messageforyou | For refusetofight

“Thank you,” Achilles says with a reverent bow of his head. “Your guidance will be invaluable.”

When he’s addressed, Patroclus blinks and looks up from examining the cheetah’s paws. His surprise registers as a flicker in the illusory brain, followed by a flurry of activity. Pat doesn’t understand what Prometheus means by this. It’s like asking a fish if he lives in water.

His eyes meet Achilles’, looking for what? Further explanation?

Achilles sees the confusion clearly. He might be better suited to answer that question. As long as he’s known him, Pat has been quiet, reserved, and yes, given to bouts of gloom. But it’s gotten notably worse … and not without good reason.

“I’ve seen it, love. There was a time when your smiles and laughter were more frequent. Back when we were boys,” Achilles says softly. “I see them so rarely now.”

“Of course,” Pat says with a huff, half bitter laugh, half frustrated sigh. “The war wrung that from me … and now we’re dead. Isn’t a bit of melancholy to be expected?”

Prometheus hums softly, eyes soft at Patroclus' reaction. Poor boy. He must have suffered for so long, he doesn't see it as suffering anymore.

"Yes, it is. But it's left an imprint on your brain that you won't be able to fix alone."

Prometheus turns the illusion. It changes, showing a smaller and smaller sample of itself, until it shows a truly incomprehensible set of organic growths that seem to be exchanging tiny objects.

"There are many little things in the brain that serves to regulate a human's mood. This little thing here is essential to maintaining a general sense of happiness and well-being, and it's not working like it should. You could have been born like this, or you could have suffered this from a time of extreme stress, or both."

Prometheus offers the illusion to Patroclus so he can look at it closer. "You shouldn't feel empty or sad all the time, my dear boy. You're just injured in a place no mortal can see."

“This is simply how I am,” Pat says weakly. He remembers his father’s frustration with his withdrawn demeanor. He remembers how he ruminated—still ruminates—about the boy he accidentally killed, and his subsequent exile. Achilles was the only thing that really buoyed him out of his darkness. For a while, anyway.

Achilles leans over to examine the vision cradled in Pat’s hands. The only thing he can compare it to is strange little sea creatures, or maybe plants? Are these really somewhere inside that wrinkled lump of flesh?

Panic rises at talk of injury. Achilles can’t abide the thought that Pat is still suffering. Has been suffering. His voice is pleading, “How do we heal the wound if we cannot see it?”

"You can't with the tools you have." Prometheus hums softly, tipping his head back and forth in thought. "But new tools could be made."

He drums his fingers on his arm as he considers, furrowing his brow as he stares at the illusion he's built of these tiny structures in Patroclus' head.

"Let me discuss it with my brother, Epimetheus. He's a genius when it comes to creating plants that can be used as medicine. If it's happened to you, then it's surely happened to many other humans in the Underworld, so I'd like to give you the tools to help yourself and all of them as well. It could take a while, considering how complex the brain is, but we've yet to fail when we put our minds together."

He gives Patroclus a reassuring smile before resting a hand on the human's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Your personality is kind and thoughtful. Your mood is gloomy. Your mood isn't who you are, just a product of your circumstances."

This diagnosis taps into Patroclus’ chronic anxiety: that Achilles can’t look at him without a reminder of loss and grief. Has his gloom been making that worse? Was this why Achilles took up with cheerful, energetic Hermes?

But Achilles said he still loves him, the same as ever … Why does Pat’s mind keep doubting it?

As if on cue, Achilles moves to sit in front of Patroclus, hands gripped on either of his knees. “We have an eternity to find a solution. I want to find the Pat I remember from before Troy. I’ve seen glimpses of him.”

“And if you can’t?” Patroclus blurts. “If I’m like Pyrrhus? Permanently broken? What then?”

“We do our best.” Achilles glances at Prometheus, remembering what he warned about Pyrrhus and setting expectations. Pat could easily be the same. “Any scrap of happiness we can reclaim is worth it.”

"Permanently broken?" Prometheus blinks owlishly, then gives a surprised laugh, shaking his head. The cheetah reacts to him, turning its head towards the Titan with a look of aloof irritation, like he's disturbing its relaxing lounging by the fire. "What, you think you're a piece of furniture, made for one purpose? You break a leg, and now you're scrap? No, no. You're not broken, dear Patroclus. Nor is Pyrrhus."

Prometheus leans forward so he can look at Patroclus more closely, his eyes warm as he flicks his fingers. The strange illusion of organic structures expands, showing webs upon webs of incomprehensibly complex alien architecture, millions of tiny little objects traveling along connections to meet each other. If Achilles looks closely, it vaguely resembles the web of human connections across Gaia Hermes has shown him during intimacy before.

"You're no tool, nor object, nor actor. You're a miracle. A miracle of coincidences and connections and experiences that have come together to make a singular, unique creature, never seen before or since. Inspect the brains of every single adult human in the world, and you'll never find one without its own quirks and limitations, and to discard everyone with a limitation most others don't have means discarding the whole species."

Prometheus lets out a disbelieving huff, like even the insinuation that Patroclus and Pyrrhus are broken is beyond ridiculous. "Broken! Might as well call a piece of art broken. Call the ocean broken. The sky. Neither of you are broken, Patroclus. You both only wear the experiences you've gone through, and I'd like to help because it affects your happiness."

Patroclus recoils at being called a miracle. He knows what special looks like: it looks like Achilles. Powerful, confident, handsome. If anything, it’s a miracle that a demigod hero fell in love with someone so monumentally imperfect.

But once again, Prometheus says all of this with such earnest conviction, the words pierce Pat’s thick shell of self-doubt and skepticism.

Achilles finds Patroclus’ hands, kissing each one on the knuckles. “Tell me, Pat: what would you say to a man who insists on miserably hobbling around on an injured foot, when the wound is perfectly treatable?”

Patroclus sighs, annoyed that Achilles is right. “I would call him a fool. Tell him he suffers for nothing.”

"Exactly. And having a treatable wound on his foot wouldn't make the man broken."

Prometheus sees the telltale signs of someone who wasn't given the love they deserved when they were young. Cringing from praise, leaping to think the worst of themselves, not seeming to really understand how much value others place in him.

He squeezes Patroclus' shoulder affectionately. He made humans in such a way that they will often mistreat each other, even if they will often treasure each other as well. But at least this human, he can show how much he's treasured, at least by his creator.

"I'll speak with my brother. And when we figure something out, it will be something you'll know how to administer to yourself, and to any other shades that suffer like you do now. Medicine will be advanced because of you."

Prometheus is very clever, Achilles thinks. Phrasing it like that—as helping others as much as himself—will immediately make the idea more palatable to Patroclus.

And it absolutely does. Pat can’t abide the thought of gods favoring him alone with a gift of medicine. Why help one lowly shade? But … “So be it, Lord Prometheus. If it brings happiness to those who need it.”

Achilles’ eyes crinkle in a smile. Pat is so predictably selfless. “Those who deserve it. That includes you, love.”

Pat closes his eyes and huffs, even as he feels the heat rise on his cheeks. Achilles is so predictably adoring. “Please tell me: is there a cure for this chronic sappiness?”

Prometheus chuckles, warm and cheerful. "My wife would try smacking and shooing, but it's yet to work, I'm afraid."

If anything, it's made him more sappy, because he thinks it's funny when she tries to shoo him off. Though she doesn't really shoo him off anymore, happy as she is that he's back from the mountain.

Prometheus pats Patroclus again before waving his hand. The illusions of brains all disappear.

"Before I send you off to find sleep, I ought to ask if you had anything else you wished to discuss with me."

Or more to the point, give them an opportunity to ask him questions. He knows he's given them a lot of information. And he knows that humans often are curious about little things about themselves they don't have the tools to investigate.

Achilles leans his elbows on Patroclus’ knees and hums in thought. His eyes land squarely on the cheetah and he arrives at an idea. “Have you ever made a catalog of your wonderful creations, my lord?”

He turns his head back to Prometheus. “If you haven’t, I wonder if you would like some help? Pat has always loved beasts of every kind—even snakes and spiders.”

Achilles finds one of Pat’s hands and turns it over in his own as he continues his pitch: “You have fine penmanship. You could take dictation for Lord Prometheus and spare his hands a bit of pain.”

Prometheus catches onto what Achilles is doing. And frankly, it helps that the idea is a very attractive one. Prometheus loves the idea of being able to work with a mortal, especially one who's already passed on and thus won't age and die in a blink.

"Most of my notes have long since decayed or been destroyed since I went to the mountain," Prometheus says, a note of grief in his voice. Countless years of work, all gone. None of the gods quite loved Prometheus' creations like he does. "If you could help me restore even some of the knowledge, I'd be very grateful, dear boy."

Prometheus, as much as it pains him to admit, isn't as spry as he used to be. Not even as spry as his fellow Titans. They're all sturdy folk, but tens of thousands of years trying to regrow the same liver after it's torn out day after day takes a toll even on a Titan's body.

Achilles thinks time with Prometheus might be just as good for Patroclus as any medicine. The Titan’s fatherly demeanor could be healing, and the work could give much needed purpose. Not to mention play into Pat’s passions.

Leave it to Achilles to come up with such an idea. And one that Patroclus actually finds appealing. If it were any other god he might recoil, but even in the past hour, Prometheus has proven different from the whimsical, vengeful Olympians.

Pat carefully hides his interest with a staid, “I would gladly be of service, Lord Prometheus, but I remain bound to the Underworld.”

Achilles smiles, well-accustomed to bending the rules. “I’m certain some clever arrangements could be made.”

Prometheus waves a dismissive hand, like the laws of life and death are trifling formalities. "I don't know how many stories survived, but I've bent a few rules in my time."

To mortals, Prometheus is a loving father. To other gods, he's a friendly but often tricksy little shit.

"Why, you've been able to come here, to the mouth of the Styx, haven't you? Surely you could come a little more often to assist an old man with aching joints. And what would Hades mind, having a shade he's left in Elysium do a little kindness on the side?"

Prometheus is sure Hades would mind, ornery boy he is. But would he mind enough to pick a fight with Prometheus over it? Probably not.

Achilles nods in agreement. He’s not about to let Pat wiggle out of this with an excuse as flimsy as being dead. “Describe it as clerical work and Lord Hades might actually encourage it.”

… Or launch into a long argument about what sort of vellums and inks and binding methods are being used for the project.

“I might nudge Prince Zagreus to come along. The lad knows precious little about surface animals,” Achilles muses. What better way to learn than from Prometheus himself?

“Yes, he was very puzzled to see a dog with only one head,” Pat agrees, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips.

“Very well!” Achilles laughs, in much better spirits than when this meeting first began. “You’ll send your strange bird along to Pat when you’re ready for his help, Lord Prometheus?”

Prince Zagreus doesn't understand animals? Well, Prometheus is more than happy to teach another young god about the beauty of animals.

"Yes, I'll send my vulture along with a message." His face creases with his wide smile, and he takes Patroclus' hands in his to give them an affectionate squeeze.

"Thank you, dear boy. Your help would be greatly appreciated. I'm not as spry as I used to be--turns out some tens of thousands of years growing the same liver is poor for your health."

He laughs at his own joke. His nose scrunches as he does, his eyes twinkling with warmth.

“I’m pleased your liver may finally enjoy some peace.” Patroclus’ beard bristles in a more pronounced smile and he returns the squeeze, albeit more gently. It’s absurd that a god as seemingly kind as Prometheus was imprisoned for so long, but clearly gods are as cruel to each other as they are to mortals. “And I look forward to assisting you, my lord.”

Achilles continues smiling, as much at Pat as the sudden family resemblance between Prometheus and his great-grand-nephew. “Thank you again for your visit, Lord Prometheus, and your help with my son.”

Who else would have guessed the cause of the sickness? Those secret, hidden wounds in Pyrrhus’ brain? No mortal physician, and few gods.

Achilles bows his head to the Titan. “I will see you again in dreams.”

"And I shall see you!" Prometheus makes a little gesture to Achilles, still smiling. "Now go on, go on, find someone to help you sleep. I look forward to our adventure."

He smiles at Patroclus, giving his hands one last clap before releasing them. "And you, please keep an eye out for my bird. I'll gather the supplies I need for record keeping. I hope you like hearing about all the little details about how animals work."

Despite his old and withered appearance, he seems positively jolly at the prospect of being able to help Achilles and Patroclus. His eyes are alight with the eager, friendly curiosity of someone who loves to learn, and who loves to teach everyone else exactly what he's learned. And he'll learn so much, being able to work so closely with his treasured creations.

The two shades wave their good-byes, and Achilles hooks his arm in Pat’s as they turn back to the Underworld.

“I’ve never seen a god who looked so … old,” Patroclus marvels, once they’re well within the Temple of Styx. “Nor treated mortals with such kindness.”

“I thought you might like him,” Achilles laughs.

The two part ways in Elysium and Achilles winds his way back down to Tartarus. His father and other denizens of the House of Hades catch him in conversation; it’s been a while since Achilles has visited the House proper.

He finally pardons himself from a chat with Nyx to find Hypnos, nudge him awake, and petition him for sleep—and the services of an Oneroi.

“Ohhhh. Is Mr. Hermes in trouble again?” Hypnos asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Achilles gives a vague summary of the situation; it’s the least he can do by way of payment. Hypnos has always loved a bit of juicy gossip, and Achilles’ troubles with his son certainly qualify judging by how eager Hypnos is to help with “Achilles, Jr.”

In short order, Achilles finds himself lying in one of the guest chambers, Hypnos at his side. The god stretches his arms and yawns around some instructions: “Okay. Count backwards from 10.”

As soon as Achilles has dutifully said the word “ten,” he’s out cold. He floats in the void of sleep, presently black and dreamless.

“Lord Prometheus?” he asks, experimentally.

In the dark of sleep, something is moving. Like being in the water, too deep for there to be light, and feeling the current building from the shift of something terribly large nearby.

And then he's there. Prometheus looks different in the dream. He looks younger, healthier, like he might have years ago before his confinement. But right where his liver ought to be, ichor is seeping through his chiton, dripping down his hip and leg to create a great streak of divine blood.

But he's smiling, like he doesn't even notice his bleeding liver. He reaches out, taking Achilles' hand.

"There you are," he says cheerfully. He tugs Achilles along, as if there's a direction to move in the darkness. But he moves with confidence, with purpose, like a parent guiding a child. "I was thinking--since we don't know how easily navigated your son's dreams will be, we ought to start with someone who's more likely to have stable dreams who knows him. I already found a thread of love from a living adult that seems to attach to him, so we can get more information there before we venture into the truly unknown."

He almost doesn’t recognize the Titan at first, he’s so accustomed to his wizened state. But in this youthful state, Achilles sees more echoes of Hermes’ features in Prometheus’ face: the set of his brow, a particular crease around his eyes.

“Have you traveled through dreams before, Lord Prometheus?” Maybe it’s a silly question to ask of a god of his generation, but Achilles really doesn’t know that much about the Titan beyond his legend and what Hermes has told him.

As Prometheus guides him through the dark, Achilles can’t help but wonder who the mentioned adult is: a mentor? A lover? A comrade-in-arms? Who has managed to see through Pyrrhus’ difficult nature and found something to love?

"Not in human dreams. But the dreams of gods, sometimes. And before I went to the mountain, some particularly intelligent animals."

Prometheus is still smiling as he answers the question, cheerfully reminiscing about his experiences. He leaves glowing gold footprints where his ichor drips.

"Here we are. Let's see what we find."

And then they're pulled somewhere new. Somewhere full.

This isn't like the dreams of gods, sharply defined and shared. This is undeniably a dream made by a singular human, and the world is sharp with their influence.

They stand in a grand palace that doesn't look quite right. It follows the broad strokes of what a palace should look like--there are mosaics and comfortable furniture and pillars and painted marble statues and pottery--but the rooms don't seem to quiiiite fit together, and strange things are emphasized. The walls crawl with mosaics of stories that aren't familiar to any bard--a mosaic showing Pyrrhus ripping the head off of an unarmed man, a mosaic of a woman pinning a man to a table as she strangles him, a mosaic of Pyrrhus throwing a spear through a different unarmed man's throat.

"What are you doing, just standing there?"

Her voice cuts through the dream, the clearest thing to be found here. There's a woman scowling at Achilles and Prometheus, her arms crossed. She's no lady--her chiton is hiked up to her girdle, her legs and clothes streaked with dirt, her hair tied up and back to keep it out of her face, nary a single accessory or spot of makeup to be seen. She looks like an older woman, and the dream says she hates it, especially right now, because she's younger than princesses she's seen but her hard life makes her look old and withered while they get to stay beautiful.

"My lord didn't accept your services so you could sit around. Get a pot and start washing the floors!" she snaps. The dream whispers that she hates it when new slaves take advantage of the lord's generosity. Too many of them think they can just sit around and wait for him to give them freedom that no other Greek would give. But no, not while she's in charge, no one is ever going to take advantage of him while she's in charge.

The dream whispers her name. Aspasia. Free woman, now. She was a slave when her lord bought her, and he was the one who freed her.

Achilles is grateful that Prometheus had the foresight to start with a different dreamer. This is nothing like Hermes’ dream; as soon as his eyes focus on one detail, it shifts like a flame, or swirling sea foam. It brings to mind Elysium’s tendencies, though it usually alters itself in more subtle ways.

The world around the woman, Aspasia, seems slightly more stable and Achilles keeps his focus there. “Lord Py— … Lord Neoptolemus? That is who you … who we serve?”

Aspasia isn’t who Achilles was expecting, but it makes a kind of sense if her dream is any indication. She doesn’t look like the type of woman to be intimidated by Pyrrhus, and she might be the sort of person he needs in his household.

The way a man treats his slaves is a window into his mind and Achilles wants to learn more. To curry some favor with Aspasia, he reaches for pot. Its shape contorts in his hands like a wriggling fish and it’s all he can do to keep hold of it. “Will he grant us our freedom should we serve him well?”

Prometheus, for his part, seems utterly delighted to just observe the dream, eyes following the strange swimming shapes and unstable setting. Aspasia huffs, the dream explaining the new slave's ignorance as being slow.

"Serve him well and follow the rules and he'll give you your freedom after ten years." A promise he's fulfilled consistently, a promise no other Greek would keep, all the slaves in Epirus are secretly jockeying to serve him, but Aspasia won't tolerate a hint of laziness or disloyalty in their ranks. "And the rules are thus: you don't come near the prince, you don't enter our lord's bed chambers, and you don't handle our lord's food and drink."

The world wobbles like the surface of water as she speaks. Don't go near Molossus, can't let anything happen to him, not like the others, poor boys -- Neoptolemus is cautious, he doesn't trust the slaves he doesn't know, doesn't trust them not to tell his secrets, Aspasia is the only one allowed to tend to him when his illness strikes and see him write endlessly on his wax tablets -- The mosaic of a woman strangling a man against a table moves. It looks real for a moment. Aspasia knew Bion from their former master's house, Neoptolemus had killed their former master, popped his head off like a toy, Bion had loved the loathsome creature, even though he knew all about what he did to Aspasia, Aspasia caught Bion slipping something into Neoptolemus' food--

The world warps. Bion is dead on the floor, neck dark purple with Aspasia's hand prints, slippery with the oil from their master's ruined food. Aspasia's nose is broken. Lord Neoptolemus is frowning at her, holding her chin as blood pours down her face and pools in his palm. Just tell me next time. I'm better at killing.

And then the world wobbles back to the palace. Bion's corpse is still on the floor, and Aspasia claps her hands sharply. "Now go on! Start cleaning!"

Dreams are much easier for the dreamer, Achilles decides, and nigh inscrutable for an observer. He does feel a bit slow as he gathers up all the pieces: Aspasia’s words, how her mind assembles the world, and what the dream whispers. All held up against what he knows of his own son.

Pyrrhus is mistrustful. He’s protective of his surviving son. That’s not new information. What’s surprising is that he’s capable of trusting Aspasia. Achilles mulls this over. Trust only came after proving her loyalty. Maybe, too, that she’s willing to take brutal measures when needed. In that they are alike.

“Some say that Lord Neoptolemus is cruel,” Achilles says experimentally while he reaches for a rag. He kneels and begins cleaning the floor around Bion’s corpse. The sight is unremarkable to Achilles; he’s seen (and caused) worse deaths. “Why should I put faith in a promise of freedom from the likes of him?”

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