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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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.

“I’m pleased to hear it, truly.” Achilles’ face creases around an earnest smile. It’s telling that Pyrrhus is so generous with his slaves and servants; a cruel man would gleefully abuse such power over others. “What worried me most was that my son would live a life without love and kindness. I worried war would harden him to such things.”

His smile only grows to hear Aspasia describe his grandson. “And I’m pleased— proud Neoptolemus is a better father to Molossus than I was to him.”

It’s a very low bar, but Pyrrhus has easily cleared it. A feat made all the greater with no one to show him what a good father is like.

“Your insight has been invaluable, Aspasia. Forgive me—forgive us—” Achilles nods to include Prometheus, “for disturbing your rest.”

Aspasia's anger cools further at Achilles' recognition of the virtues she's espousing. And at his expressing concern about Neoptolemus and living without love. The dream still speaks, and Aspasia herself sees how lonely her master must be, even though he doesn't seem to realize it. There's only so much he's willing to allow her to be there for him, and no Greek of his own standing is ready to tolerate his reputation and demeanor long enough to know and be friends with him. He bears the burden of solitude without complaint, but Aspasia has seen what loneliness can do, and she worries about him, especially now that he's released Andromache and lost what nominal companionship he ever found in her.

"I'll forgive you if you're good to him," she says, crossing her arms. "He deserves someone to be."

She looks to Prometheus, as if only just seeing that he's not the slave she thought he was, and furrows her brow in confusion. Prometheus smiles at her, and the dream hums with how warm and loving it seems, sincerely warm and loving in a way that she's not sure anyone has ever directed a smile at her before.

"Aspasia." Prometheus cups her face in his hands. She remembers being a child. Suddenly she feels like she's in another world, in a world where her father loved and adored and protected her and never could fathom selling her into slavery. "You're a queen among women. And you're so much stronger than you know. Sleep, and know how special you are, no matter what others have told you."

He presses a kiss to her forehead. An immense peace falls upon the dream, the peace of a child wrapped in the arms of their parent and full of the singular understanding of how loved they are. Aspasia closes her eyes and falls deeper into sleep, into dreamlessness, and she disappears, the dream dissolving around her and leaving Prometheus and Achilles in the dark void once more.

“Thank you, Aspasia. You’ve given me much to consider,” Achilles says with a final bow of his head.

As illuminating as it was, the emptiness is a relief after the roiling emotional landscape of Aspasia’s dream. Achilles releases a long sigh and turns to Prometheus.

“It was useful to see Pyrrhus through another set of eyes. If her perspective is accurate, he’s not nearly so lost as I thought.” He may not have many friends among his peers, but his servants care for him and he does the same in return. Pyrrhus is attentive and gentle with Molossus, even while he struggles through near-constant pain.

Maybe … maybe he has less to worry about when it comes to Lyra.

“What do you make of this, Lord Prometheus? Am I overly-optimistic?” He wants to trust Aspasia’s read, but love and loyalty can color an opinion.

Prometheus crosses his arms and hums thoughtfully, rocking on his heels and looking up at the nothingness that they rest in. It seems that he likes to move when he thinks, similar to Hermes.

"I cannot say for sure until I meet the boy himself," he says. "But... it seems to me that when faced with novel, potentially threatening situations, his default is to kill."

Prometheus allows Achilles a peek into his thought process, allowing the nothing to communicate his considerations as it once did Aspasia's.

When asked to make snap judgments on behalf of others, Pyrrhus said that his snap judgment would be to kill the one he thinks is in the wrong. Nothing Aspasia remembered indicated that Pyrrhus was remorseful for his impulsive violence, nor that he saw it as a bad thing. But he offered a more considered, thoughtful response in exchange for the time needed to process his thinking in writing. Which indicates to Prometheus that Pyrrhus is able to work through his impulsive violence and make more reasoned decisions, but only if he has time to write and doesn't feel pressured (by threat or by social convention) to respond immediately.

"If you choose to introduce your daughter to him," Prometheus says, "I would advise that you reveal her existence when she's far away, and reveal it gently without pressuring him to react how you wish him to. And I wouldn't expect him to respond well or rationally to start with, and if he doesn't, meeting his response with anger or rejection may make him more likely to respond violently. You would have a better understanding of how he will behave with her long term if you give him the time and space to sort through his feelings, which will take longer than the average human because he needs his writing implements to do it."

Prometheus sees the potential of Pyrrhus being a good big brother to have, because he's clearly fiercely protective of those he considers 'his' and seems to be quite good with children. He also sees the potential of him being a very real danger if he's introduced to her suddenly, and takes her as a threat to his place as his father's only (and by default favorite) child. With how little love Pyrrhus has in his life, and how essential social bonds are to human stability, Prometheus could see him having a very violent reaction of his feels that someone has taken his father's love from him.

“I see,” Achilles hums. Between his own inability to lie and Lyra’s stubborn resolve, he knows he can’t keep Lyra’s existence from Pyrrhus for long. At least he’s armed with some strategy to help that along. Though he does worry about the case where no amount of processing, of writing on his tablets will bring Pyrrhus around to love and protect his sister. What then?

“Now that we’ve visited Aspasia … is it time we enter Pyrrhus’ dreams?” Achilles is a hero. He’s not supposed to fear anything, but the thought of entering his son’s dreamscape unsettles him.

How fractured is his mind? Aspasia’s tragic experience was so far removed from Achilles’ own, it was easy to remain detached, objective. But he and Pyrrhus share a life of war. They share people: Greek allies, Trojan foes, Deidamia … Is he ready to see them again?

Prometheus takes Achilles by the hand, smiling gently, as if he knows his fear even if he hasn't said anything. Maybe he does. Or maybe he can just tell.

"We'll go together," he says. Then, like a father with a child, he gently pulls Achilles forward and the world changes again.

It's immediately clear that there's something different about Pyrrhus when entering his dream. In a few thousand years, the dreamscape could be described as a mediocre art student's first attempt at impressionism--blobs of color squished together to suggest shapes, but focusing too closely makes those suggestions fall away into nothing but colored blobs once more. The only thing that gives the world any kind of structure are laboriously scratched in words and letters that fight to outline important things.

There's a palace. It's Pyrrhus', it's Peleus', it's Lycomedes', it's no one's in particular. The words that outline it are scratched lists of rules governing the proper etiquette around visiting and hosting people within a palace, and around managing a household, like someone literally sat down an tried to commit all the unspoken rules around xenia and adulthood as a head of a household on clay. The rules are scratched over and over, building on top of each other until they make a recognizable outline of a palace in the blobs of color.

The words make the ground as well, creating a surface for Achilles and Prometheus to stand on, because the colors have no substance and they'd just fall through forever without the solidity of words. And the words on the ground are the foundational truths Pyrrhus falls back on when confused or overwhelmed.

Mom loved you. Dad loved you. Pergamus was real and alive. Amphialus was real and alive. Molossus is real and alive. You can trust Aspasia. You can trust Lykos. You can trust Korinna. You can trust Hyginos. You can trust Erasmos. You can trust Galene. Mom loved you. Dad loved you.

The web of words is brittle, fragile, overextended with too little thread supporting too much weight. Any one of these truths breaking could bring everything down.

This new dreamscape reminds him of a spider’s web or a bird’s nest: painstakingly constructed, but eerily delicate. The words are so unexpected and dense he almost doesn’t see them at first.

Reading them, the words make his heart ache with mingled grief and shame. Dad loved you.

… Did he? Achilles knows the truth: I loved war. I loved being adored. I loved myself. I loved Patroclus. If pressed, maybe he loved the idea of a son, but not Pyrrhus specifically. Certainly not when he finally heard tell of Pyrrhus’ deeds.

Does he love him now? Achilles can’t truthfully say yes. He feels sympathy for his son and the way he’s had to scaffold his life. If he’s not proud of Pyrrhus’ deeds at Troy, he’s proud of his resilience in the lonely years after. Love will only come with time and understanding …

… But I was ready to love Lyra after no more than a day. What kind of father am I? No better than Zeus, playing favorites.

“Pyrrhus?” he calls into the dream palace. “Pyrrhus, are you here?”

"Dad?"

This world is so insubstantial that it easily melts into another scene. The suggestion of a bedroom in a palace. The suggestion of Deidamia sleeping on one side of the bed, painted with the colors of safety and love and ringed with a halo of golden words. Mom loves you Mom loves you Mom loves you

Pyrrhus is at the doorway, but not all of him. Just the part that responds to being called Pyrrhus. And that part is a boy, on the cusp of beginning manhood but not quite there yet, rubbing his puffy reddened eyes. He looks like he's been crying.

"I had a bad dream," the boy mumbles. "And my head really hurts."

There's an air of familiarity to this dream shape. Pyrrhus has had dreams like this before, going to his parents' room when his head hurt, coming upon a happily married couple, alive and well.

Achilles takes in the vision of cozy domesticity and sinks deeper into melancholy. This is what could have been if he’d only sailed back to Greece. In ten years how many chances did he have to do exactly that?

Pyrrhus is near the same age as Zagreus when Achilles first arrived at the House. A tender, impressionable age: still very much a vulnerable child, but one who’s beginning to scrutinize the world and his place within it.

Pyrrhus can’t have been much older than this when he was brought across the sea to take his place at Troy. The thought makes Achilles sick.

“Oh, lad,” Achilles says gently, crossing the dark room to the sketch of a wash basin and pitcher of cool water. He soaks a cloth and wrings out the excess. “Come here and tell me about your dream.”

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