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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The words hit sharp, because they know what it's like to be denied the chance to raise a son. Pergamus, swollen and stiff with the snakebite clear on his arm. Amphialus, so small and cold and still a little bluish, held under his father's chiton in a desperate attempt to warm him to life as he rasps his first breaths. The grief makes the dream shake.

But it also shakes loose something else, something only the king is willing to face. Pergamus and Amphialus was taken from him. Achilles chose to leave.

"You call this carrying on like nothing happened?" the king isn't so calm anymore. His eyes are red with unshed tears. The grief tears at every piece of the whole. "I dedicated my life to your memory. To the memory of all of you. And now you come to me and say that none of what I did was what you wanted, that you want a gentle and wise son with a happy family, and everything I suffered for you was a disappointment."

"Don't talk to him like that!" Neoptolemus bristles, ready to defend his father, but in this the king is more powerful. His presence fills the war tent, pulling it back from the memories of their dead children, their dead mother, of seals and the color green, and it pushes Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus away forcefully, their bodies present but losing more and more definition.

"Did you ever think of my disappointment, father?" the king snaps, sweeping his hand to throw the wax tablets to the floor. All the plans are useless anyway, useless as the thoughts of a broken head. "Did you ever think how it might have felt to wait for years, hoping every boat I saw on the horizon was yours? Did you ever think about how frightening it was to go to war at my age, or how hard it was to teach myself how to be a man, or how fucking hard I worked to honor your memory? Did you ever think how it might feel to wait thirty damned years just to have you show up because someone else, someone apparently more important than your son, said you should, and just hear you tell me my choices are foolish and I should do something else instead? When, oh, apparently you didn't know fuck all about those choices since the ones I made when I was ten?"

The fading blotchy colors of Pyrrhus holds onto his father as tight as he can, but his voice is fading as he says, "Stop being angry, you can't be angry, he'll go away again, stop it!"

Achilles nods his head soberly. He knows this rage well: it’s the fury that accompanies immense grief. This is as much a part of bleeding the wound as Pyrrhus’ tears.

“Thank you for your honesty, lad. I can’t argue any of your points and I won’t defend my actions. You’re correct; no amount of wishing will change our past. All I want is to meet you here where you are.” He waves a hand at the billowing war tent and the clinging vestiges of Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus. “You’ve endured greater losses than I and still stand strong. That much is abundantly clear. If you achieve nothing else, I will still be proud.”

He glances between Pyrrhus and the king. “If my visits are a balm, I will return in the ways death allows. And if the sight of me causes you too much suffering, I will leave you be. You need only ask.”

None of them know how to cope with being faced with kindness and understanding in the midst of their rage. They expect rejection, they expect fear, they expect anger, they expect disgust. For a moment the dream trembles with how much the king wants Achilles to fight back, wants the bitter and painful familiarity of violence and rejection, but it's not coming.

The messy dream cracks. Blotchy, painted flashes of loss. Odysseus sitting Pyrrhus down to gently tell him his father is dead. Kneeling at his father's tomb on the shore of Troy. Kneeling at his mother's deathbed, holding her hand. Walking out of Lycomedes' palace, hoping that perhaps one, any one, of his family members might call him back. The last shouting match with Peleus before leaving Phthia. His nails bleeding as he claws the earth, digging Pergamus' grave. Amphialus' cold little body, cradled against his bare skin, like he could will warmth back into him.

The dream compresses, shaking with the pressure of grief, and then the king screams. He screams, picking up something from the table and throwing it against the wall.

The something isn't defined, but it breaks very spectacularly, splintering and shattering into sharp glittering bits that flash colors from across the emotional spectrum. Grief. Love. Fear. Every little piece skittering on the floor in patterns of longing so deeply for connection and fearing so much the possibility of opening up to it to then lose it once more, but longing so intensely for a relationship with his father.

He's had enough of losing people. If he loses one more person, he thinks he'll throw himself into the sea.

The world asserts itself, but now they're not in a war tent. Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus are gone, tucked into some other part of the dream. They're now on a beach. One with glittering sand and water that shimmers with the backs of seals swimming in the distance.

The king slouches on the sand and just holds his head in his hands, spent. Unable to even speak from how his outburst has exhausted him.

Through all of it, Achilles’ face remains the same: a sympathetic furrow to his brow, mouth drawn flat. He might as well be watching himself destroy his shelter at Troy. Even the anguished scream could be the very same that erupted from his own chest when he laid eyes on Patroclus’ lifeless body.

But Pyrrhus has experienced that agony four times over—and with no one to hold and reassure him. No one to help him carry that immense weight.

Maybe Achilles can change that for once, if only on this dreaming beach. He sinks down in the sand beside his son and loops an arm firmly around his shoulders. “You carry a heavy burden. I see how tired you are.”

He lets out a steadying exhale. “You’ve no reason to trust me, but I hope you’ll try, lad. I want to help.”

Gods, but he's so tired. And he's so unused to people being able to withstand being present for his rages. Only Aspasia ever seems truly comfortable when he's angry. Distantly on the water, there's a memory of her sweeping up the shattered remains of pottery he destroyed in a fit of rage, then bringing him an amphora of wine and pouring him a cup and somehow just knowing when he's ready for her to say, My ears are big enough for listening if you've use for them, my lord.

The king take a moment before leaning into the embrace. It's hesitant. Like he's testing if it can hold his weight.

"Don't get my hopes up if you're going to leave again. If you do, I..."

He trails off, because the king deals with concrete threats and consequences, and there's nothing he'd even want to threaten his father with. The truth is that he'd probably just shatter into nothing if his father loses interest in him after everything else. Find a way to kill himself so his body can never be laid to rest, and he'll never have to go to the Underworld and face anyone ever again.

The hesitation doesn’t surprise Achilles. Patroclus was the same; early on, he wasn’t used to casual affection and flinched at every touch. Even something as casual as a hand on his arm. It surprised Achilles then, but he’d grown up with Peleus’ hugs and tickles and kisses on the head and hair ruffles …

“I won’t leave you waiting again. You have my word.” Achilles invites Pyrrhus’ head against his shoulder. He knows now that there’s a small part of him still hungry for this kind of comfort. “I’m a shade, Pyrrhus, but there are dreams. There are rituals of summoning. There are ways to exchange messages.”

Achilles gingerly strokes his son’s hair, as his father once did to soothe him. “I want to know more about you and Molossus. About your household and your kingdom. Your joys and triumphs—as well as your fears and worries.”

The king--Neoptolemus--Pyrrhus--he hesitates a moment longer. Then he relents, gingerly resting his head on his father's shoulder, and letting out a slow, deep sigh.

All the pieces are present. They don't appear as separate. But they're here.

"I'm not really sure what there is to say about me that's worth knowing," he says honestly. He grasps for something, anything, to share. The sand beneath them blooms with seashells and twine. He picks a shell up, turning it in his hands.

"...Philoctetes taught me how to make bracelets and necklaces from seashells. He said he taught himself while he was stranded in Lemnos. It's something nice to do with my hands."

Philoctetes was kind to him. The memory colors the ocean. Philoctetes whispering to Odysseus when he didn't think Pyrrhus could hear, "That's a child, Odysseus. What are you doing?" He remembers Philoctetes finding him by Achilles' tomb, and showing him how to put together the seashells to make jewelry, joking that maybe one day Pyrrhus would make some to impress a lady love.

Philoctetes had distanced himself after Odysseus discovered Pyrrhus with Briseis' body. At the time Pyrrhus didn't understand why, but in retrospect, he sees that his quick transition into killing others must have been chilling to all the other Greeks. Even so, it was lonely on the shores of Troy without anyone willing to be tender.

“Don’t fret about what’s worth knowing,” he says with a gentle laugh. “When Molossus is a man grown, you’ll be eager to hear everything about his life, no matter how big or small.”

Achilles watches the shell in Pyrrhus’ hands, the shifting memory, like a mirage over the sea. It galls him that the Greeks were so eager to take his son, only to show him fear and revulsion. Would their own young sons fare any better when faced by death and violence?

Once Pyrrhus won their war, they tossed him aside and only told tales of his brutality—even to Achilles, to Peleus, to the family he so desperately wanted. Achilles swallows back his anger.

“I gave you a token, but I have none from you.” He pauses a moment, hesitant to ask yet another thing of his son. “When you wake, will you make me one of your bracelets? Perhaps two—one for your mother as well? Place it at a shrine to Lord Hermes and offer a prayer. It will find its way to me.”

He blinks in surprise. He hadn't expected his little hobby of making shell jewelry would really be worthy of note, let alone a request. But...

"If that's what you want, they'll be the finest bracelets I've ever made."

Which isn't very fine, in his own opinion. He thinks the bracelets are only pretty for the shells rather than any real work he puts into it. But if his father wants them, then he won't deny him. Galene has always said that the ones that rattle are the best ones, so maybe he can make those. He knows his mother would adore anything he made, but if one is to make it to her, he wants it to be the best kind.

He picks up a piece of twine and starts to knot it to string it on the shell. As if he can make the bracelet now and give it to his father, when really, it's just something to do with his hands when he's feeling so unsure. He's not used to reaching out for connection and having someone else reach out in turn, and it's soothing to have something familiar to do with his hands, even in a dream.

"...Were there things you liked to do to stay busy? When you weren't fighting?" Hobbies? Soothing tasks? His mother had told him little, and in retrospect, he suspects it was because she knew little.

“I loved playing the lyre,” Achilles answers without hesitation.

For a moment, he watches Pyrrhus work the dream shells. He’s become more aware of body language since spending time with Hermes. It reminds him of Hermes’ (and Lyra’s) tendency to rock back and forth. That need to move their bodies in some way or another. Maybe music was Achilles’ own means of doing that.

“I learned the lyre when I was a boy and it’s always brought me great comfort when I was away from home. I would sing the deeds of gods and heroes, or pluck meandering songs after dinner …”

Achilles pinches a shell from the sand and examines it. For as poor as Pyrrhus’ memory is, it holds its shape well. They must be important to him. He offers it up as a fine candidate for the necklace.

“I also loved swimming— Ah! And spear fishing.” Spoken like the son of a nereid. “I often find myself missing the sea.”

The lyre? It seems like such a gentle hobby for the man who's loomed so large over Pyrrhus' life. But he's learning a lot of new things about his father, and perhaps this version is better than the one he's used to abuse himself with for years.

He accepts the shell offered by Achilles, huffing a soft noise at the comment of the sea. His hands move easily to string the shell along with the others, tying little knots to space them out properly.

"I'm like that too. If I'm far from the sea for too long, it feels like my skin gets too tight." Thetis stopped speaking to him, but his blood never forgot where it came from. "One day, I'd like to hear you play the lyre. I sang sometimes with Mom, but I haven't for a long time." Since she died. He just never saw much reason to sing when she wasn't singing with him.

But he doesn't want to dwell on his mother's death, though it's hard to avoid his thoughts going to the death of loved ones when sitting next to his very first loss. He peeks at Achilles from between his lashes, through the corner of his eye.

"Galene makes instruments from the bracelets. They rattle when she moves with them on, so she's started a game where she and Molossus make music together." The memories that glitter of Galene on the ocean are fond. Pyrrhus never saw reason to mistreat his slaves--he doesn't even handle punishments, leaving those to Aspasia, since it'd be too easy for him to kill someone if he chose to raise his hand--so Galene never knew a master who hurt her. The ocean glitters with memories of her growing from a little girl to a child to a woman, eagerly showing her work, laughing at her own jokes. Even once when she fell down on the rocky seashore, and Pyrrhus had to climb down a sheer cliff face to grab her since he was the only one confident scaling the slippery rocks.

"Galene is one of my servants. I freed her and her father some years ago and they chose to stay in my service." It seemed like an easy decision to make to Pyrrhus. If he promises and follows through on freeing slaves who work loyally for him, then they'll be loyal and won't poison his food, like that one Aspasia killed did. And it only seems fair to reward good work to him. "She acts like Molossus' big sister. He loves her dearly."

“Yes, that’s a fine way to put it. Our skin needs the saltwater, it seems.” Achilles is disappointed that his mother gave up on her grandson so quickly, but he can imagine why: her love for her own son was a miracle. Once she dared care so deeply, she suffered for it. Pyrrhus would only bring more of the same heartbreak. Her divine legacy would only be used for war.

“Next time,” he claps a hand on Pyrrhus’ knee, “I will bring a lyre and sing you some of Orpheus’ own songs—though I’m a poor substitute for his fine voice and practiced hand.”

Observing Pyrrhus’ fondness for Galene, Achilles almost—almost—dares to hope that he would show Lyra the same. “From what I’ve glimpsed of your servants … they all seem quite happy. You have people who take care of you, and you care for them in turn. I’m pleased to see it, lad.”

Pyrrhus smiles at the promise of hearing his father play and sing. It doesn't even matter that he's promising the work of the most famous musician of Greece--he just wants to hear his father sing it.

"They treat me like I'm remarkable, but I think they just had really mediocre men as masters before." Pyrrhus shrugs, because it's that obvious to him. "I can't think of something more stupid than treating people who handle my food and home poorly."

And what's there to gain? Despite his reputation, Pyrrhus has never felt pleasure in cruelty. He has nothing to prove, no need to show the world that he can push around people his own size, much less ones who can't push back. He did that when he was ten.

"I think people who abuse their slaves and servants just want to prove to themselves they can be warriors if someone ties their opponent's arms behind their back." Pyrrhus lets out a derisive huff. He finds it a little pathetic, actually. The ocean shimmers with the memory of Aspasia's former master, Euthymios. The man cried when Pyrrhus came for him. Sweaty, snotty tears, pleading for his life, promising that he'd let Neoptolemus keep Aspasia, he wouldn't even ask for money in return, he even offered to give Neoptolemus one of Euthymios' own sons by his wife to replace Pergamus.

Even if he hadn't thrown away what Pyrrhus had lost, Pyrrhus would have killed him for the contemptuous display.

“You made a reasoned choice. Most masters would lazily accept that slaves are their property to do with as they please. No better than animals.” Achilles waves a hand dismissively. Peleus treated their slaves and servants well enough, but still held them at arm’s length. He also wasn’t above taking a slave to his bed when the mood took him. Other Greeks made very good use of their spoils at Troy: slaves kept the camps clean and functioning and, well, appetites satisfied.

“Any of us could have been born to different circumstances. Even I—an alleged hero—died and became a servant of the House of Hades, a god as my master. Circumstances can change swiftly.”

Achilles smiles and his eyes glitter with pride. "All that truly matters is that you made their lives better. You treat them as you would be treated, were you in the same position."

“You’re pleased by the most unexpected things.” As he says it, he smiles. It’s the small, shy smile of a boy unused to praise from those he so wants praise from, of someone who actually is daring to accept the pride of a father he’s craved his whole life.

The ocean shimmers with memories. Korinna was given to him as a gift. She’s fair-faced and was clearly intended for his bed, but even if he didn’t have Andromache, and even if he didn’t have the story of Aspasia’s pain in the back of his head, Korinna had mannerisms that struck him as slow and childlike and thus singularly unattractive. It took time to learn that she wasn’t slow or childish, simply extremely awkward and obsessed with agriculture for reasons that are beyond Pyrrhus. She does very well managing how his farmland is used while Aspasia manages the people who administer it.

“So, you’re a servant of Hades. What’s he like?” Pyrrhus ties another shell to his string. “And other gods, if you’ve had occasion to meet them?”

“Death changes what a man values. You’ve met a better version of me than you would have if I’d survived.” He may not have been a bad father, but he would still have pushed his son to pursue greatness instead of happiness.

Achilles returns Pyrrhus’ smile. He’s pleased again to see that his son doesn’t force himself upon his slaves. Pyrrhus’ experience with Aspasia means that he’s not incapable of empathy. How does he think of his actions at Troy, Achilles wonders, but Pyrrhus has posed his own question …

“Lord Hades is a difficult master, but fair. He takes his tasks seriously, works hard, and expects the same of his court.”

“I’ve met a great many gods. Lady Athena was my patron, of course, and guided me in battle. In death, I've become acquainted with Chthonic gods—Lady Nyx and her sons, Queen Persephone and her boy, Prince Zagreus. Lord Hermes visits frequently in his capacity as messenger and psychopomp …" Achilles carefully keeps his face neutral for the last. "And many more. I was surprised, and perhaps a bit comforted to find that the gods are every bit as complicated as mortals."

“Every bit as complicated as mortals? Sounds unnerving to me.” But it’s said with an air of dry humor and a small smile. Pyrrhus has a sense of humor that runs dry and dark. “I didn’t know that Lord Hades and Persephone had a son. I guess he doesn’t find himself visiting the living very often?”

He’s curious, not just about the gods (although he’s curious about that), but about his father’s afterlife and what it’s been like. Asking about gods seems like a safe topic for now, something to help him learn more about his father.

“Do you have a favorite of the ones you met? I won’t tell anyone if you do,” he says. There’s the barest touch of playfulness there, a shadow of childish games that he’s willing to tap into for his father.

“The prince is not known to many mortals, no. He’s still quite young as gods are concerned. He’s a good lad, though.” The last comes out before he can consider how the praise for another young man might sound to Pyrrhus. “… But he still has much to learn.”

Achilles rubs his jaw and gives the second question some careful thought.

“Which is my favorite …? That is a dangerous question,” he laughs, leaning into the playfulness. But it is quite dangerous. He can’t say Zagreus—that might encroach on his son’s territory. There’s the other obvious answer, and it feels less inherently risky. “I suppose … hm … I would have to say Lord Hermes. The Underworld can be a dreary place, but he brings welcome cheer.”

Achilles’ head cocks. He’s curious now, too. “Has a god ever spoken to you? Or visited?”

Ares would probably love Pyrrhus.

This much praise doesn't strike Pyrrhus as suspect. The gods have always been in their own category, beyond stealing the affection of a mortal. They've never seemed human enough to him for that, limited as his experience is.

He nods his head, still smiling just a little. "I'd say I hope to meet him, but I don't think I should wish for any sort of message from Olympus." It seems in the stories that no matter what, any kind of notice from Olympus was probably going to end poorly for any mortal in question. "I suppose some cheer makes sense. The jovial messengers get larger wages."

He looks up fully from his shells, gaining more confidence to look his father fully in the eye as the conversation continues. "Beyond Grandmother, no. I think the gods were tired of intervening by the time I came to Troy, and none showed any interest in my activities in Epirus. Odysseus and Diomedes told me some about Athena, but she never visited me." He gestures broadly to his head. "Apollo still cursed me at Troy. I think that's why I need to write so much."

You’ve already met him, Achilles wants to laugh, but Hermes chose to appear as a mortal in Athens and he’ll honor his lover’s anonymity. Besides, that could reveal more about their relationship than Achilles is willing to admit right now.

He’s glad to hear that the gods have left him be, though. It makes sense: the gods lost interest in stoking the flames of war—as if it were nothing more than an idle game to pass a few fleeting years of their eternities. “As much as Apollo has cause to hate the both of us, I don’t think you’ve been cursed.”

Achilles spares a glance around the beach for any sign of his Titan guide before he continues: “Tell me, did any of the other Greeks supply you with fitted armor, or a proper helmet when you were first brought to Troy?”

Pyrrhus frowns, letting out a confused noise from the back of his throat. It's a strange question, following a statement of strange confidence. But the ocean shimmers again with memories.

"Diomedes tried to," he says.

It was the day before they were to finally end the siege. Odysseus wanted all hands on planning the construction of his hollow horse. Diomedes was the one to look to Neoptolemus and say, He needs armor.

Neoptolemus assured Diomedes that he'd taken a set of armor off a Trojan corpse, but Diomedes had just shaken his head. The armor was too large. The cuirass was too long, impeding his ability to move his legs, his spear too tall, his shield so large that he couldn't see over it if he held it up.

Diomedes was the one who folded the ends of the cuirass with his bare hands, fitting it to Neo's shorter form. He tried to balance a helmet on his head, but it fell over Neo's eyes, and it was so loose that it slid off when he tipped his head. There was no time or resources to make something fitted. Diomedes had grunted and said, Don't let them hit your head.

He made a smaller shield from the one that Neo salvaged. Neoptolemus asked him why. Diomedes hadn't shown him any particular affection since he'd arrived, and yet he was the only one who thought to give him equipment suited for him.

I wasn't much older than you when I marched on Thebes to avenge my father, he'd said. Pyrrhus remembers watching his broad, powerful hands work the metal of the shield. All the others think you'll die tomorrow. Prove them wrong.

Pyrrhus had never asked, but he was pretty sure no one else leapt to give him proper equipment because they'd given him up for dead the moment his sandals touched the sand.

The answer and the accompanying memory stirs a mix of feelings. Pyrrhus looks horribly, comically young in the scavenged, oversized armor. His jaw sets at the Greeks who couldn’t be bothered to gird his son, but he allows a mild respect for Diomedes, who at least saw the obvious and tried to address it.

Achilles releases the feelings on an exhale and combs fingers through his son’s hair—beginning at his temple and tucking curls behind his ear. As if he could reveal the illustrative visions of Pyrrhus’ head that Prometheus had shown him earlier.

“I spoke with someone who knows medicine—knows the human form better than any mortal.” Achilles spares another look toward the sea and the fading memory of a boy in bloody, ill-fitting armor. He grimaces. “You were so very young, lad. He tells me your body wasn’t ready for the rigors of battle.”

Would a proper helm have saved him from a lifetime of headaches and poor memory? It might have helped, but a child should never have been thrown into battle in the first place. “Apollo need not curse you; the other Greeks and the prophecy already had.”

His father stroking his hair is probably the most soothing feeling in the world, second only to his mother stroking his hair.

It softens the confusion of what Achilles says, but Pyrrhus' brow still furrows, frowning out at the ocean. "My body was ready. It must have been. I was very good at it."

He'd surprised himself. The ocean glitters with the memories, but these memories are wholly different from all the others. They have a bright, blown out quality that obscures all detail, something that a thousand years hence could be compared to an over-exposed photograph.

The sacking of Troy is only remembered in flashes. He's almost entirely forgotten the first day of fighting, to his own great confusion. But he remembers being in a palace. He remembers he didn't have his spear--no one had warned him how slippery blood makes a haft, and it'd fallen from his grip--and a man he knew to be a prince was lunging at him, and he just side-stepped the strike and plunged a piece of shattered pottery into his throat. It had been so easy. He remembers standing over the corpse, wiping the blood on his palms onto his chiton and taking the prince's sword. He remembers marveling at how easy it all was. It seemed like all the other warriors moved so much slower than he did.

There are other flashes, bright and loud and vague and aching to focus on too long. Odysseus yelling at him over an altar, he didn't know that you weren't supposed to kill people on altars in war, didn't they sacrifice someone on an altar to get to Troy in the first place, he really needs to find a proper weapon, his hands are really sticky, what's Odysseus yelling about again--a Greek is raping a Trojan woman on the street while she screams and cries, Pyrrhus cuts off her head because it seems kinder in the moment, only for the Greek to leap off her headless corpse and yell but he can't hear over the screaming--dragging Andromache by the hair, she's scratching him, but it hurts less than a cat's claws--there's a boy's body about his size, and it's burning so hot that his fat is melting through his skin, Pyrrhus didn't know that bodies did that--a Greek is holding down a Trojan man and smashing his face into the stone while he rapes him, and the man is screaming, and blood is running down his thighs, but Pyrrhus doesn't cut off his head this time--his hands are sticky and red, he picks up a pretty diamond necklace from a dead princess' room, he wants to give it to his mother--a Greek asks Pyrrhus if he wants to become a man and hoists a screaming Trojan girl up by the ankle to bare her crotch, and Pyrrhus says no, he doesn't like girls like that yet, and the Greek laughs at him--burning hair smells terrible, he didn't know how awful it smells, he hopes it doesn't stick to his clothes--three men attack him at once, and it's so easy to kill them, he's almost disappointed, like maybe he's doing this wrong, it's supposed to be hard isn't it? Does it count if it isn't hard?

The blown out memories shudder as Pyrrhus pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Pain pulses through the dream. Trying too hard to remember hurts.

“You had the same natural talent that I did. That’s undeniable.” Achilles can see exactly why the other Greeks were so put off by the boy. But Pyrrhus was only following their lead. They had every chance to mentor him, to temper his brutal efficiency, but they chose not to.

The glimpses of burning Troy are about what Achilles expects; he raided enough of the surrounding Troad to know the stink of burning bodies, the wails and screams of women, the violent glee of his fellow Greeks, the boring ease of killing.

“Divine blood makes us precocious and our bodies are sturdier than most … but we are still mortal. Another five, ten years to grow and you might have emerged unscathed.” Achilles coaxes Pyrrhus’ head back against his shoulder and continues petting his hair. “Relax, lad. I know what battle is like, and I know how skilled you are. I don’t need to see anymore.”

Pyrrhus allows his head to rest against his father's shoulder again. He closes his eyes, taking a deep, relaxing breath as he focuses on his father's fingers in his hair. The bright, over-exposed memories of violence fade. "I don't understand. I don't remember being hurt."

He doesn't fight to unearth more memories, but his mind is now trailing down this road, recalling Troy. He remembers that all the other Greeks besides Diomedes noticeably avoided him after the battle was over. He tried to entertain himself by picking up shiny things from the dead to give to his mother, since staying in his tent meant being with Andromache and he kinda thought he was expected to have sex with her and he was still the age where the thought was gross and off-putting, especially when she was older than Mom.

He found a severed head among the dead. He remembers picking it up to check on something shiny beneath it, but then being surprised by how its jaw hung open as he did. It was curious, seeing how slack the head's face was, and he found himself feeling for his own jaw with his free hand as he stared, surprised to realize that he was constantly holding his mouth shut instead of letting it loll open like the head's. He opened and closed his mouth experimentally, feeling the muscles at his jaw. He noticed the head's eyes were wide and slack too, so he experimentally squinted his eyes at it, poking at the muscles that moved under his own skin. He hadn't thought of all the little muscles in his face that would go slack when he died.

What the fuck, are you PLAYING with that head?

Pyrrhus blushed as Teucer approached, but he wasn't sure why he was blushing, he just knew the tone grownups took when they caught you doing something wrong, even if he wasn't sure what it was.

Drop it. DROP IT! he snapped like Pyrrhus was a dog, and Pyrrhus dropped the head to the ground again. Teucer took him by the wrist and dragged him back to camp. Pyrrhus let him, even though he really didn't like being talked to like that. Just stay away from the bodies, you little freak.

The memory fades. Pyrrhus huffs softly, keeping his eyes closed. "Well. Skill or not, I definitely didn't know the etiquette of war," he concedes dryly. At least in that respect, he understands now that he wasn't ready. He didn't know the boundaries of acceptable behavior for a warrior, and none of the Greeks thought to tell him what they considered manifestly obvious.

For refusetofight

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