Gavroche reminds him of the Prince when he was a boy. Hungry for all the praise his father never gave him. Both Gavroche and Zagreus had adults to guide them through difficulty.

Pyrrhus did not.

“My son … he killed children. Other children,” he quickly amends. “Lads like you three. Women, too. People who couldn’t defend themselves.” Achilles rubs his palms together and looks at the lingering idea of the Limping Lady, then back to Gavroche. Pyrrhus wasn’t like them. “He wasn’t defending his home or his people. He was sacking a city.”

It begs the question: “Is he no better than a kraut?”