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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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“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.

Reflexes immediately kick in; Achilles drops the stone and grabs the dog-thing by the scruff to pull it from Pyrrhus’ arms. His first instinct is to kill the thing—if it can indeed be killed by mortal hands …

But he distinctly remembers the rattlesnake in the desert land across the sea—the one he tried to kill without a second thought. The creature was only trying to protect itself.

Achilles stays his hand, but the trickery—especially with his son—still unnerves him. He gives the monster a threatening shake. “Drop your guise, beast.”

Pyrrhus starts as his dog is suddenly pried from his arms. And Nephos screams, yelping over and over like he's been seized by the jaws of a wolf, twisting in Achilles' grip.

Pyrrhus doesn't have enough time to process what is happening. All he sees is that his dog is afraid.

"What are you doing?" He jerks forward, cupping his hands under Nephos' haunches, supporting him so he's not held only by his scruff. His hackles rise, wires crossed in his head--if anyone else had grabbed Nephos like this, he would have crushed their head, but this is his father, he doesn't want to hurt his father. "You're hurting him, let him go!"

“This is no pup, and I must be certain that he means you no harm.” Achilles twists the dog away from Pyrrhus’ reach, but supports Nephos’ bottom with his second hand—if only to make the creature stop crying.

“Look through the stone, lad.” With a foot, Achilles scoots the river stone toward Pyrrhus. “Behold his true shape.”

He addresses Nephos again, which must look absurd: a demigod hero making harsh demands of a tiny, fluffy dog. “If you have words, creature, I compel you to speak. Explain yourself. Swear that you have no ill intent.”

"What has gotten into you?" Pyrrhus briefly considers tackling his father and taking his dog back by force, but then remembers that he would rather not attack his dad. Also, that such a conflict would more than likely hurt Nephos more.

He picks up the stone, but doesn't look through it immediately, not quite understanding its significance. Nephos stops screaming, but instead he starts snapping at Achilles' fingers, squirming to get out of his grasp.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The porch door opens.

"I hear commotion." Ember stands at the threshold, leaning on her bone can and narrowing her single eye. It seems that the wayward father is... bellowing at the Pomeranian? "Does something need shooting?"

"No, no, nothing needs shooting--" Pyrrhus raises the rock to look through it, and immediately his face grows utterly baffled. "Nephos?"

“Lady Ember.” Achilles is grateful for her arrival; the creature either can’t speak, or won’t speak. “You’ve knowledge of the fae. What manner of creature is this? Is it dangerous?”

He presents the dog to her for inspection. The vision through the stone is burned into his mind, but he realizes that Ember only sees the tiny, innocent canine—that she’s probably accustomed to Nephos following Pyrrhus around—and he adds, “It’s taken the guise of a pup, but the stone reveals the truth.”

Ember grunts, gesturing for Pyrrhus to pass her the stone. Pyrrhus does, a little too confused to really know how to proceed. Nephos stops thrashing and snapping. Instead, he turns his head to look at Achilles' face. He growls deep and low, his lips curling back to bare his teeth.

"I know that whatever he is, he will become dangerous if you keep manhandling him," Ember says dryly as she brings the stone up to her eye. She hums sucking on her teeth.

"Let me confirm with my notes before I say," she says, lowering the stone and gesturing behind her. The shadow that follows her slips away to get whatever it is she's asked for. "I recommend putting him down. He's giving you a fairer warning than most fae would."

Achilles relents, kneeling to place Nephos back on the ground. Not with as much gentleness as he would a normal dog. He dusts off his hands, as if he finished touching something unpleasant, then turns to Pyrrhus, “Apologies, lad. Now you understand why I was startled?”

His eyes flick back to Nephos. “If he’s proved a gentle and loyal, and if his heart is true, I am not opposed to his companionship. But I’ve no reason to believe the fae are particularly concerned with mortal wellbeing.”

He particularly doesn’t like the idea of Pyrrhus setting out in a strange land with naught but this odd creature by his side.

Nephos runs away from Achilles, crying to Pyrrhus and jumping on his hind legs to press his front paws on his knees, whimpering pleas to his master. Pyrrhus hesitates only for a moment before bending down, picking up Nephos again and gently rubbing his head. Nephos buries his little head against Pyrrhus' chest.

"Whatever he is, he's been a good friend to me," Pyrrhus says, looking to his father. He understands why his father was startled--Pyrrhus would have reacted worse if he'd seen such a creature in Molossus' arms without warning--but the strange visage through the stone isn't enough to make Pyrrhus forget how much comfort and companionship this not-dog has provided him.

Ember is given a leather-bound book. She opens it, leafing through the pages and humming to herself. It takes a moment before she finds the page she wants.

"Ah. As I thought." She turns the book to show them, but everything in the book is written in a language that no ancient Grecian would know. As she remembers this, Ember shakes her head and closes the book. "I believe he's a brownie. A kind of fae that usually helps humans around their homes in exchange for food and appreciation."

“I see. If that’s all it truly desires … ” Those motives don’t sound terribly far from those of the typical dog. He sighs and shrugs. “I leave it to you then, lad, to decide if you’ll keep him at your side.”

Achilles does wonder how the brownie arrived at the shape of the happy cloud. Perhaps it intuited Pyrrhus’ fondness for the dream canine?

He crosses his arms and the focus of his eye drills into Nephos again. “Your master will face many challenges. Do you promise to help him, brownie?”

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