refusetofight | For @messageforyou

"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.”

"Mmm!" Pyrrhus whimpers softly, wrapping his arms and legs tight around his father, clinging to him so hard that he might actually be afraid of Achilles leaving again. Neoptolemus' pacing increases in urgency, rubbing his temples, pain coming on.

But the king is calm. Numb. He holds Achilles' gaze, clearer-eyed on this matter than the whole could ever be.

"I gave you my childhood, Father. And I gave you my health." The king's voice is clinical, factual. He's not injecting any feeling into it. Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus have enough feeling for all of them. "Whether you wanted it, whether you liked it, whether you valued it, I did, and there's no undoing it."

The king gestures to his other aspects, so agitated and restless and upset at this even being a conversation, as if pointing out how he's outvoted. "And if you ask, I'll give you my adulthood too. Regardless of its value to you." The king lets his hands fall, narrowing his eyes at Achilles. "But it's cruel to ask for it."

He feels Pyrrhus cling tighter. The duality is clear: his son hungers for this connection, but it’s a terrifying risk.

No, there’s no changing history. Achilles still chose war and death over family. Odysseus used that as leverage for Pyrrhus and reinforced an image of Achilles that was not inaccurate, but still lacked nuance. How could Odysseus—or anyone else—know what lessons Achilles only learned in death?

“Much has been asked of you, and you’ve labored tirelessly to deliver on it.” The Greeks, Achilles himself, Pyrrhus’ own mother in her ailing state. Pyrrhus served them all loyally and what has he received in turn?

Achilles adjusts Pyrrhus’ weight so he can reach out a hand, rest it on the king’s arm. “You’ve done enough. Now … what would you ask of me? What can I do for you, lad?”

The king's hardened expression flickers and softens in surprise. He hadn't expected to be asked that.

But the king isn't as in touch with what the whole wants as Pyrrhus is. Pyrrhus looks up from Achilles' neck, eyes pleading.

"Promise you won't leave. Even if I do something wrong, or make you mad. Promise you won't leave again." It's a desperate plea, one of a child who wants to be loved, even when he fails at his desperate pursuit of being lovable.

The king's eyes narrow again as he looks at Achilles. His expression is distrustful, suspicious. You can only trust people to be practical, the dream whispers.

"Shut UP!" Neoptolemus picks up another rock and throws it at the whispers, trying to muffle the doubts to no avail. The king doesn't trust their father's intentions. The king doesn't trust that Achilles spent thirty years ignoring and dismissing his son, only to turn around and suddenly embrace him from beyond the grave out of a new desire to be a father. The king thinks Achilles wants something, and is only working his way towards asking for it.

"Whatever you do, don't break their hearts." The king gestures to Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus. As far as he's concerned, he himself doesn't have a heart to break. "I'm not enough by myself if they self-destruct."

The king is only a piece of a whole, and a minority piece at that. If Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus give up, the king's cold pragmatism won't be enough to keep the whole intact. He doesn't trust his father doesn't have ulterior motives, and he doesn't trust that his father, who so easily ignored him his whole life, won't carelessly break him and leave just as easily as Odysseus did.

There’s still a chance that Pyrrhus could anger or disappoint him. That’s exactly why he’s keeping him from his sister, isn’t it? This seemingly innocent boy holding to him with such desperation could boil over with jealousy and Neoptolemus could see fit to express it. These two aspects of his son have the most to lose.

There’s little Achilles can do to change that. Not without time and patience. He wants to bend Pyrrhus, not break him.

“I won’t leave. You have my word.” He meets each of their eyes in turn.

“Is that all you ask? Is there more I can do?” he asks after a moment, then adds, “I’ve found your boys in Asphodel and brought them to your mother. I’ll continue to visit and do everything in my power to make their eternities comfortable.”

The dream settles with the promise. Neoptolemus' pacing gets less frenetic, Pyrrhus' clinging less desperate.

The king is still suspicious, though. Still distrustful of his father's intentions, distrustful that he'll keep his promise and not use and lose him as so many others have. But the corners of his mouth soften somewhat at the news of their sons.

"Thank you," he says sincerely, giving Achilles a respectful nod.

"Tell Pergamus I'm sorry," Pyrrhus says, looking down at the floor in shame. "I shouldn't have yelled."

"Mom has them now? How were they when you saw them?" Neoptolemus says, jerked from his pacing at the prospect of hearing about their sons.

“It was simple enough to find Pergamus, but Amphialus required divine help and several days of searching.” Achilles hopes these delivered promises will have some effect on his son.

“Like with most lost babes, other shades had been looking after your lads. Few can abide the sight of a child alone in Asphodel.” Achilles rarely has difficulty finding a kind guardian for the shade of a newly-dead child: adults who never had a chance at rearing children in life, or parents and grandparents who left their families behind. “A young mother who died in childbirth gave Amphialus comfort. She insisted on coming along and helping Deidamia.”

Not that child shades need too much care. The infants still instinctively seek a mother’s breast, but older children mostly need company and safety from the Underworld’s perils.

“I found Pergamus playing with a few other lads. He was quite content with his friends. Children often adapt to death more readily than adults.”

Achilles combs Pyrrhus’ hair behind an ear. “He asked after you. I told him that you miss him very much. When next I see him, I’ll deliver your apology.”

Pyrrhus sniffs, scrubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Neoptolemus clenches his jaw and looks up, blinking quickly to keep himself from crying. Even the king is moved, eyes shinier than usual.

"I'm really happy he has friends. And someone took care of Amphialus."

"Do you know the lady's name? Or where she's from?" Neoptolemus swallows hard, taking a deep breath before setting his jaw and crossing his arms. His gratitude for this woman who chose to care for his son can't be overstated, and he's always felt strongly about repaying good turns. "Maybe her child is still out there. I can make sure they're okay too."

The king rubs his jaw, frowning as he thinks. It's a lot easier for him to make plans than it is for him to face how much he misses his sons. "Her child might be grown now, depending on when she died. But even if they're an adult, I'm sure we can give them a helpful boon of some kind."

"Tell her thank you for us," Pyrrhus says to Achilles. "And tell Pergamus and Amphialus that we love them very much."

“Pherenike. Of Corinth.” Achilles pauses, reflecting on their conversation. She was keen to know about Amphialus’ parents, but he asked her plenty of questions in turn as they navigated Asphodel. “She was the wife of a stonemason named Kleon. She remembers Lord Jason and Lady Medea’s time in Corinth, which means she hasn’t been in the Underworld more than a few decades, I imagine.”

It’s hard enough for Achilles to keep track of time, as connected as he still is to the living world. How much worse is it for the shades of Asphodel?

“I’ll deliver your thanks and your love,” Achilles guarantees with a warm smile. This urge to show gratitude stirs new pride in his son. “They’re good lads. Fate took them too soon, but I’m pleased to have grandsons so near.”

The king jerks his hand and a tablet and stylus appear out of nowhere. He carves the information by hand in the wax. The notes may not persist outside of the dream, but it's his instinct to immediately write down information he wants to remember.

"Pherenike of Corinth. Late wife of Kleon, the stonemason," he murmurs as he writes. If she died within the last few decades, that should be enough detail to find her child, probably grown now. "If her child still walks Greece, I will find them."

"I'm glad Pergamus and Amphialus have their grandparents, at least," Pyrrhus says, resting his head against his father's neck again.

"And they're better than ours," Neoptolemus quips.

"Shhh, don't be rude," Pyrrhus says, frowning at his elder side and putting a disapproving finger to his lips.

"Pergamus likes spiders," Neoptolemus says, ignoring his younger self. "If there are spiders in Asphodel, he'd like to see them. He really liked watching them walk on the walls."

"He tried to crawl on the walls too and he cried because he couldn't," Pyrrhus says, fond.

"Tell me if you learn what Amphialus likes," Neoptolemus says more distantly. "I never got the chance to."

Achilles feels a pang of offense at Neoptolemus’ remark—he loves his mother and father as much as a son possibly can—but his own son had a very different experience of Thetis and Peleus. What did they do to earn his respect?

But the conversation has, thankfully, moved on. He laughs softly at the story of his grandson’s antics.

“There are no spiders to be found in Asphodel, but I will be certain to tell him the tale of Arachne. It’s said she resides somewhere in Erebus, but I’ve yet to meet her.” He makes a note to ask Prometheus if any spiders can survive in the Underworld and which might be safe for— … well spider bites aren’t an issue for a shade, are they?

“Amphialus … hm.” He’s still a newborn and will be forever, so his expressive options are sorely limited. “He adores Pherenike. I don’t think I could have separated them if I tried.”

In that sense, he’s getting a better mother than he might have found in Andromache. “While your mother held him, he was captivated by the bracelet you made. He loved the sound of it.”

The thought of their lost son, who they'd only known for mere days, liking their bracelets clearly affects all of them. The king pauses his writing, working his jaw. Neoptolemus looks up, blinking as his eyes grow red. Pyrrhus sniffs again, scrubbing his face with the heels of his hands.

"Galene always had better taste than me," Neoptolemus says to the sky.

The king's hand isn't quite as steady as he returns to his writing. "If I left two more bracelets at the Temple of Hermes, would they be delivered to my sons?"

"I want them to have one. I didn't give them ones when they were alive because I was scared they might choke," Pyrrhus says softly. "Pergamus put seashells in his mouth and I got worried. And then I was trying so hard to make Amphialus eat that I didn't have time for anything else."

“Yes, of course. They would be delighted to have their own, and to know you made it yourself.” Amphialus might be more delighted for something new to mouth on, but it’s the thought that counts.

Achilles falls silent for a moment, rocking his weight back and forth, Pyrrhus with it.

“Can I ask that you make three?” Achilles finally asks. His son seems more receptive than he has in the past. “There’s one other person who loves you very much. You’ve never met them, but someday I hope you will.”

Asking is a risk, but he made a promise to Lyra, and as a father and a hero, he’s honor-bound to keep it.

Pyrrhus settles in his father's grip, soothed by the rocking, but he frowns in confusion. "Someone who loves us? Who?"

The mist churns with their confusion. Their first thought is that the person must be dead, since anyone living Achilles knew would have found Pyrrhus long before Achilles did. Their grandmother on their mother's side, maybe? She had died long before Pyrrhus was born, but that's the only person he can think of besides his mother who might love him in the Underworld. Most of the other people he knows to be in the Underworld either showed their dislike or indifference in life, or he sent them to the Underworld himself.

"We can make three," Neoptolemus says with a puzzled shrug. It's a confusing ask following a confusing statement, but it's a simple thing his father has asked, and he does want to serve his father in the ways he can. "Do they like the kind that rattle? Do you know?"

"I don't suppose you'll tell me who it is?" the king says, eyes narrowed warily as he pauses in his writing.

“Someone who can’t visit you yet, but still cares about you. It pains me to keep this from you, lad, but I’ve made an oath to a god. I’ll not say more.” It’s the truth and he’s going to use it as a shield against further questions.

“As to the design: they would like anything Galene suggests. Her fine taste pairs well with your careful craftsmanship.”

Having fulfilled his duty to Lyra, Achilles clears his throat and shifts to another matter. He doesn’t consider that it might be equally baffling: “At Athens, you had a vision of your mother … Tell me, have you seen others like it? Anything unusual?”

For a terrifying moment, Achilles wonders if this woman, Ophelia, is the Morrigan in disguise. He makes it a point to ask Hermes to check when he picks up the bracelets.

"An oath to a what?" Neoptolemus says, and the slight wariness and confusion in the air turns to bafflement. What interest would the gods have in him? Is this... maybe an uncle or aunt that Thetis bore and didn't want to introduce him to? Thetis is the only god that any of them can think of who would care about what he does and doesn't know. He knows that Thetis hasn't spoken to him in a while, but the thought that his own grandmother might make his father swear to keep something from him is hurtful. Does she think so little of him? Or dislike him so much that she'd keep him from someone who holds some affection for him? And if she's still in contact with Achilles after his death, why didn't she ever tell him? He didn't think that his grandmother disliked him like that, so much that she'd interfere in his ability to communicate with family.

As the three are trying to muddle through their feelings on this matter, their father moves on to something equally confusing, but less hurtful.

"Visions of Mom?" Pyrrhus says, his confusion clear. "I haven't seen her since Anthesteria. Should I have? Did she say she tried to visit?"

"It's hard to tell if I see something unusual sometimes," Neoptolemus says. He gestures vaguely at his eyes. "My eyesight gets weird when a headache is coming on. Like... people look like they're glowing, or patterns and stars appear around whatever I'm trying to focus on."

The dream twists to show what he means. Bright auras around anything that a person tries to look at, because the aura is embedded in the eye. Rainbows and blind spots and strange geometric patterns like peering through a raw quartz or sketches of lightning bolts. It changes the quality of the world around it, making it indistinct and incomprehensible.

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