messageforyou | For refusetofight

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.

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Achilles joins in the young women’s drunken laughter. He’s nearly forgotten this is a trial set by the goddess of war and fate.

The wings bring to mind Daedalus and Icarus. He imagines Birdy and a flock of similar women silently descending on their enemies like the Furies—casting spells and curses before disappearing into the night. The zeal on Birdy’s face is timeless as war itself. Achilles has seen that exact look on plenty of men. He’s worn it, too.

“Both of you are older than the lads, but you still follow Ember …” Or so he assumes. “Are you feared because of your youth, or because you are women who chose to fight with such ruthlessness and cunning?”

It makes sense that they should idolize the witches of his time—women who carved out their own power in a world that offered them none.

"Why, thank you for noticing," Honey says with a grin as she sips her tea. Always nice to be recognized for one's skills.

"We're not old for fighting for the people from older times," Birdy says with a wide gesture. "But the men from the past are stupid about women. They get insecure we make their dicks look small, so they make up rules for why we aren't warriors. They say things like it doesn't count unless you can beat your opponent with your bare hands. I ask if they've never used a weapon, even to hunt, and they don't like questions like that."

"And we're very young for fighting for people from the future," Honey adds, taking a grape from the charcuterie to pop in her mouth. "The more education a society needs to function, the longer childhood is treated. We make them uncomfortable."

"They want to treat us like poor little babies," Birdy says, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Sad little girls, tragically killed at the hands of villains. They don't like it when I tell them to fuck off, we're no little girls, and we're not sad stories for them to pity."

"We could get by easier outside of Miss Ember's influence than the little ones," Honey allows, nodding with Birdy. "But we'd rather not. Miss Ember treats us like adults, we can help the little ones here, and no one tries to deny the reality of our lives."

"A stupid man came to Honey, he said she's a liar, that there were never camps and her family never killed. Honey, with her soft little hands, she broke his nose." Birdy laughs in delight at the memory, and Honey smiles slyly over her tea.

Achilles hums. He’s used to arbitrary rules. Plenty of them govern the Underworld—who’s worthy of Asphodel’s bland anonymity or Elysium’s glorious feasts. It depends on the judges, he supposes. Maybe they have something similar here.

“Stab died to men who used monstrous weapons. Wielding those guns from across a field—to rend children to shreds—is a coward’s tactic, not a warrior’s.” His lip curls in disgust.

“I’m afraid you would fare no better in my time, but I’m sure you know that, Miss Honey.” Given her study of Amazons and witches. “Your shades would not be admitted to Elysium.”

He gives a soft laugh and shakes his head. “Though I doubt you would enjoy it, unless you yearn to drink and fight with braggarts for eternity.”

Achilles glances at Birdy. Of the two, she might revel in that, at least for a little while.

Honey shrugs with a smile. "I don't think they would enjoy my company at any rate. Then again, I didn't think you would, either. Certainly not your son."

"What is the point of fighting, if you don't get to come back to someone soft and warm?" Birdy says with a shrug. "Only so long that fighting for the sake of it is fun."

Birdy relished her work in the war. Relished flying, relished dropping bombs, relished every part of it. But it would have held no appeal if there had been no reason to do it.

Honey, anticipating that Achilles will be curious about his son, nods in his direction. "Lamb likes to sit where you are while I bake, with his little Pomeranian on his lap. He doesn't talk much unless Birdy is here, but he likes the quiet when he can work on his crafts. Hetty taught him how to make lace, Splinter taught him how to whittle wood, and Gem taught him how to make earrings."

“Lamb spends a lot of time here, then?” Achilles runs his palm over the tabletop, imagining it’s still warm from Pyrrhus’ resting forearms. Maybe if he waits long enough, his son will walk in the door …

“He is quite talented with his hands.” He raises his wrist to show off Pyrrhus’ shell bracelet. His mouth curls in a small smile. “Quite uncommon for a man of his standing … and his history.”

What business does a king and a warrior have making handicrafts? None, usually. It’s the work of women and tradesmen.

“Tell me, does Lamb seem happy here?” He pauses glancing between Honey and Birdy before he quickly adds: “Not just here in your home. Here as one of the Morrígan’s chosen? Under Miss Ember’s rule?”

He asked similar of the boys, but the two young women experience this place differently and Honey seems particularly astute.

Honey and Birdy both look at his bracelet. Honey gives a warm smile, and Birdy pounds her chest in approval. "A man of many skills, that Lamb."

At the question, Honey looks at the ceiling in thought and Birdy sits back, drumming her fingers. Both of them understand and respect how important that question is to Achilles, and give it the due consideration before answering.

"He's comfortable here. Free of historical expectations, so there's not so much pressure to hide things like his art, or how much he prefers quiet. He likes the company. He and Birdy can talk for ages, and he and Miss Ember frequently will have coffee together," Honey says. "But he seems restless to me. Birdy?"

"The lost memories, they bother him." Birdy taps her head for emphasis. "He remembers all his childhood until the war. Then it's flashes. He knows much time has passed, but doesn't know all of how it did, and that frustrates him."

Birdy gives a broad gesture. "A man of duty, that one. Doesn't like that there might be things he's supposed to be doing, and that he's not doing it. I tell him that there's nothing to do when gods and faeries meddle, but it bothers him anyway, like a splinter under his nail. When he frets about things beyond my experience, he talks to Miss Ember."

"He knows he conquered Epirus. He knows he fought in Troy. And he knows that he likely killed Astyanax and King Priam in a very brutal way," Honey adds. "But it's not the sort of thing that really bothers anyone here. If anything, it makes him fit in more."

“He has a son back in Epirus and a babe on the way by his new wife. He loves them dearly.” Achilles rests his hand over the bracelet on his wrist. His eyes grow red around the edges. “The Fates will not allow him to see his son again, but he may yet return to his wife and daughter …

“Lamb is not easy to love. Few people in Greece truly accept him as he is. Even I was repulsed by the rumors of his deeds at Troy.” He sighs and looks around at the warm, cozy kitchen. The two young women who count Pyrrhus as a friend. “Perhaps this place is kinder to a man like him.”

His face hardens, his brow furrows with resolve. “But were I in his place, I would want to make the choice for myself—to return to those I love, or live unencumbered.”

Achilles’ hand shifts to the ring on his finger, but he doesn’t only think of Hermes. He thinks of Lyra and Patroclus. There isn’t a world where he wouldn’t pick them. “I know which I would choose, but I would not judge him either way. The lad has endured so much.”

Both Honey and Birdy know where this is going. Neither of them are fools, and they know well why Achilles is here.

Honey sips her tea. "I was never really going to stand between you and Lamb. I don't believe in holding people against their will."

"I was going to, if you were stupid or pathetic," Birdy says matter-of-factly. "But lucky for you, you are not."

Honey puts her teacup down, smiling at Achilles warmly. "But I did want to say--I don't know what your story means to you. But my generation wasn't the first that tried to wipe your love away. Whether by god or man, your story survived centuries of men who wanted to deny that love between the same sex existed, men who surely destroyed many other stories like yours."

Her eyes rim red. She takes a breath, smiling before she reaches for Birdy's hand. Birdy takes it with a warm squeeze and a smile.

"Your story showed me that people like us have always existed. That there's nothing broken about us, and our love is beautiful too."

Birdy slings an arm around Honey, affectionately bumping their heads together with a lopsided grin. Honey's smile broadens, and she squeezes Birdy's hand again.

"So thank you. And thank you to Patroclus, too. Thank you for loving so hard."

Achilles was beginning to suspect that the two women were closer than friends. Several times now, they wordlessly anticipated each others’ needs, however simple; that’s a clear sign of love.

“I never imagined that part of our story would survive. Or would be considered remarkable.” Certainly not for the fact that they were both men. His fist balls against the tabletop. “What reason is there to forbid certain kinds of love? The idea is foolish! No one can dictate whether I choose to love a man or a woman.”

Aphrodite must be beside herself—if she still exists in this future. Or maybe she delights in watching lovers defy all laws, risk their safety to be together. He wouldn’t put it past her to enjoy a little hard-won love.

But he remembers that Honey and Birdy have expressed their gratitude and his indignation softens back into a modest smile. Unusual for a hero known for his outsize pride. “I’m pleased, though, that Pat and I have such a legacy. He’ll be glad to hear we’ve given others strength and conviction.”

"If you ask her, she will give you high-minded answer about religion and society and bigger organized power structures needing control over family units through history," Birdy says, gesturing vaguely at Honey. "If you ask me, it is because people are stupid."

Honey snickers, playfully nudging Birdy. "How dare you sum up my answer so well."

Birdy snickers in turn, playfully tugging on one of Honey's curls.

But Honey's expression grows more serious, though she still warmly smiles. "It's not just us. Your story has carried that message to many, many people who otherwise would have felt very wrong and alone for centuries. The poetic term for love between women is 'Sapphic.'" Honey's smile grows just a little. "The poetic term for love between men is 'Achillean.'"

"People in our future even made a flag for it." Birdy's smile is equally warm, but there's a twinkle of humor in her eyes, the rough edge that is inherent to her always. "Two blue bands with white in the middle, and a green flower. Don't ask me why that, but it is pretty."

“Ah, from the poet Sappho of Lesbos, surely. Appropriate.” Achilles wants to think that Honey is joking about the use of his name, but he doesn’t find any mischief in her face. This is a lot to take in. Something to talk about with Patroclus once they’re back to Elysium.

“In my time, the divine world is entering a state of flux. Strange new gods emerge while others are banished or destroyed.” He fiddles with the end of Hermes’ scarf. “Oddly enough, this is why Lamb cannot raise his son. If our line doesn’t proceed as the Fates planned, the gods of Greece may not survive …

“The gods in your time must be very different, for mortals to adopt such strange beliefs.” And that’s something to talk to Hermes about.

Honey nods in confirmation, but both she and Birdy grow serious at the talk of gods.

"I don't pretend to know what happens among the divine," Honey says. "But the majority of people in our time worship only one god, and we call him God."

Birdy sucks on her teeth, narrowing her eyes. "Don't know if it's really the same one god. New religions, new holy texts pop up, and everyone says that they're the true believers and everyone else is deceived."

"Many bloody wars have been fought over who has the right of it," Honey says, her brow slightly furrowed in thought. "If they're all worshiping the same God, He hasn't made it very clear what He prefers. It's easy to start believing that gods don't exist, and they're made up to prop up the ambitions of humans."

Honey sips her tea again. "The gods of Greece are noteworthy because of how many sources survive about them. Art, theater, history, books, it survived and was translated at a level not seen with any of their contemporaries. I think we still worship them in a way, even if we don't make sacrifices or think of them as real when we come from." Her eyes drift to the scarf. It hasn't escaped her notice that it sits oddly on Achilles' neck, looking more like smoke than fabric. "The caduceus is a symbol of hospitals. Postage services often use winged sandals or winged hats to mark themselves. The symbols and stories of your time still permeate daily life in ours."

At this news, a shadow passes over Achilles’ face. Is this the God of Everything. The god of the Levant? Did its strength and influence grow over the centuries? Based on what Birdy says, it may very well have. The thing is amorphous and cruel, leaving mortals to guess at its will.

“I believe that is what God wants.” It feels strange, calling it such. A world with one god terrifies him. Multiple gods create a necessary balance—of demeanors, of motivations. A council of sorts. “It feeds off of mortal strife, and the destruction of all other gods.”

Honey’s mention of Hermes’ symbols gives him notable pause and his hand abruptly moves from the tendrils of scarf. He tries to smooth the reaction over with a careful smile. “It pleases me to learn the gods of Greece survived—in spirit, if not in being. They are very much real.”

Honey would comment on the theological view, but it's hard to miss Achilles' reaction to her comment about the symbols. She's ready to let it lie, but Birdy is not.

"What was that? The jerk away from your magic scarf?" Birdy gestures at Achilles, chuckling a little bit before grabbing her full shot glass. "You have a terrible poker face."

"She means that you're easy to read," Honey translates automatically. She doesn't know when poker was invented, but she has a feeling it was after Achilles' lifetime. Honey looks at Birdy. "I mentioned symbols associated with Hermes. His symbols are the most ubiquitous in the modern era, I think."

Now that Birdy's called it out, Honey might as well ask. "The stories say that you met him, once. That he delivered King Priam to your tent." Maybe there's more to the story than that.

“It’s nothing,” he says, unconvincingly. Achilles always feels terrible when he lies, but somehow this is even worse. These woman saw his story as an inspiration. Part of it, anyway.

After a breath, he relents. “Indeed, I first met Hermes at Troy as you say. I met him again, many times, while I stood guard at the House of Hades. He had frequent business with my master, both as a messenger and a psychopomp.”

His hand returns to one of the coils of fabric, light as incense smoke and cheerily warm as sunlight. “This scarf belongs to him. He lent it to me—to give me strength during the Morrígan’s trial.”

The women can make of that what they will.

Honey is ready once again to have some modicum of decorum. Not Birdy.

Birdy takes one look at the scarf--clearly magical, better than any gift of the fae--and then gives a roar of laughter. "You dog! You've been catching god dick since you died, haven't you?"

"Birdy!" Honey squawks at her, cheeks turning red. That only makes Birdy laugh louder, knocking back her shot before drunkenly gesturing at Achilles' own shot glass.

"What? It's true."

Honey huffs at Birdy's lack of manners, but her eyes quickly shine with interest and she leans in, steepling her fingers together. "But do tell us what he's like. Please? I've never met a god."

It’s exactly the kind of thing any one of the Greeks at Troy would say if they learned what Achilles had been up to. With exactly the same amount of tact. They wouldn’t care that he was a prince and a hero—not when it came to sleeping with a god.

Achilles doesn’t confirm Birdy’s accusation, but turns his head away in discomfort. At least he’s spared the indignity of a blush.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Honey lean in and steels himself for a politely-worded but still probing question about his relationship with Hermes. He relaxes when she steers the conversation in a more general direction.

“He’s one of the youngest of the Olympians, and he behaves accordingly. Full of spirit, energy and mischief like a young man of twenty-odd years. But he’s not cruel like his father. He cares deeply for his family.” Achilles unwinds Hermes’ scarf from his neck. “And for mortals. He respects us in ways other gods do not.”

He offers the scarf to Birdy and Honey. “Touch it, if you like. It carries a bit of his essence.”

Birdy laughs, because she needs no verbal confirmation that she's right on the money. But both she and Honey perk with interest when he offers the scarf.

Birdy reaches first, skimming her fingers against the scarf, though it behaves more like a cloud of incense than fabric. She takes a sharp breath. The joviality drains from her expression, leaving something far more raw.

"...It feels like flying the first time," she says, hushed. She lets the strange, magical thing slip through her fingers. "Like the whole world is open to me."

Honey has been examining it more closely, committing it carefully to memory. At Birdy's reaction, she reaches out herself, carefully taking the fabric between her fingers.

Honey jerks her hand away with a gasp, pressing it hard against her mouth. Her eyes immediately grow red, welling up, her whole body shaking. Birdy is shocked from her reverie, and she tightens her grip on Honey, furrowing her brow. "Honey?"

It takes Honey a second. And when she speaks, it's through her hand, like she doesn't trust herself not to cry. "It..." She takes a shaky, watery breath. "It feels like people are good, and worth caring for just because they're people."

Honey buries her face in her hands abruptly. "I forgot what that felt like."

Birdy puts her glass down and wraps both of her arms around Honey, petting her hair. She looks at Achilles, but there's no accusation in her stare. "Just give her a moment. Kindness is overwhelming when you've seen little." He's shared something special with them. Something that maybe can heal something that still hurts, but only time can tell.

Achilles isn’t surprised by Birdy’s reaction; on the surface, Hermes’ spirit is one of adventure and freedom. Honey’s startles him briefly, even while he knows Hermes’ power would do her no harm.

But he relaxes at her explanation, gives a knowing nod and a fond smile. “Hermes’ domain is that of thieves and messengers, but it’s also the connection between mortals. The simple exchanges that bind us together as friends, neighbors, allies.”

He sets both his palms perpendicular to the tabletop. “Lord Priam and myself were divided by a battlefield, a fortress wall, a bitter war—but grief connected us. I was made to face our shared humanity—that it transcends petty wars.”

Achilles’ brows stitch together as he thinks about what the boys and these two women have told him. Children rent to pieces by horrible machines. Entire peoples gathered up and executed. “If mortals become so callous, so divided, I wonder if his influence has waned in your time.”

Did this “God” finally devour him?

Birdy pets Honey's hair until Honey's breathing evens out. Her hands shake a little as she reaches for her tea again, but when she parts from Birdy, her eyes are clear again, though her cheeks are red.

"We come from dark times," Birdy says, keeping an arm around Honey but finally looking at Achilles again. "All of us must, or else we would not be here."

Honey swallows hard. She takes a napkin and blots the corners of her eyes before tears can make her makeup run. "It's strange, really. By historical standards, our century was one of profound peace and prosperity." She tries to smile. It's a watery smile. "The wars we wage are so brutal and all-encompassing that no one has the appetite for them to drag out more than a few years at most. And the weapons we develop so destructive that no one wants to give each other cause to use them."

She takes a shaky sip of her tea. Her eyes linger on the scarf. It's just given her a profound experience, but an intense one, and she's not sure if she'd want to touch it again. "I think, for the most part, everyone collectively decided diplomacy was preferable. After we died, and our war ended, all the nations of the world formed an organization they would send ambassadors to for negotiating trade, writing treaties, and cooling tempers. If Hermes' influence is anywhere, I imagine it's there."

Yes, if Hermes survived the centuries—in a form Achilles would recognize or not—he was surely at the heart of this effort to maintain peace as surely as Ares might drive the spasms of intense violence that threaten it.

Achilles hums and nods, gathering up the scarf. It clings around his hands like kelp in the ocean’s current. “I can’t begin to imagine all the peoples across Gaia uniting under such a council. The future sounds as remarkable as it is terrible.”

He winds the scarf back around his neck, and he feels a brisk optimism. He breathes it in and holds it in his lungs. “Mortals being as we are, it will never be none, but … I hope there will be fewer of you—and fewer lads fighting wars in place of grown men.”

"If he is there, I will send him my condolences," Birdy says dryly. "I can't think of greater torture than sitting with a world's worth of bureaucrats."

Honey giggles, her face brightening again. Birdy smirks and squeezes Honey's shoulder.

"Papa always said that there is a world to come. And we should try to make it the best one we can," Honey says wistfully. She smiles, standing up from the table. The whole kitchen seems to glow with her warmth. "Are you sober enough to walk? I have a very comfy guest room if you need a nap. We'll all take you to Miss Ember when you're ready."

"She is a tough one," Birdy says, tapping her temple. "She will not go easy on you like Honey. Don't underestimate her."

"She's also difficult to read." Honey gestures to her face. "Miss Ember is disfigured. It's hard to differentiate the expressions she makes. She takes advantage of that when she wants to keep someone guessing at her thoughts."

Achilles huffs a laugh at Birdy’s condolences. Hermes would probably delight at the strange web of human connections, tugging experimentally at the threads like a particularly juicy puzzle.

On standing, Achilles abruptly realizes he’s still in the grip of Birdy’s godforsaken drink. He claps a hand on the back of his chair and takes a moment to let his shade adjust to the new posture. For all of his personal growth over the years, he still reserves some staunch pride for these particular moments. A hero should be able to hold his liquor, at the very least.

“I can walk. Thank you, Miss Honey.” And he does—with extra concentration and only a little bit of telltale wobbling. Achilles isn’t foolish enough to think he’s in a state to continue the trial, not after what Honey and Birdy mention. “I should face Miss Ember with a clear head. A short rest will see me fit to proceed.”

Birdy roars a laugh as Achilles wobbles. She slams her hands on the table loudly, standing up herself. She's not steady, but clearly, she has much more experience with this level of unsteady and is still very comfortable with it.

"If it makes you feel better, you kept up just as good as Lamb did," Birdy says. "And then he had a terrible hangover and said no wonder all my men died, they must have been blind from drink."

She roars another laugh, grinning. "That's when I knew I liked him."

Honey rises from the table, smiling as she gestures Achilles through a door. She stays close to his side, juuuuust in case he needs a little steadying. "Birdy, dear, would you please clear the table?"

Through the door is a hallway, and down the hallway is a bedroom. It's much more luxurious than the sleeping quarters of old--the bed is raised off the ground with a mattress, multiple down pillows, and layers of linen from a thin sheet to a thick blanket. It's just as inviting as the rest of the house, glowing just as much with Honey's memory and spirit of hospitality. There's a window of glass, and outside there are blurs and smears of the dark forest that exists beyond their memories--but Honey draws the curtains to cover them, and dim the light.

"I'll bring a glass of water and a small pill for you. The pill is a little white capsule as long as a knuckle, and if you swallow it with water, it will prevent a headache when you wake up," Honey says.

Just when he thinks his pride is wounded, Achilles is comforted to hear he performed as well as Pyrrhus in this masochistic ritual. Still, he knows his manners, and thanks Birdy for the honor before following Honey to the guest room.

“As men create more powerful weapons, it seems the drink is made to match,” he muses. It’s meant to be a joke, but there’s probably some truth to it. More horrors call for a more potent escape. Would that he could ask Dionysus exactly how many amphorae of wine were drunk during the Greeks’ decade at Troy.

“Thank you, Miss Honey, for your hospitality.” Achilles gently takes her hand. “Not only for my benefit, but for Lamb and the lads like him.”

Hermes’ scarf drifts, buoyant, with the bow of his head. “It’s a fine expression of the human goodness that Hermes revealed. Your enemies could not take that from you.”

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