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Lykos feels like he's in a bad dream that won't let him wake up.

Lord Neoptolemus disappeared from the ship. No one would admit to seeing anything. Lykos knows that there were men on the trireme with cause to kill the king, but there's also the concern of Queen Medea and potential curses, or maybe Lord Neoptolemus taking his own life because he was so grieved by his father's betrayal. If everyone thought the king was dead, Lykos feared that they'd come back to Epirus and kill little Molossus and the queen to install one of themselves.

Lykos isn't brave. He's not cunning. He's nothing like the heroes of legend. But he thinks that perhaps Lord Hermes blessed him for a moment, because when they all realized that Lord Neoptolemus was no longer on the ship, he summoned a lie that saved them for now.

"His grandmother, the goddess Thetis, gathered him for a visit. He'll come back in due course," Lykos lied with all the confidence he never had. The threat of the goddess watching kept the men rowing the ship in line. It convinced them that the king would return, so they must behave lest he crush their skulls between his palms. Lykos searched the men's faces for anyone who disbelieved him, anyone who might secretly know what happened to the king, but he couldn't glean anything.

Lykos knows full well that the goddess doesn't keep touch with her grandson. He knows full well that his lord wasn't spirited away by a friendly divine force, ready to return him safely. But he keeps his mouth shut until they're home, and until he's able to speak directly with the new queen.

Lady Ophelia is a little unsettling, unsettling in the same way as Lord Neoptolemus. They both have an edge to them that seems not of the world, the lord with dark strength that he carries with every motion and the lady with a strange air that she could float away on the wind at any moment, like she's not quite attached to the earth the same way as everyone else. Lykos pins it on their divine heritage, and it made it all the sweeter to watch them fall in love, two lonely creatures who couldn't quite fit in with normal humans finding homes in each other.

But the lady seemed bitterly, horribly human when he broke it to her that her husband of not even a year was gone. She sagged in shock, bracing herself against the wall, but her knees failed her. She demanded Lykos tell her everything, and everything he told her indeed.

Aspasia wants to kill all the men who whispered of mutiny. Ophelia wants to wait, wants to see if he comes home. He's a strong swimmer, she reasons, and his grandmother is of the sea. Maybe the goddess intervened on his behalf, maybe he's being healed by the gods, maybe he'll come home whole and healthy soon. Don't tell Molossus yet, we don't know that he's dead, don't put the boy through that if we don't know for sure.

Lykos doesn't delude himself. His lord is dead. And his corpse is somewhere in the sea, without any rites to put his shade to rest.

He doesn't know if it'll do anything. But as Lord Neoptolemus' innermost circle goes round and round talking about what should be done, he steals away to his quarters, to the modest household gods he and Galene keep figures of over the hearth. He lights incense, and he prays to the only person he thinks would care enough to listen.

Lord Achilles, please. Please ask your lover to find Lord Neoptolemus' body and lay him to rest. Please don't let him languish and rot at the bottom of the sea.

There are tears on his cheeks he didn't notice as he prayed. He wipes them, but there are more. More and more and more.

He pulls a straw mat close to the hearth and curls up, watching the incense rise to the ceiling, and he wonders how he'll explain this to Galene.

And then he falls asleep, dreaming fitfully of the trireme, of Athens, of turning his back too long to his master.

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Lykos is well out of his depth here. He never thought he'd have cause to meet heroes and speculate on the machinations of gods. He hadn't even really believed in the gods in his heart of hearts before he met Neoptolemus. He participated in the rituals, made the sacrifices just in case, but he'd always doubted. He'd doubted Neoptolemus too when they first met, though he hadn't said so. Many boastful men make up fantastical origins and heritage to inflate their legends. It would have been easy for Neoptolemus' grandfather to claim his bride was a goddess if she'd died in childbirth, especially early enough to neatly sweep away any trace she'd been there and let myth fill her space. But then he saw how inhumanly strong and graceful his master was, especially in the water, able to hold his breath for minutes at a time and crush a human skull in one hand. Lykos had run out of practical explanations for it.

And now he's been talking to the dead and dealing with witch curses and the plotting of gods. He's not cut out for this.

Lykos sighs through his nose, furrowing his brow as he draws his fingers through his hair. The sky and horizon flicker with his thoughts. He's not cut out for this, but he's here anyway, so he'll approach it as he approaches everything: practically.

"Why?" Lykos frowns at Achilles, drumming his fingers on his knees. In the air, there's a gentle click of the beads of an abacus hitting each other. In another life, he'd worked with many numbers, and the clicks are associated with problem-solving to him. "Why would it matter enough for a god to come for him now, but not matter enough to come for him as soon as he diverged from Fate?"

That doesn't make sense to Lykos. He assumes gods are busy. They must be, right? So why would one of them see fit to make room in their schedule to take away his Master long after he was supposed to die? If keeping Fate on course is so important to them, then Lykos would think it'd be worth immediate action.

“I don’t know.” For all his time spent among gods, Achilles is no closer to understanding their reasoning. “The god in question is from beyond Greece’s borders.”

Which might be more baffling, but Achilles has since learned that gods aren’t contained by mortal borders. Their business takes them wherever they’re needed.

Achilles offers Lykos a shifting vision of Deidamia: for a moment she appears as he remembered her, young and beautiful, but he quickly corrects it. The years shave away at her. Thirty, then forty. Grey hair and worry lines. “She appeared to him at least once before—at the moment his fate diverged. She takes the shape of a maiden, mother, or crone.”

It’s insult to injury that the Morrígan appeared as the person who loved Pyrrhus most.

“I knew his fate would come due, but I thought—I hoped he would have more time.” His eyes squeeze shut as he twists the bracelet on his wrist. “I left him in such despair.”

Lykos frowns at the vision of Deidamia. She isn't a legend like Achilles, but Lykos knows how deeply his master revered his mother. Stories of his father belonged on pottery and mosaics, but stories of his mother were always the center of the quiet fireside moments he only shared with his inner circle.

The clicking of abacus beads vibrate through the dream. His fingers twitch, as if to write, or perhaps to manipulate the invisible beads himself.

"Something's missing," he murmurs under his breath. The sky churns with visions of the complex number tables he'd make to track coins from his life when he used to work for a merchant. Tables with the expected amount of money on one side in neat rows, and the actual amount on the other. The numbers aren't the same once added up. Because they're missing something, something that would allow the numbers to match.

"Why would a foreign goddess be interested in him? I might understand if he had foreign heritage, but his blood is Greek and divine. He's not crossed any foreign clerics or priests either." Click click click. Lykos doesn't know any gods, and he doesn't claim to understand them, but he can't help but think that taking the grandson of a goddess could run afoul of divine etiquette. Especially if, by right, the man should belong to Hades after he dies. And yet Lord Neoptolemus hasn't arrived in Hades.

Lykos turns to look at Achilles, fingers still twitching as if manipulating an invisible abacus. He's too wrapped up in his problem-solving to think of the comfort Achilles might need now. He wants desperately to know what happened to his master.

"What do you know about this goddess? Do you think she would kill him and just leave his body in the sea?" Maybe Lykos wasn't far off when he lied and said that Neoptolemus was just taken away.

“By her omen, he was to die in battle. I advised him against taking up arms again. I hoped that might extend his life—for Lady Ophelia and Molossus’ sakes.” Achilles hums, low and grim. “Perhaps his conflict with Medea satisfied that prophecy.”

The tension is palpable in the dream—settling accounts, the comforting certainty of numbers in the face of inscrutable divinity. The click of an abacus isn’t familiar to Achilles, but it imparts a rigid staccato that transcends the tool itself.

“I don’t know what the Morrígan wants from my son, but she comes from the north—other gods from that region enlist the shades of exceptional warriors to feast in their halls and fight on their behalf.”

"It's been a long time since I spoke to someone from the far north. But it never seemed like they lacked warriors."

The dream shifts. He's going to a previous master, a previous life. Working for a merchant. Click clicking the abacus, keeping his head down, meekly exchanging money and goods and making sure it's all recorded. The air smells of seawater and sweat, the crush of bodies and the chatter of a hundred languages. Some markets had layers of other smells, but seawater and sweat always won out the most.

The merchants of the north. He imagines them as blurry, faceless masses. Most of them were far paler than the average Greek, more of them with light hair and light eyes. The ones he met were boisterous, loud, big. They bragged of might, their own and that of their ancestors and clans. He couldn't always keep track of where everyone was from, but he remembers a distinct difference between the merchants who wore trousers and the merchants who wore clothes more familiar to Greece, clothes that hung loose around the legs but always had foreign patterns.

Something's tickling the back of his head. Morrígan. He could swear he's heard the word before. There's the sound of rustling papyrus to accompany the clicks of beads, checking old records.

A merchant. Long red hair, long red beard, green eyes. A missing front tooth. Yes, Lykos remembers something. The rustling of papyrus gets more urgent as he narrows in on the memory.

They're no longer in Epirus. They're in a market, behind a stall. The red-haired man is laughing. He has surprisingly good Greek language skills, and he wants to practice by talking to Lykos while he organizes the shipping records.

He had intricate knot patterns woven in his clothes. Lykos asked about them. They were religious symbols, the red-haired northern said, for protection and safety at the sea and in foreign lands.

"The Morrígan." Lykos doesn't remember how it came up, but he remembers the way the man's expression turned thoughtful at Lykos' clear ignorance. "The title in Greek... ah, call her the Phantom Queen. Wife of the Dagda. The Good God."

Lykos remembers thinking it strange that their gods didn't have names, just titles that could be translated.

"Goddess of war, fate, and death. Big, breasts as big as hills. And she decides if crops grow good every year, ha!"

Lykos looks away from the memory, towards Achilles, his brow furrowed in thought. "You know gods. Can you ask one what she's like, why she'd be interested?"

The memory of the merchant resonates with Achilles’ own memories of the Aesir, the Vanir, and their chosen warriors. Similar features—pale eyes, light skin, red hair—but slightly different trappings. Those trousers. Awful things, but he supposes they must be warm in the northern chill.

“I’ll ask Lord Hermes. I’ll raise the issue to Lord Hades as well. He and the Morrígan have a shared domain, and her presence may come as a concern.”

The northern merchant also mentioned war. Achilles wonders if Ares’ absence has left a void that might attract other gods. Another question for Hermes. Who has filled Ares’ role during his imprisonment?

Abruptly, Achilles thoughts turn to his son’s family and the murmurs of seditious men. This is one way he can help his son. “Will Lady Ophelia and Molossus be safe in Epirus during Pyrrhus— … Neoptolemus’ absence?”

If needed, he could ask a favor of his mother. Make a brief appearance to lend credence to Lykos’ lie and buy more time.

The market fades. They're back at the cliff side in Epirus. Lykos hugs his knees, the clicking of abacus beads faltering. They're back in territory he's no good for. He's never been any good defending people from violent men.

"I don't think they will be for long," he confesses, voice trembling. "He hasn't been married to Lady Ophelia long enough for her authority to be established or respected. As soon as they realize he's not coming back, warriors will try to seize power. Few of his peers ever had any love for him."

None, really. Lykos had sat in on meeting after meeting after meeting, quietly taking notes as his lord entertained the concerns of citizens and discussed matters of state. His lord had a blunt, straightforward manner that slaves appreciated as predictably honest, but came off as abrasive to his peers. He rarely threatened violence explicitly, but the threat was always there under the surface, whether Lord Neoptolemus knew it or not.

Lykos' memories are blurry impressions on the horizon. He remembers the first time he saw Lord Neoptolemus commit violence. Lykos had assumed the stories and rumors of his new master's strength were exaggerated at best. But then another well-respected man in Epirus got too drunk, and made the mistake of challenging Lord Neoptolemus in public, accusing him of lying about his parentage.

Lykos vividly remembers the image of his master just taking the man by the hair and slamming his head against a wall. His head collapsed like a rotten apple underfoot. Blood streaked like a starburst across the marble, sprayed like freckles across Lord Neoptolemus' face. Lykos was sprayed too, shards of bone caught in his clothes. The man didn't have a head anymore, only pulp. Lykos remembers people screaming. A woman fainted. The wife of the dead man, Lykos thinks. Lord Neoptolemus seemed unbothered, letting the corpse drop and wiping his bloody hand. "Lykos, tell Aspasia to arrange for laundry tomorrow," he had said before carrying on.

Lykos had been terrified. He'd never seen anything like it, never seen a head disappeared as if it had only been a bubble of meat, never seen such casual and intense violence. It took time for him to realize that he and Galene were safe from that violence. Lord Neoptolemus' temper was much more predictable than he was given credit for.

"Citizens listened to him because they're afraid of him," Lykos says, looking to Achilles again. He can't really blame them, either. The reality of Lord Neoptolemus' competent rule is easily eclipsed by the specter of might. "They'll stay in line for now, but once they realize he can't avenge himself, I don't think they'll hesitate to come for Molossus and Lady Ophelia."

Achilles watches the gruesome memory, keeping his face mostly neutral but for a stiff frown. It rankles him to know that this is how his son held his power, but Achilles also knows that violence is the only thing some men respect.

There’s no telling how long it will take to determine what’s become of Pyrrhus, but it’s obvious that Lady Ophelia, Molossus, and anyone else loyal to his son need time. Achilles considers the possibilities: Thetis could help, of course, but Hermes could make the odd appearance in Pyrrhus’ shape or spread rumors around Epirus.

Achilles considers the miserable bundle of a man. He knows Lykos isn’t brave, but he’s loyal and he cares. If not about Pyrrhus himself, then about keeping Epirus safe for Galene. “I will do everything in my power to buy you more time, but I need you to arrange an escape for Lady Ophelia and Molossus—or anyone else who may suffer under a new lord. I can’t guarantee Pyrrhus will return.”

Lykos barely holds Achilles' gaze. It's hard to meet eyes so intense, even in his own dream.

The waves crash on the cliff side. There's a reason why his dream is of this place. The memory of Galene crying over the edge of the cliff. At the base, right where the sea would wash her away when the tide came up. She was still so small. They had been in Lord Neoptolemus' service for only a couple months when Galene fell off the cliff. She'd been playing, and Lykos dared not slack on his work to watch her, and she'd fallen.

The wind sings with fear and dread. His baby girl, crying and hurt at the bottom of a cliff. He searched desperately for a way down, any way. He'd throw himself off the cliff if he had to, but how would he get her up to safety after?

Lykos remembers his fear when Lord Neoptolemus walked into his view. So much fear. Fear that he'd be told to abandon his baby and get back to work. Fear that he'd die, because he'd never leave Galene, even if a demigod told him to. Give me a second, his lord had said.

And then Lord Neoptolemus just... dropped. Jumped gracefully over the cliff, catching himself on sea-slick rocks that jutted out, scaling down like a trailing drop of sea foam rather than a man. And then he was down at the base, the rising tide lapping his ankles, but he didn't seem to care. He picked Galene up as casually as anything, instructing her firmly to hug him tightly so he could climb back up with her. And then he did. In the space of a blink, he was mantling the edge again, Galene clinging with her arms around his neck and her legs squeezing tight around his torso.

Leave her in the kitchen tomorrow. We can teach her to help the cook and keep her away from the cliff, his lord had said. And he dropped Galene in Lykos' arms, and Lykos could only collapse and sob in relief, holding his daughter. His lord didn't scold him. His lord kept his word, having others watch Galene, keeping her safe. He'd always kept her safe.

Lord Neoptolemus has been a greater protector of Lykos and his daughter than anyone else ever even tried to be. A greater protector of Galene than Lykos could ever manage. Lykos' heart clenches at the thought of not protecting Molossus.

"I will," he says, voice thin but determined. "I'll make sure Lady Ophelia and Molossus escape, on my life." Lykos isn't a brave man, nor a strong nor fast one. But he can think of worse ways to die, returning nearly fifteen years of Lord Neoptolemus' steadfast care.

It’s easy to imagine Pyrrhus’ mind in that moment; he probably saw his own lost children in Galene. Or maybe even some abandoned aspect of himself—that fearful boy—crying at the base of that cliff.

Achilles crouches beside Lykos. It’s not meant to be intimidating, but it’s difficult to be anything else as the shade of a legend. “When you wake, begin making preparations. I will see to maintaining the ruse and finding Neoptolemus.”

Even if it means another journey to the north and bargaining with strange gods.

“Thank you, Lykos, for keeping them safe.” He grips the man’s bony shoulder in firm gratitude. “Wherever my son is, I know he’s fretting over everyone he holds dear. That includes you and your daughter.”

It is intimidating, made more so by Lykos' meek nature subsuming the dream. He tries to be brave. It's the least he can do after all Lord Neoptolemus has done for him.

"I don't know how well you know him," Lykos says, voice trembling a little. The horizon churns with his memory of their nighttime meeting at the trireme, the confusion and fear of seeing the dead, confirming the existence of gods and their ability to smite those they choose, his whole worldview turning upside down. But he'd pushed that aside, because Lord Neoptolemus was hurt, and Lykos knew his master was too incensed to think of the consequences of not tending to his injuries.

"He--he can be hard to read, if you don't know him. He pushes people away when he's angry, but he regrets doing it after." There are memories associated with that too. Roaring and shouting when a servant bothers him at the wrong time, when he's frustrated or in pain, and demanding they leave. And then, if the servant comes back after a while, the way he'd sternly tell them to take a day off for themselves, here's some coin for the market. Lord Neoptolemus doesn't really do verbal apologies, but Lykos knows that's his way of saying sorry to the servants he lashes out at.

And he's never raised a hand to one of the slaves or servants, not once. Even when Lykos knows his master could easily snuff any one of them out. He doesn't know when he stopped being scared of Neoptolemus, just that one day he realized he was as comfortable in his presence as in another servant's.

"He holds tender feelings close to the chest. And he's very protective." Lykos hugs his knees, looking into the horizon. His own grief has barely had time to set in. "If he's still alive, tell him I'll still be his humble servant whenever he returns. If he's not, tell him we'll take care of each other."

Especially Molossus and Lady Ophelia. They'll band together and take care of them.

“I wish I knew him as well as you.” And that both father and son didn’t bring so many years of baggage to their relationship. Lykos is lucky—he started from a blank slate. No expectation, judgement, pain.

Achilles watches his son rage in Lykos’ memories and feels a kinship there. He’s known the same spikes of anger in his youth, albeit with others around to tame it. He feels the same urge to protect and love, albeit with less inhibitions about expressing the latter. He thinks of the web of connections Hermes has shown him and imagines the taut thread that ties him to Pyrrhus, thin and humming like an overtuned lyre string that threatens to break.

“I’ll deliver your message. You have my word,” he says solemnly before standing at full height. “If … if he’s truly gone, I’ll see his shade delivered to the Underworld. His mother and his other sons await him there.”

Lykos' breathing hitches. In his dream, the clouds grow gray, and it starts to rain.

"...I think he'd be very happy to see them again," Lykos says softly. He hasn't processed his own grief yet, hasn't allowed himself to imagine what the world would look like without his master, but the rain falls anyway. "Thank you, sir. Please tell me when you know what happened to him."

And then his dream fades away. He wakes up slowly. And then what's left around Achilles is the void between dream spaces.

The rain and the salty sea spray clings to Achilles’ hair and cloak, even in the dark void. He imagines Lykos waking to a palace full of grief and uncertainty.

Fates be kind.

Achilles is loathe to summon Hermes yet again, but he hopes the fluid realm of dreams will spare his lover some effort. He fills the void with memories of Phthia—not unlike the glade in Elysium, but it’s whole and inviting. The hearth is lit and the stones are warm from hours of heat. Cool, verdant smells drift in from the moonlit garden, joined with the chorus of field crickets.

He sits on a bench by the fire and removes his ring to shine it with the pad of his thumb. Magpie, forgive me. I need your help once more.

There's a soft acknowledgement in the back of Achilles' head. A signal that he's been heard, just give it a moment. It doesn't take long by most standards, but a while by Hermes', sorting out whatever he's dealing with in foreign lands.

Phthia warms as Hermes approaches, like the first licks of rising sun.

"I worry when you say you need help without explanation." Suddenly, there's an old woman dressed in foreign robes, hunched over with a cane in the palace. Then she looks at herself, as if only just remembering her form, and shakes herself out. Hermes emerges, his wings unfurling, tall and resplendent, before he sits by Achilles on the bench. "Go on, love. Tell me what's wrong."

Hermes is greeted with a look of owlish surprise at his disguise. Then Achilles huffs and shakes his head when he recognizes the ruse. Hopefully that shape is enough to fool a chaotic, upstart god.

“Lyra is safe … I’m safe,” Achilles says quickly, slipping the ring back on his finger. He takes Hermes’ hand and gives his knuckles an apologetic kiss—for worrying him, and for what he’s about to say: “It’s Pyrrhus. Again.”

He kept a stern, brave face for Lykos, but the facade gives way sitting next to Hermes in a memory of his childhood home. Achilles’ brow furrows, his mouth twists. “He’s disappeared. I’ve no idea if he’s dead. He’s simply vanished.”

Pyrrhus? Again? Already? Hermes' face creases in surprise, then falls in dismay. Dear Styx, this poor man cannot seem to catch a break. He half wonders if someone put a curse on him.

His wings relax as he considers what Achilles said. Hermes holds out his hands, and cups of wine appear in them. He offers one to Achilles, frowning as he perches his chin on his lover's shoulder.

"What happened? Tell me everything."

Heroes, especially ones as physical as Pyrrhus, don't tend to just disappear without a trace.

Achilles feels the weight of the offered cup in his hand. He doesn’t drink. He swirls the dark liquid in the firelight and is reminded of the sea, or perhaps blood spilled in darkness.

“His man, Lykos, told me he never made it back from Athens. They set sail for Epirus. His men were displeased by the retreat, and Lykos feared they might attack while Pyrrhus was wounded and weakened.”

Achilles’ fingers rub his temples, recalling Lykos’ account. “Lykos left him for a moment, and when he returned to his master’s side, Pyrrhus was gone. No sign of violence. Perhaps he gave himself to the sea in his despair, but that seems unlikely. As much as our meeting troubled him, I doubt he would willingly abandon Molossus and his new bride.”

He feels that in his heart. Just as he would never abandon Patroclus, Hermes, Lyra … Pyrrhus, even if his soul was so gravely wounded. If Pyrrhus is anything like him, he would never take his own life while people still depend on him.

Hermes takes a drink as he listens, wings angling to better guide the sound to his ear. His brow furrows, but his eyes are thoughtful and opaque as he considers what he's told.

Ships don't have a lot in the way of privacy. If Pyrrhus' servant witnessed nothing, then Hermes can't imagine violence occurred. There would have been noise, blood, something. Even suspending as much disbelief as possible, even if someone hit Pyrrhus' head and bloodlessly and instantly knocked him out before pushing him over the edge, Pyrrhus isn't a small man. It would have taken effort to push him over the edge, effort that would scuff the area, disturb anything around him, perhaps snagged his clothing on wood splinters. And men are usually constantly accounted for while the ship is in motion because they're needed at their oars.

Pyrrhus could easily dive into the sea without leaving a trace, though. But it seems like a very roundabout way to die for someone who is surely a very strong swimmer and able to hold his breath for a long time, and Hermes can't help but think that even if Pyrrhus is the sort to leave his dependents, he's not the sort to take half-measures about it. Hermes would have thought he'd do something suitably dramatic, like throw himself on his own sword. If he really wanted to make sure his body couldn't be given rites, he could have pierced his breast with a sword and then drop into the sea, but that would have made noise and left blood as surely as an attack.

"There's no doubt he's your son. I don't see the sea being a terrible threat to him," Hermes says softly, frowning at the fire as he thinks. He wants to comfort Achilles, knows that there will be a time for that, but right now he thinks the best way he can help his lover is figure out what happened to his son.

"Do you have any thoughts of what might have happened?" Hermes asks, unwilling to get too outlandish in his speculation without hearing out his lover.

Achilles watches Hermes think, hopeful his clever mind will arrive at some sort of unequivocal answer. Preferably one that allows Pyrrhus to be recovered and returned to Epirus, but Achilles has learned that hope is often futile.

But Hermes only offers another question and Achilles tries to quash his impatience.

“Could it be the work of a god?” he asks, brow furrowed. “He saw the vision of his mother cleaning his bloody armor—both you and Prometheus suspected the Morrígan.”

Achilles sets his elbows on his knees and cradles his cup between his palms, as if it might hold the answer inside. “Or it may have been one of our own gods, but I don’t believe Pyrrhus has done anything to offend them … unless Apollo is still angry about his deeds at Troy.”

Aphrodite, at least, seems to have forgiven Pyrrhus or she wouldn’t have assisted in finding his wife … ”The goddess Hecate is Lady Medea’s patron, correct? Could Pyrrhus’ assault on her priestess have given Hecate cause to retaliate?”

Hermes hums thoughtfully, the crease in his brow deepening as he drums his fingers on the outside of his cup. "All of those are possibilities."

He rocks in place. Moving helps him think. "It doesn't really fit any of them, though. Hecate is the sort of goddess to let people sink or swim--if a witch is harmed by another mortal, Hecate usually just expects them to fight back themselves. Apollo is temperamental, so he would have reacted if Pyrrhus said something against him, but he's usually a lot flashier with his smiting so other mortals learn from it." Like turning a mortal into a tree or something. Hermes sips from his wine again.

"This fits the Morrígan more. She's not flashy when she takes mortals. They're there, and then they're gone. But I just don't know why she would." It's not like there isn't an abundance of handsome, tormented heroes in her part of the world. And all due respect to Achilles, Hermes just doesn't know what would be special enough about Pyrrhus to attract such interest from someone like the Morrígan.

Hermes grimaces, wings pinning. "...If it was the Morrígan, I know how she would have done it. And there'd be no way to bring him home except negotiate with her."

Achilles finally takes a long drink of his wine. He barely tastes it on his tongue. “Have you any idea at all? Why would she stray so far for one mortal? Is she taking other warriors from Greece? Perhaps for an army, like the other northern gods?”

The anxious questions tumble out one after the other. He needs to pick Hermes’ brain while he has the chance and then come up with a plan.

“Is he …” A hard swallow bobs his neck and his eyes remain strictly on the fire. “Do you think Pyrrhus is still alive? What might the Morrígan ask in exchange for his return?”

"She's not raising an army like Odin. And even if she were, she wouldn't need to come into Greece to find worthy people."

Hermes worries his lip, staring into the fire in thought. But his wings perk, and he turns his head to look at Achilles' face. He feels the desperation radiating off his lover. He knows what Achilles is thinking about.

"If the Morrígan took him, then he's still alive. But I don't know why she'd take him, and I don't know what she'd want in exchange for him." Hermes turns to face Achilles, putting his wine aside so he can take Achilles' hand and hold it tight. "I know who might know more, and I can ask. But you have to swear to me, swear on Lyra's life, that you won't try to confront her to save Pyrrhus on your own. You'll let me help you, even if it takes time."

Hermes' eyes are dead serious. His grip tightens on Achilles' hand. "If you chase the Morrígan without a plan, you'll never come home. Not to me, not to Pat, not to Zagreus, not to Lyra. This is not something to handle impulsively. Alright?"

Achilles’ jaw works and he breaks eye contact in his usual tell. He can’t make that promise just yet.

“I may not know where he is, but I know with absolute certainty that he’s going mad with worry about Molossus and Ophelia.” He squeezes Hermes’ hand and meets his eye with steely, dangerous determination. “They don’t have much time. You know what happens in a king’s absence.”

Particularly a king who has no allies and no living family to help defend his kingdom against opportunists.

“I failed Pyrrhus so many times, but I can’t—I won’t fail him again. I must keep his family safe, and I must bring him back, Hermes.”

"You won't do either if you run off half-cocked," Hermes presses, wings pinning. But then he stops himself, taking a deep breath before forcing his wings to relax.

"You don't understand. If he's where I think he is, it's the kind of place that not even I can safely go without thinking ahead and making a plan. If you get a turn of phrase wrong with the locals, you can suddenly find yourself enslaved without any memory of who you are. You can think you've only been there for a couple hours and escape to find you've been there for two hundred years. You can get caught up in a good song and not realize you're trapped listening for eternity. You'll need a guide, at the very least."

Hermes squeezes Achilles' hand, willing him to take what he has to say seriously. "If you want to bring him back alive, let me ask around and gather information. And if it was the Morrígan who took him, let me negotiate a deal with one of the local gods to guide you safely to and from her."

Hermes isn't even sure he'd be okay with Achilles going on his own even with a guide. Maybe he should bring Patroclus? It'd be risky, but Patroclus is so much more cautious and observant than Achilles, it wouldn't be so easy for the fae folk to fool him if Hermes gives him a warning. Hermes is worried that even with a warning, Achilles would give his name to someone by accident if left on his own.

Styx. Why can’t the Fates give him a crisis he’s actually equipped to deal with? One that can be resolved with a good fight? No. It’s always cunning and nuance.

He’s grateful to Hermes, but he would rather handle these matters on his own. Relying on others to get things done is a special kind of torture.

Hermes’ insistence forces Achilles to remember the Aesir: how foreign and difficult they were. How easy it was for them to hold him captive. How furious it made him. There’s a good chance he’ll walk right into the same.

“So be it, magpie. I’ll await help.” He gives a relenting sigh, then after a beat, he continues with new urgency: “What about Epirus? What can be done for Molossus and Ophelia? Pyrrhus’ servant told his men that he was taken by my mother, but I’ve no idea how long that lie will hold.”

Hermes lets out a soft sigh of relief, pressing a kiss to Achilles' knuckles. "Thank you, darling." Hermes isn't really sure Achilles would have managed to get to Tír na nÓg without Hermes' help, but he's learned to never underestimate how impossible a task Achilles can force his way to besting.

But then the question turns to Ophelia and Molossus. Hermes furrows his brow, considering. The natural people to go to would have been Zeus or Hera, the gods of kings and queens. But they're gone, and Athena hasn't taken up the same aspect.

"I don't know who in my family could be relied on to help them long enough," Hermes confesses. Athena and Apollo are busy (as if Apollo would help one of Neoptolemus' children), Artemis is in the Levant with him, Dionysus is better for working through mental dangers rather than physical ones, Demeter and Poseidon wouldn't have the attention span for a random mortal family Hermes asked them to look after, Hephaestus... well, maybe?

"Hephaestus considers Thetis his mother," Hermes says, "and therefore you his brother in spirit, if not in anything else. I could ask if he would lend his aid. I don't know if anyone in the palace would be able to wield something he makes, but he's very creative about making tools."

Hephaestus has shown no interest in Neoptolemus, taking Thetis' lead in disregarding all but her immediate progeny. But he might be roused to help if Hermes asks. Especially if Hermes could convince Thetis to ask, though that may be a long shot.

"And I could bless them myself," Hermes says, rocking back and forth as he thinks. "Give them some cunning and insight to see who they should be wary of. And I could ask Thetis if she'd be willing to make an appearance to lend credence to the lie. I don't know if she will be, but I can tell her that you implore her to."

“If I should fail to keep his family safe, Pyrrhus will return to nothing but more grief.” Achilles imagines himself in the same scenario—if those he loves are gone, he might as well be dead himself. Kingdoms and riches can be won anew, but not family. Not lovers.

“Ophelia and Lykos are both clever. Give them your blessing and I’m certain they could outwit anyone.” And if they have tools, weapons … anything from Hephaestus, that can only improve their odds.

“If you can find my mother, yes—please.” Achilles moves his hands to grip Hermes’ forearm. “Tell her that I need her help in any way she can give it. If not for her grandson’s sake, then for mine and Lyra’s.”

Hermes nods, holding Achilles' gaze. "I will. After I deal with the immediate arrangements, I'll send a message to the Tuatha Dé's trickster, Lugh. He'll be able to find out if the Morrígan is involved, and he doesn't mind sharing knowledge as a professional courtesy." Especially if he knows he'll likely be able to make a deal once the knowledge is shared, but Hermes won't share that part. Lugh is a trickster, but an honorable one, so Hermes is confident he can be negotiated with.

"Artemis will be able to cover for me while I deal with things. I'm very quick, as you know." Hermes cups Achilles' face and presses a kiss to his lips, tasting of wine and foreign lands. "I'll return as soon as I know more. I love you."

Hermes would really like to cuddle up with Achilles and talk through the panic he's surely feeling, but he knows his lover's restlessness just as well as his own. Achilles won't be soothed until all that can possibly be done is done.

Achilles moves his grip to Hermes’ waist and leans into the kiss with deep gratitude. The touch takes some of the edge off his fear and frustration. “Thank you, love.”

His arms relax into an easy drape around Hermes’ waist and his head rests on his lover’s shoulder. Gods, he wishes they had the luxury of enjoying this rare moment together—that the strange god in the Levant would disappear and that Pyrrhus was safely at home in Epirus.

But that’s not the case. Neither of them can rest. And Achilles winces at the prospect of dealing with another trickster from a foreign land.

“Please tell me that this Lugh isn’t another Loki,” he mutters into Hermes’ neck.

Hermes embraces his lover, giving him a tight squeeze and allowing himself a soft chuckle. "No, no, Lugh's very different. Very professional and straightforward, no lying or stealing like me. He's the kind of trickster who gives you a lot of freedom to make your own choices and then allow you to deal with the consequences."

Which doesn't sound like much when Hermes describes it like that, but he has a lot of professional respect for Lugh's method of meticulous, clean trickery. One day it might be compared to a particularly clever contract lawyer, able to negotiate and lay every single rule and condition out in plain language, allow people to agree to those rules and conditions, and always come out on top. Whether or not his opponent can also come out on top purely depends on their own behavior.

"You might like him, even." Hermes draws away, pushing Achilles' curls out of his face. "I'll bless Pyrrhus' family, and then I'll find Thetis. I should go quickly, before his enemies catch on to the lie."

“Hm. I doubt it,” Achilles huffs. He isn’t sure how a trickster can be all of those things and still hold such a title, but Hermes’ confidence in Lugh alleviates some of his additional anxiety about this rescue. It’s a trickster’s way to know the business of other gods—and it seems all the gods of the Tuatha Dé dabble in trickery.

Before Hermes can disappear, Achilles pulls him into a long parting kiss. He knows full well that this is what little he has to offer Hermes in return for all of his help.

“Take wing, magpie,” he whispers, stroking one of his wings before finally releasing him to the dream. “I’ll await your return.”

Hermes drinks deep of the kiss, his feathers fluffing under Achilles' fingers, and as their lips part, he smiles, glowing with affection.

"I'll come back soon."

And then he's gone, leaving only an orange afterglow of his presence.

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