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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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Thetis withdraws to a comfortable distance; Hermes and Patroclus still haven’t earned her trust, even if they happen to have Achilles’ love. “True. Let us hope Neoptolemus remains modest. He’ll need all the divine favor he can gather after his defiance of the Fates.”

Achilles nods, carefully folding the veil before draping it back over his forearm. After a moment he says, “Pyrrhus’ time among the fae healed him, at least in part.”

His eye wanders from Thetis, back to Hermes and Pat. “The Morrígan gathered many others like him—children and young people thrust into miserable, brutal wars. They understood him like few of us ever could. I think he needed that most of all.”

Hermes' brow furrows. His immediate questions are about the Morrígan--why would she do that, why in particular children of war, why children and not grown men, why she journeyed so far to grab another--but he pauses those thoughts for a moment as he looks at Achilles' face.

It'd serve Olympus best for Hermes to gather as much information about the Morrígan's motives as possible, but it'd serve Achilles best to have a chance to process whatever happened in Tír na nÓg.

Hermes takes Achilles' shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Why don't I take us all home? Then you can explain what happened after you started your trial." Patroclus will probably want to hear, but Hermes isn't sure Thetis will or won't. She's famously intolerant of the company of men, and she's been around a lot of men for an extended period.

“Yes, that would be best,” Achilles agrees. He realizes he’s still wearing Hermes’ scarf—and that Hermes looks a little incomplete without it. He unwinds it and coils it back around the god’s neck. “It’s never wise to keep shades from the Underworld for too long.”

And Achilles isn’t sure how long he’s been away. A day? A month? Will Lyra be worried? Will Hades be furious?

“Pyrrhus extends his gratitude, by the way. For guiding me here to find him,” he says, adjusting the drape of Hermes’ scarf. “He promises a temple in Epirus for your trouble.”

As Achilles wraps the scarf back around Hermes' neck, Hermes smiles, eyes warming, and rests his hand on the folds of the scarf. It smells like Achilles now.

"Make sure he gets the wings right." Hermes flashes the wings at his temples and his ankles, spreading them and turning them towards Achilles almost like a mating display from a bird. "They're my best feature."

If it weren't for present company, Hermes would kiss Achilles. But instead, he smooths his wings again and offers his arms out. "Everyone who wants a fast pass back to Greece, hold on tight."

“It could well be the first temple to get it right,” Achilles laughs, hooking an arm around Hermes’ waist. “Convincing the artisans that you don’t wear a winged hat will be a challenge.”

Meanwhile, Pat shakes his head at the obvious peacocking. Styx, is this how he managed to woo Achilles? This exasperation doesn’t stop him from gripping Hermes’ offered arm, though.

Thetis follows suit with her own cool hands. She could shift into a bird and fly back herself, but it’s a long journey and Hermes has proven himself trustworthy. “Let us be off, my lord.”

Hermes grins at Achilles, eyes sparkling at his laugh, before double checking that everyone's grip is tight enough. Once he's satisfied, they're gone.

It's a dizzying mess of senses--smells, wind, colors, speed--and then they're outside the mouth of the Temple Styx. The little hut Prometheus has set up for himself has smoke curling out of the chimney, and save for the lack of Titans, the space is as it was when they left, almost down to the position of the sun.

Hermes shakes himself off, flashing one of his breezy, customer service smiles. "I hope you all enjoyed that little jaunt out of Greece. Thankfully, we're all mostly intact." Minus Achilles' missing eye, which Hermes would very much like to ask more about when they have some relative privacy.

“Thank you, Lord Hermes, for your service,” Thetis says politely, stepping away to adjust her tousled hair and himation.

The two mortals take a bit longer to recover from the fast travel. Achilles keeps his balance with a hand on Hermes’ shoulder while Pat doubles over, hands on his knees until the nausea passes.

“Yes, none of that was quite what I expected,” Achilles sighs, stepping over to help steady Pat. “But I learned a great deal from the Morrígan’s trial. Pyrrhus and I are on much better terms than when we parted in Athens.”

Hermes gives Thetis a polite, acknowledging not before giving Patroclus a sympathetic pat on the back as he recovers. "Sorry, my good shade, the speed is a lot if you're not used to it."

He looks to Achilles next, breezy smile flickering. "I would like to hear all about it. But I wanted to see if you wanted to return to Elysium first."

Hermes generally feels woefully out of the loop, absent as he's been from Greece. It seems so much has happened with Neoptolemus/Pyrrhus, and he's only barely aware of such an important part of his lover's afterlife.

“Yes, let’s return to Elysium,” Achilles agrees. It’s the closest thing to home outside of the House of Hades itself. But before they return to the Underworld, he approaches Thetis, deferent, “But first Mother, can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course, my dear,” she says. Her expression is still restrained in mixed company, but she can’t hide a hint of deep fondness for her precious son.

“Please, go to Epirus. Deliver this to Lady Ophelia,” he offers the veil with both hands, reverently. “Let both her and Molossus know that Pyrrhus is safe, but the gods keep him from Greece.”

Thetis accepts the veil with a nod and gives Achilles’ curls an affectionate pet. “I’ll see it done.”

“Thank you, mother,” Achilles says as he gives her a grateful hug.

“Farewell, Lord Hermes … Patroclus,” Thetis intones before turning to leave.

Satisfied, Achilles joins his two lovers urging them deeper into the Temple of Styx and Elysium beyond. The Underworld feels almost normal and orderly compared to Tír na nÓg.

As they walk, Achilles rambles about more of his trial. He nudges Patroclus with his elbow. “I spoke with people from the future. Centuries on, they still tell our story, Pat.”

Patroclus gives a modest huff of a laugh. “Oh, do they?”

Hermes listens with fascination as Achilles talks of his adventure, occasionally asking clarifying questions. He huffs a chuckle when Achilles tells Patroclus of the future of their story.

"Well, the Fates did promise that your name would live on forever if you went to Troy. They're very good at keeping promises," Hermes says.

It's comforting to be back in Elysium for a moment, after spying in the desert then tiptoeing through Tír na nÓg. When they find a private glade, Hermes sits on a rock, slipping off his sandals to soak his feet in the Lethe.

"I hope they kept the story mostly accurate," he says.

“In the future, some will deny that we were lovers. They take offense at two men sharing such a bond,” Achilles’ lip curls. “But others know better. They see the truth and keep it alive. They find strength in it.”

Patroclus shakes his head. “What do they think we are? Brothers? Extremely good friends?”

Achilles shrugs and joins Hermes by the Lethe. “Cousins, maybe.”

A familiar sound approaches—snapping twigs, parting brush, heavy panting—and Méli bursts into the glade and skids to a stop by the three men. The dog takes a brief, appraising pause, then beelines for Achilles, sniffing his hands and tunic.

“Do you smell Nephos?” he laughs, then for Hermes and Pat’s benefit, he explains: “Pyrrhus keeps a fluffy-cloud-dog, very like the one your brother took the shape of.”

"What an odd hangup," Hermes comments, frowning. If the future takes offense to male love, he can't imagine they much like Greece or Olympus.

But a bounding dog interrupts Hermes' train of thought. He gives Méli an affectionate scratch, and winces when Achilles mentions his brother.

"Sh, sh, sh," Hermes says, putting a finger to his lips. Apollo had, after all, threatened to do something terrible if Achilles shared that story, and Hermes knows his brother to follow through on threats. But his face relaxes again as he considers what Achilles actually said.

"Really? The little dog? And he was allowed to take it here to our time?"

“To be truthful, it was a fae creature in a dog’s guise. A harmless one,” he adds quickly. “It was still at Pyrrhus’ side when we parted ways. I hope it followed him—it made a fine companion.”

Méli’s interest in Achilles wanes, and her attention turns to her master. He happens to be covered in equally strange smells. Where has he been today? Pat plucks leaves and twigs from her fur while she sniffs him thoroughly. “I wish I could see the strange pup for myself.”

Achilles smiles and uses a stick to draw an approximation in the Lethe’s bank. It amounts to a circle with radiating fur lines, four stick legs, and a large smile. A pause, and he sighs in defeat. “I haven’t done it justice.”

Pat raises his eyebrows. “It looks like an ecstatic sea urchin.”

Hermes frowns thoughtfully at the news that Neoptolemus has somehow gained a fae companion--he wishes he'd had a chance to see this one so he'd have a better idea of how harmless it really is--but he shrugs it away. It seems like Neoptolemus is just on his own heroic journey at this point.

Hermes smiles instead, cracking his knuckles. "Luckily, I happen to be shapeshifter."

And then with a pop, there is a fluffy little cloud dog at the bank of the Lethe, wagging his tail so hard it's a blur. He cocks his head, allowing his tongue to loll out in a big smile at Patroclus and Achilles before letting out a little wuff!

Unlike Apollo, Hermes has no problem being seen as silly. Silliness comes with being a trickster.

Before Pat can even register what happened, Méli launches herself at the cloud. Yes, it still smells like Hermes, but he’s dog-shaped! She bows and barks, trying to goad him into some play.

“Méli! Méli!” Pat chides through a laugh, holding her at bay. “Leave him be!”

“It’s been a long time since she’s seen another pup. One with a single head, at least,” Achilles says. “Let her enjoy it.”

“He hardly looks like a dog.” Pat is skeptical, but also clearly delighted—a notably rare sight. Even more surprising, he asks: “May I touch you?”

Look, he has to know what that kind of dog feels like.

Hermes playfully jumps to and fro, wagging his tail as he gives Méli a little bark. Yes! Yes, Méli, it is another dog! How wonderful!

But he pauses a moment, cocking his head at Patroclus. Wait, really? But then his tail wags again and he approaches, sitting with a big puppy grin to offer Patroclus a chance to pet.

Hermes is not above being pet by a mortal like a common animal. And hey, Hermes will take the opportunity to do something nice for Patroclus, and accept whatever olive branch is offered. It's been a stressful day, he can throw the shade a bone (ha ha).

“Stay, Méli,” Pat says firmly. It’s a testament to his skill with animals that the rambunctious dog actually listens. Though she whines and tippy-taps her front paws in place.

He extends a hand and gives the strange Hermes-dog a couple of awkward pets. There’s not much solid under all that soft, fluffy fur—its actual body is scarcely bigger than a newborn pup. “Huh. I can’t imagine the likes of Neoptolemus walking about with this dainty little thing at his heels.”

Achilles chuckles. “If you’d a chance to speak with him, it might seem more fitting. Pyrrhus is gentler than he looks.”

“Much like his father,” Pat murmurs. He gives Méli a gesture of release, and she resumes nipping and pawing at her new friend, tail raised and wagging. “Don’t feel as if you have to indulge her, Hermes.”

It's strange to be pet by Patroclus, but Hermes stays still and wags his tail until Patroclus has had his fill. If nothing else, the man deserves a chance to pet a new dog.

But then there's Méli, and Hermes isn't about to deny Méli her fun. He yips, play bowing before leaping at Méli and nipping her ear. He lets her chase him for a bit, even letting her catch him so he can nip her tail and have her chasing him again. He runs like a fluffy white bullet around and around and around Achilles and Patroclus, jumping over their laps to have Méli crash into them and slow her chase.

He waits until Méli is exhausted--or the resident humans ask him to stop--before turning into his usual form again, scrunching his nose as he giggles, lying on his back on the grass.

"Animals are great fun."

Méli has no hope of keeping up with such a fast little beast, but she does her best with big, loping strides. It pleases Pat to see her have such fun; as much as he tries to keep her happy, a dog without a pack is a sad thing.

Finally, Méli flops on the ground, tongue lolling as she catches her breath. After a winded moment, she crawls to give Hermes’ face a grateful lick.

This all reminds Pat of why Achilles must be attracted to Hermes—besides having a god’s perfect physique, he’s youthful and playful. Carefree. Seemingly. Although he knows that this isn’t strictly true. He’s seen Hermes’ guarded, serious side.

Patroclus rubs his hand over his beard pensively, then rises to his feet. He spares a meaningful glance at Achilles. You probably want to talk. “I should seek Prometheus and let him know we’ve returned safely.”

Achilles captures Pat’s hand and gives the top of it a kiss. “I’ll find you later, love.”

Hermes snickers as the dog licks his face, turning to squish her face and kiss her head. "Good girl."

He releases her and gives Patroclus a friendly wave goodbye as he withdraws. Once Pat is out of sight, Hermes shimmies. He lays his head on Achilles' lap, spreading his wings in invitation. It's been a while since he's been preened by his favorite preener, after all.

"So," Hermes says, giving Achilles a gentle smile. "Tell me everything, darling."

It pains Achilles to divide his time between both of his lovers, but his time with Hermes is so very rare and of the two, Hermes is better positioned to help him process what he just experienced.

“Where do I begin?” he sighs, smoothing hands along the back of either of Hermes’ spread wings. They bring to mind the Morrígan’s own massive, black wings. “I spoke to the goddess in her true form …

“She mentioned a great many things … and the upstart god was among them. She called it the Cannibal God and warned that its zealous followers will destroy all other gods—or try to.” His throat bobs as he swallows hard. “Olympus will only survive by mortal intervention. Through my own lineage.”

Achilles frowns, his stitched brow wrinkling the dressing over his eye. “The Morrígan said Zagreus’ survival put Olympus’ fate at risk.”

Hermes frowns, an unusually deep furrow forming in his brow.

"Well, that's ominous."

He's not sure how heavily to weigh the Morrígan's prediction. He doesn't think she would lie outright, but he wouldn't put it past her to tell truth strategically.

"I'll talk to Athena about it. But... let's keep Zagreus' role between the two of us." Zeus and Hera were the most ruthless about preserving their rule, but Hermes can't rule out the possibility of one of his other family members deciding to harm Zagreus if they think it'll keep Olympus safe.

Hermes leans into Achilles' hands. "Go on."

“The Morrígan agreed to release Pyrrhus,” he continues, “if I succeeded in convincing his peers that he should return to the flow of time and continue his life.”

Achilles proceeds to describe each of the Morrígan’s judges in turn: the boy soldiers scarred by war and rejected even in death. Honey and Birdy, the gentle scholar and the brash Night Witch—women forced to fight in a future war that will take millions of lives. And Lady Ember, the formidable matriarch who spent her whole life battling in a brutal, verdant paradise.

Through this, Achilles soothes himself by running silky feathers between his fingers. He explains how all of the judges embraced Pyrrhus as one of their own. A reluctant soldier. An aberration, discarded by the very men who made him.

He releases a long exhale and his single eye is weary, mournful. “Hermes … Mortals will invent new and terrible ways to wage war on a scale I cannot begin to describe. And more people like Pyrrhus will be wounded by it. If they survive at all.”

Hermes listens quietly as Achilles speaks, eyes clear and open and hands folded on his stomach. The story is as strange as any that come from Tír na nÓg. The land lives and dies on strange, half incomprehensible things. Hermes wonders if all these people--the warrior matriarch, the scholar of poison, the witch, the boys--if they will continue existing should events change before their births. Or, perhaps, since they were possible once, they're now always existing within that place no matter what happens to time.

Those aren't thoughts to share with Achilles at the moment, though. He has enough to think on without worrying about all that.

When Achilles finishes, Hermes takes his hand and presses a kiss to it. "I wish I could say war will always remain the same. You know how I feel about it. But humans are clever to a fault, and they are very good at thinking of new ways to hurt each other."

This, Hermes has already witnessed through his long lifetime. He's seen humans graduate from tribal skirmishes to sieges, from family feuds to entire cities clashing. And, though he doesn't like thinking on it, he's always known that humans will probably continue escalating their conflicts.

He hadn't stopped to think that there could be more children like Pyrrhus, though. Normal children without divine blood protecting them. The thought of them being used and then rejected, even by gods, moves his heart, and he wonders if perhaps the Morrígan feels for these children. She's never really struck him as a goddess who feels hard, but she's hard to read.

Hermes threads their fingers together, holding Achilles' hand to his heart.

"The Morrígan gave you the trial to teach you something. What do you think it was?" Hermes has his guesses, but he wants to hear it directly from Achilles.

Achilles closes his eye and focuses on Hermes’ pulse against his skin.

“Pyrrhus was forced into the mold of a warrior—a shape that did not suit him,” he says, carefully assembling his answer. He shakes his head and mutters, “Had I taken him back to Phthia and raised him from a babe, I’d have forced him into the same mold myself …

“Still, the quiet core of him survived the brutality of Troy and rejection in its aftermath. He protected his softer self with a calloused armor.”

A tear gathers and slips down his cheek to land on one of Hermes’ wings like a glass bead. “I believe the Morrígan wanted to teach me that my son is changed, but not broken.”

For refusetofight

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Whyyyyy didn't this comment post ;.;

S’all good. I’ve been in the Work Void

I feel that ;.;

And now I can’t remember if Pat ever saw the happy cloud

I don't think he has :|a

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