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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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“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.”

Pyrrhus huffs softly with a crooked, amused smile. "Gods are so much stranger than I expected."

One doesn't demand anything despite helping extensively, far beyond what could be asked of any god. Another plucks people out of time and plants them like flowers before releasing them with strange trials. Pyrrhus doesn't really understand people, so maybe he never has hope to understand gods.

Nephos barks. He chases his tail in one, two circles before running ahead, stopping to make sure they follow him. He's grinning, joyful as any fluffy cloud dog, but the air is strange about him. He can guide them back to where time flows linearly.

Pyrrhus offers his father his hand. "Walk with me until we arrive wherever we do?"

“The stories I could tell about the gods,” Achilles laughs. “But most will have to wait until you’re safely in Lord Hades’ keeping.” In his experience, the gods are less concerned about the stories shades tell; their influence is minimal.

Achilles cradles the delicate lace veil in one arm and takes Pyrrhus’ offered hand in the other. “I will walk with you until the gods themselves break my grasp.”

He tightens his grip, calloused and firm. “And when they do, I won’t be far. Find me in dreams—Skyros, where we met before—or ask a witch to summon my shade. I will be there.”

Pyrrhus smiles, and he starts walking. "I will, Dad."

Nephos leads them. The world around them loses definition as they pass through the border of Ember's land and into spaces more subject to fae whims. Nephos barks every so often, making sure they're following him, tail high and wagging.

The transition to a land of linear time is just as sudden as the transition into Tír na nÓg. One moment, Pyrrhus' hand is in Achilles', Nephos ahead of them. The next, Pyrrhus and Nephos are gone. Achilles is on the emerald green grass of Ireland again, right where Thetis, Patroclus, and Hermes arrived.

And Hermes is immediately hovering around him like an anxious bee, orbiting Achilles as he says, "Oh thank goodness, you're back, you didn't eat or drink anything bad, are you hurt, are you confused, do you remember why you're here or who you are--"

Achilles lurches to a startled stop and scarcely has time to register his son’s abrupt absence before Hermes is upon him.

“Calm down, magpie,” he urges, catching Hermes’ arm to slow his fretful buzzing. “All is well.”

Patroclus and Thetis both look skeptical. Pat steps forward to investigate the dressing covering Achilles’ eye. “What happened? Did the Morrígan do this?”

“No, I did this to myself,” Achilles says, overwhelmed and embarrassed by the fussing … and his mother’s disapproving frown. Why would her perfect, god-like son do this to himself?

Pat lifts the wrap enough to see the sagging lids and empty socket. He winces. “It’s gone. But it will regrow, of course. Once you return to the Underworld?” His eyes flick to Hermes. “Shades can’t be permanently maimed, except by a god.”

Hermes manages to stop orbiting, but his wings buzz harder, almost lifting Achilles off the ground as he looks at the dressing over his eye. "All is well, you say??"

He picks up on the odd magic around the injury. He continues hovering--he's far too worked up to stand on the ground--and leans downward to look at the injury under the dressing that Patroclus partially reveals.

His brow creases, a dark furrow marring his young features. "You did this to yourself?"

Clearly, he's taking this seriously, because his flapping suddenly stops and his feet hit the ground hard. He takes the dressing between his fingers, peering closer. He doesn't care how close it puts him to Patroclus--they both have common cause for concern here.

"It's gone. Gone gone." Hermes smooths the dressing back over Achilles' empty socket. Hermes' nose twitches. He can also smell strange things on Achilles, smells like tobacco smoke and warm nuttiness and baking bread and astringent alcohol. "Did a fae demand it as payment for a favor?"

Demanding body parts is usually one of the nicer tricks of the fae in Hermes' experience.

“The Morrígan appointed a human woman to judge my case for Pyrrhus’ release. She demanded I give one of my eyes to him.” He raises his chin, confident. “This was a perfectly reasonable request. His eye was ruined by my own negligence.”

Of course. Pat isn’t surprised at all by this dramatic self-sacrifice. He can only hope that it alleviates some of Achilles’ guilt over his son’s abandonment.

Patroclus doesn’t cede any space to Hermes; he finds Achilles’ hand. “Then you succeeded? Pyrrhus is back among the living?”

“Yes, we both crossed the threshold together—I think—but the Morrígan sent him to another land.” Achilles turns to Hermes and asks, “Is there some way to learn where?”

Hermes keeps frowning, but nods at the answer. Yes, that makes sense. And perhaps it'll be for the best. There are precious few sacrifices the dead can make for the living, and he knows that being unable to give his son something to atone for his choices in life was eating away at Achilles.

Hermes' wing twitches at the question. He turns his head, looking at nothing in particular for a moment, as if concentrating on listening to something.

"...Yes, I can learn where. I'm sure he'll make a splash, and gods are gossips."

But now that the anxiety over Achilles' eye is (somewhat) mollified, Hermes turns his attention to the other obvious thing Achilles brought from Tír na nÓg.

Hermes takes the edge of the rich purple veil from where it's draped on Achilles' arm, examining the foreign but exquisite needlework. How would someone make a thing like this? Even Athena would be enchanted with it.

"Please tell me you didn't take this from a fae." Hermes is pretty sure something this beautiful would send the fae into a furious, cursing frenzy if it were taken from them, even in rightful contest.

“It would put my worries to rest.” Or make them worse. As much as the Morrígan’s kidnapping worked out in Pyrrhus’ favor, the goddess might still wish to test him. She could place him anywhere—the far east or on Coyote’s continent or in the lands controlled by the new God …

Achilles follows Hermes’ attention to the veil. He plucks a few strands of stray, fluffy fur from the lace. “No, not at all. Pyrrhus made this for his wife.”

Pat’s brows raise with a mix of surprise and skepticism. Achilles’ children are capable of a great many things, but Pat can’t imagine either of them spending hundreds of silent hours hunched over delicate fiber work.

Achilles has no reason to lie, though.

“He mastered strange weaving techniques, taught by the Morrígan’s shades. He finds the work soothing.” A proud smile curls his mouth. “It may be that you hear rumors of a quiet artisan who weaves webs like a spider.”

"Pyrrhus made this?" Hermes carefully spreads the veil across his hand to look at the full majesty of the needlework, disbelieving. He'd seen the shell bracelets, and they were skillfully made, but he hadn't thought that the dreaded Neoptolemus had the skill or patience to make something so... delicate. Not just beautiful, but delicate.

"Lady Thetis, look at what your grandson made," Hermes shifts to offer Thetis room to approach and look at the work. "Lady Athena would be impressed. More than impressed, she might even ask him to show her how it's done."

He knows his sister, and she does not like asking for lessons on anything at all. But the weaving is so beautiful and foreign that she might deign to at least ask Neoptolemus to demonstrate the technique before privately mastering it herself. This is beyond what can be done on a loom.

Hermes can't help but be a little baffled. He'd never had an inkling of Neoptolemus having an artistic streak, much less with thread. And Hermes likes to think he's very in the know whenever it comes to anyone worthy of divine notice.

“I assure you he did.” Achilles puffs with pride at Hermes’ incredulity.

Thetis inspects the work with a carefully neutral expression, hands clasped at her waist. At first glance, it brings to mind a fisherman’s net, but after examining it more closely, the work has an undeniable elegance. The way the fibers lattice together brings to mind sea foam gathering in shallow waves. It’s hard to imagine a mortal made this—much less her grandson.

“Are you certain this won’t be cause for jealousy?” Thetis muses. “He may suffer the same fate as Arachne.”

“Mother, Lord Hermes knows his own sister,” Achilles says firmly.

"Arachne boasted she was better than Athena, then gloated after she won the competition," Hermes says, shaking his head at the audacity of the woman. He doesn't think she deserved to be turned into a spider, but it's hard to be too sympathetic when she did repeatedly did things so clearly, obviously foolish. "If I haven't heard about his skill with thread, then he can't be particularly boastful about it."

If Neoptolemus continues to approach this level of skill with humility and discretion, Hermes can't see Athena doing anything other than lauding his work. Hermes quirks an eyebrow as he looks to Thetis. "Athena usually likes people who excel in her domain, so long as they don't get a big head about it."

Though he doesn't know how Athena would feel about Neoptolemus even with his skill in thread. He knows she'd been repulsed by his actions as a boy in Troy, and Athena is far less willing to empathize with humans than Hermes is.

Thetis withdraws to a comfortable distance; Hermes and Patroclus still haven’t earned her trust, even if they happen to have Achilles’ love. “True. Let us hope Neoptolemus remains modest. He’ll need all the divine favor he can gather after his defiance of the Fates.”

Achilles nods, carefully folding the veil before draping it back over his forearm. After a moment he says, “Pyrrhus’ time among the fae healed him, at least in part.”

His eye wanders from Thetis, back to Hermes and Pat. “The Morrígan gathered many others like him—children and young people thrust into miserable, brutal wars. They understood him like few of us ever could. I think he needed that most of all.”

Hermes' brow furrows. His immediate questions are about the Morrígan--why would she do that, why in particular children of war, why children and not grown men, why she journeyed so far to grab another--but he pauses those thoughts for a moment as he looks at Achilles' face.

It'd serve Olympus best for Hermes to gather as much information about the Morrígan's motives as possible, but it'd serve Achilles best to have a chance to process whatever happened in Tír na nÓg.

Hermes takes Achilles' shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Why don't I take us all home? Then you can explain what happened after you started your trial." Patroclus will probably want to hear, but Hermes isn't sure Thetis will or won't. She's famously intolerant of the company of men, and she's been around a lot of men for an extended period.

“Yes, that would be best,” Achilles agrees. He realizes he’s still wearing Hermes’ scarf—and that Hermes looks a little incomplete without it. He unwinds it and coils it back around the god’s neck. “It’s never wise to keep shades from the Underworld for too long.”

And Achilles isn’t sure how long he’s been away. A day? A month? Will Lyra be worried? Will Hades be furious?

“Pyrrhus extends his gratitude, by the way. For guiding me here to find him,” he says, adjusting the drape of Hermes’ scarf. “He promises a temple in Epirus for your trouble.”

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