messageforyou | For refusetofight

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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"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?”

"I'm not sure." The brightness in Prometheus' eyes dim. "I haven't seen his brain. And these things don't always behave predictably." He looks to Aspasia. The dream is twisting with her confusion. They're in a palace, they're by the sea, they're in the agora.

"Have you noticed sudden changes in your master, my dear girl? Any decline in his abilities?"

Aspasia's anxiety spikes. He'd been determined to go capture his wife, but he came home empty-handed, and he didn't say why. And he released Andromache. Gave her enough money and supplies to start a new life. All he said was that he'd been asked to do a good turn for someone.

Aspasia's hate for the Trojan bitch spikes as she walks away from Molossus without a word. Molossus doesn't even ask for her to come back. She's so detached from her own son that he's more interested in painting with mud on the floor. Aspasia would have never done that, if she'd been allowed to keep even one of her babies.

The bitch stares the master down. Like he hasn't just given her an act of generosity no other Greek would, like he isn't first among monsters.

"If there's any justice, you won't live long enough to see your son become a man," she says before she leaves. The master just lets her go, and her voice echoes like prophecy. Aspasia wishes she had permission to slap the bitch's mouth.

He just keeps writing, he's not interested in food except when Aspasia takes it to his room, he has a new pendant with blond hair in it did he meet a girl in Athens is this lovesickness why won't he tell her doesn't he know how she worries what if he marries and the wife is as cruel as all the other Greeks will Aspasia be thrown out into the world away from her master what happened in Athens what happened--

Prometheus raises a hand, and the waves of anxiety are muted, shifting from a storm to eddies. He looks to Achilles, arching an eyebrow. "I'm guessing you met him in Athens?"

Achilles can’t begrudge Andromache her anger, her uttered curse. Would Aspasia’s own hatred cool if she knew what became of Astyanax? Or would she forgive that kind of infanticide as the cost of war?

Regardless, Aspasia’s ferocity speaks volumes about her loyalty. Pyrrhus has destroyed many lives, but at least he’s improved hers … and other slaves besides. At least he fulfilled Hermes’ request.

Aspasia’s anxiety gnaws at the dream around him and Achilles can’t stop himself. He needs to relieve some of it.

“Yes, Lord Prometheus,” he confirms, then to the poor, dreaming woman, “Aspasia, you need not worry. I am your master’s father and the lock of hair is my token. I spoke with him during his visit to Athens.”

He looks directly at Aspasia and says, as if in apology, “His life has been difficult and I carry the blame for that.”

Aspasia's anxiety turns to confusion. Because Lord Neoptolemus' father is a hero of legend, and dead besides. Dead heroes don't visit the dreams of former slaves. They visit the dreams of important people.

"His father?" Aspasia, her form having blurred as the dream unmoored, comes back into focus. She blinks at Achilles, uncomprehending. If this were real, if she had all the senses of a waking person she would shut up and meekly shut down like servants are supposed to do when faced with heroes of legend.

But this is her dream. There are no secrets here, and there is no discretion.

Her face twists into a glower.

"Why did you leave him?"

Her dream twists with contempt, contempt she's never dared show her master. She knows how devoted her lord is to the memory of his father. But when she cleans the pottery depicting the great feats of Achilles, all she can think of is all her babies in the river, and how she'd give anything to have even one of them with her. What kind of great hero has what she'd die for, and leaves it on an island to grow without him, and then dies and lets his abandoned son clean up his mess? The unfairness of it all, the selfishness, and witnessing how devoted her master still is despite it makes her want to break the pottery every time she's cleaning it.

“You seem like a woman who has no use for excuses, and it’s just as well. I have none.” Achilles spreads his open palms. “I left him for the same reason all men leave their families for war—for glory, honor, renown.”

Her anger is palpable in the dream and Achilles doesn’t shy from it. This always feels more fitting than adoration. “I only discovered I made the wrong decision when I lost everything, including my own life.”

Achilles rubs his brow and shakes his head. “I don’t know if I can set this right … if I can help Neoptolemus find happiness, or even simple relief, but I intend to try, Aspasia. I hope I can do half as much as you have for my son.”

His barefaced acknowledgement of his failings and Aspasia's efforts is something, but it doesn't mollify the deep contempt in her heart for him. Aspasia's life is haunted by the loss of her babies, by the fantasy of just having been able to keep even one, and she can't help but despise anyone who had what she so wanted and abandoned it. She hates Andromache for it, and she hates Achilles for it.

"He didn't look happy or relieved when he came home. He looked burdened," she bites out. She's digging her heels in, turning up her chin, ready to challenge this hero of legend to shut her up like so many people like him shut up people like her. She thinks of her master frowning at his tablets, writing more and more things she can't understand, only looking up if she sits down with his food and begs him to eat, or if his son comes to his room to show off a new art project. Molossus made something out of a blob of clay, but her master immediately recognized it as a frog, and talking to Molossus about his blobby clay frog was the only thing that pulled him from his obsessive writing.

"You've done nothing to deserve being called his father," she says with all the hissing contempt of releasing fifteen years of silent sentiment, knowing as she did how not even she could get away with speaking ill of her master's father. "You left him with a family who didn't want him, made a mess across the sea, and died so he had to go clean it up when he was still a boy. And he did clean it for you, and he's never complained because even if you're a rotten father he's a good son."

Aspasia steps forward, getting in Achilles' face with the kind of daring that'd be suicidal in the waking world. She's shorter than him, the dream knows that, but she still manages to look at him eye to eye, such is the force of her conviction. "You know what would give him relief? What would make him happy? Knowing his father gives a shit about him and is proud of how damned hard he's worked to be a good son." She puts her finger in Achilles' face, as if her daring isn't suicidal enough. "And if you've come back from the dead to do anything but that to him, you can fuck right off."

A dormant part of Achilles sparks a flicker of anger at this accusation despite its truth. It’s a kneejerk reaction that only manifests in a twitch of his mouth, a flash in his eyes. Maybe it looks familiar to Aspasia—her master’s face probably looks the same when he’s biting back anger.

But once again, the anger isn’t at Aspasia. It’s disappointment in himself. It’s grief for his son’s suffering. Achilles doesn’t allow himself to look away from the woman’s intense glare, as hot as it is with ferocity.

“As I learn more about him, I’ve begun to see that my approval is indeed the best thing I can grant him. I asked a lot of the lad at Athens—more than I had any right to. I had hoped it was useful wisdom, but I see that it’s not what his heart needs.”

Achilles gently rests a hand on Aspasia’s shoulder. “Please don’t take that tone with other men of standing. They would not tolerate it, and you mean far too much to Neoptolemus—and Molossus, too, I’m certain.”

Aspasia sees the twitch in his face. Not because she's familiar with her master, oh no, but because she has long and hard experience with angry, violent men. Angry, violent men who'd beat her for speaking out of turn, or beat their freshly postpartum wives for not sucking their cock while she nursed their newborns in the other room, or beat their children black and bloody for embarrassing them. And nothing she's ever heard about Achilles of Phthia makes him sound any better than the same angry, violent men who she's had to bend the knee to throughout her life. She narrows her eyes, turning up her chin, as if daring him to prove her right.

But he doesn't. Instead of smacking her in the mouth, or grabbing her hair to bash her head against a wall, or punching her in the gut, he just rests his hand on her shoulder, and advises her of what she already knows. Most men won't accept a woman of no standing yelling and waving her finger in their face. And she owes it to her master and to little Molossus not to provoke them into killing her.

She huffs, the fires of her anger cooling, and crosses her arms, stepping back so she's no longer quite so much in Achilles' face. She still doesn't like him, but the worst of her wrath is now out of her system.

"He's a good son," she repeats. "And he's a good master. He knows all of our names, and the names of our spouses and children. He's good to the people who are his to care for, and efficient with those who pose threats to them." Efficient is the word she uses. Death is a fact of life for her, always has been, and Neoptolemus' style of instantly killing a person foolish enough to cross him has always struck her as more honest and kinder than the slow deaths inflicted by Greeks upon their dependents, from their slaves to their wives. Other Greeks find it cruel and unpredictable and frightening, but she thinks it's only because they're afraid of a Greek who is honest about killing, and gives them a hint of the fear they inflict on others. "And Molossus is a good boy. He's cheerful and likes to help me clean by using a rag to wipe the floor. He only spreads the mud around, but he's learning. He likes to make art of animals, especially frogs. And he's already learning his letters because he wants to write like his father."

There's still a hint of ferocious protectiveness to how she speaks of them. Declaring their virtues, as if daring Achilles to contradict her, to declare either of these people she loves so much unworthy of his love and attention. And there's also an exacting air, making sure he knows the important facts about them, making sure that he's as equipped as possible to show them love the way he should.

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