messageforyou | For refusetofight

For refusetofight

"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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Lyra's brow furrows. "Why would he not be convinced? Haven't you told him?"

She summons her quiet observations of people. It's common for couples to have doubts about each other, she's noticed. Like Patroclus doubted Achilles' love. Or like how sometimes grownups need to do something to prove their love.

But she's never seen it between children and parents, she doesn't think. Her foster parents never had to prove their love for her and her siblings to believe in it. Her foster parents took them all in even when they were too poor to care for them, and the daily proof of loving them was the same as any parent. She's never seen Tisander doubt his mother's love, even when he's sometimes a little afraid of her like everyone else. Parental love seems like something one can just take for granted.

But she tries to think of it from Pyrrhus' view. Daddy didn't do the daily work of caring for him growing up, like Medea did for Tisander or Lyra's foster parents did for her and her siblings. But Daddy doesn't do it for her, either, but she still knows he loves her. But maybe it'd be different if Daddy could never talk to her, never visit her, and she just had Mistress Medea. Even then, she's not sure she'd doubt Daddy if he said he loved her, but maybe she'd feel different if she were all grown up like Pyrrhus.

"That sounds very sad for him. And lonely," Lyra says, reaching her free hand to grip the pendant under her clothes. She's not sure what it'd take for her to not believe her daddy saying he loves her. But she is sure that that it'd feel very sad and scary to not be able to believe that much.

Medea cocks her head. It's the first visible reaction she's had during this conversation, but it's hard to read what's going on behind her eyes.

“Yes, I’ve told him many times now, but he has little reason to trust me,” he sighs. Achilles holds Lyra tighter, as if a surplus of affection will keep her safe from growing up with the same skepticism towards love. “Keeping you a secret didn’t help matters.”

His eyes switch to Medea, drawn by her motion, but he doesn’t know what to make of it. Maybe Hermes would, but Achilles finds the woman impossible to read.

His attention returns to Lyra and he hums agreement at her assessment. “I think your brother wants to trust people—desperately—but he’s afraid. He would much rather be lonely than be hurt again.”

"Like the stray dogs," Lyra says softly, digging her fingers into Hermes' feathers. She feels sad, and she feels foolish. She'd wanted a brother, and all the adults told her to be patient, but she wasn't and she scared him like a stray dog she wanted too badly to pet.

Hermes allows his feathers to ripple under her fingertips, giving her hands something to feel, something to focus on besides her own thoughts. She looks down at them, at how they glow like a sunset.

"Does he believe I love him?" she asks. She'd asked her father to tell him, and she's sure he did. She wonders if her love is just as easy to doubt and disbelieve.

He swallows. He can’t bring himself to lie to his daughter. “Truthfully, fledgling, I don’t know.”

Achilles watches her small hands toy with Hermes’ feathers. Her fingertips are rosy in their warm glow. “I told Pyrrhus that you convinced me to find him. I told him how much you love him … How you want him to be loved.

“I hope he will remember that. His memories fade quickly without his tablets.” Achilles stomach drops. Will Pyrrhus’ hand still hold a stylus after his injury? How will he keep hold of his fleeting memories?

“We’ll remind him in our letter. We both love him,” he says, resolute.

Lyra curls her fingers in Hermes' feathers. She bites her lip.

"I hope he believes me."

The thought of not believing people when they proclaim their love seems very sad to her. And it feels like everything she hears about Pyrrhus' life is sad, and she doesn't want to add more sad to it.

She releases Hermes' feathers, turning her face into Achilles' chest and twisting her fingers instead into the cool folds of his cloak. "I'm sorry I broke my promise, Daddy."

Achilles is silent as the weight of this moment settles over him. It feels almost as pivotal as the exchange on the trireme. Pyrrhus made so many mistakes and he received no forgiveness, no grace—only disgust and anger.

This moment will shape his daughter’s life; she’ll remember her brother’s anger and her own fear. She needs to remember her fathers’ care and understanding.

He rubs Lyra’s back in soothing circles. This experience was punishment enough; he can’t bring himself to chide her further. “Life is full of mistakes and hard lessons, my love. I don’t expect you to be perfect, but I expect you to learn from this.”

Achilles rests his cheek on his daughter’s head and says, “You and I—with some help from your papa—we can make this right. But that won’t always be so.”

Lyra hums her understanding. "I'll learn, Daddy." She doesn't realize the wonder of having a father who still loves and adores her when she makes mistakes. That's something she takes for granted, that her Daddy will always love her, no matter what she does.

But Hermes recognizes the wonder. He lets out a soft, almost silent sigh of relief, his heart lightening to see how readily Lyra expects and accepts Achilles' forgiving love. It's still hard for him to express himself to Lyra, finding it easier to be playful and talk her through her age-inappropriate insight than allow himself to be vulnerable. But he's glad Achilles is so easily able to embrace her in her entirety.

Medea moves her head again. This time, towards the window, seeing the very first licks of dawn on the horizon. "Lord Achilles, the potion's effect will run out soon."

Her voice is even, a neutral statement of facts. She doesn't want Achilles to forget and accidentally leave his darling daughter without saying goodbye, after all. As peeved as Medea is with him at the moment, Lyra has dealt with enough grief for one night.

Internally, she's made a decision: she'll allow Lyra to get a puppy. One destined to grow into a proper guardian, brave and protective but gentle with its charge. Perhaps if the girl hadn't been lonely, this tragedy wouldn't have happened.

These good-byes don’t get any easier. Tonight is particularly difficult, with Lyra’s eyes and cheeks still pink and puffy from tears. Her little hands clinging to his cloak. Achilles hugs Lyra closer and wishes he could purge this terrifying night from her mind.

… And Pyrrhus’ too. This wasn’t how his children should have met one another.

“Think on what you’ll write to your brother and practice your letters, fledgling.” He finds her hands and imagines the determined intensity in her face as she masters each stroke of her pen. “But for now, drink your sleeping draught.”

He turns a smile to Hermes. “While it takes hold, perhaps your papa can tell you about his travels in distant lands.”

At least the good stories.

Lyra clings for as long as she's able and nods. Hermes easily slips in, wings fluffing at the prospect of being able to tell his daughter bedtime stories, even when she's so sad. Medea stands to take over the sleeping potion she'd created for her ward.

---

Off at the harbor, as dawn begins to break, Neoptolemus has already sent a messenger to Corinth and gathered his men. They sail out for home before the sun kisses the horizon. Many of them are confused and frustrated that this is the second time their king has brought them to Athens on the way to some great destination, then turned them back around, but none dare voice the thought to him. Some very softly murmur about his visible injuries, wondering why they're not razing the witch queen's palace to the ground in retaliation. Is their king afraid of her? Has their king grown soft?

Lykos hears the murmurs because he's easy to forget. He writes down the names of the murmuring men. He's focusing on that.

Neoptolemus is at the trireme, tucked where no one pays attention to him for the moment, picking at the bandage around his hand in exhausted agitation.

Despite being in the middle of the ocean, he smells something verdant. Like he stands in the middle of an old wood. He feels her before he sees her. Chilly and crisp like night air.

He swings his head to face her. Deidamia sits on the boat, the tips of her toes dragging in the water. Her eyes are covered with a blindfold.

Neoptolemus tenses, remembering his father's warning. No one else looks in their direction. He has a feeling that none would notice them even if they did.

"Are you here to kill me?" he asks bluntly.

"Kill you? No, never." She sounds like his mother. She smiles like his mother.

It puts him on edge. "Then why are you here?"

"I can tell you. But first, may I have your name?"

He furrows his brow. "You don't know it?"

She hums a soft tune. A lullaby his mother used to sing him.

Neoptolemus huffs, trying to stay unaffected. "Fine. Neoptolemus, King of Epirus."

The woman who isn't his mother nodded. "Thank you."

He only has a moment of vast emptiness, like he lost something important.

Then both man and goddess are gone.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

For refusetofight

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject