Hermes (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
messageforyou) wrote2025-06-15 01:56 pm
messageforyou) wrote2025-06-15 01:56 pm
For refusetofight
Through the smoky miasma, thick and smelling of conflict and heat and pressure, on the other side is a forest. This one is less garish, less saturated than the rest of Tír na nÓg. Two fae creatures, odd feathered humanoids that resemble crows with cracked and broken beaks, sit at the rocks around a steaming hot spring, soap and strigils beside them.
The fae are seemingly mute, but won't allow Achilles to leave without a thorough wash. The sort that practically scrapes a whole layer of skin off, the sort where they insist on his hair to be cleaned and his nail beds scrubbed. His white tunic is whisked off to be burned, and only once he is deemed fit by the fae attendants to be properly cleaned of the remnants of the Morrígan does one bring the clothes he left behind with Hermes. They're neatly folded, but Hermes' scarf sits on top like a nest, holding Achilles' ring, his bracelet, and the stone with a hole in the middle. The scarf smells distinctly of Hermes, like cleverness and courage and Greece. Almost like Hermes is trying to give Achilles his blessing and support, even when they can't see each other before his trial.
After he's clean and dressed, the bath attendants point in the direction he's meant to walk, a plunge into the dark woods. There's the soft giggling of children within.
In the woods, children from all across time and the world huddle together. A boy holds a fist of straws, and each of the children draw a straw at once. They mumble amongst themselves, checking the straws, and three boys have the shortest one.
"Seems unfair to make him convince Stab," says a girl with messy red braids and two missing teeth.
"If you want a mulligan, you gotta give up treats until the next hunt," a blond boy with gray eyes and a short straw says, waving it in her face. She wrinkles her nose.
"I didn't say I want a mulligan!"
"Then shoo!"
As Achilles approaches, the children with longer straws scatter into the woods, some laughing. Three boys remain. One boy, with pale skin, ragged dirty blond hair and crooked teeth, wearing an oversized sweater and shorts and no shoes and a canvas bag big enough on him to almost drag on the ground. A second boy, skin dark as jet and head shaved, a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck, wearing loose sweatpants and an old linen button-down with sneakers with a check drawn on. A third boy, the smallest of them, maybe close to Lyra's age, looking like one of the people from the far east but with a permanent glower in his face, sitting on the ground and looking a little like he's drowning in the adult-sized jacket draped around him.
The blond boy jumps up on a tree stump to greet Achilles at eye level, putting his hands on his hips and smirking. "Hello, grownup! Here starts your trials! I call being the judge."
"Don't be silly. It's not a court trial." The boy in the button down approaches, holding an aluminum can colored bright red. He pops the tab, a sickly sweet smell rising in the air as the liquid inside hisses, and he holds the can out to Achilles. "My dad said men welcome each other with a beer, but if you get to Birdy she's going to make you drink a lot, so here's a coke instead."
The boy in the button down strategically stands between Achilles and the smallest boy. The smallest boy makes no movement to greet Achilles, instead staying on the ground, glowering at him with dark eyes.
The fae are seemingly mute, but won't allow Achilles to leave without a thorough wash. The sort that practically scrapes a whole layer of skin off, the sort where they insist on his hair to be cleaned and his nail beds scrubbed. His white tunic is whisked off to be burned, and only once he is deemed fit by the fae attendants to be properly cleaned of the remnants of the Morrígan does one bring the clothes he left behind with Hermes. They're neatly folded, but Hermes' scarf sits on top like a nest, holding Achilles' ring, his bracelet, and the stone with a hole in the middle. The scarf smells distinctly of Hermes, like cleverness and courage and Greece. Almost like Hermes is trying to give Achilles his blessing and support, even when they can't see each other before his trial.
After he's clean and dressed, the bath attendants point in the direction he's meant to walk, a plunge into the dark woods. There's the soft giggling of children within.
In the woods, children from all across time and the world huddle together. A boy holds a fist of straws, and each of the children draw a straw at once. They mumble amongst themselves, checking the straws, and three boys have the shortest one.
"Seems unfair to make him convince Stab," says a girl with messy red braids and two missing teeth.
"If you want a mulligan, you gotta give up treats until the next hunt," a blond boy with gray eyes and a short straw says, waving it in her face. She wrinkles her nose.
"I didn't say I want a mulligan!"
"Then shoo!"
As Achilles approaches, the children with longer straws scatter into the woods, some laughing. Three boys remain. One boy, with pale skin, ragged dirty blond hair and crooked teeth, wearing an oversized sweater and shorts and no shoes and a canvas bag big enough on him to almost drag on the ground. A second boy, skin dark as jet and head shaved, a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck, wearing loose sweatpants and an old linen button-down with sneakers with a check drawn on. A third boy, the smallest of them, maybe close to Lyra's age, looking like one of the people from the far east but with a permanent glower in his face, sitting on the ground and looking a little like he's drowning in the adult-sized jacket draped around him.
The blond boy jumps up on a tree stump to greet Achilles at eye level, putting his hands on his hips and smirking. "Hello, grownup! Here starts your trials! I call being the judge."
"Don't be silly. It's not a court trial." The boy in the button down approaches, holding an aluminum can colored bright red. He pops the tab, a sickly sweet smell rising in the air as the liquid inside hisses, and he holds the can out to Achilles. "My dad said men welcome each other with a beer, but if you get to Birdy she's going to make you drink a lot, so here's a coke instead."
The boy in the button down strategically stands between Achilles and the smallest boy. The smallest boy makes no movement to greet Achilles, instead staying on the ground, glowering at him with dark eyes.
no subject
“Do not seek that god’s approval. It’s a malignant creature, only set on devouring other gods when it isn’t feeding on mortal misery,” Achilles adds with icy seriousness. “Other gods are actually worthy of devotion.”
The Morrígan? Maybe. In spite of all this, she can’t be worse than the God of Everything, can she?
“Lamb and I share divine blood, made for war. He and I killed many people. I had a choice, but he had none.” He turns the can of coke back and forth pensively. The bubbles inside hiss with the movement. “Lamb was more like you, lad. He was trying to survive in a world other men made for him. A world I helped make for him.”
no subject
“Most of us joined the king’s cause for the renown that comes from battle—killing worthy opponents, claiming their arms and armor—and the riches that come from conquest. That was why I fought …
“Until our enemies killed someone very dear to me. Then I fought for vengeance.” Which was a far more potent motivator than esteem or worldly goods. “After my death, Lamb was brought to replace me, but he was only a lad like you three. He fought hard in my name. To please me.”
no subject
And sadly—for Pyrrhus, for the Trojans—this proved true.
“I agree, lad. There’s no sense to it.” Scout sounds so much like Pyrrhus’ younger aspects. Achilles moves close enough to gingerly place a hand on Scout’s knee. “I could have saved Lamb from that senselessness had I chosen a different path.”
It’s difficult to admit that to these boys. Men like him had probably featured in each of their wars—creatures born for violence and lauded for their skill. No concern for how others suffered in the wake of their greed and glory.
“I cannot change the past, but I want to do right by him now. That’s why I’ve come here.”
no subject
“The person I love most in this world fell to our enemies, and his loss illuminated everything. I came to see how hollow, how pointless the war had become—nay, had always been.” He picks up the enchanted stone and rolls it between thumb and index finger, as if it had revealed this truth to him.
“It was a revelation that came far too late, and at a terrible cost.” Achilles grips the stone in his palm, knuckles white. “And … if I was truly wise, I would have returned home, but I remained to kill the man who killed my beloved—as if this vengeance would bring him back to me.”
no subject
He slips the stone back into a belt pouch and looks to Gavroche. “I killed the man responsible. His brother—the man who started the war by abducting the king’s wife—killed me in turn. Such is the cycle of vengeance.”
His hand returns to Pyrrhus’ bracelet, where he pensively thumbs each shell. “I never went home to Lamb and he resents me for it. As he should. He needed a father more than my fallen lover needed revenge.”
no subject
Yes, these boys are so much like Zagreus: rigorously questioning the status quo, trying to project confidence, but still very sensitive. They’re laudable qualities when in proper balance.
“Lamb was fortunate enough to grow up. He has a kingdom of his own with a wife and a son and a new babe on the way. The Morrígan took him from the life he worked so hard to build. I could not stand idly by.
“Perhaps he prefers to stay here among the fae, but he should be given the choice. It’s not mine to make.” He looks down at his now-clasped hands. “Before he was taken, I fear I ‘bossed him around’ too much when I had no right to.”
He also hid a sister from him, but who’s keeping track?
no subject
“Sometimes adults are simply trying to help. We don’t want our sons and daughters and students to make the same mistakes we did.” Though through Zagreus, Achilles quickly found that some lessons need to be learned first hand. A verbal warning doesn’t carry the same weight as the pain of crawling from the Styx. “But you’re correct, lad. Adults should know their children well enough to understand what they need most.”
There’s that name again. “Will you tell me more about Ember? I’ve heard she’s taken Lamb under her wing.”
no subject
People don’t like us. They think we’re weird and scary. Scout’s words immediately conjure memories of Pyrrhus mutilating corpses with the same innocent curiosity as a child watching butterflies in a garden. Did these boys ever do the same?
“‘All of us’? Do you mean children who went to war?” he asks gently. “Miss Ember cares for you? Are you happy here?”
It doesn’t seem like these boys have much of a choice, though. What’s their other option? Punishment by a god&madsh;one who is apparently among those who find them aberrant?
no subject
But he’s still curious about Ember.
“I’ve been told Miss Ember has deadly weapons called guns. She must be a veteran of war as well?” The stories he’s hearing about this woman—both maternal and martial—are seemingly at odds. It reminds him of Medea—mother and wife, but capable of ruthless violence.
“What does Lamb do here? Does he help take care of you?” Achilles asks before he decides to simply pose the most pressing question: “Does he appear to be happy?”
no subject
That wouldn’t improve the boys’ opinion of him. Besides, Ember is a woman and these are mortal children; they can’t wield spears and blades with Neoptolemus’ half-divine strength and skill. The guns might give them a fighting chance when facing a grown man.
“What sort of things does Ember want people to do? And why does she need to force people to do them?” Achilles knows leadership is a fraught thing. One cannot always be kind, but it’s often a sign of failure if one must regularly threaten subordinates into submission. That makes for poor morale. “Are they her slaves? Servants?”
no subject
“It seems Miss Ember is a ruler of sorts—and a judge.” Which isn’t unusual by his reckoning. A king might settle the odd dispute among his subjects. In the time he spent observing his father do this kind of mediation, Peleus never ordered a boy to be hung from his groin and then executed.
It doesn’t please Achilles to know that Pyrrhus is complicit in this sort of enforcement. Does his son take as much joy in it as Gravoche does while explaining it?
“If someone is made to leave this place, where do they go?”