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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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The vulture and its missive find Achilles on the bank of the Lethe, speaking with Charon about the matter of finding specific shades in Asphodel. The boatman gives a noncommittal groan, clearly inviting some kind of barter to make it worth his while.

The exchange is interrupted by the great beating of wings and terrible cry of the carrion bird. Neither Achilles nor Charon are particularly rattled by it; Achilles has seen it once before and Charon isn’t visibly rattled by much of anything. The ferryman’s eyes glow with a mild curiosity, wondering what business a Titan’s familiar has in the Underworld.

Achilles skims the parchment and bows to Charon, apologizing before taking his leave. Asphodel will have to wait—an audience with Prometheus takes precedence. Charon only shrugs and dips his oar to push his barge back into the river’s current. He thinks Achilles might be one of the busiest shades in the Underworld.

Prometheus won’t have to wait long: Achilles arrives with the requested mortal in tow. None other than Patroclus, who is also one of the few mortals Achilles trusts to be part of this conversation.

“Lord Prometheus,” Achilles says with a greeting nod. “You look well. Thank you for making the journey.” He gestures to Pat. “As requested, I’ve brought a mortal companion. This is Patroclus, son of Menoetius.”

The idea of meeting a Titan made Pat uneasy, but Prometheus’ humble presence somewhat calms his nerves. He gives a polite bow. “Greetings, my lord.”

"Oh, Achilles, of course I'd come if you asked." Prometheus would come if any human asked, honestly. He adores them all like his own children. He pats the cheetah's head to get it off of his legs. It yawns, showing off rows of sharp teeth, before it rises and shakes itself off.

"And Patroclus, is your name?" Prometheus picks up a cane from the ground, using it to hoist himself up to his feet. His movements have a painful rigidity to them, like an old man bent from arthritis and age, but he still manages a bright smile as he reaches out to Patroclus. "You. You're beautiful. Come here, son, come here so I can see you."

Is it possible that he wanted Achilles to bring a mortal so he could fuss over them? Okay, maybe a little, but there's a purpose beyond that. He'd assure Achilles of that if he weren't so busy glowing over how utterly perfect Patroclus is like a proud father.

Patroclus’ eyes follow the cheetah curiously. At first glance, he’d thought the creature was a pelt draped over the god’s knees, its body is so long and thin. But the strange animal will have to wait. Prometheus is addressing him.

Pat immediately sees the stiffness in the Titan’s motions—what a strange thing for a god—and approaches to give him a steadying arm. Before he can reach Prometheus, those next words pause his feet mid-stride …

The warmth and fatherly love in his face and tone is … well, it’s not something Patroclus is accustomed to. The only person who comes close to showing him such adoration is Achilles, and that’s different.

He can feel a hot, embarrassed flush rising in his cheeks, but he shakes off his discomfort and stands next to the god, arm offered for support. “Had I known you suffered such pain, I would have brought water from the Lethe. A soak would ease your aching limbs.”

Prometheus takes the offered arm, and he smiles at Patroclus with the complete and unadulterated admiration of a doting father. How good of the boy to help him stand.

"You're a sweet boy, you are." Prometheus pats Pat's arm gently. His hands are thin and weathered, but they're still covered in thick calluses from his work. "But don't you worry. I hardly notice. I've been through much worse, believe me."

He chuckles at his own joke. Arthritis doesn't seem so painful after an eternity having his liver ripped out.

He doesn't ask before cupping Pat's chin, turning his face. It might come across as patronizing or controlling from any other god, but Prometheus does it with the air of a doting parent or grandparent. "You're so handsome. And healthy! And a bent for medicine and caretaking? Yes, you have a kind face. Not so many smile lines, though."

Prometheus pats Patroclus' cheek. His smile is warm with unconditional love. "I'm sorry you perished so early, Patroclus. But you're perfect. Simply perfect."

Edited 2024-07-16 03:35 (UTC)

Achilles is beginning to wonder if there’s any creature on all of Gaia that Prometheus wouldn’t praise as perfect and beautiful. Watching him dote on Pat doesn’t come across as disingenuous, though. The Titan’s eyes are deeply fond and his voice has an authentic softness.

Patroclus feels a stinging pressure in his eyes and, blinking back tears, he avoids Prometheus’ gaze. With nothing but a few kind words, the god has cracked right through the hard shell that protects the part of Pat that’s still a little boy, desperate for fatherly approval.

“Your praise is generous, my lord, but wholly undeserved,” Patroclus manages to say, voice thick.

Achilles sighs and shakes his head. “Patroclus has never been fond of compliments, Lord Prometheus, not even from me.”

All humans are perfect to Prometheus, perfect in the way that a child is perfect to a parent. Made ever more perfect by their unique flaws, their foibles, their stumbles and vulnerabilities.

Prometheus softens, patting Patroclus' hand gently. "I've embarrassed you. I'm sorry, dear boy." Embarrassed is the wrong word. Prometheus knows humans intimately, knows their needs and patterns, and he knows what a human looks like when they're starved for a particular kind of love and approval. But he won't point that out, because that truly would be embarrassing.

"I don't give my praise lightly, though I'm sure it seems that way. Humans must seem very mundane to each other. But to me, you're all my children, and I'm very excited to meet you." Him, Patroclus, individually. Prometheus is excited to meet every human individually, but that doesn't make his love for each and every one any less special and intense to him.

He pats Patroclus' hand again. "Now, before I embarrass you further, let's hear why I've been summoned, mmm?" He holds out his hand to Achilles, gesturing him closer. He also wants a chance to greet Achilles properly with affection and fussing. "Come here, come here. Hermes said that your son had a sickness of the mind, but he wasn't sure what it was. Can you give me details?"

Patroclus only nods mutely. He desperately wants to be skeptical—Prometheus is a god and gods aren’t to be trusted—but his heart is still hungry for those words, that look of pride Menoetius never showed him.

When attention (thankfully) shifts to Achilles, Pat grimaces and furtively swipes fingertips under one eye, then the other.

Achilles crosses to take Prometheus’ hand, grasp it firmly and give him a kiss on swollen, arthritic knuckles. He utters his gratitude and then begins:

“Yes. My son, Pyrrhus. Hermes calls it a sickness of the mind, and I suppose that must be so.” Achilles pensively scrubs his jaw with a hand. “He was just a babe at his mother’s breast when I was called to war. Only ten years later—after my death—he took my place in battle. Still but a child and dragged into such bloodshed …”

Prometheus smiles warmly as Achilles kisses his hand, giving Achilles' hand an affectionate squeeze. But then he listens to the explanation, and he frowns in thought and some concern.

"He was ten years old and he took your place as a soldier? A full soldier? Who went into battle to fight other soldiers? And he survived?" That's clearly the most surprising part to Prometheus. He hums softly, both impressed and slightly horrified. "His divine blood must have made him durable. Physically, at least."

Because Prometheus doesn't think that a purely mortal prepubescent human child would stand much of a chance against trained grown soldiers in direct combat. He honestly doesn't think a purely mortal prepubescent human child would stand much of a chance against any pack of grown men, training and profession be damned.

But surviving isn't the only important part of battle. He frowns. "Tell me everything you know about his experience in the war. Then tell me what makes you believe he's ill--what unusual behavior, what symptoms you noticed."

Achilles nods somberly. “The Fates foretold that Troy would not fall without him, and the prophecy held true. Even at his young age, he slew seasoned warriors, women, children … His ruthlessness was unmatched.”

His eyes drift to the fire, casting dancing shadows. “The first person he killed was a woman. Over a petty slight.”

Pat’s brow knits and his beard twists around a deep frown. Achilles reluctantly told him about Briseis’ fate. It took a very long walk with Méli to burn off his dark mood after that. Now he takes a step back and quietly extends a hand for the big, lanky cat to sniff.

“He’s a man grown now. His mother was the only person to show him love. Everyone else feared or reviled him—and rightly so,” Achilles continues grimly. “I met him for the first time in thirty-odd years when I walked the surface for Anthesteria. He struck me as an angry, mistrustful man.“

The cheetah, for its part, has little interest in the conversation being had. It has more interest in the hand extended to it. It sniffs curiously, and after a moment of judging the quality of Patroclus' scent, it raises its chin a little in invitation. Patroclus may touch its fur. He'll find it's nothing like a domestic cat's, and feels more like stiff sandpaper.

Prometheus frowns at what Achilles tells him, nodding as he looks at the ground. There isn't any surprise in his expression. Just a touch of sadness. Pity, maybe.

"When did he kill this woman? Before or after he went to war? Who was the she to him? Was she a person that the adults in authority around him may have given the impression was tolerable to harm? Or was she in a place of authority over him? And what was the slight that drove him to kill her?" Clearly, Prometheus is doing some kind of math in his head, math with factors and variables that Patroclus and Achilles don't know about. Yet, at least.

The furrow in his brow grows deeper. The next question has an air of someone who thinks he already knows the answer, and really wants to be wrong. "And... do you know if they had a helmet sized for a ten-year-old for him to battle in?"

Pat runs a hand through the cheetah’s fur and hooks fingers to scratch behind its ears. Most animals (at least, the ones that have ears) appreciate this, he knows. He divides his attention between the big cat and the somber conversation.

“When he first arrived at Troy. The woman was my geras, given over to him in my stead. She claimed that I meant to marry her, which my son took as a grievous insult—to himself and his mother.” Achilles exhales and spares Patroclus an apologetic glance. “And he beat her to death for it.”

Achilles cocks his head, surprised by Prometheus’ other question. “As to his helmet, I cannot say for certain, but I find it unlikely.”

If it’s important, he could probably ask Odysseus or Ajax if Pyrrhus had armor crafted to his child’s size, but he can’t begin to guess why Prometheus would find this detail essential.

The cheetah starts to purr, low and loud, exactly as Hermes once purred in the same form.

Prometheus takes a breath, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He's calm, but for that moment, he looks tired, like he knows he's going to have to deliver very, very bad news.

Then his eyes are open again. His expression is like a teacher, getting ready to tutor a new pupil.

"Do you remember when I told you that brains were the secret to making humans, humans? Let's talk about brains. Patroclus, I hope you don't mind if I use yours as a model."

Without waiting for a response, Prometheus flicks his fingers, and an illusion appears between them. It's a perfectly intact brain, grayish and pink, with red threads of tissue woven around the bones of the base of the neck fading downward into nothingness, as if connected to an invisible spine.

And without giving the humans a moment to process what's in front of them--forgetting for the moment that this is probably the first and only time they've ever seen an entirely intact brain functioning outside of the body--Prometheus flicks his fingers again. The illusory brain separates into three pieces: the stem, some kind of mini-brain located in the back end, and the largest portion that seems to be most of the outside of the organ.

"Every single part of the brain is very important, but we're going to focus on this part today," Prometheus says, cupping his hands to manipulate the illusion and make the largest part of the brain larger so it's easier for the humans to see. It's a grayish, wrinkly thing, but as he magnifies it, there are sparks of electricity that occasionally visible within the folds. "This is the portion of the human brain that's most unlike most of my other creations. This is the part that grows most throughout your childhood and adolescence, and this is the part that manages higher functions that are essential to thriving in a human society. Understand so far?"

Patroclus pauses petting the cheetah and opens his mouth to choke out a what? but the illusion leaves him dumbstruck.

Prometheus would be right; neither of the two mortals have seen the organ in this complete state. More often, they encountered brains smashed with accompanying skulls. Through Chiron, and in Pat’s case Machaon and Podalirius, they had both been taught that it was important. It’s a mysterious thing—the seat of the psyche—and there’s little to be done for injuries and maladies of the brain.

Achilles gives a low hum of tentative comprehension. It’s strange to think that this grey hunk of flesh would determine how someone behaves with others. Prometheus made humans, though, so it must be true. Achilles holds up this information against what he knows about Pyrrhus. “Childhood and adolescence … is that to say my son’s brain did not grow adequately?”

Prometheus hums noncommittally. "Well, first, let me tell you about empathy."

He rotates the largest part of the brain in the air, careful to give Patroclus and Achilles a good view of every angle. "Empathy is a multi-layered thing that starts to develop within a few months of birth, but doesn't finish developing until roughly one's late twenties, give or take depending on the human in question."

He copies the illusion of the brain, then shrinks the copy, de-aging it until it's only a fraction of the size and many of the wrinkles have smoothed out. "An infant doesn't know that there are people that exist beyond it. As far as it understands, it is the only feeling creature in the world, and it cannot comprehend anything different." As he speaks, the infant brain starts to change before their eyes. It folds more wrinkles as it grows, still not the same size as the direct copy of Patroclus' brain, but resembling it more. "As an infant grows into their first few years, their brain grows and they learn that not only are they not the only feeling creature in the world, but other creatures' feelings are motivated by similar things."

The expansion of the child brain is faster now. The portion Prometheus is showing grows, folding on itself to create more and more space for itself to swell.

"As children grow, their capacity for empathy grows as well. Depending on a child's temperament and their environment, their ability to express empathy can progress faster or slower than average. But most children will still see their parents or other guardians as the center of the world. They look to trusted adults to give them approval, and through those adults they learn the boundaries of acceptable behavior in different situations until they're old enough to create peer groups of their own to begin learning from."

The young brain stops growing. It's not quite yet the same size as Patroclus'.

"This is roughly the stage of development I expect from a ten-year-old, especially a lonely one." Prometheus cups his hands around the brain, as if it's precious. And it is. Even the illusion is. "At this point in life, a child is unlikely to empathize with experiences that are too far from their own--for example, a prince empathizing with a slave. Their imagination and social understanding isn't developed enough to comprehend it intuitively like an adult can. An adult sees an unknown woman beaten to death and they see a tragedy. They feel a tragedy. Most children at this stage of development see a curiosity instead, and because they cannot feel the impact of what they're witnessing, they have a greater capacity to participate in the horror in unique ways to sate that curiosity."

Prometheus sighs heavily. He knows that no one is going to like what he has to say next.

"Achilles, your son was in a very vulnerable state of development, taken into a novel situation where men in authority who resembled his recently deceased father told him to kill people who aren't Greek, and he'd have their approval if he did. A Non-Greek woman he was told was his property insulted his recently deceased father by questioning his honor and threatening his mother with shame--petty for an adult, but for a grieving child whose world still revolves around his parents, an existential threat from someone he'd already been implicitly encouraged to kill." Prometheus releases the brain and lets it float in the air next to Patroclus' adult brain. They both spark with intermittent lights, traveling up and down and into the folds.

"It wasn't that your son's brain didn't grow adequately. It grew perfectly normally, as far as I can tell. If you took a random sample of a hundred children and put them in the same situation with the same combat capability, the majority of them would have done the same or worse. Not because they're cruel, but because their brains haven't finished growing." Prometheus lets his hands fall. "Adults don't know this because most children aren't used as soldiers, and those that are die quickly. But he acted as most other children would have. And he was treated as aberrant for it."

Both men watch and listen with rapt attention. They might be the first humans to learn these secrets of the brain front he very god who designed it.

As Prometheus speaks, Achilles can’t help but compare his two children: Pyrrhus, utterly bereft of empathy and Lyra with a startling surplus. Lyra is still so young, but can empathize with adults—the people in her village, Patroclus, her own older brother. Hermes’ divinity must be accelerating her ability to understand others.

… All this while Pyrrhus remains woefully stagnant.

Achilles looks at the small, 10-year-old brain, brow deeply furrowed. “What does this mean for him now? Can he still learn empathy? Can he become a better man? Or is he fated to remain callous and cruel?”

Then, thinking of Molossus, he quickly adds: “He has a young son … what of him? Will he inherit his father’s flaws?”

“I can’t know the answers to those questions for sure without meeting them myself. But I have a theory.”

Prometheus gestures again. The ten-year-old brain becomes encased in translucent illusory liquid, and then a transparent head encases both, growing into a featureless mannequin of a child with its brain visible.

“It would be very normal for him to be sick after experiencing war. It’s normal for adults, too. Times of extreme stress and fear for one’s life or the life of others leaves imprints on the brain, and it can cause people to be haunted by paranoia, persistent melancholy, extreme nightmares, preoccupation with thoughts of it happening again… It wouldn’t surprise me if Pyrrhus experiences this, but what you and Hermes described to me sounds deeper than that.”

He gestures to the child mannequin. His eyes are sad.

“This portion of the brain—the one you have watched grow—is the key to a human’s ability to function socially. Impulse control, emotional regulation, reading expressions, making emotional connections with other people, planning ahead to make reasoned decisions, and accurately assessing threats all happen here. Now, imagine if a child isn’t finished growing, and he goes into battle without a proper helmet to protect his head.”

Prometheus picks up his walking stick and slams the butt into the mannequin’s temple. It stumbles, as if a solid creature, and the brain visibly bashes against the inside the skull, then snaps back and bashes the other side against the skull. The mannequin straightens and shakes its head, holding the previously neutral pose, but the portions of the brain that hit the skull swell and turn purple. Then they turn black. And before everyone’s eyes, the black parts of the brain liquefy, melting away deeper and deeper until just a gaping pit is left where those portions of tissue were.

“Lost parts of the brain do not grow back,” Prometheus says gravely. “Not any more than lost fingers.”

What Prometheus says rings true; even if Achilles’ demigod physique suffered little physical injury, even if his limbs never grew tired, he would return to his shelter exhausted in ways he couldn’t articulate. Patroclus saw it, though, and did his best to soothe his lover even as he suffered through his own agonies. Ten long years of this took a toll, and those cumulative wounds still ache.

What would that same experience do to a child?

But then Prometheus introduces another factor. Patroclus hums his understanding. Even with their helmets, so many soldiers were bashed with shields, thrown from chariots, slammed to the ground. They suffered from dizziness and lingering pain, but most pushed through for fear of seeming weak. Clearly, their injuries were more lasting, possibly more grievous than any of the surgeons or physicians knew.

Achilles feels as if his heart is being wrung by a great fist. He sags down to take a seat on a stone, cupping his face in dismay. If this is true—and it must be—his son is more deeply wounded than he imagined. More importantly, this wasn’t Pyrrhus’ fault. He didn’t choose this for himself.

“Lord Prometheus, please … Is there nothing to be done for him? Is this the boy’s fate?”

“I can’t know without meeting him. A lot depends on where and how extensive the damage was, how his brain grew around it, what adaptive skills he developed to deal with it and which he didn’t…”

Prometheus gestures to Patroclus to help him sit down. His joints creek as he settles on a rock next to Achilles. He reaches out to the kettle boiling over his fire, and he pours dark thin liquid into a cup that smells fragrant and lightly herbal.

“But it’s very likely that you’ll have to reframe your thinking about Pyrrhus from matters of virtue to matters of effort and capability. Because if my theory is correct, he will never be able to meet the same standard as a man who was never injured in the same way. A man with no hands will never play the lyre, no matter how hard he works, and making that the standard he must meet to be worthy of attention is cruel. But a man with no hands may, with great effort and some help, learn how to use prosthetics, and may learn how to lay tiles for a mosaic.”

Prometheus offers the steaming cup to Achilles.

“Drink this. My brother made a plant that makes something quite good for soothing humans when the leaves are infused in hot water. He calls it tea.”

Pat dutifully helps the old Titan take a seat, then unclasps his Myrmidon’s cloak and drapes it over the god’s knees. He settles himself on the ground and feeds the fire fresh kindling to help warm aching joints.

Achilles sighs. He was hoping for an easier answer—or at least a definitive one—to put him at ease. Instead, he’s only learned that he’s probably asked his son to do the impossible.

He breathes a soft thank you for the odd drink and takes a polite, curious sip. “May I ask your advice on a related matter, my lord?”

He turns the cup in his hands as he elaborates: “I have a second child. She’s still quite young and wants nothing more than to meet her elder brother. To help him in some way. I’ve forbidden her from approaching him—I worry about his jealousy—but I wonder if there will ever be a time when the two can safely meet.”

Prometheus smiles warmly, patting Pat's hands affectionately as he lays his cloak over the old Titan's knees.

He pours another cup of tea, offering it to Patroclus, and he hums as he considers the question.

"I wish I could give you a clear answer. But once more, I'd need to meet the boy first. I'd need to assess the damage, how his brain healed and grew around it, and I'd need to assess his ability to learn new skills."

Prometheus rests his hands in his lap, staring at the fire as he thinks, frowning in consideration. The corners of his eyes soften as he looks to Achilles.

"I've given you poor news, I know. But I want you to know it's better than it could have been. Many people with these injuries will also suffer much, much more debilitating conditions, like losing the ability to make memories, or to speak, or to see movement. It's very likely he had more visible symptoms when he was younger, and he already learned how to work around them."

Prometheus leans forward and rests a hand on Achilles' knee. "The fact he lives independently, that he held a conversation with you, even if he was rough around the edges--that's a testament to your son's resilience and determination. Every success he's had since the war, he accomplished with weights no one, not even him, knew he was carrying. You should be proud of that, and it should give you hope for his ability to improve."

Patroclus understands Prometheus’ hesitance to give definitive answers. A good physician needs to examine symptoms before diagnosing them. Some ailments can be made worse with the wrong treatments.

But Pat also knows how much Achilles hates uncertainty. He likes clear answers, confident solutions.

Achilles listens to Prometheus’ reassurance, eyes firmly set on his dark tea. The Titan is right, but … “I feel terrible. I didn’t plan to speak with him at all. I heard the stories of his loathsome deeds and wanted nothing to do with him.”

His hands wring at the cup. Achilles could probably shatter it if he wanted to. “As if any of this was his choice … He was just a child …”

If Paris had stolen Helen sooner, if Odysseus and Diomedes had recruited him earlier, Achilles might have been in the same broken state as his son.

“I’m in no position to ask you more favors, Lord Prometheus, but … should your travels ever take you to Epirus, would you speak with him?” Looking like he does, Achilles can’t imagine the god traveling very far—certainly not as easily as Hermes—but he made it to the mouth of the Styx, so … “Perhaps you could glean the depth of his wounds?”

Prometheus hums softly in understanding. He hums a lot like Hermes does. "You don't need to ask me, dear boy. I already planned on it." He withdraws his hand, resting it on his own knee as he looks back at the illusion of the child, its brain so obviously damaged in comparison to the adult brain. "For his own sake, and for the sake of future humans who find themselves in his situation."

Prometheus hadn't expected a child to survive war in direct combat with other adults, but if it's happened once then it will happen again, whether through advancements in human medicine or warfare. He wants to know as much as he can about Pyrrhus and his experience so he can help the next unfortunate child.

Prometheus rubs his knees. The cloak and the fire help him, but they still ache.

"I heard you were at war for ten years before you died. Am I right to say that means you spent most of your adult life at war?" Prometheus pours himself tea. The heat helps soothe the pain in his hands. "War isn't any better at teaching adults compassion than it is children. Especially not when it lasts so long, and consumes so much of one's life experience."

Prometheus keeps his voice gentle. It's nothing but the unconditional love of a parent who knows their child's flaws and loves them anyway.

"Maybe it will be easier to have compassion for your son if you also have compassion for yourself." Prometheus sips his tea. "You made decisions you regret. Every regret is an opportunity to learn, and to make decisions you're prouder of in the future."

“Thank you,” Achilles breathes, equally relieved and grateful. The gentle, steady way Prometheus speaks puts him at ease.

“It’s true. Much of my life was consumed by war. Or preparing for it.” He was lucky his parents saw fit to round out his education beyond his martial training. “At first, the battles were thrilling. This was what I was made for, after all.”

“But then it changed you,” Patroclus interjects. “It changed us both, but it made you into someone else entirely.”

“Callous. Brutal. Vengeful. Not unlike Pyrrhus,” Achilles agrees gravely. “One of my greatest regrets is that we followed the same bloody path. He should have had a chance to learn from my mistakes, not make them again.”

He compares his hands to Prometheus’. There’s little to indicate that one set belongs to a human and one to a god. Or that one set formed the other from primordial clay. “Isn’t that the prerogative of mortals? To learn and become better than their fathers?”

Prometheus listens thoughtfully, nodding slowly as they speak. But at the question, he gives a soft chuckle.

"The prerogative of mortals is to live their lives as they do, for better and for worse. Hopefully, they learn from their parents and surpass them, but that's not always the case. The ones who don't are no less worthy of love." At least, no less worthy of Prometheus' love. He understands why humans come to despise each other so much sometimes, but he can't look at even the worst behaving human and disown them. He made them with his own two hands. Every flaw, every foible, every failing, it came from how he made them. How can he ever hold that against his own creation?

The cheetah stretches, yawning, showing rows of sharp teeth before sitting down at Patroclus' side. Prometheus smiles at his cat creation, admiring how the fire reflects on its fur for a moment.

"Tell me, Achilles, if you would indulge an old man..." Prometheus settles his elbows on his knees as he leans forward, deliberately casual, like he's about to ask a question he knows the answer to. But even so, his voice is gentle, nonjudgmental as a loving grandfather. "...Do you see Pyrrhus as his own man? Or only as a younger you?"

Patroclus rests a hand on the cheetah’s big, round head. The wiry fur so reminds him of a dog.

He’s never heard a god speak like Prometheus does. The majority of gods—Pat assumes—see mortals as animals. Lesser beasts to be toyed with. The old Titan seems to adore mortals as a father would love his children. A suspicious part of Pat wants to believe it’s a ruse, but as he watches him speak to Achilles, Prometheus’ voice, his face are too genuine.

As gently as it’s posed, the question still pierces deep and painful as an arrow buried between his ribs. Achilles takes a long sip of tea to buy himself time to recover.

“In truth, the latter,” Achilles finally sighs. “Particularly after meeting him. Seeing his face and his manner. He is not so much a reflection as … hm. As a shadow, I suppose.”

Achilles thumbs at a drip of tea slipping down the outside curve of his cup. “It doesn’t help matters that he doesn’t know how to be his own man.”

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