messageforyou | For refusetofight

For refusetofight

Through the smoky miasma, thick and smelling of conflict and heat and pressure, on the other side is a forest. This one is less garish, less saturated than the rest of Tír na nÓg. Two fae creatures, odd feathered humanoids that resemble crows with cracked and broken beaks, sit at the rocks around a steaming hot spring, soap and strigils beside them.

The fae are seemingly mute, but won't allow Achilles to leave without a thorough wash. The sort that practically scrapes a whole layer of skin off, the sort where they insist on his hair to be cleaned and his nail beds scrubbed. His white tunic is whisked off to be burned, and only once he is deemed fit by the fae attendants to be properly cleaned of the remnants of the Morrígan does one bring the clothes he left behind with Hermes. They're neatly folded, but Hermes' scarf sits on top like a nest, holding Achilles' ring, his bracelet, and the stone with a hole in the middle. The scarf smells distinctly of Hermes, like cleverness and courage and Greece. Almost like Hermes is trying to give Achilles his blessing and support, even when they can't see each other before his trial.

After he's clean and dressed, the bath attendants point in the direction he's meant to walk, a plunge into the dark woods. There's the soft giggling of children within.

In the woods, children from all across time and the world huddle together. A boy holds a fist of straws, and each of the children draw a straw at once. They mumble amongst themselves, checking the straws, and three boys have the shortest one.

"Seems unfair to make him convince Stab," says a girl with messy red braids and two missing teeth.

"If you want a mulligan, you gotta give up treats until the next hunt," a blond boy with gray eyes and a short straw says, waving it in her face. She wrinkles her nose.

"I didn't say I want a mulligan!"

"Then shoo!"

As Achilles approaches, the children with longer straws scatter into the woods, some laughing. Three boys remain. One boy, with pale skin, ragged dirty blond hair and crooked teeth, wearing an oversized sweater and shorts and no shoes and a canvas bag big enough on him to almost drag on the ground. A second boy, skin dark as jet and head shaved, a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck, wearing loose sweatpants and an old linen button-down with sneakers with a check drawn on. A third boy, the smallest of them, maybe close to Lyra's age, looking like one of the people from the far east but with a permanent glower in his face, sitting on the ground and looking a little like he's drowning in the adult-sized jacket draped around him.

The blond boy jumps up on a tree stump to greet Achilles at eye level, putting his hands on his hips and smirking. "Hello, grownup! Here starts your trials! I call being the judge."

"Don't be silly. It's not a court trial." The boy in the button down approaches, holding an aluminum can colored bright red. He pops the tab, a sickly sweet smell rising in the air as the liquid inside hisses, and he holds the can out to Achilles. "My dad said men welcome each other with a beer, but if you get to Birdy she's going to make you drink a lot, so here's a coke instead."

The boy in the button down strategically stands between Achilles and the smallest boy. The smallest boy makes no movement to greet Achilles, instead staying on the ground, glowering at him with dark eyes.

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Gavroche shrugs at Achilles, as if the answer is obvious. And it is, to him. But one doesn't live as a child without knowing that grownups can miss the obvious sometimes.

"If you're worried that's not what he wants, just ask him."

Stab's head finally peeks out of the coat, hands trembling as he tips the bottle towards his mouth. Scout leans forward, steadying the bottom of the bottle to allow his friend to drink. There's the hint of motherliness to the gesture, the hint of a nurturing and gentle man that'll never be.

"None of us got any choice in what happened," Scout says softly, eyes coming out of focus as he watches the liquid in the bottle. "All we got is the choice for how to react."

"Mama Ember says we made what few choices we had well," Gavroche says, perking and glowing softly with the praise from an adult he respects. "So Lamb'll probably make his well, too."

As he watches Scout’s attentiveness, Achilles is reminded of Patroclus. In some ways, Pat’s experience of war was closer to that of these boys. He was grudgingly dragged to Troy where Achilles went willingly. Like Scout, he never understood the point of it all—he only followed out of loyalty and obligation. Even as the years wore on and Pat became sullen, he never lost his sense of kindness.

It’s a shame gentle people like Pat and Scout were wasted on war. Even Gavroche knows his friends’ tendencies and Stab is furious, but still vulnerable enough to trust both the other boys. These children aren’t monsters, and neither is Pyrrhus.

“Then … may I ask you lads for your judgment?” Achilles shifts to formally bend his knee and bow his head, as he might before gods or kings. “If Lamb wishes to, should he be allowed to leave this realm?”

The boys look at each other (Stab more turning his head in the others' direction rather than looking right at them).

"I think so. Only seems fair," Gavroche says with a shrug.

Scout drums his fingers on his leg, eyes unfocused.

"None of us got to choose where we went, or what happened to us. But he's still alive. So he should get a choice, even if we didn't," he says after contemplative, somber silence.

Eyes go to Stab. Stab stares at the dirt. He scribbles over his previous pictures, grunting. Every stroke of his stick is slower than it has to be, like he's delaying creating a new canvas while he thinks.

Then he draws a little stick figure with squiggles for hair and a smile. His friend. He almost does it half-consciously, the drawing too close to his body to really be intended for any communication.

He scowls in Achilles' direction. He rests his free hand loosely on his knee with a white-knuckled grip on his knife, as if to tell Achilles not to get any ideas about getting closer or thinking Stab likes him.

Stab draws a check mark.

"Yes. He says yes," Scout says with a breath.

Achilles watches the boys intently. He’s not worried about Gavroche’s verdict, but Scout and Stab could easily veto the decision. Stab in particular. Achilles grips his knee and holds his breath while the stick moves with agonizing slow deliberation.

“Thank you,” he says, finally releasing his breath. “Each of you have given me valuable insight into my son.”

Difficult as life was as a so-called monster, Pyrrhus was lucky to survive. These lads had so much potential stolen from them.

“Stab—I dearly hope that you see your friend again. Someday, somehow. I know the pain of being kept apart from someone you love.” He has no sweet fizzy drinks to offer, but he hopes words will do. “In the meantime, you’re fortunate to keep such fine company.” Achilles nods approvingly to Gavroche and Scout.

Gavroche smiles, and Scout's face softens. Stab doesn't look at Achilles, but he grunts softly in acknowledgement. He takes a deep drink of his Sprite, like a baby with a bottle.

"You talk to the teenagers next." Scout stands up, stretching his back. "I think they picked Honey and Birdy for you to convince."

"Oh! We'll take you." Gavroche jumps to his feet. "I love Honey's house. She makes so many cookies, and I can eat so many now that I got no stomach! Stab, you want to come, right?"

Stab grunts, but he pushes himself up to his feet. His coat drags on the ground, but he huddles it up around him like armor.

Honey and Birdy don’t sound too intimidating. Not in name, or from what the boys have described, but nothing in this realm is as it seems. Achilles rises to his feet, dusts off his tunic, and adjusts the scarf around his neck.

“I suppose that’s one fine thing about being a shade, isn’t it?” Achilles laughs at Gavroche’s enthusiasm. The boy is an awful lot like Hermes. He wonders if the god blessed Gavroche with his favor during the war against the Krauts.

As they walk, Achilles gingerly reaches down to help Stab with his coat. If he only tied those sleeves together, it might be more secure …

Scout predicts what's going to happen before it does, and he jerks to stop Achilles. "No, wait, don't--"

But he's too late. As soon as Achilles' hand gets close, Stab screeches, swinging his knife. His technique is as artless as his age would imply, but there's a lot of intention behind the swing and it's clear he'd be pleased to stab Achilles through the hand.

Gavroche turns and puts his hands on his hips, tapping his foot, clearly imitating a displeased grownup. Perhaps his mother. "I told you he stabs grownups who get too close, didn't I?" He says like Achilles was caught stealing cookies before dinner or something of the like.

Achilles has heroic reflexes, but Stab has the element of surprise; the blade of the knife slashes the outside of Achilles’ hand as he withdraws. It’s not a terrible cut, but enough to send a very clear message and draw a healthy amount of blood. Or what passes for blood from a shade.

“Forgive me,” he breathes, gripping his hand and quickly giving the boy space. His paternal instincts got the better of him, but that’s hard to explain to a child who has no (good) experience with fathers. “I should have asked before I tried to help.”

He glances at the other boys and repeats his apology—for not heeding their warnings and upsetting their friend.

Stab shows his teeth, swinging his knife in the air to make a point before wiping the blood on his pants. Evidently, he wants Achilles to give him a nice wide berth.

"It's important to ask before you touch people. 'Specially 'round here," Gavroche advises, still with his hands on his hips and pretending at someone much older than himself. "Sometimes funny things set 'em off, and they get weird, and they don't always remember after. Mama Ember says that's what happens sometimes when people go through something really scary, that they go back if they're set off and think they're in the middle of it again."

Scout tsks like an old woman, looking at Achilles' hand. "You're hurt." He digs in his pocket, rummaging for a moment before pulling out a big band-aid. Multiple smaller band-aids almost fall out of his pocket in the process. Clearly, he likes carrying around things to help with injuries. "Let me put this on. Keeps you from bleeding everywhere. And keeps it clean, but we don't have to worry about infections anymore."

“You remind me of my dear friend,” Achilles says warmly. “He went to war at my side, but he spent much of it mending the wounds that others made. He didn’t care for fighting.”

He offers his hand for Scout’s bandages. “In fact, he joined me for this journey, but we were made to take separate paths. A shame—he would have liked to speak with you lads.”

Pat certainly would have known better than to infringe on Stab’s space. Handling animals and humans are surprisingly transferable skills. At their heart, all living things aren’t terribly different; they’re ruled by a certain amount of instinct.

When Scout finishes his first aid, Achilles softly expresses his gratitude. As they continue along the path, he gives Stab his space and stays within the boy’s field of view like he might with a skittish horse. No more surprises.

Scout seems mildly interested in the idea that there's someone Podarkes knows who's like him, a grown man. Scout had often felt out of place, like a bad example of a boy because he didn't like violence. He far prefers the warm feeling of seeing something hurt or broken, and then fixing it. It'd been lonely in life, seeing so few examples of grown men who valued what he did, but he's found men like that in death at least.

"You can tell him I say hi," Scout says. "The people who grew up said that boys who like taking care of people are weak and girly, but I know better. Sounds like he does too."

And since dying, 'girly' doesn't ring as an insult quite the same way as it used to. Hard to live under the rule of Miss Ember and think girls are something to laugh at.

The boys lead Achilles through the dreamlike place. The land prefers to be a dark forest, but with gentle nudging from the boys' memories, the ground turns into a red brick road. The suggestion of grand stone and brick buildings climb around them, with beautiful spires and glowing glass windows and copper rooftops turned patina green.

And they come upon one of the grandest homes of all, a proud brick home with decorative wood framing, fragrant flowers spilling from the window boxes and shutters painted green. The glass windows have wrought iron frames cast in the shapes of flowers and leaves, and the roof is carefully shingled with terracotta.

Gavroche jumps on the stoop and knocks loudly on the wooden door. It swings right open. A young woman, only just the age when her father might be searching for marriage prospects, stands there. She has a lopsided smile, freckles, and baggy clothes, but that's not the most notable thing about her. Both her arms are flesh and bone down to her elbow, when they abruptly become metal. Her metal forearms and hands are painted sparkly pink, and they're covered with stickers of all kinds.

"Oh hi, Lizard. Where's Honey?" Gavroche says. The young woman sighs fondly.

"Gav, you're supposed to introduce people first." She leans forward, her metal arm rising to offer Achilles her hand to shake. The movement is audible, whirring in the metal joints and a slight delay before every motion. "Hi, you can call me Liz. What's your fake name?"

“I intend to tell him all about the three of you.” Just like he’s told Patroclus about nearly everything since they were boys.

The new dream locale might as well be designed and built by Daedalus for all its beautiful craftsmanship. It still has a human sort of cozy feeling, though, and in that way it’s a far more appealing afterlife than the Underworld. The boys are lucky if they spend much of their time here.

“Miss Liz.” Achilles is grateful for the nickname; he’s not sure he could bring himself to call a woman “Lizard.” Similarly, he isn’t used to shaking hands with women—least of all women with mechanical limbs—but he’s not about to be rude. He takes her hand and gives it a gentle shake. “Please, you may call me Podarkes.”

He doesn’t keep his hand in hers too long, the warning about touching still very much top of mind.

“Your arms are remarkable. As fine as anything from Hephaestus’ forge.” Though the aesthetics are very different.

Her hand doesn't conform to his grip the same way a flesh and blood one would, but she still smiles at the gesture before looking down at her arms.

"Oh, thanks! Yeah, it's insane how far people have come making prosthetics when I was alive. Before I died, they were testing out prosthetics that could feel temperature!"

Her gestures aren't as fluid as someone else's, but still quite expressive. She opens the door wider. Light spills out from the house. "Come on in."

Inside is just as grand as the outside. There's an expertly carved wooden staircase that curves up to the second floor, decorative wood frames around the doors and lining the ceiling, and it's covered in plush furniture made of richly dyed fabric and rugs elegantly woven on the floor. The walls are covered with bookshelves, full almost to bursting of tome after tome after tome, neatly organized by category and author's last name. What little wall space isn't taken by the shelves is adorned with grand shining art. It all comes together to make the inside warm, inviting, plush, like a rich woman welcoming poor guests from the street with a big hug and a feast.

There's the smell of baking bread, and the sound of merriment in some other room. Music quite unlike anything in Greece plays from somewhere above. Liz gestures up the stairs. "You boys go grab Honey and Birdy. They're upstairs."

She gestures to Achilles with a smile. "Just follow me into the kitchen. It should only take them a sec to come down."

The kitchen is just as warm and inviting as the entrance. There's an oven on, clearly baking something that smells good. The cabinets are all expertly made of warm-toned wood, the counters stone, a fridge against the wall, a wooden table with wooden chairs just next to a window with a view of the city. Cute little touches were everywhere--oven mitts with little bees sewn on, white lace doilies on the table, a cheerful cookie jar that looks like a fat, smiling woman.

There’s an art to creating a welcoming home. Achilles never had a chance to make one for himself, but he appreciates the skill on display when he encounters it. While he may not understand all of the strange furniture and appliances within this house, the overall warmth transcends his anachronism.

He follows Liz into the kitchen, where the most familiar thing is the smell of bread.

“Are you like the lads? A disciple of Miss Ember?” he asks gingerly. It feels rude to use the stone on her, especially after the boys’ reaction to it. Likewise, it would be gauche to ask about her arms directly, but if Liz is with this group, their loss was probably no accident.

Liz knows what he's really asking. She tosses him a half-smile over her shoulder before walking to the oven, opening the door to check the bread. Steam condenses on her arms.

"Yeah, but only on a technicality. The only time I was in war was the day I died, when my city was invaded. I killed a soldier, but it was by accident when my arm locked up on the highest grip strength setting while holding his neck, and I had to leave it behind and run."

With her bare hands, she reaches into the oven and pulls out a pot with a cast iron lid. She closes the oven, taking the lid off, and the smell of fresh bread perfumes the kitchen.

"I could leave and pass with other groups fine, but I like it better here. Miss Ember runs a tight ship, and people aren't weird about differences."

Predicting the next question that he's probably too polite to ask, she waves one of her arms. "I was born missing my forearms. These were built for me. Most people have them built so they look mostly like everyone else's, but I like mine looking fun."

Achilles adopts a posture more fitting of a house guard—stiff and attentive, hands clasped behind his back. He watches the ease with which Liz navigates her tasks. She’s lucky she was born at a time when mortals could fashion such prosthetic marvels; in Achilles’ age, parents might have discarded a babe for such a defect.

It’s curious that she chooses this company. The present setting is a cozy oasis, but the child soldiers described an Ember that’s very much at odds.

“‘A tight ship’ seems a bit of an understatement.” He tilts his head and hums. “The boys described how she punishes those who don’t abide by her rules. It sounds as brutal as the wars in which they fought.”

"You can say that again," Liz says with a rueful chuckle. "Pretty sure her idea of gentle punishment is most people's idea of torture."

She keeps that easy lopsided smile as she leans against the counter, pulling the bread out of the pot and onto a wire rack. It's huge and fluffy, perfectly golden crust with tiny bubbles on the surface, and smells of perfection.

"But she's very clear about what the rules are, what the consequences of breaking them are, and she won't stop anyone from leaving if they don't like it. So it's not like anyone's caught by surprise."

Liz turns to face Achilles, crossing her arms loosely. She gives a thoughtful shrug. "I think a lot of the people here like it, actually. Especially the little ones. Miss Ember's consistent, and because she's consistent, the stronger kids can't bully the weaker ones, and no one ever has to worry if she'll keep them safe or do something unexpected. I think a lot of the kids here feel more comfortable since they trust her to do exactly what she says she will."

Which isn't the sort of thing that tends to happen in war, especially to kids more often used as tools than as people.

"Don't get me wrong. When I was alive, I'd've thought it was all barbaric." Liz gives a soft, rueful huff again. "But I guess we've got to be barbaric in some ways. Not like there's legal systems and police and courts and stuff to keep the peace in the land of the dead." She pauses a moment, it only just occurring to her that she might have indirectly called him a barbarian. "They had that stuff when you were alive, right?"

The bread looks as well-made as anything from the House’s head chef. It’s a smell that always makes him miss being alive. It will always be the smell of early mornings in his father’s palace.

The way Liz explains it, Achilles can almost see the sliver of merit. Ember isn’t deploying cruelty for the sake of it. Perhaps in the same way that Hades and the judges do—with strict intent, not vicious amusement.

“I come from a place called Greece. A land on the Mediterranean Sea.” Said to be on the safe side. Maybe Liz comes from a time when Greece is gone and forgotten. Surely the sea still exists, though?

“And yes. Laws upheld order. Courts and juries resolved disputes, though this varied somewhat by the city-state. Athens differed from Sparta, for instance.” He raises either of his palms, as if comparing the two. “Kings might intervene and arbitrate in some cases.”

But speaking of kings and power … “Who appointed Ember to her role? The Morrígan?”

Oh, good, she didn't accidentally call a perfectly nice man a barbarian to his face. That's a relief. But at the question, Liz frowns, looking up at the ceiling and tapping her foot as she thinks.

"I... don't really know. She was just in charge when I showed up. But I doubt it was the queen, because she doesn't really try to get in the middle of what we do with each other." Liz looks directly at Achilles once more. "I wouldn't be surprised if Miss Ember built all this from the ground up with her bare hands. She has that force of personality. You'll understand when you meet her."

There's thumping of feet coming down the stairs. Liz looks to the door in expectation, and then a young woman comes in a flurry.

"Sorry, sorry we weren't here to meet you Mr. Achill--Podarkes."

The young lady who's come in looks like she's just walked out of a portrait. She wears a dark red dress, and her blond hair is styled in perfect ringlets. Her face is painted, giving her a cherubic, porcelain, doll-like appearance, with red lips and pink cheeks and long lashes. She could be mistaken for a grown woman if it weren't for the context of everyone here having died before adulthood.

"Has anyone offered you food, yet? Oh, you pulled the bread out, thank you so much, Liz," the young lady says, bustling to the oven.

Liz winks at Achilles. "Good luck." And she saunters out. As she leaves, another young woman is there, but she lingers at the doorway. Where the doll-like lady is fretting to make sure that Achilles is comfortable (and clearly is familiar with who he is), this one seems to stand just as straight as he does when he guards the gates of Hades. She still has baby fat in her cheeks, but her expression is severe, her arms neatly folded at her back. She wears black leather boots, an olive green jacket and trousers made with thick material, and a belt around her waist. She makes no motion to greet Achilles, instead staring at him with the same watchful judgment of a Fury.

“Miss Liz was very accommodating,” he says, giving her a smile and a nod as she takes her leave. “She was patient with my questions.”

The first young woman, with her coiffed hair and her painted face, has all the charm of a princess. He can easily imagine her dancing and weaving under the watchful eye of a doting father. What he can’t imagine is how she died in combat.

The near-use of his proper name raises his brows, but otherwise he gives her the respectful bow she’s due as his apparent hostess. “You must be Miss Honey and Miss Birdy?”

He spares a glance at the other young woman, who seems cut from the same cloth as the boys. A creature more obviously shaped by war.

“Have the lads already gone? I would have bid them farewell.”

"Yes, I'm Honey, and this is Birdy," Honey says as she bustles in the kitchen, giving Achilles a winning smile and a playful curtsy in greeting. "And don't worry. The boys are just upstairs. I set up Scout and Gavroche with a game of marbles, and Stab with a cozy place to hide until he feels up to socializing again. They wanted to see how your quest progresses."

She opens a bread box. The sweet smell of cooked apples and cinnamon wafts through the kitchen. "Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable. Let me cut you some strudel while the bread cools."

Birdy, still stiff and at attention, steps into the kitchen. Her gait is just as stiff as her back, her boots heavy against the ground. She opens a cabinet, and pulls out a tall glass bottle of clear liquid, and two glass cups.

"Oh, Birdy, you're not going to give him vodka, are you? You'll make him sick," Honey gently chides as she cuts her strudel pastry into thin pieces. But Birdy just sits at the table, gesturing to the seat across from her before placing one of the cups at it.

"Where I come from," Birdy says, voice just as formal and hard as her mannerisms, "Men who visit each other's homes are always given a full cup. And the women get a half cup."

She pours the clear liquid into the cup at Achilles' designated seat. It smells astringent. She fills it almost to the brim.

"I'm sure a hero of legend can manage what any doddering old man in my home can. Especially if he comes here to ask for something." And then she fills her own cup just as much, almost to the brim. She holds it up, arching a single eyebrow at Achilles. "Let us drink to Lamb's health."

This is a ritual Achilles understands and respects. The smell from the liquid in the small glass cups stings his nose; it would be enough to make a wiser man recoil, but Achilles is a prince and a hero. Unfortunately.

He takes a seat as invited and gestures at the young woman’s glass. “You’ve over-filled your own drink, Miss Birdy. Should it not be half-full?” This is said innocently enough—not as an indictment of her own constitution.

While she supplies an answer, Achilles produces the river stone from his pocket and places it on the table. “And, before we drink, may I have a look? I don’t intend to be rude, but I’ve too much at stake and I’ve been advised to exercise caution when accepting food and drink.”

"So I did," Birdy says, looking at her glass as if she hadn't been the one who filled it herself. "All the more shame for you if you cannot keep up, hmm?"

Honey sighs, fond and exasperated, but starts to hum softly to herself as she plates slices of strudel.

At Achilles' request, Birdy pushes away from the table, standing up and holding up her hands. "Get a good look at us both." She even turns in a circle to give him a full view through his rock.

Honey died a way that a human could have at any point in time, but it would have been unusual regardless of era. Honey, still humming, is naked, and she's covered head to toe with blood. Not a single spot is free of blood, not her eyelids, her buttocks, the tips of her toes. The blood in her hair dried like a cast, stuck fast to her skin and an unpleasant reddish brown. There are small, clean cuts strategically across her body, especially on the soles of her feet. If Achilles thinks about it, he may notice that all the cuts are in places where a human would bleed significantly, but not a single cut is in a place that would grant a swift death. The precious arteries in the arms and legs are untouched. It seems that the actual killing blow was to her neck, where the cut spans her entire throat and goes so deep as to make the esophagus visible.

Birdy, on the other hand, had an anachronistic death. Her skin is burnt unevenly, burnt so deep that some bone is visible, especially on her face where her scorched jawbone stands against the roasted flesh. It's as if she were tossed on a pyre, survived the smoke, and only died after the long, long wait it would have taken for the flames to eat through all the soft, wet layers of meat. Her bones are also not lined up as they should be, awkwardly positioned as if a great hand had crushed her and pushed everything out of alignment. The only variation is her right leg, which is entirely missing under the knee.

"There you go. Human." Birdy sits back down, picking up her glass and gesturing at Achilles expectantly. "To Lamb?"

Achilles would rather not peer through this stone every time he meets someone new; he’s had his fill of these visions. His inspection is quick. Only enough to gather that the two young women are indeed human and some hint at their demise. His face is carefully neutral, as if this were merely a bit of bureaucracy.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, putting the stone away and reaching for the glass. Will this be better or worse than the sweet, tingling drink the boys gave him?

“To Lamb,” Achilles echoes and keeps one eye on Birdy as he takes an experimental drink. His lips draw back in a hiss as the liquid burns his throat. Somehow it’s much worse than undiluted wine. What a miserable drink. Worse than the sweet fizz. Rather than say as much, he coughs behind a fist.

“You know him, then. And it seems you already know something about me. Including my true name.”

Birdy knocks back the drink without a word. She doesn't even flinch as she swallows. Instead, she just reaches for the bottle again.

"Everything I know about you, I heard from Lamb, and he's addled from missing his name. Everything she knows about you, she read in books."

Honey hums a cheerful tune as she comes to the table, laying out plates of apple cinnamon strudel. "She'll goad you into drinking more, but do eat at least a little, please?" Honey says as she sits down at the head of the table, perching her chin on her clasped hands. Birdy shrugs as she pours her glass full once more.

"I am not goading anyone. He doesn't have to keep up if he doesn't want. Maybe demigod heroes can't hold their liquor." Birdy sets the bottle down. "But while he dawdles on that first shot, I'll go on my second."

Honey smiles and rolls her eyes, like she's seen this happen a million times. Then she focuses on Achilles, smiling warmly.

"My father was a professor who specialized in ancient literature," she says. "And I wanted to follow in his shoes, so I've read up a lot on your story and those of your peers. I didn't think the stories actually had any historical reality to them until I died and came here, though. So I hope you don't mind if I ask some questions that have always gnawed at me?"

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