messageforyou | For refusetofight

For refusetofight

"I didn't mean it! I didn't mean it! He's not going to die, is he? I'm sorry Mistress, I'm sorry, please go help him, he didn't mean it--"

"Hush, girl." Medea doesn't like writing out runes of a summoning circle under pressure, but time is of the essence. The lamb she'd seized from the pasture hangs from its feet, bleating pitifully as she paints the circle with its blood. Lyra is shaking, her hair loose, her bright yellow curls smeared with her brother's blood. Her bracelet rattles with her trembles, and she rests a hand on it to stop the sound, and perhaps to check that it's still there. Her eyes are red and her face blotchy and swollen from tears, but unhurt. Medea made sure she'd be unhurt. "If you want a chance of repairing this, you'll be quiet until I summon your father."

Lyra sobs, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands and trying as hard as she can to be quiet. She didn't mean to. She didn't think he'd recognize her. She just heard him talking about his new wife, and she wanted to ask questions, and it'd seemed so nice at first, he'd seemed so nice, he was just answering her questions and treating her like a curious little girl, he even showed her his spear, but then she moved too fast and the bracelet rattled and he saw it and--

How dare you, witch? She's mine!

He'd sounded so scary, like if an angry, wounded lion could talk.

She's Lord Hermes', not yours. Now leave before I take your head.

He'd been bleeding really badly. The comb wouldn't let him go. It just kept sinking more into his hand like a burrowing rodent. And his eye was all wrong after Mistress struck him, and he looked ready to eat them all alive--

Medea finishes the circle, barely taking the time to wipe the blood from her hands before putting them together. Her inner sanctum isn't as put together as usual, rushed as she was to grab everything she needed, and she breathes, "Achilles, father of Neoptolemus, father of Lyra, I call your shade to visit the land of the living once more. Right now. Do not keep us waiting."

Where previously her call was a firm but polite tug, now it's like she's trying to yank Achilles out of the Underworld by his hair.

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“Your wound should not be left untended, or you may lose your hand yet,” Achilles counters. He grimaces at the comb’s true form, twisted and lifeless on the deck, no doubt riddled with disease. Medea must have carefully engineered this as yet another gruesome way to curse an assailant. “Lykos, gather clean wraps and some vinegar—or strong wine, that will suffice to clear the corruption until a healer can be summoned.”

Ignoring the servant’s discomfort, Achilles shifts to take Pyrrhus’ injured hand in the hopes of examining the damage. The shell bracelet on his own wrist shifts incriminatingly. The anger emanating from his son is almost palpable.

“Only I am to blame for this. Stay your rage at Lady Medea. She was only performing her duty to Lord Hermes and myself.”

"So she is yours," Neoptolemus hisses, tensing and bristling as Achilles takes his hand. He doesn't dare pull it away, though, lest he aggravate the injury.

Lykos hesitates a moment, waiting to see if his lord tells him to disobey the ghost, but he doesn't, and Lykos is eager to do anything that might help keep his master's hand intact. He backs up, keeping a wary eye on Achilles as he goes to a chest at the back of the trireme under the stowed sails, clicking it open to look at the stores.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" Neoptolemus hisses, all spikes and hackles. His anger right now can't be overstated. It's too much for him to put words to right now, when he's awake and he can't write and his father is here, but he's angry. Angry that he found out by chance, angry that he has a sister who's in touch with their father, angry that someone thought it'd be a better idea to let her be watched by a witch than her brother, angry.

Were they in a dream, it'd be easier to parse through. But they're not. They're in cold reality, where Neoptolemus' ability to express himself is limited to only his words. And he's not good with words.

Achilles lifts the hand to slow the blood oozing from the comb’s ragged, gnashing bites while Lykos looks for the requested items.

“Lyra is your sister, yes,” he sighs. “Neither Lord Hermes nor I knew about her until she stole into the Underworld. This was not long ago.”

None of Achilles’ children have been planned and he’s not optimistic that will change. “As much as I dearly wanted to, I couldn’t tell you because I needed to know you. For her sake and yours. She’s my child, but more importantly, she’s the child of an Olympian.”

The first and only of Hermes’ children, Achilles wants to add, if only to drive home the risk, but he stops himself. Most mortals assume Hermes is as prolific as his siblings. Best to keep it that way. Instead, he simply warns, “Any misstep will be harshly punished.”

"You had to know me?!" Neoptolemus bristles, gritting his teeth, and he tears his wounded hand from his father's grasp. He doesn't want to touch his father right now. He's not even sure he wants to talk to his father right now. "What did you think I'd do? Pick her up and beat Grandfather to death with her?"

Lykos fumbles as he tries to gather the required materials, his hands starting to shake, but he takes a moment to pause, breathing onto his palms to soothe himself before pulling out a bottle of vinegar and scraps of cloth. Neoptolemus draws away from Achilles, pacing like a caged lion with his hand held up, the blood leaving a trail as he goes. As the dappled moonlight hits him, his injured eye looks pure red, and the pupil isn't dilating.

"Did you just get in touch because of her?" He bares his teeth as he asks, demanding an answer. But the thought feels like a hot iron on his heart. That his father might have dismissed him as unworthy of attention until he had a new, better child, one with worthier heritage, that he might need a man to one day watch over.

Achilles stands too, agitated and ashamed to hear Pyrrhus quickly guess at the truth. He notes Lykos’ struggle and strides across the trireme to wordlessly take the vinegar and cloth with an offering of soft thanks.

“In truth, yes. She convinced me to speak to you,” he says, approaching Pyrrhus again. Any progress he made in the dream visits is completely ruined, he’s sure of it. The walls are back up, perhaps twice as thick now. “She made me realize that I judged you unfairly. Meeting you confirmed it.”

He unstoppers the vinegar and smells it, judging its strength. Good enough to flush the bite.

“Sit down,” Achilles says firmly. “Your wounds grow worse.”

It feels like an arrow through the heart. Every muscle in Neoptolemus' body tenses. His nostrils flare and he lets out a breath like a bull before charging. His pacing pauses, his jaw clenching, his hand bleeding freely.

"Sit down? You tell me that it took your do-over asking for you to talk to me? And you want me to listen to you?"

Lykos flinches, holding out his hands for the vinegar and cloth. "Maybe I should be the one to--"

But Neoptolemus doesn't listen. He jerks forward, almost as if in attack, but just looms over his father, rage radiating from his body.

"And did you know then that I was going to die?" Neoptolemus demands. "Were you going to let my son be fatherless if the girl hadn't said anything?"

“I want you to leave Athens with your hand and your eye intact,” Achilles snaps. “That much we can agree on, correct?”

His son’s emotional wounds are severe, but his physical injuries are grave. Pyrrhus already suffers enough challenges with his headaches—losing a hand and an eye will only make his remaining life more miserable.

Maybe he should never have approached his son. That was more hubris. Everyone he loves is doomed to suffer. I’ve only caused him more pain, Achilles thinks. And now Lyra will hold herself responsible for her brother’s suffering, too.

“Let’s treat your wounds, then we can exchange words.” He waves the cloth and vinegar towards Lykos. “Your man can see to it if you prefer.”

Neoptolemus looks very much like he's ready to say no, they can't agree on that much, his eye and hand can go to hell and he'll live the rest of his short life in spiteful misery. But what narrow sliver of good sense he still has through the haze of his anger convinces him that he should not voluntarily maim himself to spite his father.

He thrusts his hand in Lykos' direction. Lykos, clearly used to his master's rages and sudden movements, seems a lot more nervous about taking the vinegar and cloth from Achilles than he is about pouring the vinegar on the wound.

The pain is searing. Almost worse than the cursed rat comb. The muscles in Neoptolemus' jaw bulge with how tightly he clenches his teeth, and it seems to only whet his ire further.

"Did you or did you not intend to warn me I would die before she asked you to speak to me?" He grinds out the words from between his teeth. No, he's not waiting until his injuries are treated to confront his father. His temper is running too hot, burning between his ears and behind his ribs, ready to lash out and hurt someone just as much as he's hurting right now. Maybe if things had been different, he'd be able to put it to the side for a moment to handle the more pressing issue of his injury. But things are the way they are, and he can't see past his rage and hurt.

“Lord Apollo showed me your fate, yes, and the doomed refrain of our bloodline. I had no plans to tell you. Not until that day at Anthesteria when I warned you against claiming Hermione.” And some good it did—the Morrigan still found Pyrrhus. Fate still demands its due. Achilles should have known.

He sees the stubborn rage in Pyrrhus’ eyes and if it’s half as potent as his own, there’s no return from this. There’s no hope of winning his trust.

“Your sister is more caring, more compassionate than I am. She wants you to be safe and loved, even when she heard the same tales that I had.” Achilles watches the vinegar run through the wound, glistening in the moonlight. The smell cuts sharp through the cool air. “Hate me all you please, but know that she is blameless.”

He rests his hand on his own shell bracelet. “She is the one I mentioned before. The one who loves you.”

Neoptolemus' breathing catches and hitches at the confirmation. I had no plans to tell you. It's like a splash of cold water, a choking hand on his throat. He'd demanded the answer, but he hadn't been ready to receive it, and his hands shake. Lykos is hurried about binding his injury, clearly predicting that his lord will not long wait for anything as petty as medical attention.

And yet his father is still focusing on her. On this child who he's never seen or met before, this child that came by divine intervention after he already died, after he'd already left behind a flesh and blood son born of a human mother. Why is she so much more worthy of his concern? Is it the divine heritage? The miracle birth? Or does doting on her in dreams not conflict with his quest for glory like caring for a baby in the flesh would have?

There's a wild, animal instinct to storm back to the palace, to find the girl, to twist her head off and splash her blood on the temple of Hermes. Let his father weep over her young shade for the rest of eternity, let him suffer a fraction of what Neoptolemus has already faced twice over. Let Hermes strike him down and throw him in Tartarus. The company will be better there than Elysium, anyway.

There's a sudden flare in his body language, much like an animal about to strike, but one little voice in the back of his head is the narrow string that holds him back.

Molossus.

"Why?" He's not even sure what he's saying before he's saying it. His wounded eye is still red, but his intact one is wet. His voice is hoarse, like it grinds through gravel. "Why have I given so much to you? And why did I have to learn how worthless it all was so soon before I die?"

Why is he even here? He should be home. Home with Ophelia, with Molossus, with the people who never treated him with so little regard. Why lay down his life to spite this pathetic man in front of him when he could go home and spend his days with his family?

His voice sounds far away even to himself when he says, "I wish you'd never come to Skyros. I wish you never met Mom." And he wishes he'd never been born, and never had the chance to throw his life away for someone who didn't want him in the first place.

“Did you not commit our dreams to writing? If you’ve forgotten, I’ll say it again: I love you, lad,” Achilles says with determined force. “That’s not changed. I’m proud of your persistence, your strength, your loyalty.”

Pyrrhus reminds him of a wild horse ready to rear, to bludgeon him with hooves. Furious, hurt … perhaps afraid. Achilles stands his ground. “But I warn you, don’t look to imperfect men to measure your worth. Not to me, not your grandfathers, not Agamemnon or Menelaus. You will always be disappointed.”

He remembers sitting stubbornly in his shelter at Troy, waiting for Agamemnon to fold, to soothe his wounded pride and return his geras, to acknowledge his worth. Meanwhile, those he truly cared for suffered and died in his absence.

“Look to Molossus and Ophelia.” Achilles’ eyes flick to Lykos. “The people who rely on you for protection. Their admiration and respect is worth winning.”

"I don't believe you!"

Neoptolemus' hackles rise more, baring his teeth. He is every inch an angry, wounded, frightened animal now, snapping at any hand that reaches for him.

"Love doesn't come at the request of little girls, and you don't treat people you love like you've treated me!"

He can't imagine doing a fraction to Molossus what Achilles has done to him. And he can't see past the idea that his own father would let his grandson go fatherless without a warning. Neoptolemus could have done so much more to prepare Molossus if he'd had more warning.

Lykos, thoroughly bewildered and distressed by all that's being revealed, tightens a bandage around his master's hand with trembling fingers.

"And for reasons completely unknown, you've decided a witch who killed her own kin and puts cursed rats in your daughter's hair is a more trustworthy guardian than your own son." And that offends him. It offends him that his father thinks so low of him that he'd prefer to leave the girl with a woman who has a long history of killing the vulnerable outside of war and tampers with powers beyond her ken. He doesn't even know if he'd want the responsibility of the girl, want to deal with seeing her face every day knowing what he does, but he's offended that he wasn't even consulted as her closest living male relative and thus her rightful guardian.

“Why do you think I’ve come here, Pyrrhus?” Achilles’ voice rises to meet his son’s ragged volume. “I heard of your wounds and came as quickly as I could.”

He waves a hand broadly at the dark harbor, “Who else would come to your aid?”

“And as to the matter of Lyra’s guardian—Lady Medea was chosen explicitly by Lord Apollo after he observed the threat that looms in her future.” Achilles puts extra weight on the god’s name; an Olympian far more terrifying than Hermes has eyes on Lyra. “It’s not my place to doubt the wisdom of a god.”

There will be heroes with temper problems, Apollo had foretold, and that exactly describes the man standing in front of Achilles right now. He’d always imagined Lyra would misplace her trust in a lover, but those aren’t the only dangerous men in her life.

"Apollo killed you!" Neoptolemus shouts, somehow more incredulous about this than anything else. Everything else is hurtful, but this one just seems stupid to him. "Why would you trust his word on anything?"

"My lord, your eye..." Lykos says, picking up the discarded bowl and offering it to Neoptolemus, but he's ignored.

"I think you're trying to control the damage," Neoptolemus spits, glowering at his father. Pain pulses behind his eye. Everything that's happened tonight is starting to make strange geometric patterns bloom in his vision. It just makes it harder to see in the dark, and foretells a terrible headache. "You didn't mean for me to find out about her, and now I have. The queen of Athens is holding onto my blood and tainting her with witchcraft."

If it weren't for Molossus and Ophelia waiting for him at home, he'd declare war for that offense alone. He doesn't know how he feels about the girl--their interaction had been positive, until it wasn't--but he does know that he feels that certain roles and responsibilities are sacred and a child should be in the guardianship of their closest male relative. She's his responsibility, and now she's being poisoned with foul knowledge that no mortal should have.

“Your blood?” Achilles scoffs at his son’s entitlement. “Lyra is Lord Hermes’ daughter. Lord Apollo is her uncle. You think you know better than two gods—two Olympians?”

He huffs again, shaking his head and crossing his arms tight over his chest. “Hubris, lad.”

As much as Pyrrhus’ arguments wriggle under his skin, that eye still worries Achilles. He amplifies Lykos’ timid concern. “Clean your eye if you hope to use it after tonight. You’ll struggle in battle with only the one.”

A blind spot and a lack of depth perception may rob Pyrrhus of his fighting talent or, at the very least, drop his skill closer to average. On top of that, there’s no telling how or if his hand will heal.

"One of whom killed you!" Neoptolemus emphasizes, just in case his father forgot his own death. He can't believe Achilles would let Apollo make decisions about what to do with his daughter. Apollo is just as much an enemy of their family as the House of Atreus in Neoptolemus' eyes. He very well could be deliberately sabotaging the girl's prospects--he must be, since Neoptolemus can't imagine she'll be suited at all for any husband of standing if this is how she's being educated.

He makes a disgusted noise when his father expresses concern for his eye.

"Much good it'll do me. I won't need to use it much longer!" Part of why he's so cavalier about his injuries is because he doesn't expect to live very long with or without all the different parts of his body. But the pain behind his eye pulses again, and he curses, finally turning to Lykos and beginning to splash his eye again. It doesn't seem to be doing much good. Ugh, the pain is traveling deeper in his head.

"What do you even want?" he snaps as he splashes his eye. "You want to ask me to do, or not to do something, so out with it."

“With her divine blood and beauty, Lyra will be coveted by many men; she must learn to protect herself.” Lest she end up like so many women, beholden to the whims of cruel men. Andromache, Ophelia, Aspasia, Iphigenia, Briseis, Maia … “Witchcraft is one of very few weapons she might wield—she doesn’t have our strength, but she has Lord Hermes’ sharp mind.”

Achilles gathers a nearby amphora, testing its contents. More fresh water loaded up for the last stretch to Corinth.

“I want to see that your wounds are tended. Enough splashing. Turn your head to the side and keep your eye open while I pour,” he commands, hoisting the amphora in the crook of his arm.

“Once that’s done, I would know what you intend to do next.”

"A pity that she has no living male relative capable of protecting her and brokering a worthy marriage," Neoptolemus deadpans. Really, he just finds this insulting. Does his father think he wouldn't protect the girl, or choose a husband who'd protect her in turn? Does he think he'd let her turn into Helen, married off to a cursed house with a long history of kin killing kin, making all her suitors take an oath that would lead to a ten year war? Does he think that Neoptolemus isn't perfectly willing and able to smash the heads of any pushy suitors like overripe fruit?

His nose wrinkles in distaste as his father offers to tend to his eye. He glances at Lykos instead, but Lykos just holds out his hands.

"My lord, you know I struggle carrying full amphoras," Lykos says, letting his bony hands go limp at his bony wrists for emphasis. He's a small man, clearly allowed to get comfortable with his mostly scholarly and administrative work, and he is pretty sure he'd just dump all the water on his lord's head if he tried a controlled pour on his eye.

Neoptolemus rolls his remaining good eye to the sky for a moment before huffing and turning his head for his father, impatiently brushing his hair out of the way. Lykos, as if in apology, gently gathers Neoptolemus' hair in his hands to hold more effectively. He dares a glance at Achilles from under his lashes with cringing discomfort--he's clearly much more comfortable with his master than the specter of his mythical father.

"What I intend? What does it matter? If I do something your lover doesn't like, I'm sure he'll kill me. Nothing for you to worry about." It's bitter, but the bitterness comes from a place of angry sincerity. Why should Achilles worry about what Neoptolemus does? His precious new child and her ill-advised mentor are safe whether Neoptolemus comes back for them or not. Neoptolemus is the one who wouldn't be safe, and he's utterly convinced his father would quickly get over it if he was dead. He certainly got over Neoptolemus being alive for a long time.

“She won’t grow to be a normal young woman. That much was obvious when she entered the Underworld of her own volition.” He tilts the amphora so a small but steady stream of water sluices onto Pyrrhus’ inflamed eye. “She wants to travel the world and learn all there is to know about it. I doubt anyone can stop her doing what she likes—even Lord Hermes himself.”

Achilles pauses the flow of water, giving his son a chance to blink and test the effect. “You cannot be her guardian, lad, but Lyra still wishes to know you. What I said is true: she cares about her brother.”

He doesn’t want this to be Lyra’s only memory of Pyrrhus, but can he trust his anger to die down enough to make better ones? Would letting him near Lyra again simply be tempting fate?

Achilles cocks his head. “Do you want to know her?”

Neoptolemus is more resistant than most to the discomfort of water in his eye, but that doesn't mean he enjoys having a stream running over his eyeball. He pauses and blinks, but it's hard to tell if it's had any effect. It's so dark out.

Neoptolemus huffs, focusing instead on the girl. "When I was her age, I wanted to grow up and tame Pegasus. And Molossus wants to build a kingdom underwater. Children have impossible dreams. What does indulging her do but set her up to be raped and murdered by some highwayman before she's fully grown?"

The story of her wandering into the Underworld seems impossible. He believes his father is telling the truth, but he's sure it's not as impressive as it sounds. Perhaps she met her divine father and he gave her the secret to cross the barrier. She's far too small to have done anything so dangerous without a scratch.

At the very least, Neoptolemus believes his father when he says the girl cares. She'd looked at him with such naked admiration. He thought it was the novelty of meeting a king and warrior of legend and had been happy to indulge her interest, but no. It must have been her joy at being able to talk to her brother, and the thought makes him... well, he doesn't know all the things the thought makes him, besides perhaps uncomfortable.

Does he want to know her?

"Ugh." He brushes the question off. "I don't have time to know her. Have you told her?"

It's easier to deflect from the question, because he's honestly not sure. Maybe if he weren't dying soon, yes, but his time is limited and his attention should be reserved for his wife and son. He knows that the sins of their father aren't her fault, but he's angry anyway, and skittish. Skittish of a child who has already decided she loves a man she doesn't know and would surely be disappointed in the reality, skittish of any mistake inspiring the wrath of her divine father and possibly catching his own family in the crossfire. Curious too, maybe. But he's learned to listen to fear before indulging curiosity.

“Lyra is already as headstrong as either of us, and she has Lord Hermes’ insatiable curiosity. She won’t tolerate boundaries, even if they’re set for her own good.” Achilles shifts the amphora so he can lean in and examine Pyrrhus’ eye, even daring to raise a hand to his cheek to gingerly press at the red, swollen skin around his lids.

“All Lord Hermes and I can do is arm her as best we can.” It doesn’t help that Hermes is a busy right hand to the new queen of Olympus and Achilles is a shade, almost entirely bound to the Underworld.

And soon Pyrrhus will be, too.

Achilles grimaces. “I haven’t told her of your fate. She’ll be sad to hear it, but she’s the child of a psychopomp; the inevitability of death doesn’t disturb her. I know she’ll cherish any time you give her.”

“No child tolerates boundaries until you teach them to,” Neoptolemus says. But why is he arguing? If Achilles wants to fuck up another child, who is Neo to stop him? Let the girl die because she was taught she was above the reality of the world. He washes his hands of it.

When Achilles touches his face, he jerks back on instinct and swats the hand away with a glower. Just because he was forced to accept his father pouring the water doesn’t mean he’s willing to be touched or given affection. He doesn’t want to be lulled into a false sense of security again, knowing what he knows now.

There’s some cold comfort knowing that at least he knows of his own demise before the girl.

He tries to position his face to look towards the dim light of the moon, poking the swollen skin around his own eye. But he sees nothing from that side. As the moonlight hits it, it’s clear that the eye is too far gone. The surface was eaten away by the poison, and the whole eye has gone red and gray.

It sinks in slowly. He keeps trying to look at the moon from his right eye. He clenches and unclenches his fists.

“It doesn’t matter if she’d cherish it. I don’t have the time.” His hands settle into fists. His good eye narrows at Achilles. “She lives in Athens. At the rate you’re going, she may have other brothers, but Molossus will only have one father. I’ll be in Epirus with him and Ophelia until my time comes.” And if he’s not taking Lyra with him, he’s not spending time with her.

“Is that all?” his voice hardens with the reality of his partial blindness. He’s sick of this place. He’s sick of dealing with dead fathers and witches and eager child sisters. He wants to go home to his wife and son.

Frustration, grief, anger, disappointment—they all tighten together into a hard, choking knot inside Achilles’ chest. It pulls his limbs taut and sets his teeth. Failure. He hasn’t felt anything like it since he laid eyes on Patroclus’ corpse.

He’s failed both of his children.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Achilles says thickly, neck bobbing, “but I don’t want to hurt you.”

Pyrrhus’ wounds were mostly invisible before, but now the ruin of Pyrrhus’ right eye and the bloodied bandages wrapping his hand are a grotesque indictment of Achilles’ poor choices.

He bows his head. “I leave the choice to you: say the word and I’ll not speak to you again. I’ll see that Lyra does the same.” He swallows again and his mouth draws tight before he raises his gaze to add, “And if you have a change of heart, send word and I will come. I promise.”

In this moment, Neoptolemus hates his father a little bit. It'd be so much easier if Achilles didn't look so emotional. It'd be so much easier if Achilles didn't value him at all, rather than just valuing him... not enough. Somehow it hurts so much more, knowing that his father cares, but not enough to have ever prioritized him, in life or death.

(Maybe it's just him. Maybe there really is some kind of mark on his soul that makes him inherently unlovable.)

"You never had a son," he says instead. "And I never had a father. It's best we both recognize that."

Neoptolemus buries his face in his hands. His heart is breaking. Everything feels so heavy suddenly. It feels like he wasted his whole life, and only realized too late that the people he worked so hard to honor weren't worthy of any effort in the first place.

"Go to your daughter. Leave me to go to my son."

Achilles feels the hot press of tears behind his eyes. The amphora in his hands creaks and pops under the pressure of his tightening grip. He kneels and places it back on the deck of the trireme before it shatters. Another thing he held too tight.

“You’re right,” he breathes, still knelt and staring at the tiny cracks in the pottery. “I wish I could be your father, but … I don’t know how. I’m sorry I hurt you, Pyrrhus. I hurt you again and again.”

He rises and scrubs his hands over his face, hiding a few tears that have rolled down his cheeks. “I hope that someday—perhaps in the afterlife … if I can’t be a father to you, I can at least be a friend. Someone who loves you.”

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