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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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“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.”

Honey pauses when he takes her hand, turning to face him. Her eyes soften, and she squeezes his hand. "Thank you for saying so. The final thing the enemy would take from us if able was our personhood. I've seen the ghosts of those who went to their camps, and they have numbers tattooed on their arms, because that was the only identification the guards would use."

Her voice is a little dull as she describes it, her eyes distant. It's difficult to talk about while still being fully present in the moment.

"It was important to me that I die as myself."

She shakes her head to bring her back to the present moment. Her eyes linger on the scarf as it floats around Achilles' neck.

"When I prayed, I prayed to all the gods. But I thought that if anyone would answer, it would be Hermes." She makes eye contact, and gives a small, weak smile. "I thought Athena would be more interested in generals, Ares in soldiers, and Apollo in medics. From the stories, Hermes seemed like the only one who might grant a woman of no importance the means to sabotage her enemy."

It had been a desperate act, praying to gods that she'd only heard about in stories. Especially knowing how capricious they were said to be. But if Hermes was her benefactor, she'd gladly worship him the rest of her days.

“You were right. Hermes would gladly lend you the inspiration and strength.” Achilles wants to believe that he survived the divine upheaval into Honey’s time. Of the gods, Hermes is a survivor.

“I should tell you …” Achilles’ lips part and he hesitates a moment. He feels like he owes Honey the truth after the kindness she’s showed him and Pyrrhus. “Lamb isn’t my only child. Perhaps her story—or her parentage—didn’t survive through the ages, but I have a daughter as well.”

Given that his love for Pat is such an affront, Lyra’s origins would be intolerable to modern men. Achilles hates to think that everyone he loves is purged from the songs.

“I hope— No, I know she will grow to be like you and Miss Birdy.” Maybe more like Honey, if he’s being honest, but Birdy has her own rough charm. “Fearless and kind.”

Honey's eyebrows rise in surprise. Then her gaze warms.

"Thank you," she says, squeezing his hand. "The stories of you that survived to my time didn't have any mention of a daughter. But that doesn't mean her story didn't survive. Over time and translations, details get mixed up."

Maybe she would be described as the daughter of a great king, or lumped in with Zeus' children, or blended with another woman of legend as people assumed they were the same person.

"What is her name? What's she like? Maybe she appeared in other stories."

Achilles remembers the power of names in this realm, and rather than say it aloud, he takes Honey’s palm and traces the letters as he knows them: λύρα. Her name immediately reminds him of how much he misses her.

His smile is a little wistful. “She’s confident, clever, loving, and more terrifyingly insightful than any child I’ve ever met.”

That’s probably easy to dismiss as a proud father singing his daughter’s praises, but his smile twists into something more wry as he adds, “Stubborn, too.”

He releases Honey’s hand. “Lady Medea is responsible for her tutelage. She must learn to protect herself—her beauty will draw men’s attention and her boldness will provoke their ire.”

It takes Honey a moment of frowning, concentrating on the letters he traces into her hand. She sounds them out under her breath. Lyra. Yes, she's pretty sure that's 'Lyra.'

She listens intently to Achilles. Terrifyingly insightful. That's an interesting detail, as is her being tutored by Medea.

Honey hums softly, rubbing her chin. "There's a constellation of stars that Greeks after your time called 'Lyra.' It's meant to be a literal lyre, and in legends it's treated as a symbol of inspiration and creativity. It's commonly associated with the stories of Orpheus and of Hermes. But what makes the constellation particularly interesting is that many contemporary and subsequent cultures around the world saw it as a lyre or harp, even if the country didn't have a strong tradition of string instruments at the time. And if it wasn't a lyre, it was a bird."

She starts counting off on her fingers, her eyes fixing on the ceiling as she digs through her memory. This isn't her area of expertise, but Honey had always loved devouring dusty books.

"One of multiple 'endings' for Medea's story is that she wen to Persia, where the people named themselves after her. Persia also calls the constellation the 'Lyre of Zurah', which is a unisex name that refers to a few legendary warriors and poets and means 'splendor' or 'shining beauty'. And closer to Ireland, it's called 'King Arthur's Harp.' It's associated with a legendary king, and with a powerful shapeshifting witch who saved his life. Far to the east of Ireland and Greece in a place called China, the constellation is divided into three quadrants of stars--the water-clock terrace, the imperial passageway, and the weaving girl, and a star in the weaving girl quadrant is called 'Descendant of a god'."

She glances at Achilles. "Does any of that sound like it might be relevant to your daughter?"

Edited 2025-09-18 03:58 (UTC)

“A few details ring true,” Achilles admits, his tone cagey out of habit. But he’s already revealed Lyra’s existence, and Honey has reached out for Hermes’ aid … Perhaps she can be trusted with the full truth.

“Lyra is a descendant of a god.” That could mean Thetis, or even Zeus—through his father’s line—but her divine blood is more immediate. “And she’s aptly named for her father’s invention.”

He knows it won’t be hard for Honey to make the connection, after the scarf … and knowing what she does about the gods of Greece. Achilles’ eyes are still pointedly focused downward. Honey was inspired by his love for Patroclus; admitting he also loves Hermes—enough that he has a child with him—feels like a betrayal.

Honey's brow raises in surprise. "How fascinating."

She can see that he seems ashamed, though she's unsure why. All the stories that have survived from Mycenaean Greece gives her the strong impression that monogamy wasn't really an expectation for men, no matter how it upset partners. Why would Achilles, who had multiple lovers depending on the source, be any different? Especially considering the stories give a strong impression that one doesn't just say no to a god's advances.

(Maybe that's why he looks so uncomfortable. It'd be unkind for Honey to ask if Achilles really wanted to be with a god.)

Similarly, considering some of the stories from that time, she doesn't have trouble believing that two men had a child together, so long as one was a god.

"I'm surprised Hesiod didn't mention it. He wrote the largest surviving work about the genealogy of gods and heroes long after your time, with details about each of their lovers and children." She crosses her arms, frowning in thought. "Though now come to think of it, he didn't write any details about Hermes' children or lovers, just his own parents and how he was born. I suppose Hermes wasn't as public about that sort of thing as other gods."

“He’s not like his father. Hermes is very particular about his lovers and children.” Achilles leaves it at that; he shouldn’t divulge Hermes’ familial pain to a random mortal, no matter how kind. “Our daughter was … unexpected, to say the least.”

He rubs his jaw and his face draws into a wince. “I kept her from Lamb for a time, but I should have known better. He’d only just found out about his sister when the Morrígan took him.”

His hand moves to cup the back of his neck and he shakes his head, disappointed in himself. “The lad felt betrayed. As he should.”

"Oh, I see."

Honey sits on the edge of the bed, folding her hands in her lap and looking at Achilles with singular attention. Her eyes are kind, but curious.

"Why?" Her brow creases a moment. "And how? I thought you died when Lamb was a boy. What influence did you have over your daughter? The stories don't make gods sound like involved parents."

She can believe a god creating a child with a dead man--it's not any weirder than stories of golden showers or swans or bulls--but it does beg the question of how Achilles would have had any say in Lyra's upbringing. And surely, it wasn't Hermes raising her. The stories make it sound like the gods barely raise their immortal children, much less the mortal ones. Most fathers would care very much about who their child spends time with, but she isn't sure how similar gods are to human fathers.

(Maybe Achilles appeared in someone's dream to tell them to raise her? She's pretty sure that's the only way the stories described dead people influencing the living.)

“Shades can be summoned by rituals. We walk among the living during Anthesteria, or travel through dreams. This is how I visit my children.” He also enjoys more leniency than most shades, as a trusted servant of the Underworld, a hero of legend, and a psychopomp’s lover.

With that last in mind, Achilles is quick to defend Hermes’ parenthood with the conviction of a caring partner—if Honey still doubts the reciprocity of the relationship. “Hermes performs many vital duties, but he loves his daughter. He makes time for her. In fact, he arranged Lady Medea’s guardianship.”

He takes a long inhale, a slow exhale. “As to why I kept Lamb from his sister—I didn’t fully trust him. For years, I heard the tales of his brutality at Troy. Only recently did I learn why that was and how he suffered in my absence.”

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