refusetofight | For @messageforyou

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.

Achilles visibly relaxes. At least the Morrigan hasn’t appeared in that shape. Still, she could be the crone or the maiden, but Achilles doesn’t want to sow more paranoia in Pyrrhus’ suspicious mind.

Still, the Morrigan’s message was clear, and Pyrrhus should know it.

“That was not your mother,” Achilles says, voice low and serious. “It was a portent from a god. Not a good one, as you can surely guess … But it’s a fate that can be avoided.”

For how long? The Fates already had designs to take his son’s life by violence, and his temper can always usurp reason. Achilles knows that very well. “Please, don’t take up arms in battle, lad. For Molossus and Ophelia’s sakes.”

Maybe it's the brain damage, but all three of them are baffled.

"...What?" Neoptolemus says, squinting at his father in open confusion.

"No gods are interested in me, except maybe Grandma," Pyrrhus says, his little brow furrowed. "And I have to fight sometimes. That's all I'm good at."

"Maybe start from the beginning?" The king frowns thoughtfully as he brings his stylus to his tablet again. "How do you know it was an omen? Who sent it, and what does it mean?"

Mentioning foreign gods feels like too much to put on his son right now, so he gets to the heart of the Morrigan’s interest instead. “I believe you evaded your intended fate. I believe—”

Achilles winces at a swell of emotion and he hugs his son closer. He didn’t lie when he said he loved Pyrrhus. His son’s heart is good and honorable, though hidden away under guarded callousness and aggression.

“You were meant to die,” he says thickly, “and one of the gods cannot abide this subversion. They are responsible for the omen, a portent of your death in battle.”

He knows how impossible this request is, both for a king and the son of a demigod. “If you avoid warring and violence, you may still elude death for a time.”

His father just told him that he's passed his fated death, and that a god is waiting for the opportunity for his life to extinguish in battle. He should have strong feelings about that, shouldn't he? And yet he doesn't, not immediately. The king frowns, letting his stylus rest on his tablet as he contemplates the words he's already written. Neoptolemus pauses his fidgeting, Pyrrhus' face falls into a thoughtful furrow, even as his father clings to him.

The walls of the courtyard ripple. Visions of memories from long ago. Pyrrhus, long before Odysseus returned to Skyros, asking a servant why he would only kneel on folded linen instead of the stone floor, and the servant laughing that he'd understand when he was old enough for his knees to hurt. He remembers thinking without any basis that he wouldn't, because he wouldn't survive to old age. He doesn't know why he was so convinced so early that he'd die young--was it growing up with the legend of his father, fated to die young? Was it childish impulse? The smallest lick of prophecy, bore to him from divine blood?

Kneeling at his father's tomb. Troy, the stink of burning flesh, the stickiness of drying blood on his hands. Holding his mother's hand as she died. Clawing a grave in the earth for Pergamus. Holding Amphialus' cooling body to his bare chest. All the people he's killed, from the respectable warriors who held their ground to the sniveling cowards who cringed before someone their own size to the normal, everyday people who had the bad luck of being in his way. All the times he's wanted to take his own life, all the times he beat and bullied himself into life.

In the swirl of thoughts, there are flecks of luminescent orange, a little bit of Hermes' gift. Not shaping his contemplation, but making connections between thoughts. His father never lost a child, not yet. Not like Pyrrhus has. Pyrrhus knows the anticipation, the grief already burrowing in Achilles' bones. That's what shapes his reaction.

Pyrrhus, Neoptolemus, the King, they're all swept away. The whole stands before his father, taking his hand. Despite the restlessness of his pieces, the whole seems calm.

"If I die soon, my only regret is that I won't see Molossus grow up," he says, looking at his father with solemn earnestness. He's trying to reassure his father, because the loss of his own life doesn't disturb him, but he knows what it's like to see one's child march inevitably to death. "But I've lived my life by the sword, and I've always known that I'd likely die by it. And you know how futile it is to fight the Fates when they've made a decision."

Achilles grips his son’s hand with both of his own. He knows it’s hubris, but … “You have to try, Pyrrhus. Molossus needs you.”

Apollo’s vision burned such a hot scar into Achilles’ shade, it echoes in the dream. The prophecy is a blurred afterimage of an eclipse: Achilles leaving Pyrrhus in Deidamia’s care, Pyrrhus’ true death by Orestes’ hand, Molossus left fatherless. The curse manifests in each generation until it reaches distant Alexander and his own son.

Achilles ineffectually closes his eyes against the vision, but when it fades, he looks at his son. He sees all three of his aspects: the gentle boy, the angry youth, the detached king. If Pyrrhus dies, Molossus will never know his father’s complexities. He’ll be raised on tales of violence and conquest, just as Pyrrhus was before him.

“He needs to know you, lad. Your heart, not your legacy.”

Pyrrhus lets the vision wash over him. He doesn't know where it came from, but he knows his father is sure of its reality. Orestes was supposed to kill him. How strange. And then generation after generation of fatherless warriors until finally someone kills the last of them when he's too young to defend himself.

But his reaction isn't horror. He just... sighs softly, as if releasing a held breath. He's never seen violence as a great evil as many do. To Pyrrhus, violence is a tool. It's a tool he knows how to use, so it's the one he utilizes the most, the same as weavers use looms and carpenters use saws. There's a resigned sadness to his sigh, not because he grieves the violence, the continuation of their shared profession, but because he grieves all the boys who will grow up fatherless like him, until that final child cut down before he can defend himself.

"If I fight the Fates, all I will do is hasten my own ignominious demise." 'Humble' isn't a word that anyone would generally assign to Pyrrhus, not even himself. Yet he didn't inherit his father's stubborn defiance in the face of gods and prophecy. Maybe it was because he was forced early and often to face how truly powerless he was against forces larger and older than him--whether by far away war, disease, snake venom, or ill birth, he's always been powerless to stop death from seizing what he loves. And now, soon, it will be his turn to be seized.

But his heart hurts. It hurts for Molossus, fated to grow up without his father or his mother. It hurts for his own father, trying to defy the Fates from beyond the grave to save his son. Wouldn't Pyrrhus have done the same for any of his children?

Pyrrhus squeezes his father's hand and gently bumps their foreheads together. "I'm just a man, Dad. I'm not going to spend my time fighting Fate. I'll spend it making sure Molossus is taken care of."

Ophelia is good with him. If Pyrrhus marries her, he trusts her to love and nurture Molossus after his death. He just has to make sure there's someone around who can protect both of them when he's gone, lest one of his many enemies choose to exact revenge on them when he's not around to retaliate.

“Please. You can’t surrender.” His jaw sets, stubborn, and he moves his hands to grip Pyrrhus’ upper arms. There must be something they can do … some way to chase this foreign god from Greece. Let her meddle in someone else’s affairs. His son deserves a different fate now, a second chance.

But he hears the exhaustion in Pyrrhus’ voice. He’s spent his life fighting at everyone else’s request. This is more of the same. Asking him to continue is cruel.

I’ll spend it making sure Molossus is taken care of. Those words are the final blow. Tears sting his eyes—pride in his son mixed with shame and regret for himself.

“Oh, lad—” Achilles sighs through his nose and drags Pyrrhus into a painfully tight embrace. He catches his breath thickly and continues, whispering the words into his son’s hair. “Oh, lad. You’re a far better father than I.”

He is exhausted. Exhausted struggling so hard to just stay alive. Just getting from day to day feels like a constant swim against the current sometimes, and even divine blood doesn't make him immune to fatigue.

He'd still fight if his father demanded it. But he's glad he doesn't. Instead, he embraces him, and the painful pressure is reassuring now. It's only after his father speaks that Pyrrhus realizes how closely their stories mirror, how both were fated to die young, and Pyrrhus chooses to spend his time with his son. No other option had even occurred to him.

A part of Pyrrhus wonders why other options had occurred so easily to Achilles, why he hadn't felt the same inexorable need to look out for Pyrrhus as Pyrrhus feels about Molossus, but he presses the thought down for now, wishing instead to just wrap his arms around his father and pour as many years of lost hugs in the embrace as possible.

"You can make it up to me after I die," Pyrrhus murmurs into his dad's shoulder. "We can spend more time together, then. And maybe it'll be easier for me to remember everything you say."

If only he’d seen it sooner: abandoning Troy, raising his son was always the true path to immortality. His selfishness sealed his fate, Pyrrhus’ fate, Molossus’ fate … his decision casts a long shadow into the future.

Somewhere, he hears Hermes and Patroclus, urging him to set aside his gnawing regret. All he can do is march ahead.

“We’ll have plenty of time. An eternity together,” Achilles says, voice still choked with emotion. “You and I. Your mother and your sons …”

He slowly pets the back of Pyrrhus’ curls as tears slip down his cheeks. “Until then, I only ask that you enjoy every moment with Molossus and Ophelia. Swim in the sea as often as you can. Savor every meal.”

All the things that can’t be had in the Underworld.

This isn't what Pyrrhus imagined when he imagined finally meeting his father. But maybe this is better than his shallow fantasies of an instant bond, instant slapped backs and shared drinks and stories. The ache of his father's embrace, his grief could almost be real outside the dream.

"I will, Dad. I promise."

He needs no encouragement to swim in the sea and savor meals, just as he needs no encouragement to hug his son and enjoy the company of his few loved ones. And when he dies, he can die without fear, because he knows that more people he loves are waiting for him in the Underworld.

After the time to contemplate his meeting with his father, after the few but impactful conversations they've had, Pyrrhus can accept that his father regrets choosing to be a hero rather than a father. And that it was a choice, one Pyrrhus could choose to hold against him, but he can't stand the thought of letting that stop him from having a relationship with Achilles.

"I know you're sorry, Dad." Pyrrhus turns his head to press his face against his father's neck. "But I'll be okay. And I don't have regrets."

Things he'd do differently? Sure. If he could do it all over again, he'd throw a pot at Odysseus' head for trying to recruit him, and stay well out of war until he was old enough for it. He'd be more careful about snakes. He'd spend more time with his mother. He'd settle with a wife whose company he delights in far sooner, and not bother with concubines whose forced affection seeps like poison. But regrets? No, for everything he's done, and for everything that's been done to him, Pyrrhus has made his peace.

Strange, he thinks, how at peace both Pyrrhus and Lyra are with death. Lyra makes sense, he supposes, as the daughter of a psychopomp. As to Pyrrhus, death has long been his constant companion …

Meanwhile Achilles, the dauntless hero of Troy, still recoils from the mere thought of fresh grief. He smiles grimly to himself.

“I have many regrets,” Achilles sighs, his breath rustling Pyrrhus’ hair. “If they were kindling, there would be enough to build my pyre twice over …

“Regrets make for a restless afterlife.” His embrace loses its tight desperation with his exhale. His arms relax heavily around his son’s shoulders. “But it brings me peace to know that you have none.”

Pyrrhus relaxes in his father's hold. He's not in a rush to let go, even as Achilles stops squeezing so hard. They have many years of hugs to make up for, after all.

"I think I'm so busy keeping up with the day to day that I don't have time to ruminate." Pyrrhus gives a soft, breathy chuckle against his father's neck. Silver lining to his memory and organization struggles, he supposes. It's hard to spend too much time contemplating the past and his mistakes when it takes so much effort just to contemplate the present. "I can't spend too much time regretting. All I can really do is realize I did something wrong and then focus on doing the next thing better."

When his long dead father isn't talking to him, Pyrrhus generally doesn't think at all about his grief, his history, the things he's done wrong and the things that have been done wrong to him. After all, they're already done. He has no more power over them. If his time and ability are limited, he'd rather use them for something he does have power over.

This is exactly why Pyrrhus endured through so much pain and loss, Achilles thinks. He has the power to let go. Meanwhile, Achilles stubbornly rolls grains of grief into lasting pearls of regret.

He leans back far enough to cup Pyrrhus’ cheek in a calloused hand and examines his son’s brown eyes thoroughly, confirming the honesty he hears in his voice. There’s deep weariness in them, of course, but Achilles doesn’t observe any regret.

The serious set of his face softens into a fond smile. He’s proud, but he can’t take any credit at all for his son’s perseverance or pragmatism.

“You have much to teach me, lad,” he laughs. “In fact, you’ve already given me plenty to think about.”

Pyrrhus gives a soft chuckle, almost bashful. "You don't have to flatter me, Dad. I know I'm no wise man."

Part of Pyrrhus' struggle reflecting on himself manifests as not meditating on his effect on others, which can look like a lack of empathy, but it's also a lack of perspective on the good things he can do for others too. He doesn't fully appreciate how much he protects his servants any better than he appreciates how much he scares those outside of his intimate circle, and he certainly doesn't appreciate how much or little wisdom he could provide a man who died after choosing not to raise his child.

But regardless of his ability to reflect, Pyrrhus likes having his face held by his father like this. He likes whatever affection his father chooses to give him.

"Molossus will live to adulthood. That's a victory." His smile is lopsided, appreciating the bittersweet reality of knowing that his son will die young, as will his grandson and his great-grandson. "And what he does as an adult will be his choice. And whatever he does with it, I'll be proud that he made it himself."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Dreamwidth ate my comment ;.;

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject