If Achilles wasn’t gripped by worry for his son, he might have had space for some nostalgia; the last time he boarded a ship like this was at Troy. Even in the dark, he moves easily across the deck, avoiding oars laid to rest and coiled lengths of rope.

“Pyrrhus,” he breathes, once he’s close enough to make out some of the grisly extent of his wounds. It’s strange to see his son contained by the bounds of his flesh, not broken into discrete facets within the vastness of a dream. “Lad, I’ve come to help.”

He kneels by his son, offering the mummified tail. It seems like a dubious offering, but anything that can circumvent amputation is surely worth consideration. Assuming, of course, that Medea was telling the truth. “Quickly. This will release the comb.”