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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 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?”

As if sensing he's being watched, Pyrrhus glances up from his work at his father. Meeting his father's eyes, Pyrrhus gives a small, soft smile before returning his attention to his work.

"Monsters, and dead souls that have fled their resting places," Honey says.

"We got a pesta last time, unleashing plague and rats that killed two thirds of the humans on its land," Birdy says, stuck between being proud of the hunt and disgusted with the fae they found.

"But the game isn't really the point. We're portents of catastrophe. War, disease, disaster, that sort of thing," Honey says. She folds her hands in her lap, furrowing her brow. "I'm not sure why the Queen gives these omens. I don't know how often humans are able to act on them. But it's hard to imagine she'd do it for amusement's sake."

“I suppose I don’t count as a ‘soul that fled his resting place’ then? Or will she sound her horns before long?” he muses, teasing, before looking down at Nephos and ruffling his chest fur. “Let us hope her hounds are not so terrifying as this one.”

Achilles’ small smile flattens, properly thoughtful. “The Morrígan brings to mind the primordial gods, like Gaia, Tartarus and Chaos. Their motivations exist on a scale far beyond mortal comprehension.”

He sighs and shrugs. “I wonder if we are but frantically scurrying insects on this mound of dirt. A curiosity to observe. Some of us raise our heads and perceive their nature, their portents, and break from our strange little patterns.”

Nephos lets his tongue hang from his mouth, wagging his tail. Oooh yes he does like this attention.

"Honey has a theory about what the Queen is," Birdy says.

"I don't think he'd understand," Honey says, brow furrowing as she looks to Birdy.

"You are good at teaching." Birdy gestures vaguely towards Honey. "Try."

Honey frowns, staring at the fire for a moment as she sorts through her thoughts. "There's a discipline of science dedicated to discovering and understanding the laws of reality. I don't know what they call it in your time, but in ours, it's called physics."

She chews her cheek, trying to think of how to explain, before her eyes light up. "Your spear. You have a sharp tip on it because you know that a pointed tip will penetrate your target with less effort than a bare staff. A physicist would be able to measure and calculate exactly how much effort it would take to penetrate a target with a bare staff, and how much effort it would take with a point, and express it all in numbers. They can also calculate how much pressure marble can endure without cracking, or how hard pottery will hit the ground given how high it's fallen."

"Weird things normal people don't think to turn into numbers," Birdy says with a wave.

"The worst weapons in human history are made by weaponizing advanced understanding in physics." Honey drops her hands in her lap. "I think the Queen represents physics. Inexorable forces that we can't change or stop, only measure and work with, potentially to our own destruction. I think."

Honey is much less confident in this than she usually is. She's educated in humanities and social sciences, but physics is a little beyond her.

Measuring the world and defining the forces that act within it aren’t strange concepts to a Bronze Age man. Doing so with precise mathematics rather than simple observation and crude conjecture is new, though.

“I’ve spoken with the shades of some philosophers.” He didn’t get to do this much in life, and many of their ideas defy him. Still, it’s a welcome change from heroes’ labors told for the fiftieth time. “They insist that the gods are all an essential part of apeiron. Their spheres of power uphold the balance of the infinite, which is in a constant process of equal growth and decay.”

Achilles cocks his head. “Are you suggesting future mortals harness the power of this creation and destruction? Is the Morrígan cautioning them against it?”

"I... don't know. Maybe she is?" Honey frowns in thought, staring at the fire again and chewing her cheek.

"We've always harnessed the power. If you take a knife to a stick and sharpen the tip, you've made a weapon using physics." She crosses her arms and leans back, turning her gaze to Achilles. "But the more people understand physics, the more dangerous weapons we can make. Before Birdy and I were born, something was discovered. A kind of... ore. Scholars studied how to process it, and they made a substance that glows. It's very helpful if you want to make something that's easy to read or see in the dark."

"Then it killed everyone who studied it," Birdy says with a grimace and a shrug. "And everyone who used it besides."

"Even the ore slowly kills people who stand near it for too long, and it can kill anyone they stand near too much," Honey says, curling her hair between her fingers. "And when scholars kept studying it, they learned they could make explosives."

"People who come after us, they say the bomb they make is so great that just one going off will blot out the sun and poison all the land and ocean and put the world in eternal winter." Birdy shrugs. "Seems like a ghost story to me."

Pyrrhus hums into his work. "Don't try to scare my father with your future visions," he says.

Edited 2026-01-09 06:45 (UTC)

Birdy’s description sounds very like what the Morrígan showed them on the beach. Is that what the world will look like after mortals use these bombs made from cursed rocks?

Achilles stares into the fire, absently stroking Nephos’ belly. He shakes his head.

“I refuse to believe it will come to that.” His remaining blue eye hardens, stubborn. “In so many generations, I refuse to believe mortals learned nothing about hubris or the price of war.”

He looks to Honey. “My story—the story of Troy—was valuable enough to carry beyond the borders of Greece and survive into your age. Were the lessons from it not clear?”

"People will always take the lessons from history that they want to take," Honey says softly.

Nephos sneezes, tail wagging. Pyrrhus finally looks up from his work.

"You shouldn't worry about it, Dad. We don't need to borrow troubles from the far future. We can take care of our troubles, and the future can take care of its own."

Pyrrhus' project has bloomed to almost blanket-length. He pulls the edge up, draping it on Achilles' leg. "Now, tell me what you think."

The blanket is crocheted to look like the waves of the ocean lapping upon the shore. The colors are mixed, with beige land, deep blue water, white surf. The waves are ribbed to simulate the texture of rising surf.

Honey makes an impressed noise, and Birdy whistles. "You missed your calling as an artist, Lamb," Birdy says.

“Yes, that’s wise,” he agrees solemnly. If a primordial goddess can’t alter humanity’s trajectory, there’s certainly nothing the single mortal shade can do from his afterlife. That still won’t stop said shade from ruminating over it later.

But for now, Achilles latches onto the opportunity to be a proud father; he extends the blanket to appreciate its clever design and smiles. “Ah, it’s beautiful, lad! A blanket like the sea! This must be the first of its kind.”

He runs a hand over the soft, cresting waves. “It reminds me of home.”

Pyrrhus gives a small, almost shy smile. He'd never really thought of his affinity for making things as a worthy skill, and certainly not one to show his distant, legendary father. It wasn't masculine enough, wasn't noble and flashy enough.

But somehow, after everything he's been through, it just doesn't seem to matter like it did. Maybe it's his close relationship with Birdy. If she can swagger like a man and still be a proud woman, why can't he work with thread like a woman and still be a proud man?

"Thank you," he says. He ties off the edge with a fond smile. "Many of the people here never saw the sea before they died. I wanted to give everyone something that gave me joy."

A part of him--probably the Nereid part--finds the idea of being deprived the ocean akin to having his heart taken from his chest. If he can't change these dear people's past, he can give them a piece of it now.

It might be his own Nereid blood, but Achilles can’t fathom a life without the sea. It’s as strange as someone who’s never seen the sky. (To say nothing of someone who’s seen neither. Poor Zagreus.)

Achilles throws an arm around Pyrrhus’ shoulders to give him a fond half hug. “You’ve changed since I first met you.”

He catches himself and shakes his head. “No, that’s not quite right. You were always here, you were only hidden away.”

For good reason, Achilles now understands. He leans to plant a kiss on his temple. “And I’ve finally found you.”

For refusetofight

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This is totally post-Mycenaean shit, but whatever man

I have played soooooo much with the timeline since we decided to have Vikings XD

Hadesgame basically throws out the rules anyway

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