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.
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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.”
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“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.”
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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.”
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“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.”
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Achilles rubs at the place where Hermes’ wings meet his temples, pressing his fingers against bone and sinew. His mind goes to the person who first set him on this path to know his son.
“Please tell Lyra that I found her brother.” He works his way further up the base of Hermes’ wings. “Let her know that his wounds are mended and he’s well. She must be worried sick about him.”
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Preening Hermes’ wings has about the same effect as petting a cat—his feathers are as warm and silky to the touch. That, and seeing his lover at ease under his care sets Achilles at ease in turn.
“I’ll give the Morrígan an offering and a prayer of gratitude.” There was absolutely no reason a goddess of her stature should bother with a prideful mortal’s petition. Particularly one she didn’t seem to see as worthy.
“What was she like? Hm. Imagine having an audience with a volcano. Or the most ominous storm you’ve ever seen.” He spreads Hermes’ secondary feathers under his fingers. “Her closest comparison might be Chaos in terms of presence, at least from what the Prince and Lady Nyx have described.”
A beat, and then he laughs softly and adds, “Strangely, she had wings on her head. Perhaps she’s some distant relation.”
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“I’ll be pleased if Lyra grows to be like any one of those women.” If he had to guess, she might be an even mix of Birdy and Honey. Adventurous and cunning. “I wish she could have met them and heard their tales.”
But he’s still grateful that his son had the chance. “Maybe one day Pyrrhus can tell his little sister all about them and his time out of time in Tír na nÓg.”
Achilles smooths the length of a primary feather between his fingertips and sighs. “I hope he will not be too lonely away from Greece.”
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Pyrrhus inherited his physical power, but Achilles isn’t sure where that quiet resilience and resourcefulness came from. Definitely not from a father who raged at insults and was laid pitifully low by grief.
“Thank you, magpie,” Achilles murmurs, tracing Hermes’ brow with his thumb. He feels spoiled by all of these favors; how many other shades have a divine lover to keep their surviving family healthy and safe?
“Will Lady Athena have you back at the Levant soon?” His thumb trails down Hermes’ cheek to travel the line of his jaw.
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But he’ll get to all of that after he’s dealt with matters at hand.
“Even if she found you out, the detour is hardly frivolous.” Achilles gently tilts Hermes’ chin and leans over to press a kiss to his lips. “A good spy needs to keep his morale up, don’t you think?”
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Achilles knows—between having a child, helping depose Zeus, and permanently damaging his own shade—he’s really pushing his luck. Lord Hades would be well within his rights to toss him in the depths of Tartarus; he can’t have other headstrong heroes getting any ideas. Achilles’ good standing with the rest of Hades’ family (and Lady Nyx) is really what’s affording him so much leeway.
“It may well be my imagination, but I think I can still see through that eye.” He leans into Hermes’ warm weight, arms looped around his waist as he continues, “Nothing very clear. Shapes and shadows through a thick sea fog.”
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“If Lady Hecate won’t indulge my questions, perhaps Lord Prometheus will have some ideas.” The titan made mortals, so he must have some ideas about the spiritual essence they leave behind.
“Does it look strange?” he asks after a moment, a timid note to the question. Achilles has never looked anything less than perfect, even after almost a decade of war. He has absolutely no regrets about his decision, but he has to wonder how his lovers—and Lyra—will take it.
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“Not uncomfortable, no. Just odd.” How much worse this would be if he lost his flesh-and-blood eyeball? But his eternal essence has its own response to injury. “As if my shade is still reaching for it across the distance, trying to become whole once more.”
He rests his head against Hermes’ shoulder. “It might have reformed itself already, were it not for the fae magic binding it.”
He sighs against Hermes’ neck. Not troubled. Relaxed. Like a weight has been lifted. “It keeps him in mind.”
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