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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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“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?”

Hermes lets Achilles pull away, but he gently rubs away the drying tears with his thumb, his eyes gentle and soft. "The people who gave him a chance were people who had no choice but to give him a chance. Slaves, his own children, and a trapped woman. Those who have the option to avoid him entirely, do."

He sighs through his nose, trying to put himself in Neoptolemus' sandals. With Achilles' perspective, Hermes can better appreciate how utterly unfair the man's lot in life has been.

"It's not fair. You're right. He breached war custom when he was a child who didn't know better and people assume the worst of him for it. Then they meet him, see that he has a temper and intense demeanor, and feel vindicated in their prejudgment. It's not fair to him. But it's also normal."

Hermes brushes Achilles' hair behind his ear. He allows a glimpse into the thrum of Hermes' realm, the hum of human connections, but now focusing on the many people who struggle to make them. People within a great web of connections, but who can barely maintain one connection, struggling against a tide of loneliness and isolation. Many of these people are at fault for their own loneliness, too cruel or thoughtless or indifferent to others to cultivate love. But many of these people are simply shaped a little differently than others, and no matter how they try, they don't know how to fit together with their community like everyone else can. Hermes suspects that Neoptolemus was always shaped a little differently, just enough to not quite fit in with everyone else, and then the war made it all the harder.

"I know you won't forgive yourself for assuming the worst of him soon, if you ever at all. But it was a very human reaction to the things you knew about him. And no matter what you do, you'll always be a human with human impulses."

Fresh tears streak down, hitting Hermes’ thumbs. He knows the framing is meant to be a comfort, but it feels more tragic. If Ophelia had a choice, would she pick a different husband? Would Molossus love and thrive in the care of a different guardian? And his servants? How tenuous are those bonds?

As tenuous as his own sense of duty to his son?

“It’s my fault that his life has been so difficult. I should have come back to him …” It’s the same refrain, and a pointless one, he knows. There’s no changing the past, no altering fate. “I thought I could make this right—as right as I could—but I’ve only hurt him anew.”

He shakes his head in abject disappointment with himself. “And I’ve hurt Lyra as well. She must think she’s to blame for her brother’s injuries.”

Hermes lets out a soft, "Darling." He cups Achilles' face in his hands, eyes soft but confident. "He has thirty years of pain, and it hasn't even been a year since you got in touch. Of course you can't make it right in that time."

Hermes pets Achilles' hair before embracing him again, unwilling to let Achilles go for long when he's so distressed. "It's like treating an infected wound. If infection grows under the skin, you have to pierce it to let the infection drain out. And it hurts. But that pain is a necessary part of healing."

Hermes gently bumps their foreheads together, gentle and confident. He knows that his lover sees this as the end of his relationship with his son, as a culmination of a lifetime of failure, but Hermes doesn't. He sees it as another bump on a road that was always going to be rocky. And if Achilles is in despair, Hermes will be confident for him.

"Building a new relationship was always going to hurt when he inevitably learned you are a flesh and blood man with flesh and blood flaws. There would have always been a confrontation when he questioned how much you care for him. There must be for you to build a new foundation, one that is based on the two of you as people rather than what you imagine of each other. Only by him questioning your love can you have the opportunity to prove it to him." Hermes tips Achilles' chin to make eye contact, still gentle, still loving, still completely sure of himself. "It won't be easy. There will be more pain, there will be more confrontations, more infections to drain. But I know you both will think it's worth it in the end."

Because Hermes knows exactly what it's like to crave a father's love. He knows how much he wants it, and how much he drew away from it in the moments he had it because he knew how conditional it was. In that, at least, he relates to Neoptolemus, and believes sincerely that Neoptolemus will revel in the love of his father if he's only shown that he can have it forever. But people who've been hurt and abandoned push people away and struggle with trust, especially when the trust has been breached. Hermes relates to that too.

Achilles sags back into the embrace, resting his cheek back on Hermes’ shoulder. This is one way he and Hermes are very alike: when in the depths of despair, he needs to be touched, to be held. It was devastating to offer his son the same comfort only to be rejected in anger and disgust.

“Is it fair, though? Is it cruel to make such use of the precious time he’s alive?” Achilles asks, genuinely curious. Pyrrhus was finally beginning to show some sense of purpose. Of happiness. “He should enjoy his new wife and his surviving son, not struggle with me. He’s wasted too much of his life trying to please me.”

Or an idea of him, at least.

The more he speaks to his son, the more Achilles becomes acutely aware of his own limited life experience; by his measure, Pyrrhus is far more accomplished. Achilles did nothing but slaughter an impressive number of men. “There’s little I can give him—in counsel or resources. He’s already a better father … and I’ve no experience as a husband or king.”

"Who says it must happen while he's alive?" Hermes fluffs his wing to cradle Achilles' head on his shoulder. Hermes is always ready and willing to hold Achilles, especially when he needs it. "It'll take time. Maybe it'll happen while he's alive and you can visit his dreams, or maybe you need more time face to face. Maybe a little bit of both."

Hermes presses a kiss to Achilles' hair. "You know that death isn't the end, my love. It's a change. And it can be a positive one."

After all, Hermes thinks that Achilles grew into a better man after he died, and he thinks Achilles would agree with him.

"He doesn't need advice or resources. He's gotten by well with what he has. What he needs is a father who loves him despite his flaws." Hermes sighs into Achilles' ear, nuzzling his hair and gaze growing distant as he considers Neoptolemus, considers what the world must seem like from his sandals. It's a little uncomfortable to think about, but Hermes has dealt with worse for the love of Achilles. "...I suspect I have this much in common with him: it's hard to trust that someone loves you when you're used to love being painful or conditional. You had to stand up to the king of Olympus three times before I was willing to believe you. He might need a little proving too. And... well, sometimes, when people need that sort of thing proven to them, their instinct is to keep pushing you away." Both to avoid pain, and to give a person the opportunity to prove their love. Hermes has to admit his own familiarity with the instinct to shut others out no matter how much he craved their love.

“I don’t want him to carry such a heavy burden on his journey to the Underworld,” Achilles says softly. ”It’s weighed him down long enough.”

But Hermes is right. Death could ease Pyrrhus’ physical pain, reunite him with his mother and sons, free him from an unkind world. It could give him space to fuse those fractured pieces of his soul back into one.

He wraps his arms back around Hermes’ middle and clasps a hand over Pyrrhus’ shell bracelet, twisting it pensively. It’s not Achilles’ way to give up on the people he loves, but he doesn’t like to hurt them, either. “How can I reach him without causing more torment? I can’t bear to see him in such pain again.”

"You can't guarantee you won't hurt him again if you reach out to him again. But you can guarantee he'll hurt again if you don't. All it does is spare you from witnessing it."

Hermes sighs through his nose. He leans his head against Achilles', looking up at the stars above them, heart aching.

"My father and I destroyed our relationship as thoroughly as one can. If he came home tomorrow a changed person, I would still want his love."

He knows it'll never happen. Zeus isn't capable of loving anyone but himself, and he chose to leave forever rather than endure not having power over all Olympus. But knowing it won't happen doesn't stop Hermes from aching for the loving father he'll never have.

"He'll need time to write things down anyway, won't he? Give him space, and see how he feels after he's had a chance to think things over. Maybe write a letter. I'll make sure he gets it."

Achilles nods his head against Hermes’, echoing his sigh with the same ragged ache in his breath. This confirms what Lykos said. It must be the way forward.

“Thank you, magpie,” he whispers hoarsely, turning his head to give Hermes a kiss on the cheek. “You’re correct. All is not lost.”

Achilles leans back, arms still loose around Hermes’ waist. His eyes are still red and swollen with tears, but his cheeks are dry. His eyes wander to the palace’s windows glowing with warm lamplight. One of them must be Medea’s sanctum.

“Poor Lyra … she needs to know that her brother will survive. That this isn’t her fault.” And he doesn’t know if Medea is well-practiced at soothing inconsolable little girls. She’s not the one Lyra needs comfort from, anyway. “I need to apologize to her. I’m the one who put both of them in harm’s way.“

"Don't take all the blame, love. You couldn't have known he'd come back to Athens so soon," Hermes says, stroking his lover's hair. He follows Achilles' eyes, looking at the glowing windows. He now thinks on their daughter, probably just as distraught as Achilles and so much less able to handle her feelings.

"We can go together. Let her know that all is not lost. But take a moment for yourself first."

Hermes doesn't say it, but he doesn't want Achilles to be too obviously shattered when they see her. Lyra is far too insightful for her own good, and she'll pick up on it keenly. He fears her taking on her father's grief on top of her own. That, and he worries for Achilles, and worries how precarious his own state of mind is at the moment.

At the suggestion, Achilles takes a step back and sinks down on a stone bench. His shade has never felt so heavy. He scrubs at his face with his hands, as if this might dispel some of his inner turmoil. He sighs into his cupped hands fighting more tears.

“This moment will live with her forever.” How will it change her? What has her clever mind read into it? It feels like his words, his mistakes are hammers and chisels, instantly and permanently altering the shape of her.

“I doubt she will see her brother again. Not in life.” He slowly shakes his head with grim finality. “He’s too hurt by the idea of her.”

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