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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“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.

The memory is grotesque at first glance, but Achilles forces himself to watch it, unflinching. Pyrrhus doesn’t handle the head in the obscene, gloating way that a conquering warrior might—the boy’s manner suggests he could just as well be handling a creature he found on the beach, or a long-abandoned bee hive. Achilles sees the way Pyrrhus compares the head’s anatomy to his own.

At that age, it’s a child’s prerogative to learn and understand the world. Achilles’ abundant curiosity was satisfied on idyllic Mount Pelion, under Chiron’s patient tutelage. Pyrrhus’ wide eyes only had a burning and blood-soaked city to feast on. “You can’t be blamed for your ignorance, lad. No one was thoughtful enough to teach you.”

Achilles pauses and the waves breathe in his silence. He’s trying to put into words Prometheus’ explanation of the brain—one he barely understood himself.

“As to your wounds …” he begins slowly, “when you were at Troy, did you ever see the contents of a man’s broken skull? The soft flesh inside?”

Pyrrhus isn't used to being given grace. Usually, people just assume the worst of him. He's always taken that for granted, and it rarely bothers him, but it makes this gentle dismissal of his childhood ignorance novel. The dream wobbles for a moment, echoing with slight confusion at the feeling of being given any benefit of the doubt.

It settles again at the question about anatomy.

"Yes, I did."

The ocean flashes with memories. Briseis and her cracked skull. A prince's head exploding like overripe fruit when Pyrrhus bashed it into a wall with his shield. A bleeding, oozing Greek whimpering on a grass mat with his head broken open and the healer saying there's nothing to be done--Odysseus taking Pyrrhus by the shoulder and guiding him away from the healer's tent, chiding him for staring and telling him to feed the horses instead.

"They said it was the brain, but they didn't tell me much about it. The healers had more important things to do than answer my questions. So I tried to satisfy my curiosity in ways that I can now see must have been very disturbing to everyone else."

And Pyrrhus was a curious child. It made sense to him that the healers and surgeons were too busy tending to the wounded. He'd thought to satisfy his curiosity by poking and prodding enemy dead, but Teucer made it extremely clear that that wasn't considered an acceptable alternative.

“Yes, the brain. It’s a very delicate thing, responsible for our thoughts and emotions and memories. It’s protected by the skull like a shell.” He plucks a shell from the sand, imagining the soft, vulnerable creature that was once inside.

“But the flesh can be jostled against the walls of that shell.” Achilles grimaces. His instincts as a tutor tell him he’s not explaining this well and he digs for a better description. “Now, imagine ripe fruit carried in a wooden crate—how bruised it becomes when handled roughly on its way to the market …

”The brain can suffer the same bruises when the head takes a blow. Thrown from a chariot, tackled to the ground, bashed with a shield …” Achilles quietly wishes Prometheus would return and describe this in proper detail. “A young brain—one that’s still growing—is especially vulnerable.”

Pyrrhus thinks of himself as slow and stupid, but he isn't. He catches on to what his father is saying quickly. In Troy, with his only educational enrichment the bodies of enemies and smoking remains of a city, he learned what the inside of a head looks like. The grayish liquid that oozes out, the gelatinous organ within. He'd even seen some brains that looked different than others, brains with pockmarks and strange colors and lumps, but he hadn't been able to investigate very much before someone saw him and scolded him like a puppy that got into the larder.

The images flash in the ocean. His childlike curiosity helped commit it somewhat to memory, though it's hard to remember much of the time between the battle of Troy and Mom guiding him to write things down. He remembers the wrinkled organs, the strange deviations he sometimes spotted. He remembers one brain with a hard lump growing from it almost the size of his fist, stiff as a diamond within the gelatinous tissue around it.

His own hand comes up to slowly draw his fingers along the curve of his skull, as if he can find evidence from the outside of strange deviations in his own brain. Almost like he did once upon a time when he was a child and he found a head.

"...You're saying something hit my head. And it's affected my ability to remember."

It's a weird thought, a physical injury so thoroughly attacking the mind. He's numb to the news, unsure of how to react. For so long, he thought this was just the product of an angry god. Knowing that it was just an injury, a preventable, mundane injury...

"...They probably could have made me a helmet if someone started work when Odysseus went to pick me up."

He doesn't know how to feel. He's known for a while that the Greeks assumed he'd die in Troy and were surprised, even disturbed when he didn't. But knowing that their assumptions about him may have led to this lifetime of pain and struggle he's faced... He feels used, and it's a rotten, vulnerable feeling, one he doesn't want to face. He wonders why so few cared enough to even try to do right by him.

Achilles wonders if Pyrrhus might have become a talented surgeon if his curiosities were properly indulged. He could have studied under Machaon and Podalirius, absorbed their prodigious knowledge to mend wounds rather than inflict them.

There were so many other lives his son could have led, but this is the one the Fates gave him.

“The Greeks had many talented smiths at their disposal. They could easily have made you a full set of armor.“ A simple thing could have spared him a lifetime of pain. It disturbs him that men he considered his friends, his comrades in arms, showed his son such little courtesy. “But they did not.”

Achilles gently takes his son’s face, cups it in either of his hands. He sees himself in the weary lines around Pyrrhus’ brow. Tired marks that spell out the conviction that he wasted his life and failed the people he loved. “You’re not broken, lad. You’re not a monster. Take any boy of ten years and throw him in the midst of war with no armor, no preparation and he would emerge just the same.”

Pyrrhus has never really allowed himself to wonder at how he was treated on the shores of Troy, and now the thoughts churn on the waves of the ocean, coloring the sea foam. It had started alright, with the Greeks making an effort to make sure he was settled and even inviting him to drink with them while they reminisced about his father. But things took a turn, and it seemed like most of them were happy to assume that someone else was seeing to him even when evidence proved the contrary. Maybe they were too weary after ten years of war to rouse the kind of care needed for another man's son. Maybe they were too disturbed by how swiftly and easily he took to violence. Maybe they were too eager at seeing the end of the war in sight to slow down and make sure Pyrrhus himself was okay. By the end of the war, it seemed all of them had forgotten about him as quickly as they could.

Maybe they just didn't like him. Pyrrhus knows that no one except his mother ever really enjoyed his company, and he's never really had friends of his own class, so maybe he's just fundamentally unlikable among his peers.

But the thoughts subside as his father takes his face. He's not used to this tenderness. He can't bear to contradict his father, but he feels broken. Like he was some tool recklessly used by impatient hands and snapped apart, and while new tools can be made, he's left only with himself and the pieces. It's not the sort of thing he'd normally say--it's too vulnerable to describe himself like that out loud--but it's written in the colors of his thoughts.

But instead of saying any of that, he loops his arms around his father, leaning in and just hugging him tight.

"Next time you see Odysseus, tell him to go fuck himself for me," Pyrrhus says.

“Oh, I have a great many things to tell Odysseus.” And the other veterans of Troy. Achilles sees the unspoken feelings surrounding his son and returns the embrace. His arms hold firm and reassuring in the hopes that Pyrrhus will remember when he wakes.

Will he recall any of this? Dreams are fleeting and Pyrrhus’ memory is already so poor. “Give me your word, Pyrrhus. Promise you’ll write this dream down on your tablets when you wake. Don’t forget what I’ve told you.”

Achilles pets Pyrrhus’ hair in long, soothing strokes. “And if you do … well, I’ll come tell you again. As many times as it takes.”

He releases a long sigh, disappointed at himself for being no better than his fellow Greeks—dismissing his own son as a brutal monster, conveniently forgetting Pyrrhus was nothing but a boy. Now Achilles knows much of his revulsion was directed at himself. At his own brutal legacy carried on well past his death.

Achilles presses a kiss to the crown of Pyrrhus’ head. “I love you, lad, and I want nothing more than your happiness.”

The spiderweb holding the fragile mind together glimmers. The words Dad loves you glitters with the understated beauty of freshly fallen snow in the sun. Pyrrhus lets out a soft sigh, like he's been holding his breath for thirty years, and he digs his fingers in his father's cloak. All three pieces of him are hugging Achilles all at once--the suspicious and meticulous king, the passionate and moody Neoptolemus, the caring and sensitive Pyrrhus.

"I love you too, Dad," he says, like he's been waiting his whole life to say it. "I'll write down everything I can. But come back anyway and tell me again. Just in case."

All he's ever wanted is his father's love and approval. And now that he has it, he wants more. He wants a lifetime, or as much as the Fates can spare him.

There's a shift of something large in the dream, like a creature moving underwater and creating its own current. Pyrrhus doesn't notice it. But it disrupts the colors ever so slightly. Prometheus is present, silently asking if it's time for Pyrrhus to wake.

“Of course I’ll return. I want to hear more about your life, and I’ll tell you more tales of my own.”

Visiting the dream was a very clever idea. How long would it have otherwise taken Achilles to reveal all these important facets of his son? He can’t imagine Pyrrhus would ever admit to the vulnerable core who still craves love and safety.

Achilles senses Prometheus’ return and the unspoken question. Yes, I believe he’s ready, he offers in response. I’ve learned a great deal.

He gives his son another squeeze, tight enough that his emotions leach through the bounds of his shade: warm fondness, fierce protectiveness, and an undercurrent of grief. “I’m pleased to finally know you, Pyrrhus.”

Pyrrhus hugs his father just as tight, like perhaps he can bring him back from the dead and into the waking world if he just holds strong enough. He buries his face in his father's neck, and like a warm sigh, he wakes up.

The dream dissolves around them. So does Pyrrhus, so does all the pieces of him and his cracked mind. Prometheus is there again, ichor dripping from the wound at his liver, and he gives Achilles an encouraging smile.

"You did very well," he says warmly. It does his own heart good to see his creations loving each other. "It will take time for him to heal. But the more secure he feels in your love for him, the less threatening he might find competition for it."

Which means that the more unconditionally loved Pyrrhus feels by his father, the less danger he poses when he one day learns of his sister.

Prometheus would like to take the moment to focus on Achilles' achievement and give him a second to breathe and process, but despite his smile, there's a furrow in his brow. He's troubled by something.

Achilles’ senses swim at the sudden shift, and for a moment, the repeated words that built Pyrrhus’ dream are burned like an afterimage in the empty void. Mom loved you. Dad loved you. Pergamus was real and alive. Amphialus was real and alive. Molossus is real and alive …

A few blinks and the words are gone. Achilles’ eyes instead follow the trail of ichor to Prometheus. He rocks up to his feet to stand beside the Titan, shaking non-existent sand from his cloak and chiton—then feeling a little foolish for it.

“I couldn’t have done it without your insight. I’m grateful, Lord Prometheus.” It helps that the god models such warm, unconditional love for his mortal children, no matter how perfect or flawed; it put Achilles in a mind to show his own son that much more grace.

But Prometheus’ poorly disguised worry immediately has him on edge. Achilles cocks his head. “You disappeared for quite some time. Is something the matter?”

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