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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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The first summons felt like being tugged through gauzy curtains—this time it feels like being ripped through sheets of ice. He doesn’t fully realize what’s happened until he’s standing in the center of Medea’s hastily-drawn circle, looking around the room like a man pulled from a deep sleep.

Confusion gives way to alarm when his eyes land on his daughter. On the shock of blood in her hair. He rushes to gather her up, but rebounds against the border of the circle. His shade shimmers and hesitantly reforms before he immediately, instinctively tries once more. This time he winces as reason pierces through his fear and anger.

“Lyra,” he says urgently, falling to a knee and beckoning her closer. “Lyra, come here. What’s happened?”

Then his eyes snap to Medea, posing the same question to her, low and accusatory. “What’s happened?”

Medea hears the accusatory note in Achilles' voice, and it takes a lot of self restraint to stop herself from saying something along the lines of you and your bloodthirsty son happened, thank you. Her eyes flash, and her nostrils flare as she takes a deep breath.

"Daddy!" Lyra, on the other hand, throws herself at her father. Carelessly walking over the border Mistress kept telling her to heed, she throws her arms around her father. "I broke my promise. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I was bad, he said he was married and I just wanted to know more about it, I didn't think he'd recognize the bracelet, I'm sorry it's all my fault--"

Medea takes another steadying breath. "The blood isn't hers." She dusts off her hands, letting her fists rest at her hips. "Your son arrived without notice, on his way to Corinth. Neoptolemus knows. He grabbed her by the hair, and now he's cursed by my magic."

And here's an interesting moment, seeing if the long dead hero cares at all that his abandoned child is wounded, possibly fatally.

"I summoned you first as a courtesy. I thought you might prefer to be informed before Lord Hermes," she says, voice sharp and dry. If Achilles doesn't want his son killed by his lover, now is the time to act.

“Fledgling …” he says on a breath. There’s a hint of exasperation, but most of that is for himself. What a fool he was for giving her the bracelet at all. Achilles gathers Lyra into an embrace, close and tight before holding her at enough of a distance to see her tear-streaked face. “This is exactly why I asked you not to approach him.”

Achilles is desperately trying to piece this together. He notes the missing comb, combined with Medea’s explanation. The woman clearly dislikes his son, but did Pyrrhus truly intend to harm his sister? Or did he harmlessly try to touch her hair, ignorant of Medea’s protection?

He’s not sure where to direct the anger that’s hardened his face. All that he knows is that he trusts Lyra’s word over Medea’s.

Achilles strokes his daughter’s rosy cheek. “What’s done is done. Take a breath, my love, and tell me precisely what happened.”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve listened, he just seemed so nice and I wanted to hear about his wife and and—“

Lyra is ready to launch into another crying fit, but Medea cuts in. “Lyra. Your father asked you what happened.”

Medea’s words are sharp, but effective. Lyra sucks in a deep breath through her mouth, holding it until she’s not so close to senseless crying.

“I sneaked in and said Mistress told me to give him wine. And I asked questions. And he was very nice, and he showed me his spear, and he let me try to balance it on my hand.” It was intoxicating, just the kind of moment she wanted with her brother, him smiling indulgently as she tried to balance his adult-sized spear. “But then he asked me about the bracelet, and he started getting mad, and I said my daddy gave it to me, and he asked who’s my daddy and he was getting more mad and I tried to run away so I wouldn’t tell and he grabbed my hair to stop me—“ Lyra sobs, sniffing as her nose starts to run. Medea, without a word, holds out a handkerchief, which Lyra takes to quickly wipe her nose. “And then I screamed, and he screamed, and my comb was biting his hand, and Mistress came, and there was yelling, and he came for Mistress, and she moved her hand, and he was hurt, and—“

“I splashed poison in his eye,” Medea corrects, calm and stoic as her little apprentice recounts events. “And he declared that Lyra was his and he’d be back to take her if I didn’t give her to him.”

“He didn’t mean it like that, I’m sure he didn’t, he didn’t mean to sound so scary, he was so nice before—“ Lyra sobs again, choking on her own regret as she looks to her father. “Daddy, he’s hurt, and he left, and I’m scared for him, I didn’t mean to make a mess I’m sorry I’m sorry!”

“I know you didn’t intend for this. It was my fault, allowing you that bracelet.” Achilles combs fingers through her blood-stuck curls and presses a soothing kiss to her forehead. There’s no use chiding her—she’s already wracked with guilt. “I will make this right, I promise.”

He rises, Lyra cradled in his arms, and turns his flinty eyes back to Medea. “Now, where has my son gone? You’ll help me find him and lift your curse. His wounds must be treated.”

His tone is that of a hero and a would-be king: commanding, even as he stands as a shade, trapped by a circle of lamb’s blood.

Most people might be cowed by a hero of legend commanding them so. Medea is not most people.

“You’re welcome for protecting your daughter from your infanticide son,” Medea says, voice dripping with disdain. “And you’re welcome for informing you first instead of your lover.”

But Medea isn’t about to let Lyra face a lifetime of guilt because her father is insulting. She moves to her desk, pulling out the different compartments, making thoughtful noises over the contents.

“The curse that afflicts him now was designed so that I might track whoever triggers it.” She gathers her materials and approaches the summoning circle. She holds a hand out to Achilles. In her palm is a squirming, mummified rat tail. “This will point in his direction, and should serve as means to release the comb’s grip.”

She holds out her other hand. She holds a jar sealed with beeswax. “And the contents of this should allow you to walk the earth until morn. Most people won’t see you, and you’ll be insubstantial, but he should see his own father.”

She tips her her head, glaring at him, as if daring him to tell her that somehow she should do more for him with nothing in return. “Drink all of it, and let nothing go to waste. It’s hard to gather and harder to preserve.”

Inside of the jar is the uncoagulated blood of bulls sacrificed to Olympus, but only the blood that left their bodies before they died.

Achilles jaw visibly sets at Medea’s retort. It hits a very tender spot. Were he younger, it wound send him into a blind fury, but he knows he can’t afford to give into that intoxicating emotion. Not in front of Lyra, not while Pyrrhus is already hurt and enraged, not when Medea could banish him back to the Underworld and let his son die. He centers himself by focusing on Lyra’s warm weight in his arms.

“While I seek your brother and lift the curse, you must stay safe here with your mistress,” he says softly into her ear. “I will do everything in my power to make certain Pyrrhus is safe. You have my word, fledgling.”

He kisses her temple once more and kneels down to set Lyra back on her feet.

“And what of the poison?” he asks gruffly as he takes each of Medea’s grotesque offerings in hand. He already hates the way the desiccated rat tail wriggles against his palm.

Lyra sniffles, fighting the instinct to cling to her father and letting him go, nodding. “He was nice,” she repeats, as if in defense of her wounded brother. “He was scary too, but I don’t think he meant to be.”

Medea holds her empty hand to Lyra. Lyra goes to her, holding her Mistress’ hand and crying into her skirts.

“Splash fresh water into his eye until it stops burning and hope it hasn’t permanently blinded him,” she says tersely. She’s not going to feel any regret if she has indeed blinded him in one eye, just as she doubts he’d feel any regret if his blow had landed and killed her. “I don’t deal in half measures.”

If it were up to her, she’d put Neoptolemus down like a rabid dog. As long as he’s alive, he’s a threat. But it’d break Lyra’s heart, and Medea hopes to avoiding breaking the girl’s heart until she’s at least old enough to notice men.

“No, he didn’t mean to be,” Achilles confirms with certainty. He knows Pyrrhus was operating on instinct, only protecting himself. He can imagine the boy, the warrior, the king all in bitter turmoil. “He was frightened.”

And in pain.

There’s no more time to waste here. Achilles stoically drinks Medea’s potion—he’s suffered much worse for love—and tests the boundary’s power. It no longer holds him; he feels safely moored to this world, almost as he did at Anthesteria.

His attention turns to his strange guide, waiting for it to settle on an initial heading. While he watches, he can’t help but snap at Medea, “You’ve made this worse than it need be.”

"Have I, now?" Medea arches an eyebrow, resting her hand on Lyra's head. "If memory serves, you were the one who asked that I pay special regard to the threat Neoptolemus might pose to her."

Medea's eyes narrow and she tips her head to the side, staring down the hero of legend with a measure of contempt. Contempt she finds that she eventually feels for all heroes she meets. "My task is to protect her, and I do. Don't blame me for the consequences of your own ambivalent parenting."

Lyra cringes, sniffling as she scrubs her eyes, wanting to say something to make the grownups stop fighting but too distraught to think of anything.

In Achilles' palm, the rat tail squirms, finally settling on a direction, but the tip twitches continuously. Presumably, Neoptolemus is still moving. But the tail is pointing in the direction of the sea.

“I know him better than I once did. He is no monster.” Achilles can feel his hackles begin to rise and the only thing that stops further rebuttal is his daughter’s obvious discomfort and the urgency the rat’s tail suggests.

He turns and leaves Medea’s sanctum before he loses his temper entirely.

Achilles strides through the temple with purpose, avoiding the servants and guards who can’t see his shade. He slips through a back gate and wishes he had Hermes’ boon of speed.

Styx, what will Hermes make of this? As well as he knows his lover, Achilles isn’t certain. Even Hermes’ benevolence and understanding has its limits. He forces that thought aside, partly out of concern that too much thinking will draw Hermes’ attention before Achilles is ready to deal with it.

The sea glitters just beyond the scramble of Athens’ rooftops and Achilles consults the tail again.

Medea's eyes follow Achilles as he leaves. Then she pets Lyra's tangled hair, still sticky with her brother's blood. "Let's clean you, child."

Outside, the tail points down to the harbor, its twitches starting to slow. Down at the harbor is a trireme painted with the colors of Epirus, clearly the ship Neoptolemus had been using to go to Corinth.

There aren't lights visible from the ship, but once one is close enough to board, there's the sound of splashing and cursing.

"My lord, it's not releasing--"

"Then stop trying and gather the men, Lykos."

Neoptolemus already has a bowl of fresh water that he's splashing into his eye, but it doesn't seem to be doing much good. His poisoned eye is bright red and irritated, and any further damage is hidden in the dark. The gold comb has wrapped around his left hand and sunk its teeth deep in, blood dripping down his fingers. Lykos, clearly a servant from his humble dress but with a soft face and graying hair, is gingerly trying to find a way to pull the comb off.

"If it stays longer, I fear that it will take off your hand," Lykos says, voice trembling just a little as he tries to reckon with all the blood.

"Then I'll cut off the witch's hand so we'll match. Go gather the men," Neoptolemus says forcefully, his hackles well and truly up like a wounded animal.

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.”

Neoptolemus flinches when he hears that name whispered, jerking to look towards the source with the sudden grace of a wild animal ready to tear out someone's throat. His eyes catch onto the liminal form of his father, and his shoulders hunch, his eyes narrowing.

"My lord?" Lykos says, frowning at the sudden reaction.

"My father is here, Lykos," Neoptolemus says, his voice hoarse. "And he has explaining to do."

"Your..." Lykos looks momentarily like he's trying to find a tactful way to ask his lord to check his head, looking in the vague direction that Neoptolemus looks. It takes a moment, Lykos trying to focus, blinking in the dark, before he starts, eyes finally fastening on what had been hidden from him. "Oh!"

Neoptolemus takes the mummified rat tail, glaring at Achilles before frowning skeptically at the grisly tool. Unsure of how exactly to use it, he rolls the tail between his fingers before gingerly touching the comb with it.

The comb snaps off his hand, losing its golden shine and twisting, until it falls onto the deck with a dull flop. It's changed. Instead of a comb, it's the desiccated remains of a tail-less rat, teeth lining its body from throat to groin, all covered in blood. Neoptolemus drops the tail with no small amount of disgust.

"Lord, your hand." Lykos steps gingerly to be more than an arm's length from Achilles, clearly unsettled by the specter, but unwilling to leave his master's side. "We need to find a healer."

"Later," Neoptolemus grunts, staring down Achilles. To anyone unfamiliar with him, the intensity might make it seem like he's about to strike his father, but really he's just angry and waiting for him to speak.

“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.”

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