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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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There's something deeply healing about hearing that. Not just in dream, where it's easy to wonder if it was an invention of the mind, but in person. Pyrrhus just holds onto his father for a bit, at least until he has the oncoming tears under control. He never got to hug his father while he was alive, so he doubts Achilles will begrudge him an extra long hug now.

Nephos, for his part, wiggles in Achilles' hand, wagging his tail and licking Achilles' face over and over. Look! Look, he is here! He, too, wishes to be part of this hug! He brings kisses!

Pyrrhus finally loosens the hug enough to sit back, sniffing and rubbing his eyes (eyes, plural, he has two working eyes again) with the back of his hand.

"What is it, Dad?" Nothing can ever be easy, no. But Pyrrhus is strong enough to deal with what isn't easy.

Achilles lingers in the long embrace, especially after his son’s previous rejection. A hug will never be quite the same as when he was warm flesh and blood, but his shade will have to do.

He laughs at the little dog’s eager attention and gently urges some calm so he can speak.

“You may stay here in the Morrígan’s realm, or you may leave. But … you cannot return home. Not yet.” His face turns stony and grim. He knows this isn’t what his son wants to hear. “As I said, the Fates are not well-pleased by your survival. Our bloodline is tightly bound to Greece’s future …”

He sighs, and tries to decide how best to explain this. “If you return to Epirus whilst Molossus lives, the Fates will smite you. If you wait, you may still reunite with Lady Ophelia and your daughter.”

Pyrrhus listens, but his face falls. "The Fates won't allow me to go back to my son?"

What? But why? Why not? He's already lost two. Why can't he raise his third? Why do the Fates care so much, when it seemed no gods at all cared about him until just a short while ago? Why can't he--

His breath grows tight. His eyes un-focus. Nephos, as if possessed, immediately squirms in Achilles' arms, straining, and licks Pyrrhus' nose.

Pyrrhus starts, his internal spiral stopping abruptly, and Nephos takes the opportunity to try to lick his eye. Pyrrhus flinches away from the tongue, leaning against the wall, and Nephos struggles valiantly against Achilles' grip.

"He's trying to go get my writing supplies," he says softly, sliding down the wall to sit down on the wooden porch, looking at his hands. "He does that when he can tell I'm upset."

Molossus. A daughter? Had he heard right? Had his father mentioned a daughter?

Achilles releases Nephos to do as the pup will; he knows the importance of Pyrrhus’ slate and stylus—particularly for processing a conversation like this.

“There’s no easy way to say it, lad. Our sons and grandsons are destined to grow without fathers.” He takes Pyrrhus’ hands. “The Morai have charted a future that relies upon this, and they will not hesitate to kill you.”

His lips flatten into a grim line. “The Morrígan confirmed this. It’s why she took you from your home.”

He exhales. In an earlier time, this is something he would challenge. Haven’t he and his family already suffered enough for the gods? But such hubris only brings more suffering. “I’m sorry, Pyrrhus. I don’t fully understand, but this is how Olympus survives the new age of a brutal god. One that consumes all divinity that dares stand in its way.”

Nephos scoots as quickly as his little legs can go (which is surprisingly fast), running inside the house.

Pyrrhus, for his part, only sort of understands what his father is saying to him. All he really gets is that the gods have decided he won't see his son alive again. They decided that, no matter what Pyrrhus does, Molossus will grow without his father.

He buries his face in his hands. Click click click the sound of Nephos' nails heralds his return, and he comes proudly bearing a little bag hanging from his mouth. He runs to Pyrrhus, nosing his hand. When Pyrrhus doesn't respond immediately, Nephos noses him more insistently, bouncing his little paws against Pyrrhus' legs.

"Right, right..." Pyrrhus murmurs distantly, not quite paying attention to what he's doing as he leans back, stretching his legs in front of him before accepting the bag from Nephos. The dog proudly sits on Pyrrhus' knees, wagging his tail, and Pyrrhus pulls a leather journal and a fountain pen from the bag. The people here had introduced him to a much more convenient and portable way of writing his thoughts down. But he doesn't open the book immediately, his hands numbly holding the implements loosely in his lap.

After a beat, Nephos starts to nose Pyrrhus' hand again, practically forcing the book open with his own snout. This pup is determined to not let Pyrrhus get completely lost in his own head right now.

Achilles shifts to sit beside him—left side against Pyrrhus’ right—shoulder to shoulder. His blind side will take some getting used to.

“Lady Ophelia carries your child. A daughter, I’m told,” he reiterates the good part of his message. “There’s still hope to reunite with them.”

He rests an encouraging hand on his son’s forearm. Write it if you need.

“As to Molossus … I will do everything in my power to help him in your absence.” Beseech his mother to guard her great-grandson while he grows, petition gods for boons, visit his dreams. Whatever it takes. “He will know you love him.”

When Pyrrhus seems to come back into his own body again, Nephos stops nosing his hand as much, instead licking his knee over and over, like perhaps it's a very tasty knee. Or perhaps it's harder to fade again with the constant licking.

"She's pregnant. And I'm not there." His voice shakes. Ophelia is still practically newlywed. He'd taken her from her father, from everything she'd known. And now she's vulnerable. Molossus--he's still so young. How long will it be before he passes? Will his daughter be fully grown then? Will Ophelia have to do this alone, as his own mother had? Will Pyrrhus never get to see one of his own children grow to adulthood?

His hand trembles as he opens the book, flipping past many pages of notes until he reaches a blank one, and then he starts to write. It's easier to write with a pen than a stylus--less pressure required, less rocking of the hand, no need to get a flame to melt wax when a mistake is made. The words bloom out under his fingers quickly with a frenetic yet practiced air. What's happened. What he remembers. What his father has done for him. What news his father brings. The spiraling thoughts, violently teetering between fearing for his son and fearing for his wife and fearing for a daughter he isn't sure he'll ever know.

"I thought I'd be dead," Pyrrhus rasps as he writes. The thought of being alive but not being with his family is a horrible, unique torture. "I've been--I was writing letters and instructions, but I didn't do it fast enough. I--please--"

His hand shakes as he pulls it from the page, the thoughts too jumbled.

"Would you be able to take letters to them from me?"

“The time apart will be difficult.” He can easily put himself in Pyrrhus’ place—he knows how much it aches to be away from those he loves. There was Pat for so many years, and now the long stretches between his visits with Lyra. Achilles rests his head against Pyrrhus’.

“I’ll see your letters delivered. As many as you can write.” Or impose on Hermes as needed.

He watches Pyrrhus put words to paper for a few moments before he speaks up again, somewhat cautiously. “If someday you would consider it … your sister would like to see you again. In truth, she urged me to seek you out that night during Anthesteria.”

A wry smile twists his lips. “She knew I was being a fool.”

Pyrrhus doesn't answer immediately. He leans his head against his father's, so he's not spurning him, but he has to dedicate his focus to writing for the moment. As he starts again, the words start off jumbled, but they begin to unravel into something coherent. Not decisions yet, no, but... at least it feels like he can think at all again.

He exhales softly.

"She's... very clever. Not just for her age, but for anyone." It'd be unnerving if Pyrrhus didn't know about her other parent. The girl is over three quarters divine--is she really mortal like him? Like his own immediate family? Or will she only appear that way and then ascend, like Heracles was said to have done? The things he's seen and heard of her certainly sounds on par with strangling snakes as an infant.

He starts to scratch out more words. They're slower now, just writing out what he remembers of Lyra, what he knows. He's not writing clear, measured sentences, but a stream of consciousness recording everything as it comes to him.

"What is she like?" he ventures cautiously. He's not sure if he wants to talk about her. He's not sure if he wants to waste the opportunity to talk about her, either. He's still not sure of much when it comes to The Girl.

Achilles considers his answer carefully; he doesn’t want to reveal too much about Hermes, nor does he want to sing Lyra’s praises when Pyrrhus’ is still so sensitive to rejection.

“She’s stubborn, thanks to me, I suppose, and she’s clever, as you say. Thanks to her other father.” His hand drifts to the end of Hermes’ scarf. “She’s insatiably curious—so very eager to hear everything about her brother.”

It’s why she approached you, even though she was forbidden, he would add, but that seems like a sore topic. Instead, he pivots to something easier:

“And the two of you share a love of pups. She would adore your little cloud.” He offers a hand to Nephos to lick. “I’m told Lady Medea allowed your sister one of her own.”

Nephos readily starts licking Achilles' hand with fervor, like his hand is covered in honey. Whatever Nephos is tasting, clearly he's enjoying licking just as much as most dogs like treats.

Pyrrhus nods, not looking at his father but listening. He writes down what his father says about Lyra, but he doesn't include her name. She's The Girl for now.

"That's good," he says. "If she's not to have a man to protect her, she should have a large hound."

Little dogs like Nephos are for people who already have protection or can protect themselves. Girls like her, who (for some gods forsaken reason) doesn't have a male relative protecting her until she has a husband, should only have big dogs. If nothing else, at least the witch queen supplies The Girl with ample protections.

"My daughter won't have a man to protect her either." Pyrrhus' hand hesitates over the page. The thought had only just occurred to him when he blurted it out. "Unless Ophelia invites her father."

There's a clear undertone of anger in the way he spits father. No, he wouldn't be able to blame Ophelia for reaching out to her only male relative for help, but he despises the man. Despises how he treated Ophelia, despises the idea of him having the opportunity to treat any daughter of Pyrrhus the same. His knuckles grow white as he grips his pen, the metal creaking against the strength of his sudden mood.

Achilles has half a mind to consult Odysseus. (Perhaps pose it as recompense for the pain he visited on Pyrrhus.) Molossus and Ophelia will be in the same terrible position as Telemachus and Penelope, contending with suitors while they anxiously await Pyrrhus’ return.

Gods, if only Ares hadn’t slain Peleus, he might have lent his protection to Epirus. No altering his father’s fate.

Achilles rests a calming hand over his son’s. “Be at ease, lad. This is a challenge you need not face alone. We have time and clever counsel. We’ll find a way to protect your family, I swear it.”

He returns to the immediate question at hand: “It is your wish, then, to leave the fae realm?”

Pyrrhus shoots his father a puzzled look. As if he's confused that that's even a question.

"If I stay here, I'll never see my wife and children again," he says.

It's that simple for him. Even if he can't see his children in life, he wants to go to the same Underworld as them. He wants to see his mother, his late sons, his wife. A daughter that he's to have.

It doesn't matter if he's happy here. He'll never be content knowing his family needs him.

It doesn't occur to him that he's facing a similar question as his father once did, choosing between responsibility to family and happiness. It doesn't occur to him because he can't imagine being happy without meeting his responsibility.

"They have to be protected enough that she doesn't have to call on her father," he presses, his shoulders tense. "He's a worse monster than those from outside the house."

Achilles wasn’t expecting any other response from his son, but it was important to ask. He drapes an arm around his son’s shoulder. “I needed to be certain. I’m told you’ve found important purpose here, too—many children suffered as you did, and there are few adults who understand them.”

At least there’s Honey, Birdy, and Ember. As much as the last’s method of upholding order still doesn’t sit right with Achilles, at least she understands.

“It pains me to know that there will be others like you, but I’m grateful for their wisdom.” He looks outward at the surrounding jungle with his single eye and wonders if Scout’s made it safely back to the comfort of Honey’s kitchen. “But yours is the right choice. Your family comes first.”

Pyrrhus pauses for a moment, frowning at the mention of the children here. He relaxes against his father, looking out at the jungle and letting his pen rest loosely on the book.

"I have found purpose here. Friends it feels like I've known all my life. People I hope I will be able to see again one day."

And people it will hurt to part with. People he'll miss when he's gone.

"But there are other men and women here who understand them. Men and women who can do all that I can. My children only have one father, and my wife only one husband."

He caps his pen for a moment, resting his head against his father's. There's no need to rush right now, with his father next to him and his dog lying on his legs. It doesn't matter how long he spends here when it comes to when he arrives back home.

"I'll have to say goodbye, though. I don't think I could stand not saying goodbye. I think I've changed being here, and I don't know if it's a good or bad thing." He's not self-conscious about these people knowing how much he cares about them. He's not self-conscious about admitting that he'll miss them, and that it is a sacrifice to leave them behind.

“I don’t think the Morrígan would begrudge you your farewells,” he says, combing the curls at Pyrrhus’ temple. The goddess is fond of is son, after all, but Achilles wonders if she’ll be disappointed to lose one of her collection. Or if she’s capable of disappointment at all, ancient as she is.

“I think I’ve changed as well.” Not just the eye, obvious as that is. “By speaking with the gods and mortals in this place. It’s given me much to think about.”

He sighs through a wistful smile. “Would that I could spend many more afternoons in Miss Honey’s kitchen—preferably without Miss Birdy’s foul drink involved.”

Pyrrhus barks a laugh. "Birdy got you too, huh?" He rubs the back of his neck with a chuckle and a head shake. The less said about how miserable he was after his introduction to that drink, the better. "I've decided she has to have divine blood. Maybe Lord Dionysus. I can't imagine any mere mortal putting away that awful stuff like she can."

Or maybe that's just how he feels better about how thoroughly she can out-drink him.

Pyrrhus scratches Nephos' head. Nephos responds by feverishly licking Pyrrhus' leg. "How do you think you've changed, Dad?"

“Lass could drink the Furies under the table,” Achilles mutters with an incredulous shake of his head.

He hums at the question. “My perspective on war is woefully narrow. It was a sport, vicious and bloody, and I was an eager, willing, and skilled participant.”

Achilles looks down at Pyrrhus’ hand, loosely holding the pen, resting on his notebook. “For so long I assumed you were the same, but I see you have much more in common with the people here. You were only trying to make sense of war and survive it. Whatever that took.”

He claps a hand on Pyrrhus’ forearm, rattling the shell bracelet on his wrist. “In short, it’s changed the way I think about you.”

Pyrrhus only now notices the bracelet around Achilles' wrist. And he smiles, warm and pleased, unguarded in a way that previously he'd only been in his dreams.

"War never struck me as fun. More as... a responsibility. One that I only realized no one had explained to me when I was in the middle of it."

He'd thought that what training he'd had on Skyros prepared him, that war was only ever about martial skill. He hadn't been ready for the unspoken rules, the pressure, the confusion. He hadn't been ready for the reality of being surrounded by men who cared more about personal wealth and returning home than the son of a deceased comrade. He hadn't been ready for the days after, when the ground was strewn with the dead and he had a concubine he was scared of touching.

"I hesitate to ask what you think of me," he says with a wry smile, scratching Nephos behind the ears. "I didn't realize how self-conscious I was until I didn't have to be anymore. How... worried I was about being seen a certain way."

As a man, whatever that meant. Proud and bold and strong, never given to splitting headaches or melancholy or a deep desire to just be quietly making things for no purpose. All the things he'd expected his father would want him to be, that everyone would want him to be.

“I always imagined my son would be a copy of me. A mirror,” Achilles sighs at the naiveté. “I suppose that was why I was so taken aback by the tales that reached me. I saw a reflection of myself in your violence at Troy—one I struggled to reckon with.”

It’s difficult to picture this man beside him—enjoying the company of a fluffy dog after carefully jotting down his thoughts—in the blood-soaked streets of Troy.

“I think— … I know now that we are different men. You’re humble and eager to learn. You’re steady in the face of adversity and adaptable in a way that I am decidedly not.” He laughs self-consciously. “But I think you and I are the same, too. Stubborn, protective … and we’ve both had quite enough of war.”

Pyrrhus listens, leaning his head against his father's and passively enjoying the view of the jungle as he keeps petting Nephos.

"Fatherhood wouldn't be fun if children were just copies of us," he comments, a little wry. "Molossus isn't as shy as I was at his age. And definitely not as afraid of getting dirty."

He stops talking for a moment, taking in a sharp breath and looking down at his book as he's reminded that he won't have a chance to see his son grow up. He picks up his pen and starts writing again, writing about his son, his wife, spiraling and disorganized thoughts about how everyone will change and how they'll get along without his protection. He swallows hard, pressing his lips thin.

"You'll make sure he knows I didn't want to leave him?" He's desperate to save his son from the worst he himself grew up with--the haunting thought at the back of his head that maybe his father left because he didn't care, because he didn't love him, because he wasn't worth raising. It would have been different if he'd been assured from start to finish that his father had been commanded by the Fates, that he'd wanted to be there. "I don't know if he's old enough to remember me when he grows."

“Of course, lad. You have my word,” Achilles says with solemn conviction. Pyrrhus may be forbidden from raising his son, but Molossus might still live with the knowledge that his father loves him.

When his son’s agonized writing slows, Achilles tugs him into a tight embrace. By the gods, he wishes he’d been around to give more of these—and that Molossus could know his own father’s comfort.

But maybe there is a way to circumvent the Fates?

“Do you remember how I visited you in dreams?” he asks after a moment. “I am well acquainted with Sleep and his associates. I can petition them to guide you to Molossus’ dreams in the same way.”

Pyrrhus hugs his father back, allowing himself to just be buried in his father's strength for a moment. Even having never had this as a child, something about it makes him feel like a kid again, looking to his dad for comfort.

Although the mention of dreams makes him start to perk. He's not sure how it'd work, where he'd even be if he's not in Greece, how long the gods would entertain a mortal just wanting to see his family...

"Would it be possible to visit Ophelia and my daughter too?" he asks, hardly daring to hope. It's greedy to ask at all. His son would still be a blessing. But if he can, he wants to see his wife and daughter too.

“It can’t hurt to ask. And an offering of ambrosia can be very persuasive,” he says casually, as if bartering for services with a village tradesman. “I’ll see to it.”

He ruffles Pyrrhus’ hair, playful and reassuring. “Be it letters or dreams, I’ll do everything I can. Your family will know that the Fates keep you apart, and you still love them dearly.”

Achilles hums at another order of business. “We’ll need to find you a home outside of Greece. Lord Hermes may have some ideas for someplace safe, comfortable, and not too far.”

Pyrrhus allows himself a hopeful smile as his father ruffles his hair. Maybe it'll work out. Maybe he'll still be able to be in his family's lives in some way. "Thank you, Dad."

His father has made many mistakes, but at least he's doing everything he can to make up for it now.

He hums at the question of where he'd even be. "Knowing the Queen, she might already have something in mind and put me somewhere in particular." Pyrrhus isn't sure how much Achilles even knows about her, so he just assumes his father needs context. "She likes making dramatic changes in your life without any explanation. Usually it's for your own good... or at least I think it is."

Honestly, Pyrrhus has lived here for what feels like forever, and he still isn't sure he's any closer to understanding her than he was when she took him.

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