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"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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“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.”

Neoptolemus keeps his hands over his face. His breath catches. He doesn't want to look at Achilles, doesn't want him to see how utterly shattered and broken he feels. It's like all the fragile pieces of his heart have been crushed under the hammer of Hephaestus.

"Just go."

Lykos, who's been trying very hard to be easy to ignore, bites his lip and looks very much like he wants to say something, eyes darting between Neoptolemus and Achilles. He takes a deep breath, rubbing his hands on his thighs to soothe himself.

"I must go find a healer for your hand, Lord. Sir, I'll see you off the ship."

Lykos does a very good job of pretending his hand doesn't shake as he gestures for Achilles to walk with him. He does not want to be alone with the ghost of a warrior known for his homicidal rage, but whatever he wants to say in private is pushing him to put his neck on the line.

Achilles watches his son for a long moment, imagining those hidden parts of him—the tender, frightened boy, the young warrior, and the dispassionate king shielding them all. How bitterly are the three of them struggling against each other?

“I wish you well—you and your family,” he says softly. As he steps past his son, Achilles extends a hand half-way to his shoulder. It hovers uncertainly before he withdraws it, swallowing hard and turning to Lykos instead.

His focus has been so tightly on Pyrrhus that only now does he actually see the servant and properly register his unease. He gives Lykos a weary nod as he falls in step with him, quashing the urge to look back.

Lykos walks with Achilles giving a worried glance back to his master, waiting until they're out of earshot and they're in the harbor.

The blurry likeness of Lykos in Neoptolemus' dreams is softer, with lines around his eyes that speak to intelligence and reliability. The real Lykos is a scrawny man, best suited for administrative work than labor. And he's very aware of it, fighting not to cringe away from Achilles' presence. Every beat of his heart warns him to run, that he's not safe, he's in the presence of the dead and the spirit of a man who killed more men than Lykos can count.

He opens his mouth. He can't speak for a moment. The fear is stealing his voice. His hands tremble at his sides. He could just turn around and leave.

He thinks of his master, and how easily he's able to stare down any threat until it wilts in the power of his gaze.

Lykos squeezes his hands, taking a deep breath through his nose, and looks at Achilles. Not at his eyes, oh no, he's not courageous enough for that, but his face.

"It's not my place, sir," he says, voice trembling just a little. "And I'm sorry for speaking out of turn. But I'm a father too, and I don't think I've always been a very good one. I've failed my girl many times. And I'll probably fail her many more."

His fear is so great that tears press the back of his eyes. This is why Lykos isn't a warrior, why he isn't like his master. Fear paralyzes him, makes him into a sniveling mess. But he pushes forward anyway.

"Lord Neoptolemus has always treasured your memory. And he's prone to fits of temper. I think he'll regret pushing you away, but he's not very good at admitting when he regrets things." Lykos rubs his sweaty palms on his tunic. Come on, Lykos, you can squeeze out a few more words, you can do it for your lord. "If you would give him a few weeks to cool down, and you send a sign that you still welcome his company, I think he'd want to talk again."

Lykos’ behavior is familiar, but Achilles has mostly forgotten how he appears to common people—both as a demigod hero and now as a shade. Most of the dead who came through the House were too dazed and distraught to register him as anyone intimidating, particularly when standing in the shadow of Chthonic gods.

Achilles regains some of his composure for Lykos’ sake. “Be at ease, my friend. I’ve no quarrel with you—if anything I owe you my gratitude. You care for my son and his household.”

And now, in spite of his fear, he musters the courage to give Achilles thoughtful counsel. He can see why Pyrrhus values this man. “I confess, Lykos, I don’t know how to be the father he needs. What if— … what if when I try again, I only cause him more pain?”

Be at ease. The gentle instruction allows Lykos to breathe a little easier. He never knew anyone who knew Achilles in life, but they're not at war, so Lykos is pretty sure he's safe. Hopefully.

"You will." He takes another breath and swallows hard. His hands start to relax at his sides, his voice growing a little more steady. He still doesn't dare meet Achilles' eyes, but it's easier to talk. "We all hurt our children, no matter how hard we try not to. We hurt them the day they're born, because we know the world will be cruel and unfair to them and we've brought them here anyway."

He clasps his hands in front of him, dropping his gaze further, the corners of his eyes softening as he thinks on his own daughter. "But that doesn't mean the good things we do for our children don't outweigh the bad. And it doesn't mean that they don't still want us, don't still need us. Even when they're all grown up. I think all children push their parents away one day, and it's important for them to know we still love them, and we're learning to be better, and we'll always come back when they need us. No matter how angry they are, or how much they hurt us, we'll always come back."

He dares a cautious glance at Achilles' eyes, trying to gauge his reaction. "It's not my place. But I wouldn't give up on him."

“I’m afraid it will take years to outweigh all the bad I’ve done.” Years Pyrrhus doesn’t have, at least not on the surface. Achilles looks back towards the docks, then shakes his head and exhales through his nose, lips flat and grim. “I abandoned him. I left him to be used and broken and cast aside.”

His brow knits, angry at himself. He should have told Pyrrhus about his sister. Now he’s lost an eye and may well lose a hand.

“I don’t want to force myself into his life. Not when he has so little left. Not when he’s finally becoming his own man—a husband and a father and a king.” Achilles gives a soft laugh through a wince. “All things I’ve never been.”

"The best time to be his father was thirty years ago. The second best time is today." Lykos' voice is gentle, and not just because he's nervous. There's a well of compassion in him for this struggle, for the uncertainty that comes with not knowing how to be a good father.

"I'm not saying to force yourself in. Just... let him know you're there, every now and then. Send a sign when you're thinking of him. So he can reconnect without losing face, if he decides to." Lykos shrugs one shoulder, chewing the inside of his cheek. There's a little hesitation in what he says next. "He doesn't believe you care. So if you make it look easy to leave him again, I'm worried it'd just confirm it in his mind."

Lykos doesn't say it, but he's pretty sure his Master needs to be chased sometimes. Aspasia is the only one with the courage to do it. Galene too, in her own way. Aspasia the only one brave enough to wait out his rages and then calmly ask if he needs to talk, Galene the only one brave enough to try to make him laugh when he's dismissed her. They know how to handle his sudden swings of mood like the others don't. Lykos isn't brave. He just writes when his master needs him to.

Achilles hums his understanding and scrubs at his jaw. The subtle approach is difficult for him, particularly with Pyrrhus’ fated death looming.

“I’ll find a way to remind him. To let him know that he’s not abandoned,” he finally agrees. Perhaps he’ll send a message through another dream. The fluffy cloud pup could deliver it for him.

“I hope to see him again, but until then, please—continue to look after my son.” He rests a hand on Lykos’ arm, entirely forgetting the man’s unease. “You, your daughter, the rest of the household … you are all very important to him.”

He gives a weary smile. “And I can easily see why. Thank you, Lykos, for your wise counsel.”

Oh goodness, the dead are very cold. Lykos flinches in surprise. It's so strange to feel the texture of a human hand, but have it be so cold.

But he's still pretty sure that this ghost doesn't mean him any harm, so he allows a small (somewhat bemused) smile. He doesn't know how the ghost knows him, doesn't know if or why his master would speak of him to his lost father, but it warms him to know that a dead hero wishes him and his daughter well.

"It's my honor to care for him. He's always been good to us," Lykos says. "Especially to my girl. She loves him like a brother." It was beyond Lykos' imagining that he would be so lucky when he sold himself into slavery. But no matter how inadequate a father he's been sometimes, Galene has had a gentle and protective brother in their master. Lord Neoptolemus has even volunteered to broker her eventual marriage so she might wed a man worthy of her affection. He thanks the gods regularly for delivering them to him.

"Good luck, sir. I'll see what I can do for my lord's hand."

Even if Pyrrhus never speaks to him again, Achilles is satisfied to know there are others who fill the void of love he left in his son’s life. People who are more worthy of Pyrrhus’ love.

He gives Lykos a last appreciative nod before turning to the palace and winding his way back through the dark streets.

But Achilles doesn’t retrace his steps to Medea’s sanctum just yet. He pauses in one of the palace’s walled gardens, silent and empty, blue with shadow but for a few pools of weak lamplight.

His eyes close and he twists the ring on his finger as he casts a prayer into the darkness: Hermes, please, find me in Athens.

There's a soft flicker. A perking of acknowledgement, Hermes hearing. Then a soft, ? in the back of Achilles' head. Then a ???!!!!. There's a vague sense of alarmed confusion as realization dawns that his dead lover is somehow in Athens.

There's a breeze. A whisper. Clearly, he needs a moment to disentangle himself from whatever he's doing.

Then he's there, in front of Achilles, buzzing in the air. "What's wrong? What happened? Tell me what happened."

He's not wearing his usual clothes. He's wearing loose-fitting but colorful robe worn by people in the south who live in the land of sand, skin covered in breathable fabric to protect from the harsh sun. But his wings are loose, and they're currently fluttering with his usual flurry of energy.

He summoned Hermes with every intention of calmly, objectively reporting everything as it happened. Lyra is safe, but shaken. Pyrrhus is alive, but wounded.

But he can’t form the words. The moment his lover arrives, the dam holding back Achilles’ emotions gives way.

“I failed them both,” he blurts, his face knit with grief. “Gods, forgive me.”

Lykos’ reassurances are small comfort right now, while everything is still raw. He sees Lyra, sobbing and dripping with her brother’s blood. He sees Pyrrhus, blinded and maimed and heartbroken.

He palms his face, as if he could hide the sudden flood of tears. “Styx take me … I’m not meant to be a father, Hermes.”

Hermes' feathers bristle in alarm, and he forces his wings to stop flapping so he can touch down on the ground. Has he ever seen his lover in such a state? Once, perhaps, when he was stabbed by Ares, but he barely remembers.

"My love, what happened?" Hermes holds out his arms and draws Achilles into an embrace. He extends the warmth of his aura, embracing him in spirit as well as in body. He always feels like mischief and adventure, but it's all warmed and wrapped in love.

"What are you talking about? Darling, start from the beginning." Hermes draws a hand through Achilles' hair, feathers bristling again as a thought occurs to him. "Is Lyra hurt?"

Achilles clutches Hermes tight, fists balling the back of his foreign robes, face buried against his shoulder. Something about Hermes’ divine warmth draws more tears from him and he feels like a child. For a few long moments, he can’t speak. All he can do is catch his hitching breath.

“Lyra is unharmed but upset. Pyrrhus is hurt—Medea’s spells …” He manages before he has to clear his throat again. His fists wring tighter.

“It’s my fault. I gave Lyra one of his bracelets. It seemed harmless. I wasn’t thinking—” Achilles gulps another inhale. “He knows now. He has every reason to hate me.”

Okay, Lyra's unharmed, so Hermes can keep his full attention on Achilles. And Achilles seems distraught. Hermes can only hold him, fluffing his feathers for more comfort as Achilles clings and cries.

Hermes' first desperate thought is to fix this. Do whatever it takes to soothe Achilles' broken heart. Wipe Neoptolemus' mind, implant false visions, give him such intense curiosity about his father that he can't bear to stay away--

He catches himself before his thoughts go too far in that direction. No. Achilles wouldn't want him tampering with Neoptolemus' mind any more than he already has. It doesn't even bear suggesting.

"He doesn't hate you," Hermes says, because of that much he's certain. "And this isn't your fault. It was bad luck. I should have pulled more strings, found a way to repel him from Athens indefinitely."

Hermes should have done more. He's tried to stay hands-off this issue because he feels that Achilles should have the space to handle his son on his own terms, but now look at what's happened. Achilles' heart is shattered.

"How is he hurt? Maybe I can fix it. Or bribe Hephaestus into making a fix." He doesn't know what Medea did, but he's sure it'll leave lasting injuries. But Hermes can maybe do something about it, or else his brother can build a prosthetic to replace what's lost.

He doesn’t hate you. The words ring hollow against the memory of his son’s face. How repulsed Pyrrhus was by his touch. The anger and hurt in his voice.

“You’ve already done so much,” Achilles says with an edge of shame. “I won’t ask you to fix my mistakes yet again.”

It feels absurd to divert an Olympian’s attention to mending the frayed relationship between a mortal father and son. There’s so much more at stake: Hermes is already busy as Athena’s advisor, keeping encroaching divine threats at bay.

Achilles exhales again, his breath finally steadying, though he still keeps his face buried against Hermes’ wing. “One of his eyes is blinded by poison and his hand was maimed by Medea’s curse.”

"Hands and eyes can be fixed," Hermes says, affectionately nuzzling Achilles' hair. "Those are a lot more straightforward than minds."

Hermes doesn't like the feeling of being powerless--it's not exactly something he's used to--and Neoptolemus' sickness of the mind is too far from his expertise to really know how to fix, if it's possible at all. But hands? Eyes? He can fix those, or find replacements. Maybe Hephaestus would even do it for free because Neoptolemus is Thetis' grandson.

"All is not lost, love." Hermes uses his free wing to wrap gently around Achilles' head, keeping him entirely enclosed in his feathery fluff. "You spoke to him? Tell me what he said. We'll salvage this together."

“I don’t know that he will accept help. Not if he knows it comes at my behest.” Achilles knows Pyrrhus is a deeply proud creature, just like he is.

But Achilles is not too proud to retreat into Hermes’ embrace: the warmth of his aura and his soft wings, the promise of his divine wisdom.

“He was hurt that I— … that we chose to leave Lyra in Medea’s care. He thinks he would have made a more suitable guardian, that it was his right to look after her.” After truly meeting his son and understanding his struggles, Achilles is very nearly convinced he made the wrong decision. He was wrong to keep secrets. It’s always wrong to keep secrets, especially from those he loves.

Maybe Apollo led them astray. “I told him about your brother’s prophecy and he was more offended that I would take the advice of the god who killed me.”

Hermes is of the opinion that anyone who deals with the inconvenience of one eye for a week and the ambient intimidation of a god offering to fix it will take the help, but there's no need to point that out. Neoptolemus very well might be proud and foolish enough to deny a god to his face.

"That makes sense," Hermes says instead. And it does. If they followed Greek custom, Neoptolemus was the obvious choice for Lyra's guardian. To deny him that and hide her from him was to implicitly accuse him of being a potential kin-slayer, which is exactly where Hermes was coming from. But while Hermes is loathe to be too controlling as a father, he'd have to put his foot down on any prospect of Neoptolemus caring for Lyra. "It is an insult to him. And it was insulting to hide her. But it was in Lyra's best interests. It still is."

Hermes is more than happy to find ways to support Achilles' relationship with his son, but not at Lyra's expense. And Hermes does think it'd be at her expense. Even if Neoptolemus never harmed her, even if Achilles is right and his son is completely undeserving of his reputation, her potential and spirit would be choked and wither if she's trapped playing by Greek custom. And as benevolent as Hermes tries to be, he's not going to allow his daughter to be used as a means to soothe Neoptolemus' wounded heart.

"He only knows Apollo as the god who killed you and worked against the Greeks in the war. He doesn't know Apollo as a person. There are things he cares more about than petty spite." And Hermes knows his brother loves him. He knows his brother, as little as he likes Achilles, would still protect Lyra because she's Hermes'.

“So many people have assumed the worst of him, Hermes,” Achilles says, finally pulling back from the embrace. “No one has given him a chance to prove otherwise. Not his grandfather, not me.”

That’s not quite true, though. Ophelia, Lykos, Aspasia, Molossus … they all know a better version of Pyrrhus. They know the version Achilles glimpsed in the dream: loving, loyal, fierce and protective.

“… No. No. A few people have given him a chance. The people of his household appreciate him as a fair master. A kind husband and father, albeit a man who lives with constant pain.”

He huffs in frustration, cheeks still streaked with drying tears. “All these strangers put their trust in him. Why was it so difficult for me?”

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