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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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“When I first arrived in this realm, I was treated to some very peculiar music.” He dips another piece of cheese for Nephos and wonders if tiny fae-dogs can get drunk. None of Pat’s had any interest in wine, but the beer is obviously more agreeable to the canine palate. Achilles rations out the cheese and beer accordingly.

“It nearly rattled the teeth from my skull, the drum beat was so oppressive.” Drum is the only word he has to describe the heavy electronic bass line. He winces at the memory of the club and its near-Dionysian madness. “You would be hard-pressed to do worse than that.”

Nephos wags his tail as he takes the newest offering. Ooooh yes, good treats. Achilles even gets an appreciative lick to the hand as the treats keep coming. Good good good beer and cheese, yesssssss.

"I can move my work so you can play the piano, Honey," Pyrrhus says, already standing up and coiling the thickening chain around his neck to make it easier to carry. "Dad, I'll show you where to go."

Honey and Birdy look at each other. Birdy shrugs. "I'll do it if you do."

"Oh, fine," Honey says with a smile.

Pyrrhus shows Achilles into the next room, a warm living room with a burning fire at the hearth. Pyrrhus sits at a plush sofa, working on his crochet as he walks, jerking his head towards the seat next to him for his father. Honey sits at a grand piano, fluffing her dress to sit around her legs properly. Birdy picks a violin up from next to the piano, balancing it under her chin and testing her bow on the strings, tuning after every stroke.

"Fiddles are sensitive to temperature and humidity," Honey says. "They need to be tuned before you play."

Achilles grants Nephos one last bite of cheese before following Pyrrhus into the living room. He settles next to his son on the couch and gives the cushion between them an inviting pat for Nephos.

The house, the stories, and this realm are full of strange things, but the hearth is comfortingly familiar. No matter how the times change, mortals will always need warm, inviting homes.

“Thank you for indulging me,” he says, watching the two women with great interest.

The fiddle he can kind of understand—strings to be tuned, a body to make the sound. The piano is baffling, though; he’d glimpsed it on his previous visit, but would never have guessed it was a musical instrument. A very curious table, maybe?

Nephos enjoys his last bite of cheese before following everyone, tail wagging, and jumps on the cushion offered to him. He immediately noses Achilles' hand, demanding pets. Since Achilles' hands are free, after all, there is nothing better they could do than pet Nephos.

The women glance at each other.

"Want to play Laika's arrangement for him?" Honey suggests with a smile. "Howl?"

"Ah! Yes, we can." Birdy smiles as she settles her violin under her chin, winking at Achilles. "Nice and gentle for the old man."

And then without pause, they launch into duet. Honey smiles as she plays, her hands fluidly moving across the piano keys with the same practice a woman might with a loom. Birdy has a small, distant smile on her lips as she moves her bow across the strings, swaying her body ever so slightly with the whimsical tone.

This might be the fastest any dog has warmed up to him. Not including Méli, of course. Achilles combs his fingers through Nephos’ fluff and scratches the base of his ears. He can almost forget what the dog looks like under the glamor.

Honey was right; the two very different instruments complement each other perfectly. The piano keeps time while the violin sings in a voice that’s both plaintive and sweet.

It suits his ancient “old man” tastes much better than the club music. His foot taps along with the waltzing rhythm. When the song is finished, he pauses petting Nephos long enough to clap his approval.

“Beautiful! You were right, Lamb. A performance worthy of Apollo.” Achilles can’t help himself; he stands and investigates the piano first. Its many ivory keys look like the teeth of a big beast. “May I touch it?”

Honey and Birdy both smile, Honey a little more shyly than Birdy. Pyrrhus smiles at his crochet, focusing on the stitches blooming from his fingers but pleased to be surrounded by the warmth of music and his father getting along with his friends.

"Oh, go ahead! Let me open it so you can see how it works." Honey pulls the top of the piano, resting it on its stand. The strings inside are revealed with the hammers hovering above them, but it's clear that the inside of the piano is far more complex than a lyre.

"It's a popular first instrument for children if they show any musical aptitude. It's easier for them to learn, since pianos don't need so much breath or coordination to play a full chord." Honey plays a basic A Minor chord. The hammers fall down on the strings in the piano. "See?"

One of Achilles’ redeeming qualities is that he’s never been too proud to be curious; he peers into the visible workings of the piano with a near child-like awe. To think mortals imagined such a thing. And children play it?

“Ah, interesting. It still contains strings,” he hums, rubbing his jaw.

He tries pressing a few keys, exploring their assigned notes, and plays a few measures of one of Orpheus’ melodies by ear. “Gods. The sound is so wonderfully rich.”

A little more noodling—he could do this for hours—and he finally turns to Birdy. “Now, show me more of this fiddle, if you would.”

Birdy shows the violin and bow to Achilles.

"The strings on the instrument are metal, and the strings on the bow are horsehair," she says. "Try to play something. It is more complicated than the piano. Just like this."

She tucks the violin under her chin, running the bow over the strings to play a couple notes. Then she offers them to Achilles.

"You will probably make a sound like an angry cat."

Achilles gingerly takes the instrument, admiring its craftsmanship before he does his best to mimic Birdy’s posture—he tosses his hair aside and places the violin under the chin, neck held in his hand. He raises the bow and draws it across the strings with more firm strength than required …

And the sound is exactly as Birdy predicted. Achilles winces apologetically. “By the Styx, that’s terrible. My apologies.”

He holds bow and violin out like some kind of dangerous animal. “Miss Birdy, it must have taken you years to coax such sweet song from this instrument.”

Birdy chuckles as she accepts her violin back. "I can tell you like men best. A violin needs to be treated like a pussy, not a dick."

Honey wheezes. Pyrrhus suddenly flushes red.

"Gentle. You need to be gentle, and keep even pressure." She tucks the violin under her chin and draws her bow across it, making a delicate note. "You have to move the weight of your hand to respond to the position of the bow. If you do not, it wiggles, and it makes an awful noise if it wiggles. You have to pay good attention, can't force it."

She jerks her head towards her bow hand as it moves. "It helps if you keep your elbow always straight with the bow."

Achilles nods and hums his understanding, neither offended nor embarrassed by the crude statement. It’s true, after all.

“An apt comparison. An instrument is rather like a lover, isn’t it? A precise, knowing touch coaxes forth the sweetest sounds.” And no, he definitely hasn’t noticed Pyrrhus’ discomfort with this topic.

“Had I a lyre, I would play it for you in turn.” He returns to his seat at the couch, patting his lap for Nephos. “Though I expect it would sound clumsy and primitive to your ears.”

Why would anyone in the future continue to play such simple instruments when they have pianos and violins?

Nephos happily jumps on Achilles' lap, curling up and nosing his hand. Come on, no time to waste, it's petting time, let's go.

"Lyres are still symbols in our times, but people have started using a more sophisticated descendant called a harp," Honey says. "It's larger, and the sounds it makes offers the musician more variety."

"People have fun improving instruments over generations," Birdy says, putting her violin down gently. "Better entertainment than swinging pointy objects at each other, I think."

"I never really understood people who fought for entertainment," Pyrrhus says, soft enough to almost be to himself.

"Ach, you can break a normal man like a twig," Birdy says, miming breaking something for emphasis. "It is no fun to play fight if you're too busy worrying you'll kill your opponent."

“I hope to try my hand at a harp someday,” he muses, “Perhaps they’ll make their way to the Underworld someday.”

This journey has given him lots of things to look forward to in his eternity. It’s not just the doom and gloom of divine wars, mortal wars, and the ever-unfurling curse of his bloodline.

“No, when you come from divine blood, there’s not much challenge to be had in most fights.” Even when he was small and should have enjoyed such sport with other boys, Achilles was already a wolf playing with wobbly lambs. Peleus was quick to teach him restraint. Pyrrhus was no different, but no one warned him to stay his hand.

“Unless you find like opponents, I suppose.” He strokes Nephos’ fur and realizes how little dog there is under all of it. The creature must look silly when he’s soaking wet. “Ajax—the greater one—always made for a good challenge. A sore loser, though.”

"I regret I could not face him. He had died by the time I arrived at Troy," Pyrrhus says. Between his hands, a blanket is blooming, one with intricate stitching that makes it appear like waves sloshing against the sandy shore. It lends itself to a ribbed pattern that will make the blanket especially warm and cozy.

Nephos rolls in Achilles' lap, exposing his belly. Juuuuust in case Achilles doesn't get the hint, he wiggles a little, waving his paws to gesture at the belly.

"What is something about your contemporaries that you would want remembered?" Honey asks, sitting at the piano and smiling with interest at Achilles. "Something you thing wouldn't be recorded in the songs?"

Achilles is struck by how quickly Pyrrhus’ blanket is coming to life—much faster than working a loom. Hermes and Athena might as well have blessed his hands.

“I’ve not met such a spoiled pup,” he laughs at Nephos’ antics. “Which is quite something if you saw how Pat treated his many dogs.”

He looks up at Honey. “That’s one thing—Pat adored animals, and they him. Dogs, horses, birds, cats … I think he enjoyed their company more than that of his fellow men. Myself included.”

Or he considered Achilles another animal to be tamed and (occasionally) spoiled. Achilles continues rubbing Nephos’ belly as he recalls his Achaean peers.

“Hm. They will likely sing of Antilochus, son of Nestor, for his skill and bravery, but he was another gentle soul, wise beyond his years. His kindness saved me during my grief.”

Achilles’ eyes wander back to Pyrrhus. “They will rightly praise Odysseus’ godlike cunning, but the stories may omit his willingness to sacrifice good men in service to his strategy. Diomedes—he was nearly as clever, but Lady Athena blessed him with wisdom and restraint. I hold him in much greater esteem than Odysseus.”

Pyrrhus' hands do indeed seem to move with some... inhuman skill. Maybe this is something his divine blood granted him. Maybe a god has blessed him. Maybe it's something with the strange magical land out of time around them. But there's something not quite mortal about the skill and speed he works at.

He thins his lips at the mention of Patroclus, bit relaxes when the topic swiftly moves on. Both Birdy and Honey catch the tell.

"Diomedes is well remembered. I'm afraid Antilochus isn't as much, though it's said he was the one asked to tell you that Patroclus died, and he stopped you from killing yourself." Honey perches her head on her fist, eyes curious. "If you don't mind my asking, how did he die? None of the texts agree."

The question takes him by surprise. Yes, death has reunited them, but that still does nothing to dull the memory of that pain. The Trojans might as well have sheared off Achilles’ own right arm and left him to bleed out.

Achilles finds comfort in Nephos’ soft belly fur and the way his pleased panting moves the tiny ribcage under his hand.

“It’s as the Fates foretold: Apollo stripped Patroclus of his wits. He endured many assaults, but Hector delivered the final blow. That much I know to be true, from both Antilochus’ message and Pat’s own memory.” His brows twitch downwards. “How do the texts claim he died?”

Honey winces. "Oh, no, I'm sorry. I meant Antilochus. There are three separate stories about how he died."

She smooths her skirts as she sits at the piano. "The stories about Patroclus' death occasionally vary on details, but the broad strokes stay the same. He wore your armor to battle, attempted to breach the walls of Troy, and died by Hector's hand. The stories argue over whether Apollo struck him senseless, if Apollo warned him to stop three times, or if Hector killed him without divine intervention. I imagine many ancient authors tweaked the details to suit whatever message they wanted to send with their work."

But accidentally or not, she's clearly poked Achilles where he's sore. She bites her lip, looking for another topic, but Birdy cuts in.

"Apollo. He is the shiny one, yes?" Birdy flops next to Achilles on the couch, giving Nephos' head a little ruffle. Nephos' tail wags harder. "Have you met him?"

“Ah.” As difficult as it is to discuss his fallen friends and lovers, it’s important that their stories are accurate. “Antilochus was slain by an Aethiopian king, Memnon. He fought well, but was no match for the demigod son of Eos.”

“I avenged Antilochus on his aged father’s behalf.” Honey has proven herself well-read on the topic; he trusts that she knows the wise (and rambling) Gerenian horseman. “That blasted war sent many good men to the gates of Hades.”

He rests a hand on Pyrrhus’ forearm. “Thank that Fates you weren’t among them, lad.”

That said, Achilles is grateful for the excuse to change topics, even if it happens to be the god who wrought so much grief—on him and his fellow Greeks.

“Yes, Apollo is shiny indeed. Enough to blind a mortal if he so chooses.” He idly works at a mat in Nephos’ belly fur. “I’ve met him on several occasions. We’re not on the best of terms, but that’s improved of late. Somewhat.”

Because of this burgeoning respect, Achilles stops short of mentioning that Apollo takes the shape of a fluffy cloud—dog to delight his brother. Instead, he says, “He would delight in your music, I have no doubt.”

Pyrrhus doesn't respond verbally, content as he is to be able to silently enjoy the company while working, but he does lean against his father when Achilles thanks the Fates he's alive. Nephos' tail wags at the increased proximity of his master.

"Oh, I'm sure our music would mean little to him if he had a chance to hear the masters of our time," Honey says with a pink blush kissing her cheeks.

"The ballerinas, he'd like them." Birdy gives a broad gesture that almost smacks Achilles' arm, because gods forbid she speak without her hands. "Pretty little women, slim as wheat stalks, who dance. You might think they are sissy women, but no, they are great athletes. They dance on the very, very tips of their toes." Birdy gestures to her feet, tipping them as if she were en pointe to make a point. "Their feet, they change from the dancing, become all gnarled and squished before they're out of their little girl years, but they make the sacrifice to look celestial when they dance."

"Birdy's land is well known for ballet," Honey supplies. "They're very proud of it."

“Most gods are not so picky about mortal expressions within their domain.” Achilles smiles, and his hand adjusts his scarf. “Hermes is amused by a pickpocket’s meager spoils as much as an eloquent diplomat’s hard-won treaty. Aphrodite delights in bashful courtship as much as newly weds’ passionate coupling.”

Of course, some gods are more likely to dote on heroes, but if he’s learned anything from Hermes, the gods are inseparable from their domains of war and madness, wisdom and order …

“You speak very fondly of these dancers. Did you wish to become one? Or did you simply admire them?” Birdy appreciates people who are tough, clearly, but she also likes Honey, who (at least by appearances) is delicate and pretty. “I learned a few dances among the women of Skyros—it’s not so simple as it looks, to make such art from one’s body.”

"Me, a ballerina? Ach." Birdy waves her hand dismissively. "I walk with the grace of a cow, and I'd look ridiculous in their foofy dresses. No, I admire their skill and dedication."

"And beauty," Honey says slyly.

"None as beautiful as you," Birdy says.

Honey giggled. "Good answer."

Birdy chuckles, then casually tosses her arms over the couch, getting comfortable, taking up Achilles' and Pyrrhus' space as confidently as any wartime comrade. "I admire anyone who works so hard and sacrifices so much for their craft. If only I could show you the best musicians and dancers of my country--hearing, watching, it is like a glimpse of the divine."

"I'm not so sure," Honey says, perching her head on her fist with a smile. "We've seen glimpses of the divine, and I'd say they're rather stranger than human art."

Achilles’ posture instinctually stiffens at her familiarity. Yes, Birdy is very unlike any woman—mortal or divine—that Achilles has met. Greek women know their place, and barring serving women and prostitutes, it isn’t casually lounging among strange men.

Birdy’s home must be a truly unforgiving place if both men and women become so hardened. It makes sense that she prefers the company of women; he can’t see her submitting to a husband’s authority, even among her own people.

“Oh? What have you seen? And from which gods? The Morrígan? Her family?”

Pyrrhus, on the other hand, despite his demonstrated rigid feelings about gender roles, doesn't react at all to Birdy's familiarity. He's clearly grown used to it. He keeps working quietly on his blanket, leaning against his father. His face is relaxed, content. This is his favorite kind of environment--working on making something while in the company of people he cares for, but not expected to keep track of and contribute to the conversation.

"The Morrígan and her husband, the Dagda, mainly," Honey says, brow furrowing slightly. "Usually they look... well, sensical. She's three people, a girl, a mother, and a crone, and he is a giant man. But sometimes you look at them sideways, and it's strange enough to give you a headache."

"The Dagda, he is strange. Comfortable, generous, always feeding people from his cauldron and making things grow," Birdy wiggles her fingers. "But doesn't seem to like humans. Likes his fae more, and doesn't remember our names."

"And then there's his wife, the queen," Honey says, grimacing.

"The Morrígan, she let Lady Ember conquer this land from the fae and keep it for us," Birdy says, her brow furrowing. "She knows us like we don't know us, and she takes us on hunts. But she puts the teeth on edge. They say the key to destroying the earth sits in the hole where her heart should be."

Pyrrhus is absolutely not what Achilles was afraid of, but he’s not exactly what he hoped, either. His son isn’t brutal—at least not by choice—but he’s also not a proud, confident king and hero.

Pyrrhus is withdrawn, quiet, thoughtful. Many fathers would be disappointed by this; they would much prefer a monster who delights in bloodshed, who wins wars. Achilles watches the firelight play off of his son’s relaxed face, focused diligently on his work, and is simply grateful that his boy is content for once.

“Yes, the same is true of the gods of Greece. They seem very comfortably human in shape, but I’ve been granted glimpses of their true, incomprehensible form.” While making love to one, but he politely leaves that detail out.

“And the Morrígan—I would be pleased if I never again find myself in her presence.” He can’t fathom living under her rule, beyond the flow of time. “What manner of game do you hunt for such a goddess?”

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