For refusetofight

It's not long after Anthesteria that the vulture arrives. It has the same rattling rusty call, the same ugly plucked red head. It finds Achilles wherever he is in the Underworld, and it bears a message written on parchment.

Told you need to hear about human minds!

Happy to chat :) Meet me at the mouth of the Styx

Bring an adult mortal with as little divine blood as you can, who you don't mind hearing what we have to discuss

- P

Prometheus has set up outside the Temple of Styx. It'd be rude for him to invade Hades' realm. Rude--how interesting to consider through the lens of his work, knowing that it's a territorial response. Gods are just as humans, just as animals. They dislike it when those who don't belong wander in their territory.

He looks a sight better than he did when Achilles last saw him, but still not particularly good. His salt and pepper hair is pulled back, his beard now trimmed neatly, and his clothes not quite so ragged (though they're still streaked with clay). His hands are still too thin, gnarled like tree roots with bulging arthritic knuckles, and his joints are swollen and muscles withered.

His chiton is pulled up and clasped so that the scarring over his liver isn't visible anymore, and he might look to all the world as an elderly, arthritic man, if it weren't for his shadow. It spills out behind him, cast by the campfire he's built, and it is so large that it fills the whole clearing.

He's boiling water over the fire. He has a bag full of things, sitting by his side. A cheetah, his newest creation, lies languidly over his legs, keeping his joints warm and keeping pressure on them to cease their aching momentarily.

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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?”

"Cruel?"

The whole dream bristles with outrage at the accusation. At the doubt. Of course you should believe his promise, he gave his word, he's kept it consistently with so many slaves before you, just ask Erasmos Galene Hyginos Korinna Lykos they were all given freedom and they all chose to stay like Aspasia and they're the only ones they trust to handle the food and the prince and listening for rumors of enemies in Epirus--

But she fixates on the word cruel, because it's set something off in her head.

"Who told you that? A Greek? One who complains about our lord's cruelty before he goes home to rape his slaves, I'm sure?"

The dream is losing structure. Prometheus watches in calm fascination as the palace around them blurs and twists. The blur communicates with memory rather than sight or clarity, too painful it is for Aspasia to think on in detail. Her old master planting seeds in her womb over and over so she'd give birth and he could lease her as a wet nurse like a cow, and put the babies in a bag and throw them in a river like unwanted kittens. The Greeks never called him cruel, even though they must have known how she could keep wet nursing. No, cruelty doesn't count when it's against slaves, only when it's against other Greeks, and they dare to condemn her lord for treating them with a fraction of the contempt they treat their slaves, all of them are monsters, she hates them, hates them--

She remembers poor Pergamus. Lord Neoptolemus dug the boy's grave with his bare hands. Aspasia found him with his hands bloody and streaked with dirt over the grave, staring out into the sea. It wasn't her place, but no Greek would comfort her lord, and she knew this pain, so she sat with him and told him about her babies in the river.

Neoptolemus didn't tell anyone why he went to her old master's house and snapped his head off like the snake that killed his son. The Greeks assumed he did it because he was angry that he was demanding Aspasia be returned to him now that Neoptolemus had no need for a wet nurse. Neoptolemus gave Aspasia his head to do with what she would. It was the best gift she'd ever had in her life, the only time anyone saw her pain and thought it deserving of kindness, the only time anyone thought her just as worthy of avenging as any Greek princess. She threw the head in the river to be devoured by fish with her poor unnamed babies.

Cruel. Cruel? They call her master cruel? The only Greek she's ever met who could spare a little compassion for the pain of slaves? Yes, how cruel, how cruel for someone, anyone, to make the Greeks feel like they must behave lest they face the same pain they so casually inflict on others.

The palace tries to reassert itself, but Aspasia is angry, angry at the accusation, angry that anyone would malign the only man in the world who's ever treated her with dignity, and the whole world trembles with that outrage.

Even as the dream loses form and clarity, her love for Pyrrhus comes into clearer focus. His stomach turns at the smudged memories of Aspasia’s suffering and his face sets hard and contemplative at Pyrrhus’ unexpected kindness. Achilles sees his own grief in Pyrrhus’ loss, but finds some consolation in Aspasia’s timely sympathy. At least he didn’t have to suffer alone. At least he didn’t recoil from her help—or worse—lash out.

“Forgive me for speaking ill,” Achilles says softly, with a contrite bob of his head. “Men spoke of Lord Neoptolemus’ ferocity in battle—how he showed no mercy to women and children. I worried that such treatment may extend to his slaves.”

Achilles turns to Prometheus, curious. “What do you make of this, my lord?”

Aspasia spits, still bristling from offense, but her hackles go down at the apology. "Show me a warrior with mercy, and I will show you a liar or a dead man."

Prometheus, for his part, has eyes soft with sympathy for this woman's suffering. He raises his hand, and the dream gains some semblance of structure again, but now the edges are softer, not quite so disjointed and hostile. With Prometheus' settling influence, it's clear that some of the sharp edges of the dream comes from anxiety. Aspasia is worried about something, and it's making her dreams restless.

"Did you know what he would do, when you told him what happened to you?" Prometheus asks gently, without judgment.

Aspasia remembers the day Pergamus died. Pergamus was an excitable boy. He didn't understand why his father sometimes needed everything to be quiet and dark and to retreat to his room. Pergamus ran to his father shrieking, and Neoptolemus had shouted at him to be quiet. Pergamus ran to Aspasia crying. Aspasia could see the shock and regret on her lord's face, but he didn't seem to know how to say sorry or soothe his son's cries, especially when he was in so much pain. Aspasia put the boy down to nap and figured that her lord would comfort his son after his head stopped hurting so much, but a snake slithered in the crib before he could.

Neoptolemus killed the snake who killed his son, but it wasn't enough. He destroyed his own room. All the furniture split and shattered by his bare hands. Mosaics cracked and ripped apart. Aspasia knew he was angry. She knew he was angriest at himself. She knew he needed something to break. She had something for him to break, a snake wearing human skin, a snake that so many times killed what Neoptolemus would give anything to bring back.

She hadn't expected him to give her the head. She hadn't expected him to honor her pain too.

Prometheus hums softly in understanding, looking to Achilles. "It sounds like there's internal logic to his violence that hasn't been widely identified," he says gently. "I think Aspasia here understands the logic better than most." And where violence is predictable, it is less frightening, which would explain why Aspasia doesn't seem afraid of her master.

Achilles sees more of himself reflected in this insight. His grief found the same outlet in destructive rage at Troy. It had felt right to drag Hector’s corpse across the battlefield, but it didn’t bring Pat back. He filled the river Skamandros with Trojan blood, but it did nothing to fill the void of his loss.

Like Pyrrhus, much of that rage was ultimately meant for himself. His own pride, his own foolish decisions had sealed both his and Patroclus’ fates. Did Pyrrhus blame himself for Pergamus’ death? That the last memory he had of his son, the boy was in tears?

“He is not without empathy,” Achilles says in sad relief as he stares at Pyrrhus’ fading afterimage in Aspasia’s memory. “But he knows not how to act upon it.”

This also verifies Prometheus’ theory about his son’s injured brain. Achilles turns to the woman and asks, “Please Aspasia, has Lord Neoptolemus long suffered from a terrible pain in his head? How often does he retreat to his room?”

Aspasia glowers at Achilles. "That's none of your business. Back to cleaning."

But the dream still answers his question. Aspasia is protective of her lord's secrets, and the severity of his bouts of pain is secret. He doesn't want people to know how frequently he's vulnerable, and Aspasia doesn't want her special status as the only one allowed to tend to him taken from her. The pain in his head is so great that he is confined to bed and heavy tapestries must be put over the windows and door to keep any trace of light and sound out of his room, and he needs a pot available to throw up in. Perfumes are forbidden from his room, and he can only bear to sip the most watered down of wine. He only finds relief in regular cold compresses to the back of his neck. He's described it as like something behind his eye is trying to pop out of his socket, or like someone is crushing his head with a rock too heavy for even him to lift.

These bouts have happened since before Aspasia was taken into her lord's service at the birth of Pergamus fifteen years ago. He said that he thinks it's a curse from Apollo that's followed him from Troy. It happens irregularly, sometimes not happening at all for weeks, and sometimes cutting her lord at the knees for days at a time. But she's noticed that it often happens on intensely hot days when he's been out in the sun, or after festivals where he participates in services with thick incense, or when local Greeks are squabbling and asking him to sort their problems for them too much, or if he goes through a spell of struggling to sleep. If she hears him wandering at night, she prepares the tapestries to hang and a compress for him because she knows he'll likely be taken by the pain soon.

"Sleep disturbances and debilitating headaches are a symptom," Prometheus says softly, his brow furrowing. "It makes sense that stress or certain intense sensory experiences would set them off periodically." And they'd lead to his other symptoms like irritability and diminished critical thinking getting worse. Humans struggle with patience and planning at the best of times, much less when they can't sleep or exist without pain.

Pyrrhus is sturdy, yes, but it seems his divine blood couldn’t save him from this particular injury. An invisible, but debilitating one, at that. It makes sense that Pyrrhus would mistake it for a curse; it seems exactly like something Apollo would inflict upon a mortal.

“Thank you for attending to Lord Neoptolemus with such care, Aspasia,” Achilles says with genuine gratitude. It’s a relief that someone is looking out for him. Aspasia seems proud of her role, but it can’t be easy.

He turns and rests a beseeching hand on Prometheus’ arm. “My lord, is there any way he can know true relief from this pain? Is there any treatment besides dark rooms and compresses?”

Achilles can’t imagine a happy future for his son if he’s dogged by this physical suffering.

Aspasia's whole dream wobbles at Achilles' gratitude. It doesn't fit with what she's used to, either in the real world or in her dreams. It's not often her work is even noticed by any but her lord, much less thanked.

Prometheus hums in thought, frowning. "Well, other humans with similar conditions have tried drilling holes in their skulls. It works well if they survive, but most don't." He looks to Achilles, the crease in his brow serious. "Let me think on it. But I must be honest: it's unlikely he will ever be free of pain until he passes on to the Underworld. The pain he's feeling is likely caused by his brain fighting past the limitations put on it by his injuries. If I'm right, then to stop the pain forever would mean further limiting his ability to function."

Aspasia's dream blurs. As she listens more, she grows confused, because none of this fits right in her dream. Prometheus looks to her, eyes soft, and reaches out to pat her shoulder. There's a brief, half-forgotten memory of Aspasia's father in one of his rare warm moments.

"Does Lord Neoptolemus regularly do anything that strikes you as unusual? Something he can't seem to do without?" Prometheus asks.

Aspasia's first thought is the wax tablets. Her lord will spent at least an hour, often more every night writing on his tablets. Then he melts the wax again to use the next day, so it's not as if he's composing letters. And he takes Lykos with him whenever he has important meetings outside of the palace so Lykos can take notes (he's the only slave who can read) on clay tablets about the conversations. She knows that the other families find it strange that Neoptolemus has a slave recording their conversations, but none of them dare question him because they're convinced he might snap their heads off too if they speak wrong.

Achilles visibly deflates at that prognosis. Pyrrhus has been living with this pain for at least fifteen years and he could have three or four times that many years to come. Achilles guesses this can only get worse with age, as most injuries do.

He cocks his head at Prometheus’ question and watches Aspasia’s thoughts resolve into a shifting dream vision. Pyrrhus doesn’t seem like the type for fastidious record keeping, nor a particularly committed scribe. Why would a warrior, particularly one who isn’t well-educated, bother with such a thing? What could motivate him …?

Achilles rubs his jaw, thinking. Ah!

“Lord Prometheus, you said this injury might affect his memory. Do you suppose these notes and tablets are means to help him remember?”

Prometheus claps his hands together, his eyes lighting up. "I think you are exactly right, dear boy! He's still a physically active warrior, so the portions of his brain dedicated to muscle memory must still be intact. Writing things down before he forgets them would be the best possible way for him to commit them to memory."

It's brilliant. Brilliant! His brain isn't going through the automatic processes it should, so he's found tools to work around them like a prosthetic.

"But more than that--I think he's shifting as much missing function to tablets as he can," Prometheus says, looking to Achilles with the bright look of someone realizing one of his children did something above and beyond what he ever expected. "I was wondering how he would have managed to be a king and master at all in his situation--it's the writing, I think he's using it to solve problems and evaluate situations that he can't automatically like others can."

Aspasia is more and more confused by this conversation. Her lord always writes in his tablets before making important decisions. Some nobles of Epirus dared to complain about his unwillingness to make judgments on the spot when they brought matters to his attention. He told them that he would happily make judgments on the spot if they were willing to accept him instantly killing the person he finds in the wrong. The nobles stopped complaining.

Achilles wonders what Pyrrhus etched on his tablets the evening after they spoke. He imagines his son retreating to his guest chambers in the palace, head aching from noise and wine and travel while his retinue looked on in confusion. While Achilles enjoyed the company of his other family.

This injury isolates his son in so many ways. Prometheus is right: how could he ever expect his son to marry, to raise a family, to be anything more than a passable king? It’s like expecting a man to win a foot race with his ankles bound together.

He shares Prometheus’ pride in his son for persevering, adapting, but Achilles’ thoughts circle back to the same question: “How long can he manage this? Will he lose more ability as time goes on?”

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