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Through the smoky miasma, thick and smelling of conflict and heat and pressure, on the other side is a forest. This one is less garish, less saturated than the rest of Tír na nÓg. Two fae creatures, odd feathered humanoids that resemble crows with cracked and broken beaks, sit at the rocks around a steaming hot spring, soap and strigils beside them.

The fae are seemingly mute, but won't allow Achilles to leave without a thorough wash. The sort that practically scrapes a whole layer of skin off, the sort where they insist on his hair to be cleaned and his nail beds scrubbed. His white tunic is whisked off to be burned, and only once he is deemed fit by the fae attendants to be properly cleaned of the remnants of the Morrígan does one bring the clothes he left behind with Hermes. They're neatly folded, but Hermes' scarf sits on top like a nest, holding Achilles' ring, his bracelet, and the stone with a hole in the middle. The scarf smells distinctly of Hermes, like cleverness and courage and Greece. Almost like Hermes is trying to give Achilles his blessing and support, even when they can't see each other before his trial.

After he's clean and dressed, the bath attendants point in the direction he's meant to walk, a plunge into the dark woods. There's the soft giggling of children within.

In the woods, children from all across time and the world huddle together. A boy holds a fist of straws, and each of the children draw a straw at once. They mumble amongst themselves, checking the straws, and three boys have the shortest one.

"Seems unfair to make him convince Stab," says a girl with messy red braids and two missing teeth.

"If you want a mulligan, you gotta give up treats until the next hunt," a blond boy with gray eyes and a short straw says, waving it in her face. She wrinkles her nose.

"I didn't say I want a mulligan!"

"Then shoo!"

As Achilles approaches, the children with longer straws scatter into the woods, some laughing. Three boys remain. One boy, with pale skin, ragged dirty blond hair and crooked teeth, wearing an oversized sweater and shorts and no shoes and a canvas bag big enough on him to almost drag on the ground. A second boy, skin dark as jet and head shaved, a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck, wearing loose sweatpants and an old linen button-down with sneakers with a check drawn on. A third boy, the smallest of them, maybe close to Lyra's age, looking like one of the people from the far east but with a permanent glower in his face, sitting on the ground and looking a little like he's drowning in the adult-sized jacket draped around him.

The blond boy jumps up on a tree stump to greet Achilles at eye level, putting his hands on his hips and smirking. "Hello, grownup! Here starts your trials! I call being the judge."

"Don't be silly. It's not a court trial." The boy in the button down approaches, holding an aluminum can colored bright red. He pops the tab, a sickly sweet smell rising in the air as the liquid inside hisses, and he holds the can out to Achilles. "My dad said men welcome each other with a beer, but if you get to Birdy she's going to make you drink a lot, so here's a coke instead."

The boy in the button down strategically stands between Achilles and the smallest boy. The smallest boy makes no movement to greet Achilles, instead staying on the ground, glowering at him with dark eyes.

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Pyrrhus 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.”

Pyrrhus isn't used to this kind of acceptance from fellow Greek men. He isn't used to allowing his guard down, letting himself stand only as he was, and being embraced and loved for it. His relationships with both of his grandfathers, the men at Troy, the men he met after, they taught him that he was only ever worthy of fear, not love. Were this prior to his abduction, he might not have known how to accept his father's unfettered acceptance of his imperfect self.

But he's learned a lot since his abduction.

He smiles, small and warm and shy, and leans against his father, soaking in his affection. He doesn't have much skill with words, especially not when it comes to articulating his feelings, but he manages, "I'm grateful you looked for me."

Honey and Birdy are doing their best to let Achilles and Pyrrhus have their moment, looking at them fondly. Nephos, however, notices there is affection that he is not included in, and this must cease.

He flips on his paws, standing on his hing legs to lick Achilles' and Pyrrhus' faces. Pyrrhus laughs, gently pushing the fae dog away. "You demanding little dog," he says fondly.

Achilles laughs at Nephos’ interruption. After Pat’s dog hoarding, he’s very accustomed to dogs inviting themselves to join loving moments. He gives Nephos’ head an apologetic ruffle.

“I hope you’ll forgive my foolishness. I am very far from perfect.” He gives a long exhale. His eye briefly glances at Honey, who must be well-acquainted with those flaws from her studies. “It’s a lesson I must learn again and again.”

He bumps his forehead against his son’s. “Thank you for teaching me, lad.”

It doesn’t escape him that Pyrrhus’ time here was important. Transformative. He bows his head to the two women. “And thank you, Miss Honey, Miss Birdy for welcoming my son and showing him kindness. If I had treasures to give, you and the children would have them. I hope my words of gratitude will suffice.”

Birdy gives a hardy laugh and a dismissive wave. “Ach. I got to wrestle a demigod and beat two at drinking vodka. What old book lets me do that?”

“I mean, if we’re speaking of gratitude…” Honey’s eyes light up, and her cheeks flush. “If it’s not too terribly troublesome, and you have the chance, would you please send my regards to Lady Medea? And the regards of many young women like me.”

Birdy tips her head back and laughs loudly from her belly at the besotted behavior. “It is lucky she is not here, or I’d have to fight her to the death.” She mimes swinging a sword with some sound effects. “Whap, whap!”

Pyrrhus laughs, but then his eyes soften. “I’ll miss you.”

Birdy makes a rougher noise. “Don’t get weepy, or else I’ll get weepy, and then I’d have to kill you.”

Edited 2026-01-14 05:24 (UTC)

“Of course. Lady Medea will be pleased to know women in the future are so fearless.” And that she may have inspired some of it. “I’ll also tell her young pupil about the two of you.”

Achilles would wink at Honey if he still could. Instead he gives her a secretive smile before turning his attention to Birdy.

“There’s no shame in shedding tears. Our strongest warriors and the gods themselves weep freely.” He flashes another smile, this one teasing. “But we are soft men who don’t drink entire bottles of poison for sport.”

Honey smiles. Birdy's eyes go to her, but she decides to let it be for now, because she has banter to engage in.

"Yes, yes, soft men, it must be all the nice warm beaches." Birdy playfully bumps her shoulder against Achilles'. "Water to sail in all year, plenty of nice weather, weak wine, pah. Live where it's cold and the ports freeze, I dare you. We have one god who does anything, and it's General Winter. The best he does is kill our enemies before he kills us."

She laughs loud and proud and slaps her knee. Pyrrhus can only smile fondly at her boasting. He pushes himself up, holding his hand out to her. Her laughs fade.

"Ach," she says before standing up and wrapping Pyrrhus into a big bear hug that he returns. "Live long and well for all of us, you softy bastard."

“The beaches at Troy were pleasant, but lost their charm after ten years,” he laughs, a bit wry. He can see why Pyrrhus will miss this woman. Achilles wouldn’t mind spending more time with her, drinking, playing music and exchanging stories of war.

Achilles rises to join them—Nephos tucked in the crook of his arm. The fluffy cloud can’t be left out.

“Not to worry, Miss Birdy. If Lamb arrives at the gates of Hades too soon, I’ll turn him away to live out a few more years,” he jokes, clapping a hand on Birdy’s shoulder. “I’m on good terms with three psychopomps.”

Nephos wags his tail and pants with a big puppy smile. Birdy lets go of Pyrrhus and laughs at Achilles, giving him a playful elbow to the side and a wink. "Good man, putting your post-death connections to good use."

Honey comes over and gives Pyrrhus a hug. Tears are in her eyes, but she's quick to wipe them away before they can make her makeup run. Pyrrhus gives her a soft kiss to the cheek.

"I know they'll all be in good hands, with you and Lady Ember," he says softly.

Honey smiles against her tears, though her eyes are glassy and red as they turn to Achilles. "Are you both ready for me to let in everyone else?"

Achilles smiles, warmed by Birdy and Honey’s affection for his son. Love from family is good and expected, but such genuine love from strangers feels special. Especially for someone like Pyrrhus, where deep bonds are hard-earned.

He spares a quick glance to confirm with Pyrrhus, then agrees, “Yes, it’s time to let the little lads and lasses say their farewells.”

Tough as the children are, Achilles braces himself for some tearful good-byes. He places Nephos back on the floor and gives him some instruction: “Here, pup. Help keep them in good spirits.”

Nephos barks as he put on the ground, chasing his tail in a couple of circles before sitting, tail wagging as he watches the door. Let him at them! Let him at them! He'll lick them to good spirits!

Honey puts on a brave face and opens up the door to call the kids in.

There are more than kids there. It seems all of Ember's clan has arrived, a large range of small children and gangly young adults, though most are younger than Pyrrhus. There are many kinds of reactions, from kids hanging back to others clinging to Pyrrhus' leg. He takes the time to acknowledge and say goodbye to everyone.

Gavroche proudly gives Pyrrhus a heavy bag full of gifts, contributed by different members of the group. Pyrrhus presents everyone with the blanket, allowing Scout to wrap himself up in it first and hiding among the waves.

It's a long time before he's able to gather his things, gathering the lace veil for Ophelia and entrusting it to his father, and he kisses people goodbye multiple times.

There are still tears as they leave. As Pyrrhus steps out of the house, he wipes his red eyes.

"I will miss them," he says softly.

Achilles stands aside, giving Pyrrhus and his friends plenty of space. As he watches each of them say their good-byes, tears soak the dressing over his missing eye and slip down his cheek. (If Birdy thinks him soft, so be it.) They’re bittersweet tears—he’s overjoyed witnessing this parade of love for his son, but sad to know Pyrrhus is leaving it all behind. Most likely forever.

The world of the living won’t be so understanding as these young victims of war. Achilles can only hope that these shades have helped heal the worst of his wounds and left him ready to live out the rest of his years.

Outside the house, Achilles holds the precious lace veil. His eye is just as red as his son’s as he pulls Pyrrhus into a firm embrace. “I hated the Morrígan for taking you from me. But this has been a gift, lad. Truly.”

Pyrrhus' breath is shaky as he hugs his father tight back. "It has been. A strange gift, but a gift nonetheless."

Perhaps strange gifts--a people sense from Lord Hermes, time in a forever twilight from the Morrígan--are the best kinds that gods can give. The sorts of gifts one would never even think to desire for themselves.

He squeezes his father. "Tell my family I love them. Molossus especially. And for any servants who remain loyal, I love them as well."

He trusts most of them will remain so, but Aspasia the most. He wishes he had had the awareness then that he has now, that he does love the woman like a dear and trusted friend. That he loves all of them.

“They will know how much you love them, and Lady Ophelia will have your beautiful veil.” Achilles slowly strokes his son’s curls. “I will tell them that you are whole and well, but the gods have forbidden your homecoming. Molossus will know that it isn’t your choice to remain apart.”

Achilles’ grip moves to Pyrrhus’ shoulder and he pulls back enough to look at his face. His remaining eye flicks between his son’s mismatched pair. “Your grandmother and I shall do everything in our power to keep your family safe until your return. You have my word.”

He shakes his head and takes a thick breath as his eye wells up with fresh tears. “By the gods, you are a better son than I deserve.”

Pyrrhus swallows hard. The emotion mutes him for a moment. Instead of speaking, he leans forward, pressing his forehead against his father's, closing his eyes for a moment and just breathing.

"Thank you for coming for me, Dad."

Pyrrhus is slowly coming to terms with the idea that his father will never be quite what he imagined, and he'll never be quite what his father imagined, but that it's okay. That the people they are prove better than shallow imaginings.

He takes a deep breath, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

"I assume Lord Hermes intervened so you could come here? Please, convey my gratitude. He'll have a temple in Epirus whether he wishes it or not."

Achilles feels the itch to speak more—to apologize for what must be the twentieth time, or make more promises—but he forces himself to honor the silence instead. He feels the life still in his son. His breath, his pulse. Against all odds, he lives.

“You are most welcome, Pyrrhus.” He plants a kiss on his son’s forehead.

“Yes, Lord Hermes conveyed me here, with the help of his local counterparts. A temple would please him, or games held in his honor.” Achilles gives a lopsided smile and a small shrug. “He’s not a demanding god, but he won’t object to a bit of praise and attention.”

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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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