For @messageforyou

The palace at Skyros is only a loose sketch; Achilles dreaming memory can only paint it in sparing detail after so many years. The shapes and colors describe the place as much as Achilles’ emotions: The palace itself is washed out and bland, but the sunny rocks, the glittering sea, and the endless horizon just beyond are vibrant, tantalizing with the lure of fateful heroism.

It felt like a prison after the freedom of his bright, sunny youth on Phthia and his adventures on Mount Pelion. He was bored, impatient, but respected his mother’s wishes even as he resented them.

The dream palace is hollow and quiet. Lycomedes’ table is empty. His daughters’ looms are left abandoned. Achilles imagines the real Skyros must be in the same sorry state; he left Deidamia unwed and Lycomedes had no sons to defend his meager kingdom.

Achilles walks the halls and thumbs the shells encircling his wrist. He has no dream guide this time, but he came here on his own instincts: visit a memory both he and Pyrrhus share. Eventually, he finds an abandoned lyre and settles to play in a central courtyard where plucked notes echo hauntingly between colonnades—the only sound in the palace other than the sigh of the sea.

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Pyrrhus had put his all into making the shell bracelets requested for his parents. They're the best he's ever made. He had Galene and Molossus help him pick the best shells they could find, and each knot he made was perfectly considered. He hoped that they made it to the Underworld, but he couldn't be quite sure. His dreams were quiet for a long time, and he wondered if it had just been his own wishful creation.

But now, as he dreams, music drifts to his mind, music he's never heard before. As if to join the sound of the lyre, there's a memory of Deidamia and Pyrrhus, singing together as she plays the lyre. She was a far better singer than she was a lyricist, but Pyrrhus' voice matched hers in skill. The memory travels through the halls of the palace, coloring the walls and floors and pottery. In Pyrrhus' memory, Skyros was beautiful and safe, but very lonely. But every inch is painted with his mother's unconditional love.

As Achilles plays, Pyrrhus, the boy that only makes one third of a whole, appears, sitting at Achilles' feet and resting his cheek against his father's leg. Neoptolemus appears too, not quite so close, but in their orbit, sitting on the ground and watching, listening to his father play. The king is present, but on the edge of awareness, a wary scout that waits for the way to be judged safe.

None of them want to interrupt Achilles. They want to listen.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the palace shift with Pyrrhus’ amendments. The sound of singing precedes his son. Deidamia’s voice is familiar—all the more so after their recent reunion in Asphodel. Her tone with Achilles, however, was not nearly so sweet.

When she laid eyes on him, she erupted in long-simmering fury. He didn’t try to defend himself; he deserved every bit of her scathing admonishment. He expected it. Her rage only cooled when he brought her a gift: the tragically young shades of her grandsons, Amphialus and Pergamus, and the handmade token from Pyrrhus.

Achilles’ own lovingly-crafted bracelet is clear to see, rattling on his wrist as he continues playing. The song lilts to an end and Achilles ruffles Pyrrhus’ hair in greeting. “I was hoping you’d come, lad. I’ve missed you dearly.”

Pyrrhus grins, a big smile that shows his teeth as he's greeted and ruffled and he sees the bracelet around his father's wrist. "I missed you too, Dad."

"You sound pathetic when you talk like that," Neoptolemus says to Pyrrhus. Pyrrhus winces, but he doesn't allow his self-inflicted bullying to stop him from greeting his father. He shifts to lean against Achilles' side, clearly aiming to be held again once Achilles has set aside the lyre.

"You got the bracelet! Did you like it?" Pyrrhus asks, tapping the shells on his father's wrist.

"I said they were meant for someone important. Galene said that if that was the case, we had to make the kind that rattle, because she thinks those are the best," Neoptolemus says, more subdued than his smaller self but the fact that he's engaging at all speaks to how eager he really is to speak to his father again. "She has better taste in jewelry than we do, so rattling bracelets it was."

“It’s pathetic to tell someone you missed them? I missed you, too,” Achilles laughs at Neoptolemus—gently, not mocking—and pats the bench beside him invitingly.

Whether Neoptolemus takes him up, Achilles gets the hint from Pyrrhus and sets the lyre aside to gather him up in his arms, more playfully rough than he would be with Lyra. "And you … of course I liked the bracelet. It's exactly what I hoped for. It reminds me of two things I love: you and the ocean …

"You should know that your mother adored hers, too. She was even more pleased to hear about Molossus and the home you've made at Epirus." Achilles carefully omits the opening volley of blows Deidamia rained on him—both with her fists and words.

Neoptolemus hesitates, clearly a little skeptical that he was missed too—this piece is not good at accepting tenderness and care—but he does slowly approach and sit down where he’s invited to.

And as Pyrrhus is roughly handled, he squeals with delight, giggling as he’s pulled in and wrapping his arms around his father’s neck. When Achilles says he loves him, Pyrrhus beams, and Neoptolemus slowly, carefully, leans against Achilles’ side. The dream seems to shimmer with how much they like to hear that.

“You talked to Mom?” Both pieces perk to attention at the mention of their mother.

“How is she? Is she alright?” Neoptolemus asks, hungry and a little frightened of more information. They want to know that their mother is at peace and no longer suffering the ravages of illness. They want to know that she is happy, that she found her place in Asphodel and she’s comfortable.

Edited 2024-10-10 15:33 (UTC)

Achilles is once again reminded of a stray dog—cautious, but hungry for affection—like the ragged mutts Patroclus would befriend. After a few weeks, they would be happy and healthy, if still skittish around strangers. It was enough that they could trust one person.

Pyrrhus, meanwhile, is like a sweet, rambunctious pup. Achilles laughs, wrapping one arm around him and slinging his other around Neoptolemus’ shoulders.

“She was well enough to upbraid me about going off to die and leaving you behind. It was well-deserved … and I think she was satisfied to finally say as much.” This, again, is leaving out the most vitriolic parts of Deidamia’s tirade. He sighs. “She misses you. And she was worried about how you’ve fared in her absence.“

There's a mix of ambivalence that shimmers in the walls of the dream. The King might be willing to accept that he's angry at his father for leaving and not coming back, but the other two aren't. They don't want to be angry at Achilles, lest their anger scare him away, so they try very hard not to be. To focus only on how good it feels to have him back now.

So there's ambivalence there about his mother scolding his father. A part of him feels good to know that Deidamia had a chance to air her own grievances. Another part doesn't want to think about it, lest it force him to think of his own grievances.

So they focus on something that's easier to grapple with.

"She always worries. But we're a man now. A king, even. We'll be okay, and we'll tell her all about it when we die," Neoptolemus says, slowly leaning into his father's half-embrace.

"Tell her that I might get married soon." Pyrrhus drums his fingers on Achilles' collar in excitement, grinning. "A merchant's ship was caught in a storm and the merchant and his daughter washed up on Epirus. His daughter is really pretty."

Across the courtyard, the colors come together to make her form, the suggestion of her image filtered through Pyrrhus' gaze. Ophelia the dream whispers. She has long hair so blond it's almost white and light gray eyes that draw him in. His attraction is seared in the colors that shape her, in the way she rearranges the skirt of her chiton before sitting down to examine a flower, the way her thin fingers carefully part the petals so she can admire the bloom. In the way she looks at them from the corner of her eye, and she flashes a small, secret smile, like she knows they're looking.

There's magnetism around her form, like she's a goddess with all the glorious aura endowed to one. At least, that's how Pyrrhus sees her.

"Very pretty," Neoptolemus agrees, looking at the dream version of her as it moves. "And she's good to Molossus." A flash of a memory. She's crouched down in front of Molossus, advising him gently of the importance of washing his hands after playing in the mud, then giving him a high-five when he's cleaned his hands in the wash basin, not even minding that his hands were still wet. "And she remembers people's names." Another flash. She's talking to Aspasia, asking her where she's from and how she enjoys Epirus. Aspasia is taken aback--she's not used to people besides servants and Neoptolemus showing any interest in her--but Ophelia seems interested in the answers, eager for conversation.

(A smear of Hermes orange. People sense. Insight. Ophelia is lonely like Pyrrhus is. All her elder siblings left home to marry or make their own way, and her father is an angry man who doesn't like to see her get too close to people her own class who could draw her attention from him. Her only friends are servants, so she makes friends with them now.)

"Her father has no intention of her marrying." The king is there suddenly, emerged from hiding. He's a good yard away from Achilles and the others, leaning against a pillar as he watches the vision of Ophelia critically. He's not ready to greet Achilles properly as a father with all the affection that's due, but he's present and he's talking, so that's something. "He had ten other children marry, and he wants to keep her unwed so she can take care of him in old age."

"That doesn't matter," Neoptolemus says. "She doesn't want to stay unmarried."

"We'll give him a very nice bride gift," Pyrrhus says with certainty. "Nice enough that he can't say no. He can have servants to take care of him instead."

“She is very lovely.” Even if Achilles isn’t attracted to women, Pyrrhus’ memory paints Ophelia with the same sort of soft fondness he reserves for Patroclus or Hermes. Even if she wasn’t so lovely, her behavior shows valuable kindness. In her small, thoughtful gestures she reminds him of Persephone.

Aphrodite found a fine match for a man like Pyrrhus.

“I’m pleased to hear it, lad. I’ve no objection to the marriage if your love is shared.” This is a huge step up from a captive concubine. “Ophelia’s father shouldn’t be difficult to persuade—give him assurance that both he and his daughter will be well cared for.“

Maybe he’s not qualified to give such advice; he was never married himself. The mere talk of it brings to mind stark memories of beautiful Iphigenia at the altar, face innocently surprised as the blood drenched her gown. Another child sacrificed for war.

Achilles turns to the king, pointedly including him. “I’ll give word to your mother when next I see her. I’m sure you’ll have her blessing.”

The king looks at Achilles from the corner of his eye and offers a curt nod of acknowledgement. “I would like her approval, yes.”

“I don’t like her father,” Neoptolemus says, scowling with a dark look in his eye. “He’s lucky he’s a guest.”

The opposite end of the courtyard churns with memory. The man has a habit of barking orders at his daughter, demanding her help with everything from lacing his sandals to preparing his plate. Pyrrhus had wanted a little time with Ophelia uninterrupted in the garden, and sent Galene to see to the man’s demands instead.

Galene came running back to him not long after, her face blotchy with tears and her chiton askew. The man had tried to force her to suck his cock and she’d run away. She had dark red scratches on her shoulders where he grabbed her.

Pyrrhus had almost marched into the guest quarters and snapped the man’s head off his body. Ophelia interrupted his rage, taking Galene into her arms and asking Pyrrhus to please get a compress to soothe the scratches. Helping Galene paused his anger enough to reassert his control, and when he found his guest, he told him on no uncertain terms that his hospitality had limits and he wasn’t to request anything from his servants but food, wine, and clean linens.

The memory is stark. The churning rage in his chest as he looked down at the pathetic merchant, barely holding back from wringing the life out of him. The man’s eyes were wide and frightened. He knew Pyrrhus was capable of ending him at any further offense.

He’d expected Ophelia to distance herself from him for intimidating her father, but if anything, she seemed to draw closer. When they walked together on the grounds, she hugged his arm. She leaned her head on his shoulder. He could tell her father didn’t like it, but he didn’t have the guts to say so. He thinks that she likes that her father is too afraid to stop her from holding him.

“I’ll give him a big ship full of gold as a bride price and he can go away,” Pyrrhus says, frowning at the memory.

“I could always kill him if he doesn’t,” Neoptolemus says.

“Let’s not start a marriage by killing our father-in-law,” the king says firmly, practical as always. “He’s afraid of us. Give him a gift grand enough and he’ll leave to be away from us.”

Witnessing the memory stirs a matching anger in Achilles. As firm as he is in honoring xenia, his kindness and generosity would be tested by a guest who harmed anyone in his care. The urge to protect those he loves outweighs the rules of hospitality.

Ophelia’s father is careless for disrespecting a host and foolish for offending a man with divine blood and terrifying strength. Like a fox goading a wolf in his own den.

“A man of his age—set in his ways—will continue to test the limits of your patience.” He looks to the king with an approving nod. “You’re correct. Better to pay if you have the means, and send him away. Even if Ophelia suffers in his presence, she need not see him die by your hand. His blood would leave an indelible mark on your home.”

Achilles turns back to Neoptolemus, the aspect who seems to carry the most rage. “The gods have given you a wonderful gift, but it comes with a test of your character. Tread carefully, lad.”

Neoptolemus hums, narrowing his eyes at the memory of the trembling, pathetic man. There's contempt in the memory. Neoptolemus is disgusted by men who hurt those who can't fight back, then cower before someone who can. A man playacting at being a warrior without any of the risks of injury, pretending at bravery that Neoptolemus had when he was a child. Neoptolemus doesn't think men like that deserve to live. "I'd be okay with his blood on my home."

Pyrrhus furrows his brow and glares at his older aspect. "He's her dad. You don't want to make her sad, do you? Or make her not like us?"

Neoptolemus huffs, crossing his arms.

"It'd offend the gods to harm a guest, and we have enough problems on our hands," the king says. "We have the means to pay him, so we shall. It'll reflect well on Ophelia too to have a handsome bride price rather than being taken from a dead man."

And that also is a factor. He wants to honor her properly. He gets the impression that not many people have really appreciated her, and he wants to show her that he can appreciate her like she should be.

And there's another factor that flickers through the courtyard. Galene with her big, frightened eyes. The way she shrinks away and quietly retreats when he's angry enough to break pottery. She doesn't like seeing her master in a rage. He thinks she'd feel guilty for informing him of the situation if he killed on her behalf. She's not like Aspasia, bitterly familiar with the way of the world.

For the most part, Achilles is pleased with his son’s reasoned approach to a situation that could be so easily resolved with violence. Pyrrhus has a better sense of others than he expected—or this is Hermes’ blessing made manifest. Either way, Achilles’ feels the burden of his worries lighten.

“Does Ophelia know about the wounds you suffered at Troy?” He combs Pyrrhus’ soft curls behind an ear. His father-in-law is one challenge—revealing sensitive truths to a prospective partner is yet another. “Have you told her about your problems with memory and headaches? … Or do you intend to?”

From what the memories reveal about her, Achilles can’t imagine Ophelia is the type of woman who would ridicule Pyrrhus for his deficiencies or the ways he’s adapted. But Pyrrhus has been rejected so many times by people who should care about him.

All three of the aspects cringe at the question. On this matter, they are of one mind.

"Why would I?" Neoptolemus says, clearly baffled by a the prospect. "It's embarrassing!"

Pyrrhus moans at the thought, burying his face in his hands. His cheeks are bright pink. "Who wants to be around someone who gets sick like that? She might worry I'd forget our own wedding! Or--or get a headache on the day of, and leave her to be humiliated because I'm too sick to marry her."

"Courting is the time you spend convincing someone marrying you is a good idea, last I checked," the king says, like it's obvious. And it is, to him. They've learned through bitter experience that no one but their mother would ever accept and love all of them, and they can't imagine a world where someone else could.

Their thoughts ripple across the walls of the courtyard. Ophelia is a kind, dignified, unappreciated woman. He wants to be a savior. He wants her to see him as a hero, someone big and strong enough to scare away all the monsters and keep her safe and pampered for the rest of her days. He doesn't want to share how much of an invalid he can really be, how lost he'd be without any tablets and a bad head day. He can't stand the weakness in himself, and he can't imagine a woman ever being able to stand it either.

The answer doesn’t surprise him. Almost any Greek man would say the same, regardless of the hidden weakness in question or its severity. Many warriors would rather die with glory and honor on the battlefield than limp through life with a debilitating wound.

Achilles is silent for a few moments, watching the dream clouds shift aimlessly, not content to hold a shape. Maybe the dream is trying to resolve his and Pyrrhus’ consciousness.

“Your difficulties are only embarrassing if you hide them—if you treat it as a secret shame rather than a simple aspect of your life,” he begins gently. “A wise woman seeks a resilient husband. One who endures through hardship. Who is a loving father and a thoughtful king in spite of his wounds.”

Prometheus comes to mind, kind and loving despite his years of torture and imprisonment. Hades as well—who toils thanklessly to maintain his realm, but still adores his wife (and … grudgingly, his son.)

“Do you not trust her?” Achilles asks, head cocked. “And would you wish to be bound in marriage to a woman who hasn’t won your trust?”

"I trust her!" Pyrrhus protests, hugging his father tighter.

"I trust her to think me an invalid," Neoptolemus quips, crossing his arms tighter around his chest, almost looking like he's hugging himself.

The king sighs through his nose, as if his younger aspects are children that he's forced in proximity to, not equal parts of a whole as he himself is. "We trust her to be a faithful wife, a nurturing stepmother, a worthy queen, and a good mother. And one who isn't repulsed by the idea of being married to us, besides."

Dark flickers in the clouds. The tug of Andromache. His relationship with her, if it could be called that, was messy and complicated, pulled as she was between seeing him as her son's murderer, her captor, and a wounded child, and pulled as he was between seeing her as an emblem of his honor, the only honest reminder of how despicable others thought him to be, and the only consistency in his life after everyone he loved died. There's baggage there, baggage that he's not wholly aware of and is unequipped to unpack, but nonetheless casts a shadow over this new romance.

"What more can I ask for in a wife?" The king gestures dismissively, as if it's silly to think of a spouse who can be trusted with vulnerability. "I consider it fortunate to find a woman who meets all those criteria."

What more can he ask for in a wife? At one point, Achilles might have thought his list sufficient, but his king and queen have made him see otherwise. Their relationship revealed what it means for a husband and wife to be partners. More akin to what Patroclus is to him: someone he can confide in, look to for solace, and give those same things in turn.

But Achilles knows better than to use Pat as an example here. Pyrrhus would take it as an insult to Deidamia. Or he could easily dismiss his trust in Pat as what’s to be expected between two men. Two equals.

Sadly, Achilles can’t imagine his son trusts any other men like that. As friends or lovers. He has no one.

Ophelia might be Pyrrhus’ best chance at someone he can be vulnerable with. “If she’s indeed a worthy wife, Ophelia will gladly look after you in her own ways if you allow it.”

No, Achilles remembers, Pyrrhus has already been vulnerable with at least one other person. “Your serving woman, Aspasia—you showed her kindness, you came to her defense. You earned her loyalty and now she looks after you when you’re ill, when you’re grieving. She sees your strengths as well as your weaknesses and doesn’t think any less of you.”

"Aspasia?"

Surprise ripples through all three aspects. They don't remember telling Achilles much about Aspasia. But then again, their memory is a poor judge for whether or not something happened, especially in a previous dream.

Memories ripple in the clouds. Finding Aspasia shaking, nose broken and bleeding, her hands still on a dead man's neck on the floor. He was going to poison you, lord, I swear it.

"It's different with her," the king says, shrugging off the comparison with crossed arms.

"She has low standards," Neoptolemus says dryly. "Pathetic men set them for her."

"I keep her safe. So she tries to keep me safe, because if I'm gone, she'll be alone again," Pyrrhus says, far more willing to verbalize his feelings than his other aspects. "Even if I don't always know she thinks well of me, I know that she has to take care of me."

"It's practical," the king agrees.

"You can only trust people to be practical," Neoptolemus says. The clouds turn dark. The whole can't always clearly tell other people's feelings, if they're being nice to him because they want something or because they like him. But experience has taught him it's best to assume that others don't like him, and they'll only tolerate him as is practical. So he makes it practical for his servants to be loyal. And the only reasonable way to earn love is to make it practical to love him.

"I think Aspasia would like me even if I wasn't strong enough to protect her," Pyrrhus says weakly, face falling at his own uncertainty.

"Don't test it," the king advises coldly.

“I think she would. People are far less practical than you think.” Achilles isn’t surprised Pyrrhus formed that opinion; Odysseus and the other Greeks were practical and used Pyrrhus for their own ends. Then cast him aside. But everyone isn’t so self-serving. “People find echoes of themselves in others. Aspasia … I think she sees that you share the same grief. You’ve both lost children.”

Achilles hums, low and grim and thoughtful. “Kings, warriors, servants, slaves … grief unites all mortals, and there may be nothing worse for grief than loneliness.”

And speaking of loneliness …

He stands, lifting Pyrrhus in his arms as he paces the courtyard, slow and thoughtful like a philosopher in the Lyceum. “How long has Ophelia been looking after her father? Has she spoken about any companions? What her life was like before she landed at Epirus?”

You’ve both lost children. Ripples in the walls. The memory of his hands aching and bleeding from clawing the earth. Aspasia, braver than anyone, sitting next to him and saying, It’s like your heart is buried with him, right? He didn’t know if anyone had ever sat next to him and spilled their heart like that, and she did it because she saw him hurting. She was only a slave, he never expected her to have the courage and compassion to speak to him so candidly.

Pyrrhus hugs his father tighter and buries his face in Achilles’ neck. The pacing feels like being rocked. It’s nice.

“She said that her father has a house, but they spend most of their time on the water to connect trade between lands,” the king says. And with it comes another memory.

Ophelia sits next to him. They’re in the garden. She’s admiring a flower, leaning against his side. She seems to like leaning against him.

Mom had many children, but I was the one that killed her, she says. She says it matter-of-factly, like she’s repeating an old song. So Dad says it’s my responsibility to take care of him like Mom would have. So I can’t get married, since I’m basically his wife.

Ophelia is Pyrrhus’ age, unacceptably old for a new bride in most eyes. Not in his, though. He’s always preferred women who already know who they are. He wonders if she only flirts with him because she knows that he may be her only escape.

He hates when I have friends. He said that Mom wasn’t allowed to have friends besides him, so I’m not either. Ophelia releases the bloom in her hand. It flutters away on the wind, petals parting before tumbling down the garden. She has a familiar look on her face—that of a person resigned to their unhappiness. If I ever board another trading ship, it’ll be too soon.

“Are we sure killing her father is off the table?” Neoptolemus asks.

“Yes,” says the king, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Achilles leans his head against Pyrrhus’. He’s glad there’s still part of his son willing to accept this comfort and affection. He hopes Pyrrhus can feel its effects in his waking hours.

Achilles examines the memory, heart aching for the poor woman, trapped as a slave to her father. It is tempting to fix such an injustice with violence. How many times has he considered taking a blade to Menoetius after the pain he put Pat through?

“Love inspires us to great violence,” he breathes, almost as if to himself. “But to what end? It only begets more suffering.”

He turns to face Neoptolemus and the king, circling back around to his earlier thought: “Do you not see echoes of yourself in Ophelia?”

"Mm nm," Pyrrhus mumbles into his father's neck, shaking his head in denial. Nope. He sees no echoes, he insists.

"She only had one parent too." Neoptolemus is a little more willing to be honest on this topic. He crosses his arms, averting his eyes from his father and shrugging, like what he says isn't a big deal. "But her parent wasn't as good as ours."

"Among other things," the king says. He doesn't verbalize it, but the colors around him darken, whispering that he admires that Ophelia has the ability to openly face her resentment of her father and all the ways he's done her wrong. It's an ability they don't have.

"Shut up," Neoptolemus says, picking up a rock from nothing and throwing it directly at the king's head. The king catches the rock, but the colors lighten again. The whole isn't ready to think on that topic too long. Not when he still wants so badly to just have the loving relationship with his father he always fantasized about. But of all the pieces, the king is most able to acknowledge the reality of the matter, the churning resentment thoroughly buried beneath the determination to will a loving relationship into existence.

"She does everything she's supposed to. But he still wants more," Pyrrhus murmurs softly into his father's skin, voice smaller than usual. "Nothing she does is enough. It'll never be enough."

Now Achilles heart aches for his son and what’s carefully left unspoken. The undercurrent of anger and resentment under a deceptively smooth surface. One that Achilles himself has been trying not to disturb.

As much as he’s convinced himself otherwise, Pyrrhus still worries him. The reason he’s here to begin with is to protect Lyra, to avoid disappointing her.

And he’s doing it in an attempt to soothe himself. This is a salve to calm the agony of another regret. He can’t carry the blame for another ruined life.

Will he ever love his whole son? Or only the pieces he approves of? Is he still doing what he vowed not to—forcing Pyrrhus to struggle towards an impossible goal? Even asking favors of gods to achieve that end?

Achilles’ neck bobs with a swallow before he asks, “… Do you feel the same way? That nothing you do is enough?”

"Mmmm!" Pyrrhus presses his hands over his ears, tensing in Achilles' arms. "No. I don't want to talk about it. I want to talk about something else."

But the dream shudders, tensing around them. Part of the whole's explosive temper is his own desperate attempts to not be angry when he doesn't want to lose something, which only serves to cause the pressure of his rage to build under the surface. He can't be angry at his father, because then his father will leave again. He can't be angry because it's not practical to keep him around if he's angry. He can't be angry because if he's angry, he'll lose the only thing he's wanted since he was a boy. If he wants to be loved, he has to be lovable.

Neoptolemus stands up, starting to pace, opening and closing his hands. He's trying to bring the peace back, trying to slather the denial on heavy enough for the fragile illusion of peace to return. "No. Why would I feel like that?"

The king is the only one who still seems calm. He cocks his head, staring at Achilles. "What do you think, Father?" he says coolly. The king knows how they feel in this regard. With Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus taking the desperate clamor for love, the king is free to examine the feelings of the whole, to see that his father's love seems just as conditional as anyone else's, and thus just as inevitable to lose.

“Not to worry, lad,” Achilles whispers to Pyrrhus, petting his hair. “I’ve no illusions that I was— … that I am a good father.”

He looks at the king. His calm should be impressive, but it’s an artifact of numbness. Bred out of necessity. “You’ve worked all your life to impress me, and what have I done? I’ve come and asked more of you. Too much. Just as Odysseus and Diomedes and Agamemnon asked too much of you.”

Achilles steps around the fading afterimage of his son’s memory, dissipated by the anger thrumming through the dream. “Just as Ophelia’s father asks too much of her.”

He moves closer to the king to meet his eyes. “You’ve every reason to be angry with me.”

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