’ve missed you, too, magpie.”

He looks up at the stars and takes a centering breath. If circumstances were better, he’d relish the sight of the deep night sky, but his thoughts are too crowded with worry over his children.

“I’m ready,” he says, rising to his feet and offering Hermes his hand. The bracelet on his wrist shifts, shells clicking delicately against one another. “We should go to our daughter.”

Hermes takes Achilles' hand, gently rubbing his thumb against the ring on his finger. The shells of the bracelet are cool against his skin, and he can feel how much love and effort went into stringing them together.

Things have been very unfair to poor Neoptolemus, Hermes thinks to himself. He's hardly unique in that regard--things usually are unfair for everyone--but it seems especially sorry that he was dragged into a situation he ought not to have been so young, and then shunned by gods and men for mistakes based in youthful ignorance. Maybe Hermes could stand to give him a little more credit too.

"Let's. Lyra will need reassurance," Hermes says, squeezing Achilles' hand.

Inside, Medea hasn't waited in her inner sanctum. She's retreated to Lyra's room, sitting on the edge of the girl's bed while she clings tight to her clothes. Lyra sits in her lap, clinging harder than a girl half her age, but Medea allows it and pets her hair. Her face has its usual stern edges, but her gestures are gentle and caring. Beside the bed sits a cup of fragrant liquid, smelling of deep sleep. Lyra had rejected the sleeping potion before her father returned with news, and Medea would indulge her this time.

Achilles pauses just outside of the room to carefully reconstruct a calm facade: he softly clears his throat of any remaining thickness, scrubs at his cheeks, and adjusts his cloak to hide any tear-darkened damp spots. He knows his daughter is very astute. Wordlessly, he asks for Hermes’ nodded approval at his appearance before he steps into the room.

His lips press flat at Medea, still annoyed by her callous disregard for his son’s wounds. This is the only fleeting sign of his displeasure; no point in arguing now. Certainly not in front of Lyra.

“Oh, fledgling.” Achilles pointedly ignores Medea and kneels beside the bed. His face softens and he swallows back the tightness that’s returned to his throat. “Don’t despair. I found your brother. His wounds will mend.”

Hermes gives his approval to Achilles after straightening his hair and cloak. Medea, if she notices Achilles' displeasure, doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, she unwraps her arms from Lyra, allowing her full movement, and her eyes linger on Hermes, who lingers at the door.

"Daddy!" Lyra turns from Medea to look at her father. Her eyes are puffy with tears, her voice hoarse from crying. Her hair is still wet from washing the blood out, but she smells lightly of perfume, the sort mixed with soap to help a person relax. Maybe it worked--she's able to verbalize much better now than when they summoned her father--but she's still wrecked. "So he's okay? He's not hurt too bad? He doesn't hate me?"

Her eyes briefly flick up to see her other father in the door. Her eyes flash with momentary surprise. "Papa?"

Hermes smiles warmly. Putting on a show of being calm and collected comes to him much more naturally than it comes to Achilles. He comes to sit beside the bed with Achilles, feathers fluffed and smile opaque. "I'm here, Little Bird."

“His wounds will heal,” Achilles confirms, gently combing fingers through Lyra’s still-damp curls. “And he doesn’t hate you, my dear.”

He’s fairly certain of that; he recalls Pyrrhus’ pause when Achilles asked him about Lyra. He hopes all of his son’s anger is entirely reserved for his father and not his sister. “But I don’t think he will return to Athens for a long while.”

He runs a thumb over his daughter’s brow, then kisses her forehead before giving her a tired, but reassuring smile. “Give him some time, and then we will send him a letter. He needs to know we are not mad or afraid.”

Achilles looks over his shoulder at Hermes, inviting him closer. “Your papa will see it’s delivered.”

Lyra sniffs, her lip wobbling as she's caught between relief and guilt and grief. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make a mess. I'll tell him I didn't mean to make a mess."

"Oh, little bird." Hermes draws closer, settling next to Achilles and leaning against him, resting a hand on Lyra's knee. "Siblings are messy. The first time I met my brother, I'd stolen his entire herd of cattle, and we somehow made it through."

Lyra lets out a watery giggle. Hermes gives Lyra a wink, squeezing her knee. "Think on what you want to write to your brother when he's had some time. You can show me how far along you've come with your letters when you send him a message, hmm?"

"Yeah." Lyra scrubs her eye with the heel of her hand. Her shell bracelet rattles as she does. The sound makes her throat tight.

“No need for apologies,” Achilles says firmly, drawing Lyra into his arms. In this moment, he remembers the boy in Pyrrhus‘ dream, terrified by nightmares—the one who still exists along the warrior and the king, abandoned and hungry for love.

He feels guilt churn in his gut. Pyrrhus should have known this comfort growing up. “We should tell him that we still love him.”

Achilles scoops her hair out of her face, and behind a shoulder. She looks much better than she did earlier and her laughter is heartening. “This was my fault, fledgling. I’m sorry your first meeting went so terribly. I should have prepared him for this.”

Lyra slides off Medea's lap into Achilles'. Medea allows it, folding her hands neatly in her lap, watching the exchange with a quiet, observant air about her.

"No, I promised not to talk to him, and I broke my promise. I was bad." Lyra sniffs as she leans her cheek on her father's shoulder. "He was just saying that he got married, and I wanted to hear more about her."

"What did he tell you about her?" Hermes asks, leaning against the bed, almost casual in the moment.

"That she's a descendant of Aeolus, the wind god. And she's pretty, with gray eyes and white blond hair," Lyra mumbles, reaching out to grasp the loose folds of Hermes' robe. He positions himself so one of the wings at his ankle can unfurl towards her, and she digs her fingers into his feathers. "And she likes swans. And silver. And dandelions. She likes to make wishes on them and watch the seeds float in the air. And she's nice to Molossus, and she likes to play with him in the garden, and doesn't mind when he gives her frogs even when they're slimy."

It was another reason Lyra was tempted. If Ophelia is married to Neoptolemus, then that means Ophelia is her sister. And she quite wanted a brother and a sister. But now all the desire is a pit of guilt and regret in her gut.

It was his choice to give her the bracelet, he wants to insist, but he knows from experience how hard it is to relinquish a sense of guilt. “You were excited for him, I can’t fault you that.”

He shifts into a more comfortable seat on the floor and nuzzles a kiss against the crown of Lyra’s head. The smell of calming soap fills his nose.

“I’ve seen Ophelia in his dreams. She’s very beautiful indeed.” Made all the more beautiful through the lens of Pyrrhus’ love for her. The same way Lykos was painted with more generous strokes. “After all your brother’s endured, he deserves people who love and care for him.”

Achilles rests a hand over her matching shell bracelet. “Even if he doesn’t want that from us right now, he isn’t alone. He has Ophelia and Molossus and the kind servants who look after him.”

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