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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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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.

“I see,” he grunts. What Achilles sees is his mistake: he should have added a stipulation about Pyrrhus’ movements outside of Greece. Styx. Hermes would have caught that.

“Are you worried about where she might send you?” What if she banishes him to Coyote’s land across the sea? Or Egypt, threatened by the upstart god? Even if she chooses country that’s closer and safer, Achilles can’t imagine Pyrrhus learning a new tongue. Not while his memory is still so faulty and his thoughts so scattered.

“She must know that you’ve suffered more than enough dramatic change.”

"I probably should be worried. But I can't say I am." Pyrrhus frowns out at the jungle. So beautiful. So far away from anything he could ever see in fair Greece.

"I never would have chosen to come here in the first place. But I've liked it here. I don't think I'd choose to go anywhere else she'd send me, but I've no reason to think it'd be different this time." He turns his head, giving his father a small, lopsided smile. "And besides, she has more affection for me than the Fates do. That's something."

He doesn't understand it, doesn't understand her, but he knows that she has her favorites. If she sends him somewhere, it's somewhere he can leave if he puts in the effort.

“Leaving you to suffer the whims of a goddess doesn’t sit well with me—even if she does favor you.” Achilles frowns, surprised that Pyrrhus is so willing to accept the Morrígan’s decision. Clearly his son doesn’t suffer from chronic hubris.

“But … Whatever her decision, you won’t be alone long.” That’s what concerns him the most: that his son will be without friends and family yet again.

Achilles gently takes the pen and journal from Pyrrhus and opens it to a fresh page where he writes in bold letters: I will find you again. I promise. The tip of the pen hovers for a moment before he signs, Dad.

With Pyrrhus' experiences with gods, he's accepted that the best he can do is just accept and adapt when they decide to toy with him. He's just glad that this time, at least the god kind of likes him.

But his resigned peace is paused when his father takes his book. He watches with interest to see what his father writes.

His chest warms. He smiles, resting his head against his father's shoulder. "Thank you. I won't forget this way."

He tries not to think too hard on that anxiety--on wondering how much of a given moment he'll be able to keep. It's been easier with the wealth of stationary here in this place out of time, but he doesn't know how much he'll remember when he leaves.

But there's only one way to find out.

"Come." Pyrrhus gathers Nephos in his arms (the dog's tail immediately wagging at the change) and squeezes his father's shoulder. "Come with me to say goodbye to everyone. We'll figure out what comes next together."

“Of course.” Achilles rises to his feet and offers a hand to his son. He glances back at the house and whispers conspiratorially, “Hopefully the trek back will be more forgiving now that Lady Ember isn’t testing my mettle.”

Or Ember will somehow make the path uphill both ways? He wouldn’t put it past her.

“Little Nephos, will you join your master on his next adventure?” Achilles ruffles the dog’s ears. Can the pup—or whatever he actually is—survive outside of dreams or the fae realm? He hopes so; if Pyrrhus can’t live with his family, Nephos would fill some of that void.

Pyrrhus smiles and takes his father's hand, pulling himself up. "You'll have to tell me how hard Lady Ember was on you. I've been lucky enough to stay on her good side all this time."

When he's upright, he looks to Nephos, bouncing the dog a little in his arms. "What do you say, Nephos? Will you join me?"

Nephos answers by lunging to lick Pyrrhus' face with the fervor of a cat upon a mouse, lick lick lick like his life depends on it. Pyrrhus laughs, scrunching his face and turning away so Nephos can't get his mouth.

"I'll take that as a yes. Good, because I'd be terribly sorry to leave you." More than sorry. Devastated. Pyrrhus loves this dog more than is dignified for a man to. But he puts that aside, looking at his father. "Maybe you could ask your escort or Lord Hermes what Nephos might be. Whatever he is, he's been a great companion and friend to me."

“I can see why Lady Ember is fond of you. She was much less impressed by me, but not unreasonable.” She did ask him to carve out his own eye, but Achilles feels that was well deserved. He laughs. “Miss Birdy’s drink and the headache after was far worse, comparatively.”

Pyrrhus’ suggestion reminds Achilles of something: he gives a soft ah and rifles around in his pocket to pull out the river stone. “This might tell us something. Or at least rule out the possibility that your pup is a fae illusion.”

He holds the stone up to his remaining eye and peers at the happy cloud in Pyrrhus’ arms.

Nephos flips his head back to look at Achilles, his tongue lolling out happily. But once the stone comes out, his mouth snaps shut and he growls. It's out of character enough that Pyrrhus looks down at him with a furrowed, confused brow.

Through the stone, it's immediately clear that this is not a normal dog. It's a small, snub-nosed humanoid with long, floppy pointed ears, and a curling lion-like tail. His eyes are beady and black, and his face resembles a rodent more than a human, with large square teeth that look good for gnawing on wood.

Nephos whimpers and rubs his paws over his eyes, turning his face up against Pyrrhus again. Within the view of the rock, the little creature folds his long fingers against the back of his head and turns away from the stone, cringing away from being beheld.

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