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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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Achilles raises a hand to the dressing on his eye, as if he’d already forgotten about the exchange. He shrugs, as if this was as normal as lending him a useful tool. “Lamb has greater need of it than I.”

But he still smiles and winks at Birdy as he steps into the house. “I think he looks quite striking with the mismatched set, don’t you?”

In the kitchen, he gives Honey a respectful nod in greeting and peers into the adjacent rooms for the roughhousing boys. “Seems your lads are full of energy. Shall I take them outside for a bit of play before they destroy your lovely home?”

Birdy looks at Pyrrhus as he steps in, holding him in place for a moment to squint at his eyes. The difference between the brown and blue is, indeed, striking. She gives an approving nod before releasing him.

Honey, meanwhile, is midway through kneading bread dough when Achilles arrives, wearing an apron covered with a generous dusting of flour. Her face lights up as Achilles walks in, faltering only a moment when she notices his eye.

"Oh, that would be wonderful. They have so much energy. More kids came to say goodbye to Lamb, and--"

"I BEAT YOU!" And then a bundle of child crashes into the kitchen. A girl bright red braids has pinned Gavroche on the ground, grinning wide enough to show she's missing a tooth.

"Not yet you haven't!" Gavroche twists and licks her arm. The girl immediately recoils, jumping off him.

"EWWW! No fair!"

Gavroche laughs and grins at Achilles, waving at him. "Hi again!"

In the other room, there's the sound of Scout pleading with more kids to please be more careful, but from the sound of screaming and wrestling, no one's listening to him.

“Cerberus is better behaved than these pups,” Achilles laughs, hauling Gavroche up to his feet.

This isn’t the first time he’s entertained the rowdy shades of children and he knows exactly what will tire them out.

He claps his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Young Gavroche, shall we give Lamb a proper Greek sendoff? Gather up your friends and we’ll hold a pentathlon outside. The winner will enjoy a place of honor next to him at the feast.”

A quick glance at Honey and he adds at a whisper, “And perhaps a second helping of sweets.”

Honey winks with a smile, understanding the assignment. Gavroche giggles as he's hauled up, twisting around in Achilles' grip so that he can swing side to side, grinning.

"What's a pent--penta--pentath--"

The girl with the braids doesn't bother with silly questions about their task. Instead, she cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, "GREEK GAMES OUTSIDE! LAST ONE OUT'S A ROTTEN EGG!"

And a squealing, rowdy mass of kids erupt from seemingly nowhere, laughing and racing each other down the hall to the front door. Pyrrhus steps into the kitchen to give them space, wincing at the noise but smiling fondly nonetheless. The girl with braid lets out a whoop that sounds more like a war cry, giving Pyrrhus that fastest hug of his life before sprinting out the door.

"Wait up! I'm not a rotten egg!" Gavroche runs after her.

"Good luck tiring them out," Honey laughs, shaping her dough into a rounded loaf. "They're all very competitive."

“It may come as a surprise, but I happened to be a competitive lad once myself.” Also a competitive man, even though he encountered few worthy challengers in life. “I’ll ensure the proceedings remain civil.”

Achilles follows the herd of children and organizes them outside the kitchen window, such that the adults can watch the games in progress. He enlists the kids to find replacements for the discus (frisbees) and the javelin (some reasonably straight sticks), while others set about clearing space for foot races, long jump, and wrestling.

“Is Stab about?” He tests the weight of a ‘javelin’ and peers around for any small, hidden figures. “I need a second judge with keen eyes. Two of them, if possible!”

The children are all rough and tumble, some with strange erratic responses and some far moodier than is usual for their age, but they are good at managing each other's less predictable traits. Usually with a shoulder check to remind each other of manners, or leading a fellow to the shade to sit and brood until they are ready to return to the group. It's treated as usual, normal.

At the invitation, Stab emerges from the crowd. He's still drowning in his far-too-large jacket, but he walks, coat dragging in the dirt, to Achilles' side. He's not within arm's reach, but he is next to him.

Scout comes next, already exasperated trying to herd the more needy children to quiet places or cheerful friends, and flops to sit next to Achilles and Stab.

"I have good eyes," he says, raising his hand. He and Stab are more than content to work as judges, and Gavroche, the red braided-girl, and a few other confident and cheerful children herd the others into following Achilles' instructions to play the games and compete. (Competing kids launch themselves at each other to bite and scratch only a few times.)

Inside, the adults are chatting, with Honey busy in the kitchen and Pyrrhus and Birdy sparing fond looks out the window at the gaggle of kids while talking. Birdy brings something to Pyrrhus, and he starts work on something not visible from the window. The games are far along when a little cloud emerges from the jungle, Nephos proudly dragging a bag in his jaws, leaping nimbly down from root to rock to cobblestone, tail high and wagging. He's a good boy, yes he is! He got the things they needed! Lots of good things for crochet!

Achilles oversees the games with an almost theatrical air of ceremony, invoking “Lord Hermes of the Games” to bless their efforts with speed and strength. It’s a shame he couldn’t be here to watch, Achilles thinks, no doubt he’d enjoy this rowdy bunch of little athletes.

The children seem well-accustomed to managing their conflicts and he defers to Scout rather than intervene as a strange adult; he certainly hasn’t earned their trust like Honey, Birdy, or Ember.

Between flurries of activity, Achilles cuts supple, leafy branches and winds them into a half-dozen makeshift laurels for the victors in each of the events. Nephos doesn’t escape his notice, and he gives the dog an approving nod, but expects nothing in return.

After the last wrestling match concludes, he consults with his judges, then steps back inside the house. “Lamb, will you join me in crowning your champions?”

Pyrrhus is in the middle of making a complex weaving of purple thread around pins placed on a soft pillow. The purple is deliberate, the richest of purple usually associated with the most wealthy of royal clothing in Greece. He's only just taking the bag from Nephos, putting out a whole new set of strange and foreign tools on Honey's kitchen table, when his father calls.

"Absolutely," he says with a small smile. He comes outside, and while his manner isn't quite as lighthearted or theatrical as his father's, he still offers a sense of gravitas to the proceedings by honoring each of the winners by name and with a bow as he bestows their laurels. He knows the name of all the children, and he knows exactly how much familiarity each of them prefer. Some, he favors with a clap of the shoulder, and some he doesn't touch at all, offering them their laurels to put on themselves rather than be crowned by him.

The children are proud of their laurels, though they don't quite seem to understand the context behind them, instead calling them crowns that declare them kings and queens of the forest. Pyrrhus doesn't bother correcting any of them, instead putting his hands on his hips and smiling fondly at all of them, a touch of melancholy in his eyes.

"Never have I seen such a group of brave, noble athletes," he says, "and never shall I again."

Achilles echoes each name and assigns an epithet based on each child’s observed traits: light-footed, of the strong arm, or far-leaping. His judges are awarded their own—Stab of the keen eyes and fair-minded Scout—along with his thanks.

Once Pyrrhus has made his own speech, Achilles raises his arms. “Lasses and lads, thus ends our games. I beseech you all to hold them again in a year’s time,” or whatever makes sense in this ever-shifting land. “When you do, remember Lamb, the good king and nimble-handed craftsman.”

Satisfied that the children have burned off their chaotic energy (for now), Achilles turns to his son. “Speaking of, let us return to your task. I would enjoy nothing more than to see your work.”

The kids seem pleased with their epitaphs, ready to declare themselves such and such epitaph king of the forest. Scout even manages the smallest smile watching the ceremony, playing along. Stab doesn't smile, but he does occasionally drift within arm's length of Achilles, which might as well be whoops of joy.

Pyrrhus, for his part, is smiling warmly when Achilles approaches him. He takes a moment just to smile out at the children, much more tame now that they've burnt off energy and mostly sitting on the ground and admiring laurels and giggling over jokes. Then he jerks his head towards the door, leading his father inside.

"While I was waiting for Nephos, it occurred to me that I'd like to give you something for Ophelia before we part."

Inside, Birdy and Honey are bantering at the stove, nodding with smiles to acknowledge their arrival but engrossed in talking to each other. Pyrrhus sits down at the kitchen table, inviting his father to sit as well before turning the pillow he was working on towards Achilles, showing the rich purple fabric he's creating, more finely woven than anything made on a loom.

"I wanted to make her a head covering." The color and finery is a clear statement of her wealth and prestige, and therefore the foolishness of harassing her and risking insult to her husband. All married women must cover their hair, and Ophelia deserves to shine above all other woman.

His smile falters a moment. "And if my daughter marries before I return, I want her to have it after she weds."

Achilles has learned to recognize that spark of excitement and pride that comes from asking someone about their passion. For Patroclus, it was his animals, or what he’d learned about mending wounds. For Zagreus, it was asking after his friends or acquaintances (gods or shades) … or perhaps the strange new fish he caught.

When he sits beside him, Achilles sees that same spark in his son’s eyes. In Pyrrhus’ case, it’s pride in his tenacious labor and hard-learned skill—particularly in what would be designated a woman’s craft.

The lace work loosely connects to what Achilles knows of weaving; all of the dangling bobbins look a bit like loom weights, perhaps? But the result is unlike anything he’s seen before, from mortals or gods.

“This is a gift worthy of a goddess.” He traces the whorls, delicate as spider’s silk, easily on par with legendary Arachne. Hopefully Lady Athena is averting her eyes. “You are truly full of surprises, lad. Who taught you such a skill?”

Pyrrhus' smile takes a shy quality as his father admires his work. He's not so sure he deserves such praise, knowing what he does of how beautiful lace can be, but no one in their time and place have seen this before. "I learned from a young woman named Hetty. Her people would do this work for brides and wealthy people's homes."

He gently pulls the end of the finished fabric, careful not to disturb the pins and the bobbin placement, to show his father. "She told me that in her time, it's usually white. Dyes are so common that being able to have white clothing that stays completely white is considered the mark of a rich man."

He can see the logic--a rich person, after all, doesn't need to work in the fields to dirty their clothes--but he privately thinks the idea of primarily white clothing to be boring.

"Hetty was kind enough to teach me because there aren't many shells to find here, and I found myself frustrated without much to do with my hands. She said that she likes to do fine work too to quiet her mind." Labor like chopping wood is too easy for Pyrrhus. It does nothing to make his mind settle. Only the careful concentration required for delicate art does.

“If you carry the tools for this craft, you stand to make quite a different name for yourself in the lands beyond Greece. Such finery would be greatly sought after.” Pyrrhus would also be very successful as a sword for hire—perhaps even conquer new land for himself—but that seems to be a last resort.

“I will see this delivered to your dear wife.” He wonders if Ophelia will believe Pyrrhus made such a thing. If she knows him as well as it seems, perhaps it will be no surprise at all.

Achilles considers the rest of the supplies Nephos delivered, comparing it to the fine needle work. “The crochet you spoke of is a different art entirely?”

"The tools are surprisingly simple. Pins, strings, weights, and a soft surface you can trace a pattern on," Pyrrhus says, smiling at the pillow before setting it aside. The pins of the future are particularly helpful, since they're made of metal and slide in and out of fabric easily without damaging it, but a person could theoretically do it with pins of bone or wood in Greece. The only thing that would be unfamiliar would be the bobbins, but Pyrrhus is pretty sure he could make them from wood himself if he had to.

But now, he turns his attention to the crochet.

"Crochet is a different art, but the principle is the same. It's using knots to keep string in a pattern rather than warp threads or weights." He picks up one of the crochet hooks Nephos delivered, and pulls the end of a soft wool yarn. It's bulkier than the linen thread usually used for weaving, but clean and soft in a way that is difficult for spinners to achieve. If Achilles touches it, he may notice that it's far softer than the wool of sheep in Greece. "Think of it as closer to making a fishing net than weaving."

He holds the thread and the hook up for his father to see. Then he twists the thread into a simple slipknot, a basic knot anyone who's been on a boat should know. He slides the slipknot on the hook and pulls it tight.

"Now, we make another knot in a chain," he says, holding his hands to keep showing Achilles as he holds the thread taught around his finger, and then uses the hook to hook the thread, twist it, and pull it through the slipknot, creating a stitch without losing the loop around the hook. "See?"

If this method merely takes spun yarn and a hooked needle, it’s surprising that it wasn’t invented before the complexities of the loom.

Achilles picks up an extra needle and length of yarn and attempts to mimic Pyrrhus’ movements. It takes him a few tries to achieve the same result, but with brow furrowed in concentration, he finally manages it. He holds up his two humble knots for his son’s inspection.

“And somehow this becomes a blanket?” he asks, incredulous.

In the back of his mind, he wonders what fellow veterans of the Troad would make of this tableau: the two Greeks responsible for spilling the most Trojan blood now bent over thread and needles. He smiles at the thought of their baffled faces.

Pyrrhus smiles at the way his father struggles with the string. He's never imagined doing this sort of thing with his father--teaching him how to work with string, seeing him struggle at picking up a new skill. It'd never matched with the indomitable image he had. But this is so much better than the endless feasting and wrestling and posturing he imagined.

"It can become a blanket, or a hat, or a pair of gloves, or a plush toy. Almost anything if you have the skill and creativity."

He casually adds a few more stitches, making a little yarn chain. "Once you've created a row, you start a new one." He slows down to show his father how to create a new row, keeping his hook and string and hands well visible. "But you can do special things if you're competent in arithmetic. If you add fewer stitches to your next row..."

He adds stitches to the row, consciously adding fewer than the previous one, and showing his father the product. "The new row draws the first row inward, so you can make something rounded." He adds a few more stitches than the first row, then showing his father the result. "If you add more stitches, it causes the first row to curve outwards."

He gestures for his father to try to do the same. "If you want to make something good, you need to be conscious of your numbers and how it will affect the shape or pattern of what you make. You can use different stitches, sew pieces together, and switch colors of yarn too."

Pyrrhus makes it look so effortless. Achilles makes a clumsy, but earnest effort to chain more stitches together. With the exception of Pyrrhus’ fae-mended wound, their hands are nearly the same. Strong. Accustomed to wielding spears and swords and chariot reins; much coarser things, but somehow his son has adapted to this fine, graceful work.

After asking Pyrrhus to repeat the instruction a couple more times, Achilles’ muscles memorize the basic motions of the stitch and his brow unfurrows. A little. He creates about an inch’s worth of stitched rows, albeit with wildly varying tension.

“You find this relaxing, do you?” he asks with a huffed laugh. “I shall need much more practice before I’m of any help to you.”

"I do," Pyrrhus says with a small smile. "I don't know how to explain it, but... my hands always remember things, even if my mind doesn't. It's something I don't have to fight for, just work for. I don't know how to put it better than that."

He starts doing his crochet without actually looking at it. His hands just know how to do it by touch. "You don't need to help me with the blanket. I like company when I work. Or you could practice with a smaller project, if you like."

"Let me pour you both some beers. Lamb told me you'd like to try some," Honey pipes up, smiling as she starts working around the room. "Stay long enough and I'll make some schnitzel and spaetzle."

"You'll like schnitzel and spaetzle, Dad," Pyrrhus assures him with a smile.

“Ah yes, as much as I thoroughly enjoyed Miss Birdy’s drink,” he says as diplomatically as possible while offering Birdy a polite smile, “Lamb tells me beer is a specialty of your country, and perhaps a bit more gentle on the senses.”

His smile grows at being called Dad. Not that he hasn’t heard it plenty from Lyra, but it carries extra weight coming from Pyrrhus.

Achilles watches Honey move about the kitchen and notes the quilted squares of fabric she uses to handle hot pots and pans. That seems within his skills to crochet—and he has little else for a hostess gift. He resumes working with this new goal in mind.

“Would that I could mix you some wine from Chios in return.” A few more stitches before he adds, “Have either of you been to Greece? What is it like in your time?”

"Ah, I see," Birdy says, smirking and crossing her arms as she leans against the counter. "You are scared of vodka. I understand."

"Taunting isn't going to work," Pyrrhus says over his crochet. He glances over occasionally at Achilles' work, nodding approvingly or gently pointing out a mistake and how to fix it.

"Who is taunting? It is fact. Big Greek demigods are scared of vodka," she says, grinning with a shrug.

Honey playfully swats Birdy before bringing two tall metal steins on the table.

"The flavor is better when you use the same stein for the same beer over and over," Honey says. She brings out a large jug full of amber liquid, pouring it into the jugs at an angle. The beer rises, foaming, and she stops pouring just as a perfect foam layer has formed on the top.

"I've been to Greece once. It's a wonderful place. The traces of your time are everywhere in pottery shards and marble," she says as she pours. "There's also layers of times that come after you. Beautiful monasteries carved into living rock, a mix of different food and traditions from places that conquered Greece and Greece conquered in turn..."

"They are sore that Britain took their pretty statues," Birdy adds.

"The pretty statues are half the surviving statues from the Parthenon, dear," Honey says. "The crowning jewel of Athens. It's a major diplomatic dispute."

Achilles laughs at Birdy’s bravado. He wishes he could bring her back to Elysium to feast among the heroes and subject them to her vodka torture.

The beer already smells much more pleasant. Natural. He murmurs his thanks and takes a sip, leaving an edge of foam on his upper lip. It has a pleasant, earthy taste and a slight fizz that reminds him of the drink the boys gave him.

He hums in approval. Refreshing. Yes, he prefers drinks that aren’t a violent assault on his senses.

“I’m pleased to hear that our monuments endured—along with our stories and gods—and such things are treasured.” He takes another long sip of beer. “I suppose that’s as close as we’ll come to immortality.”

"Not just treasured. Your monuments, your stories, your gods, they're beloved. Uniquely so," Honey says, smiling at Achilles' reaction to the beer. "As far as I know, your religion and culture is the best preserved from antiquity."

Pyrrhus nods his gratitude for the beer, taking a sip himself. "You should see some of the strange things they wrote about the gods after our time. I'm not sure how more authors weren't smote where they stood."

"Oh, a lot of it was just political literature using gods as stand-ins for contemporary politicians," Honey says, moving back to the kitchen to pull some things from the pantry, presumably to make a meal. "Politicians at the time were fond of exile or execution if they didn't like what authors said about them."

Nephos, sitting at Pyrrhus' feet, gives a soft little wuff to draw attention to himself, staring intensely at Achilles. Ahem ahem, he remembers he was promised treats for this delivery.

Achilles wonders if the gods are powerful enough to smite anyone in Honey and Birdy’s time. It seems they barely survived the God of Everything’s conquest (with the help of his own bloodline, as the Fates would have it).

“Mortals continue to liken themselves to gods, I see. We may never conquer our hubris.”

He pauses his craft long enough to acknowledge the dog’s reminder. A rather polite one, as dogs go. “I didn’t forget, Nephelaki,” he whispers, before clearing his throat and turning his attention to the kitchen. “Miss Honey, I have a request, please: I understand you keep some fine cheeses in your larder. I would love to try some, if I may.”

Honey smiles, eyes going down to Nephos before looking at Achilles. "Of course. I'll make a little cheese board for you two while you wait for dinner, hmm?"

She hums softly as she moves to her refrigerator. "Storing perishables became much easier in my time, so cheese makers have more room to experiment without fear."

"Gavroche, he is very picky about his cheeses. He says it is because he is French, and I say it is because he is a picky little boy," Birdy laughs.

Nephos, meanwhile, gives a soft, doubtful huff. He's not so sure he believes that Achilles did not forget, but he shall wait patiently if he has good treats in store. And cheese sounds good.

“Patience,” Achilles whispers to Nephos, then offers him a beer-dipped finger to lick. Maybe that will be to his liking? After years spent with Patroclus, he’s very familiar with dogs begging at the table—though Pat was usually the one to liberally hand out scraps.

“Much appreciated, Miss Honey,” Achilles hums. “Lamb and I may not have another chance to enjoy such unique food and drink.”

At least, not for many centuries … and that entirely depends on whether Hades’ realm survives and the head chef masters the new recipes invented on the surface.

He turns to Birdy, “I suppose you don’t want to hear a picky Greek man talk about the best olive oils, then?”

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