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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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Hermes returns the kiss, warm and slow, before smiling and bumping their foreheads together.

"You've helped me with my fair share of family drama. Only right that's my turn now." His eyes sparkle with a playful light as he smiles, nuzzling their noses together before pulling away again. "Artemis is going to notice I'm not paying attention. I'll come back to visit as soon as I can so we can properly talk. In the meantime, please, let Patroclus take care of you."

Hermes knows that Patroclus will tend to Achilles' wounded heart, but he doesn't know if Achilles will allow him to rather than stew in his guilt. Hermes presses an affectionate kiss to Achilles' knuckles.

"And if you avenge Pyrrhus on the Greek veterans of Troy, please try not to kill them all at once? I think Uncle Hades would have questions if they all washed up at The House at the same time."

“And if killing them all at once is a means to ‘earning my peace’ … ?” he asks, head cocked and smiling in jest. Hermes has cooled his rage … somewhat. Achilles isn’t confident he can keep that in check when he sees Odysseus and the other Greeks again.

“Please, return to your duties, my love. Greece and Olympus need you more than I do.” He cups Hermes’ face in his hands and smooths thumbs over his cheekbones. His eyes are soft with pride—that Hermes is so selfless, so hard-working. “But I won’t object to a visit when things quiet down.”

Achilles pauses for another beat before making a final request: “And … if you visit Lyra, will you tell her what measures we’ve taken to help her brother? It would put her mind at ease.”

Hermes snickers at Achilles' joke, scrunching his nose. He smiles affectionately, stroking the knuckles of his lover's hands cupping his face.

"Of course. I'm sure she'll ask me when I see her next." Hermes turns his head and presses a kiss to Achilles' palm. "I love you. I'll try to visit soon."

And then he's gone. The orange glow recedes, and the void returns. Prometheus clears his throat, offering his arm to Achilles.

"Is there anyone else whose dreams you'd like to visit before we return to the land of waking?"

“I love you, too,” Achilles says to the empty dream space Hermes has left behind, trusting that his words will carry. Then Prometheus’ question breaks the spell. He blinks, then bends his arm around the Titan’s, muttering a soft apology.

“Ah … well, if it’s not too much trouble, Lord Prometheus,” he starts sheepishly, “Might I visit my daughter?”

Achilles will take any chance he can get to see Lyra, even if it’s just a moment to check in. “But I don’t wish to keep you, of course. You’ve far more important work than ushering a shade between dreams.”

"Nonsense, dear boy. This is the most fun I've had in thousands of years." Prometheus smiles warmly, patting Achilles' hand. Then he starts walking, gently tugging Achilles along until they pass into somewhere new.

Lyra's dream is unlike Aspasia's or Pyrrhus'. If anything, her dream seems brighter, happier than the real world, with colors far more vivid than in life. They're underwater, with brightly colored happy fish swimming about, but the humans walk and breathe on the ground as normal, like the dream gave up on making the underwater realistic. Lyra is tending to garden beds that are growing lovely glowing flowers and luminescent sea kelp, and her blond hair floats around her as if she's really in the water, though she moves as if she's still on land. This underwater fantasy world has many beautiful glowing fish and flashes of glowing blue throughout the water, and up above, the bones of a whale tower over everything, encasing the garden safely in its ancient corpse.

Lyra notices immediately that someone has entered her dream. She perks, putting aside the pot she was using to 'water' her plants, and looks in the direction of the intrusion. Her eyes light up as she sees Achilles.

"Daddy!"

She barrels towards him, fully prepared to take a running leap and attack him with a hug.

Achilles immediately wonders if Lyra, with her preternatural insight, knows this is a dream. He doesn’t have long to wonder, though, as he reflexively braces himself to receive Lyra’s aggressive affection.

“My lovely little fledgling!” he laughs, easily catching her in his arms. It hasn’t been long since Anthesteria, but he kisses her cheek and sighs, “By the gods, I’ve missed you.”

For a moment, Achilles admires his daughter and how perfectly she fits into this scene. He tries to tame one of her wayward curls and finds a few tiny fish hiding in her locks. They dart away, scales flashing silver. Her dream, her energy couldn’t be any more different from Pyrrhus’.

Achilles turns her to face Prometheus and asks, “Do you know who this is? Can you guess?”

"I missed you too, Daddy!" Lyra says, grinning and throwing her arms around his neck. She giggles as the fish escape her hair, and she holds up her hand, letting them slip between her fingers before darting away.

But at his question, she turns her curious eyes upon the man next to him. The god, surely. Prometheus' face creases with a smile as he holds up a hand and gives her a little wave.

"You're hurt," she says, looking at the ichor that bleeds from his side, making ribbons of glistening gold in the water. "Even in a dream, you're hurt."

Prometheus bobs his head, still smiling. "Some wounds linger, even after they've healed. Please don't worry yourself on my behalf, little one."

Lyra reaches out a hand to the Titan. He catches it in one of his, smiling as he allows her curious fingers to feel out the calluses on his palm.

"And you're nice." Lyra says it out loud as another data point, another fact that can help identify which god this is. Most gods aren't eager to allow mortal children to play with their hands. And she can't help but notice that his wound seems to be around his liver. "You're nice, but... you feel really big."

She's more aware of her dream than Pyrrhus or Aspasia, more aware of the great size hidden from her. She frowns, looking between her father's face and the Titan's.

"Aren't you... supposed to be on a mountain?"

Prometheus laughs, smiling. "No longer, lucky for me. And lucky for the birds. I can't imagine I tasted good after so long."

Achilles smiles, every bit a proud father pleased by his clever daughter and maybe a little entertained by Prometheus’ dark humor. He’s not sure how someone could laugh off centuries of confinement and torture, but if anyone could, it would be a god.

“Lord Prometheus has been a great help—both to me and your papa.” He turns his smile back on the Titan, all gratitude, then returns his focus to Lyra. “Before we came here, he guided me to a very special, very important dream. It belonged to someone who you’re very worried and very curious about.”

Sure, Achilles asked Hermes to fill Lyra in, but better she hears it from his own mouth.

Lyra perks, eyes brightening. She holds Prometheus' finger and tugs him gently closer, keeping an arm around her father's neck, eager to soak up as much affection as she can as always. Prometheus is perfectly happy to be dragged around, admiring the gorgeous dream around them, admiring how bright and curious this tiny creature is.

"Pyrrhus? You went to Pyrrhus' dream?" She wiggles in place. The water around her shifts. The flashing currents make small, effervescent images. Seeing his blond hair in the distance in the crowd of Anthesteria. Hiding under a window and peaking out to see him say goodbye to her Mistress and the king before leaving. She wasn't close enough to see his eyes or hear exactly what he said, but she heard his voice, and it sounded like he'd be a good singer. She wondered if he ever sang lullabies or poetry. She'd had to shrink under the window and bite her tongue until her eyes watered to resist the urge to crawl outside and find an excuse to talk to him, hugging her knees and reminding herself that she could be patient like she said she would. At least for a while. "What was it like? What'd he say? Did he say anything?"

Achilles gives Prometheus an apologetic look. He’s possibly one of the safest gods to cling to, but someday Lyra will need to be taught boundaries. Her brother is an obvious case for that.

He is pleased, however, to see that Lyra kept her distance from Pyrrhus, even when it tested the limits of her patience. He decides to reward her with some tidbits of particularly juicy information, at least by a child’s standards.

“I learned four very important things, fledgling,” Achilles says, adjusting Lyra’s weight in his arms. He holds up a hand and counts them on his fingers: “Pyrrhus’ favorite color is green, he’s fond of seals, he loves to eat figs and make jewelry from seashells.”

Lyra thinks herself beyond boundaries. She's too aware of how cute and charming she is, and no one she's encountered yet has been able to teach her the dangers of her demanding affection and blind faith in the goodness of others.

She brightens at the information, drinking it in hungrily. Green! Yes, that is a good favorite color! And seals, yes, a good favorite animal! And figs, a good favorite food! And--

"He makes jewelry from seashells? I didn't know you could do that!" She bounces in Achilles' arms, her grin threatening to split her face. "What do they look like? How does he make them? Can I have one? Please?"

She's so excited about all this new information. None of the stories about her brother say that he likes green, or seals, or figs, or making jewelry. Prometheus can't help but smile fondly, his eyes warming at her enthusiasm.

“Yes, you can carefully knot them together. It’s a lovely way to carry the ocean wherever you go.” He leans in and whispers, “I think he’s drawn to the sea like we are.”

It cheers him to share something so innate with both of his children. Even if he’s long gone, they still live on, carrying echoes of him through the world.

“Someday you’ll have a nice bracelet from Pyrrhus, I’m sure of it,” he assures, but he also does his best to temper her expectations. “I’ve learned a great deal about your brother, but please be patient, my love. Lord Prometheus revealed the nature of his wounds, but they’re very difficult to treat.”

Lyra is delighted to hear that she has something in common with her brother. She wants to be near the sea all the time too. It's uncomfy to be away from the sea too long.

But the news of her brother's injuries causes her smile to dim. "They're hard to treat?" She looks to Prometheus, because surely, if anyone knows how to fix her brother, Prometheus can. "How's he hurt? How do we fix it? Can I help?"

Prometheus hums softly at her questions, looking at her thoughtfully. He doesn't look at her with the same naked adoration as he looks at Patroclus--he looks contemplative.

"You're very smart, aren't you, Lyra?"

She nods.

"Smarter than many grownups?"

She nods again, unabashed to confess she thinks so.

"Grownups can be pretty easy to predict, can't they?"

The water flashes with her thoughts. Yes, grownups can be easy to predict, because they're usually very easy to see and understand. The current swirls with the grownups in her daily life--Mistress Medea, King Aegeus, Tisander. Their portraits in her mind are kind, but hold an uncomfortable amount of detail. People are scared of Medea, and she likes it like that, because she's scared of people too and doesn't trust herself to know which ones will treat her well so she doesn't want any of them near her. King Aegeus is resigned because he wanted his own family, and he doesn't really consider Medea and Tisander his family, but he had two wives before and neither had babies so he decided he couldn't have babies and thought Medea would be a good queen and Tisander could be mentored to be a good king, but he's not really sure. Tisander doesn't really like the idea of being a king because he hates his father and doesn't like the idea of getting back into the sticky world of kings and thoughtfully arranged marriages and broken hearts, but he doesn't say that because he's scared of disappointing his mother so he keeps going along learning about king things because he wants to make her happy, because he loves her but he's also scared of her.

Prometheus hums softly at her images of the people around her, heavy with far too much insight for her age. "You're very good at knowing grownups and what they do and why they do it. But the way your brother is hurt makes him unpredictable. The tricks you know to fix grownup problems might not work on him, and he's very strong like you're very smart, and he may hurt you if you try to use your usual grownup tricks."

Lyra's face falls in understanding. Prometheus takes the hand holding his finger, giving it a little squeeze. "The best way you can help is to listen to your parents, little one. If they tell you to be patient, be patient. And if they tell you to approach him a certain way, do that. Your daddy wants you to meet your brother, but he wants you to meet him safely."

“Lord Prometheus speaks the truth,” Achilles says with a somber nod.

“Pyrrhus doesn’t trust easily. He’s suffered a life of rejection and judgment.” Achilles’ brow pinches, and his eyes settle on Lyra’s tiny hand held in Prometheus’. “I know. I did the same, I am ashamed to say. I put too much stock in the words of other men.”

He watches the shifting figures, the cast of Lyra’s childhood sketched so astutely. They share some traits with Pyrrhus, but none suffered such profound scars in their youth.

“Pyrrhus was still just a boy when he went to war. And like you—like any child—he was very curious about the world. He wanted to learn all he could, but no one took the time to teach him. They recoiled from his skill in battle, and when he didn’t act how a warrior should. But why would he? Pyrrhus was not a man, he was a child. They didn’t even carry armor to fit his size …

“Now the injuries he suffered cause him pain every day.” It’s difficult to describe such profound and lasting pain to a child. Harder still when that child has a lot of divine blood keeping her very healthy. “Has your head ever ached, fledgling? Maybe you played in the hot sun too long, or you had a fever? Did it make you tired and irritable? Were your thoughts foggy?”

Lyra listens with a worried, furrowed brow. She understands what her father is saying. She doesn't want to understand because it can be summed up as 'by no fault of his own, her brother is dangerous and she might not meet him for a long time'. But she understands despite herself.

"No. I don't get headaches or fevers," she says, shaking her head. The water flashes with memories again. Illness and pain was frequent in the little hovel she grew up in. Her foster parents were old, and impoverished enough that they couldn't afford to dally in tending the land when the time was right, and her foster siblings often had weak constitutions. Eu-Eu said that hunger made them prone to sickness. Lyra was three when a bad winter hit, and she remembers standing over her siblings with her hands on her hips, because they were all huddled together and shivering even though they were hot to the touch. She remembers deciding that she'd have to do something to feed them so they could get better.

Stealing came as naturally as swimming. It was easy, intuitive, distracting an important man in fine clothes by asking him questions about his horse and picking his pocket. All her siblings could eat, and they didn't get sick so easily, and Eu-Eu could stay inside when the sun was beating down and sleep when her head ached. Lyra knew she was different from other children then, and her foster parents knew too, but she could tell they tried very hard not to know because they were scared of what it'd mean for her to be so different.

"But I know that people get grumpy when their heads hurt. Eu-Eu always would when she didn't drink enough when she worked in the sun, and she'd have to lie down for a while."

With an Olympian father, there’s a good chance Lyra is more immune to illness than Achilles was as the son of a Nereid. If she wasn’t so sturdy (and clever), there’s a good chance she wouldn’t have lived long enough on the shore to be found or survived her foster family’s poverty.

“Yes, Pyrrhus is the same. He lies down in darkness until the pain passes. The ache makes it more difficult to handle his emotions.” If that wasn’t already a challenge as the son of a hero famous for his rage.

“He and I—we both feel anger and sadness and love very strongly.” Achilles pets Lyra’s hair and remembers how tightly young dream Pyrrhus clung to him. Deep down, he’s every bit as hungry for love as his sister. “But your brother is starved of love … and afraid of it at the same time. Afraid he might lose any tiny bit of affection he’s given.”

"Like the stray dogs."

That's the easiest way for Lyra to think of it, divorced as she is from the reality of a loveless existence. Poverty, grueling work, unfairness between sexes and classes and citizens and non-citizens--all those things are facts of her life, things that she's experienced and can understand. But there's never been a time in her life where Lyra didn't know she was loved, and loved dearly.

"They want someone to be nice to them, but they're scared when you're nice without getting their trust first, because they think you might trick them by pretending to be nice when you want to hurt them instead."

The ocean flashes with memory. Her dumb big brother, Marinos, taunting a starving dog with a rare piece of meat during a festival. Laughing when the dog tried to leap for the food, whimpering and whining. Marinos was sad because he remembered his first set of parents and they left him on the side of the road when he was little, so he took it out on other creatures that are smaller than him, and Lyra didn't like that one bit. Lyra shoved Marinos and stomped on his hand until he let the meat go and the dog could grab it and run.

She wonders what it's like to want people to be nice to you, and just have people like Marinos pretend they might be so they can laugh at you wanting to have friends. She wonders what it's like to have a head that aches a lot, and no one to take care of you.

“Yes, my love, precisely,” he confirms, watching the memory with a glint of pride. “Your brother is only trying to protect himself from more pain.”

Achilles sees those curious thoughts behind his daughter’s clever eyes, flitting as bright as those tiny silver fish. Denying Lyra her brother makes his heart ache and he reaches for something to reward her patience. Perhaps he can safely help the two of them communicate. In a way, he already did, didn’t he? Asking questions on Lyra’s behalf, then delivering the answers …

“I can’t tell him about you just yet, but is there something you would like me to say to Pyrrhus when next I visit him?” he asks brightly, giving Lyra an encouraging bounce in his arms. “Something you want him to know? A question you want me to ask?”

Lyra brightens at the offer, but she has to chew her lip as she thinks. Something she wants him to know?

Lyra's already a very open little girl, but being in her dream just makes her thoughts more obvious. She wants to know him. She wants him to know her. She wants to know what kind of hugs he gives, if he is good at races, if he has ever touched a dolphin, if he is any good at braiding hair, if he'd mind her braiding his hair, if he will love her one day like she already loves him.

It's hard to settle on one thing she'd like to ask. One thing she wants him to know that isn't herself.

"Tell him that someone loves him a lot," she settles on. "And if he'd make some extra shell jewelry, I'd like to have it."

She's never had an adult big brother. She imagines it being much like having any other big brother, but more mellow and less dumb childish behavior like teasing dogs or crying because of a lost game. No one cuddles her in the palace like her foster family did. She wants a brother to cuddle. She hopes Mistress decides to let her have a puppy in the meantime.

Achilles watches her curiosity visibly bubble up around them. Lyra is as lovingly open as Pyrrhus is cautiously, firmly closed. She wants such simple things, but Achilles knows even those will be a challenge for her brother.

When she finally makes her request, Achilles answers with a warm smile. “I will tell him as much, and ask after another piece of jewelry. He likes to make them.”

He combs her curls back and presses a kiss to Lyra’s exposed temple. “Thank you, fledgling, for urging me to visit Pyrrhus, and for keeping your promise of patience. I know how very like your papa you are.”

He gives her side a teasing tickle in the hopes of hearing his daughter’s laugh and seeing her nose wrinkle in that adorable, familiar way.

Achilles gets just as he wants, because Lyra squeals, giggling and squirming and scrunching up her nose as she does so. Prometheus, content to quietly observe, smiles wide enough to crease the corners of his eyes as he watches the interaction.

"It was really hard. I really wanted to talk to him. But I promised, and it'd be silly if I couldn't be patient for one whole day."

The ocean flashes with another memory. Mistress Medea combing her hair. Mistress Medea had noticed Lyra was eavesdropping on her with Pyrrhus. Mistress Medea notices everything. There's no tricking her like Eu-Eu.

It's good you chose not to speak with him, she said as she drew the comb through Lyra's hair. Gods are not known to tolerate attacks on their children. Don't put your father in a position to see his lover kill his son.

Mistress Medea isn't like other grownups. She talks to Lyra like she talks to adults, and sometimes she says things like that that chill Lyra to the bone because she's smart enough to know that Mistress isn't just saying it to scare her. Mistress says things because they're true, and Lyra hadn't thought about what might happen to everyone else if her brother really did try to hurt her. It was the first time her promise to be patient felt like something actually wise, and not reluctantly indulging her daddy's worry.

He loves how clearly Hermes echoes through her expression—particularly her happiness. His lover had a less than idyllic childhood, but Achilles will do everything he can to make sure Hermes’ daughter—their daughter—has all the love she could ever need.

Medea might not provide her love, but Achilles is grateful for the wisdom on display in Lyra’s memories; she’s proven herself a fine mentor and worthy protector. Most important of all, she’s clearly won Lyra’s respect.

“I understand, fledgling. It’s very difficult for me, too. I love you both, but I must keep the two of you safe.” Lyra safe from Pyrrhus, and Pyrrhus safe from Hermes. “And when you finally meet, it will be all the sweeter.”

Achilles bends and plucks a tiny shell from the dreamy sea floor and places it in Lyra’s tiny palm. “Dream of a day when Pyrrhus teaches you to make your own jewelry from shells.”

Lyra smiles to hear her father say he loves her brother. It's far cry from how things started, but that's okay, because it's never too late to do things right as far as she's concerned. And it's right for family to love each other.

She accepts the shell, running her fingers over it with a smile. "I'll dream of it. Thank you, Daddy."

A blurry vision of Pyrrhus from a distance settles next to the underwater garden bed. He starts humming softly as he ties shells together, and the sound is warm and melodious, like how Lyra remembers his voice when she was hiding under the windowsill. In Pyrrhus' own dream, each version of himself was painted broadly with his own harsh self-image, the pathetic curves of Pyrrhus and the razor edges of Neoptolemus and the cold hard lines of the king. In Lyra's, he's just a man, one with a warm aura idealized by a little girl who'd very much like a big brother to look up to.

The differences aren’t lost on Achilles. What would Pyrrhus think about this image of himself, painted in such loving strokes? Would he ever believe someone could see him this way?

Achilles approaches the vision of Pyrrhus, Lyra still in his arms, and begins adjusting his likeness ever-so-slightly, filling in the details she couldn’t see. First, he reaches down and touches one of his fingers. “He has a bump just here, from holding his stylus for many long hours. He writes everything on tablets to help him remember.”

He gingerly draws a few lines on dream Pyrrhus’ face, creased by time and strong emotion. They follow the same pattern as Achilles’ own wrinkles. “He cares deeply for the men and women who serve his household.”

Then his fingertip traces a line on Pyrrhus’ cloak where it was mended by a careful hand. The work is nearly invisible so as to keep the king’s favorite garment neat and presentable. “And they take care for him in turn.”

The vision is pliable, ready and willing to bend to Achilles' memory. The blurred memory of Pyrrhus turns his face up towards Achilles, giving him a better view to paint in details with, like the vision itself wants memories to grant it something closer to life. As Achilles gives the vision a clearer face, he smiles, warm and gentle and unguarded. It's not a smile that would fit naturally on the real Pyrrhus' face, but on this softer, idealized vision, it fits perfectly.

"He sounds really nice," Lyra says, watching her father adjust her vision of her brother. "Not a lot of important people are nice to servants." She knows. The servants were always closer to her class than their masters', and everyone knew it.

The vision of Pyrrhus sets aside his shell jewelry and holds his arms out, silently offering to take Lyra from Achilles. The real Pyrrhus is sharp and unpredictable and wounded, but this one is safe, and he'll take care of Lyra, even if he isn't real.

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