refusetofight | For @messageforyou

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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The gap in Pyrrhus’ memory is understandable, not just due to his headaches. Achilles knows how it is in the thick of battle. The faces of his individual victims are mostly an anonymous blur—particularly in those moments when he was blinded by his own rage.

Achilles meets Pyrrhus’ weight and turns over is question with the careful consideration it’s due. He knows how much Pyrrhus’ own purpose hinged on finishing what his father started.

“I was proud at the start of it all. Too proud, perhaps.” A memory blossoms: Achilles, glowing with youthful divinity, surrounded by his adoring Myrmidons. “Like you, I was made for war. Killing was effortless. I was praised and rewarded and feared for my skill. Who wouldn’t brim with pride?

“But I suspect you want to know if I’m proud now. And … to that, I say no.” Memories blur into each other: days, weeks, months, years. Raiding villages along the Troad, battling at the walls of Troy like an inexorable tide, the shelters and ships along the beach rooting into a makeshift city. “What have I to show for my ten years at Troy? Fishermen and farmers feed hungry villages, stonemasons build beautiful cities, scholars illuminate the world with knowledge. What does a warrior accomplish? I wasn’t defending my kingdom against assault. I killed hundreds, thousands to retrieve another man’s wife.”

"You have a legend to show," Pyrrhus says. He says it simply, as straightforward as a fisherman's catch or a stonemason's construction. Achilles' story is told across Greece, and is fated to be told forevermore. Pottery is painted with his likeness, mosaics made to commemorate his deeds, songs sung about his story.

Pyrrhus hums thoughtfully. He watches the memories he's allowed to witness. His father looks different in the memories, cockier, like a proud bird showing plumage rather than a warrior focused on the task before him. Maybe that's the difference between them. Pyrrhus sees violence as a mundane task, a means to an end, and his father saw it as something grander, and now his father seems to see it as a farce. "Seems a pity to not be proud, after everything."

Pyrrhus isn't going to take his father's feelings away from him. Achilles has the right to feel however he does about the choices he made and the consequences that came of them. But after all the sacrifices he made, Pyrrhus can't help but feel that the greatest tragedy is that Achilles regrets them all.

Pyrrhus finds his father's hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. His own memories play in and out. Sparring with other boys in Skyros, effortlessly taking down men twice his size in Troy, effortlessly cutting through resistance in Epirus. It was almost tedious, how easy it all was. "I can't say I'm too proud of my fighting either, really. It was never something I had to dedicate myself to. I didn't work for the skill--my blood did."

It's easy for him. It seems wrong to be proud of something that's so easy because of who his father happens to be. There are more flashes in the dream--Aspasia sitting next to him in his grief and talking like they're equals, Lykos begging him to buy Galene knowing that it was out of line to ask, Galene taking a broom and smacking a snake that got too close to Molossus even though she was so scared of snakes she was crying--people who have no means to defend themselves, no divine blood or combat skill to speak of, who still have the courage to act anyway. Pyrrhus respects them more than his peers, who so often snivel and shake in his mere presence, and he admires their ability to stand up and keep their heads high even when they know how easily they can be knocked down.

“If someone can learn from my tale—if they learn the perils of hubris, if they learn to value those they love over glory and wealth—I’ll be pleased.” That’s truly the only silver lining he can pull from his time at Troy. Hopefully the bards know better than to glorify his stubborn pride.

“You’re exactly right, lad. True pride comes from doing what’s difficult. From overcoming struggle.” Achilles smiles, pleased to hear more of his son’s wisdom. The memories of Troy evaporate, giving way to one that might appear strange to a mortal: it features the labyrinthine Underworld full of shadows, danger, and melancholy beauty. In it, Achilles patiently adjusts a young man’s stance and grip as he wields all manner of weapons. That same pupil—a godling, by his strange features—appears before Achilles bloody and beaten, again and again and again. But determination never leaves his mismatched eyes.

“You share the same dogged persistence as my pupil. He sought to escape the Underworld and find his mother.” Achilles presses an affectionate kiss to Pyrrhus’ temple. “You fight well, but living was a challenge. You kept at it, though, even when the Fates took so much from you.”

Pyrrhus looks curiously at the memory of the young god. He's never seen one besides his own grandmother before, and this one seems very... human in comparison. If it weren't for the red eye and the burning feet, Pyrrhus might have mistaken him for a demigod instead. The thought that his father is so admired by gods that he was allowed to mentor one makes a bloom of pride in his chest.

But as he watches his father teach the godling, there's also a lick of envy, wishing his father could have also taught him the same way. That his father could have adjusted his stance, or critiqued his technique, or just greeted him with a smile every time he came back from a challenge. But what's done is done, and they'll make up for lost time when he's dead. Pyrrhus closes his eyes at the kiss, allowing a ghost of a smile to dance across his face as he happily soaks in the affection and pride his father now showers him with.

"Not sure how impressive it really is, but I'm glad you think so," he says dryly. He really isn't sure how impressive it is that he has such difficulty doing what everyone else finds so easy, but maybe it's the same as admiring Galene's sloppy swings with a broom when he can kill a man with his bare hands in a blink. "Has he ever succeeded? Breaking out and finding his mother?"

Pyrrhus can confess a soft spot for sons devoted to their mothers.

Achilles is beset by his own fresh regret. The first boy he taught should have been his own son. While he was encouraging Zagreus onwards, Pyrrhus was fighting his own battles alone.

“Indeed he has, but only after many, many painful attempts, and with help from a great number of allies. His father opposed such efforts at every step.” Achilles hates that Pyrrhus labored so long under the harsh scrutiny of a similar father, albeit one of his own imagining.

Perhaps it was even worse, though: Pyrrhus’ imagined Achilles had all the more power to target weaknesses and self-loathing flaws with brutal accuracy. The mind is a terrible thing.

“… But the Prince’s mother has since returned,” Achilles continues, “and his relationship with his father has mended. Somewhat.”

He gives a grim, huffing laugh. “If it comes as any consolation, divine families are every bit as complicated as those of mortals.”

Pyrrhus wishes that he could have had what this god had from Achilles. But if anyone should have what's denied a mortal, it should be a god, and it should be one who clearly appreciated Achilles so well.

"The stories certainly make them sound complicated," Pyrrhus says dryly. "Hard to imagine things getting more complicated than having so many siblings some of them start marrying."

Pyrrhus was an only child--he enjoyed being the apple of his mother's eye, but he imagines childhood would have been less lonely with a little brother to roughhouse with--but of all the things to envy from the gods, their giant family and the drama that ensues isn't one of them.

"Even if I had a good memory, I think I'd start losing track of everyone's names." Maybe that flirts with sacrilegious to say, but surely gods don't punish you for what you say in dreams.

“I admit,” Achilles laughs, “remembering each of your great aunts’ names and who they belonged to was a challenge.” All but a few of the fussier Nereids were ready to forgive their nephew’s foibles. The poor boy was half-mortal after all.

Someday Pyrrhus will learn just how entangled Achilles is in the business of gods … and why. He’ll learn that Achilles had a hand in Zeus’ downfall and Ares’ imprisonment. For now, he only says, “They are intimidating and powerful beings, but they still hunger for their family’s love and approval. Learning as much made me appreciate them all the more.”

Particularly when he found that the most intimidating of the Olympians, Athena and Apollo, have such a soft spot for Hermes. Of course, Hermes in his turn craved that acceptance.

“Sometimes mortals mistake that hunger for weakness.” He is, of course, thinking about the parts of Pyrrhus that are still mistrustful and guarded. “But seeking and giving love is an act of bravery.”

In truth, Achilles is also thinking of himself: loving his son has meant opening old wounds and reckoning with pain and regret.

Pyrrhus hears what's unsaid, the lessons his father is trying to impart upon him. There's a ripple, a strain--the tension of three parts threatening to split him into pieces again. The boy eagerly embracing his father's affection and agreeing that he's lonely and wants to be loved, the warrior snapping at the implication that he hungers for love, hungers for anything he can't take, the king ready to clam up and remind him that nothing is free, his father didn't come here for nothing, he wants something and his affection and trust is the way to get it.

Pyrrhus closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. There's a pulse of pain behind the eye as he steadies himself, trying to keep every part of himself in tandem. He doesn't want to split into pieces again, doesn't want the chaos and headache of going in three different directions all at once.

"Tell me something about the gods. Something that the rest of us wouldn't know." The sudden change in topic may have seemed nonsensical if they were in the real world, where all of Pyrrhus' sickness is confined to his own head. But in the dream, there's a distinct sense of him flinching away and avoiding something that threatens his fragile stability. There's a sense of familiarity to it--he's had to back away from dangerous thoughts and topics many times, so much that he barely notices himself doing it. Avoidance is just as much a coping mechanism as emotionally brutalizing himself with the ghost of his father. "If they are so much like humans, there must be something amusing about them. Or just one. Did your pupil ever try to kick you with those fire feet during spars? Are they as hot as they look?"

The response doesn’t go unnoticed: Achilles firms an arm around Pyrrhus’ shoulders, as if shoring him up against a dizzy spell. The dream has revealed more of his son than he could ever hope to see in waking life, but there’s a puzzle here that still eludes him. He sorely wishes that Hermes had blessed him with a boon of insight as well.

“He—Prince Zagreus—has used those feet as an effective weapon, yes. If I were not a shade, the consequences of a kick might have been more dire. But you asked for amusing … hm.”

Achilles rifles through his memories to find something that won’t land him in too much trouble, but might still set Pyrrhus at ease. “One of the gods—I’ll not say who—once showed me what dogs will look like hundreds of years hence.”

The fluffy cloud defies description, so Achilles invokes the memory for Pyrrhus, careful to scrub it of any hint of Apollo. “Suffice to say, gods do not always shift their shape into noble creatures.”

Pyrrhus leans into his father's grasp. There aren't a lot of people who dare to steady him when he needs it. His servants will try, but etiquette bars them from pushing their help on him if he brushes them off, as he often does. There's a ripple in the air as he takes a moment to pull himself together, the shadows of his different pieces staying knitted.

The tide of tension in his mind recedes as his father summons up a memory to show him. It recedes so far that he forgets for a moment that it was happening in the first place, baffled as he is at what he's looking at.

"That's made up." That teeny tiny smiling cloud is not a dog. He crouches, the air around him warping--the king is suspicious, the warrior curious, the boy eager to embrace the ball of fluff--but he doesn't fall to pieces, staying as one whole as he reaches out a hand to the memory, testing to see if the cloud might approach him. "That's not a dog. Was it Lord Hermes that showed this to you? Someone's playing a joke on you." And if anyone's to play a joke on Achilles, it's the god of mischief. Although this seems like very sweet, harmless mischief to Pyrrhus, which he supposes makes sense since Lord Hermes doesn't have many stories of him behaving cruelly.

“Lord Hermes was party to this, but isn’t the god who invoked the pup. That god isn’t one to jest.” Nor one to humiliate himself so thoroughly in front of a mortal he can barely stand.

The absurd canine wiggles a tail somewhere under its fluff and gives Pyrrhus’ hand a sniff before giving into excited licking with its tiny tongue. “I was just as shocked, but humans will breed dogs again and again until they look this way, or so I’m told.”

Achilles shrugs. “As to why, I can’t begin to guess. The sorry thing couldn’t hunt anything bigger than a field mouse and could never hope to protect a flock from wolves.”

Even in his memory, the dog manages to look annoyed at this accusation. “Maybe they’re made to be companions for women and children,” he offers charitably.

Baffled as he is, Pyrrhus has to confess that the happy cloud is charming. He sits on the ground, giving the so-called dog a little scratch behind the ears. It really is comically fluffy.

"I don't know if it could even catch a mouse. All that fluff must slow it down." He scratches the dog under the chin. He doesn't keep animals for companionship as many do--he's too sensitive to sounds and smells when his head hurts, and fears that he might lose his temper and harm a too-loud pet--but he loved them as a child. There's a half-forgotten memory that flickers through the space, begging his mother for a kitten or a puppy, and she told him he could only have one when he was old enough to train it to behave. He went to Troy before he was judged old enough for a pet, and after, barks and yowls felt like nails through his eyes.

"This little creature could be a worthy companion for women or children," Pyrrhus decides as he gives the cloud more scratches. "It has its own charm, and I can't imagine it takes much to feed. I'm sure Galene or Molossus would love it." The memories are replaced with imagining. Molossus giggling as he uses mud to shape the dog's fluff into spikes, Galene picking it up and carrying it like a toy as she sings to it, Ophelia sitting in the garden with the fluff in her lap, petting it languidly as she watches the sea.

Troy hasn’t completely stripped his son of the ability to love—or perhaps, to be loved. It’s clear in the fond way Pyrrhus imagines Galene, Molossus, Ophelia. For all the struggle in his son’s life, at least he’s known this sweetness.

The fluffy cloud flops on its back, pedaling its legs in the air in a bid for belly rubs. Achilles’ memory is heavily modified for Pyrrhus’ benefit—Apollo would never sink to this level of adorable performance.

“What else can I say about the gods?” Achilles muses, before offering some harmless tidbits: “Lord Hermes’ wings are actually attached—not part of his hat or sandals. Lady Aphrodite prefers to go about completely unclothed. The twin sons of Lady Nyx, Sleep and Death, couldn’t be more different in demeanor. The former is a bit of a jester, the latter is reserved and serious.”

Pyrrhus huffs a chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he rubs the dog's belly. Yes, he could definitely see the appeal in this creature's companionship, especially for women who work mostly within the home and has little need for a hound worthy of hunting or guarding.

"Lady Aphrodite is naked all the time? And Lord Hermes has bird wings?" He flashes an amused smile at his father. "Do you have to keep your eyes down whenever Lady Aphrodite visits lest someone gouge your eyes?"

He can't help but think of the stories of all the goddesses who brutally killed or tormented men foolish enough to peep on them in a state of undress.

"Do any other gods have animal parts?"

“Lady Aphrodite is more offended if people don’t look upon her.” Meanwhile, if she’s the one at risk of getting her eyes gouged by Hermes if she looks too long at him. Achilles, of course, isn’t about to mention that.

“Other gods …” Achilles hums, mentally leafing through his codex. “I must say, many of them have wings. Like Hermes, Atlas is said to have had feathered wings upon his head, but they were ripped away. Eris, goddess of strife, has a full pair upon her back. The Furies have wings as well, though they resemble a bat’s …”

The happy cloud abruptly rolls back upright to paw at Pyrrhus’ legs. It’s officially lap time and the dog isn’t about to take no for an answer. Achilles watches his son’s enjoyment and imagines a different life. One where he gave Pyrrhus his choice of pups from a litter to raise, perhaps with Pat’s help. In that life, Pyrrhus would have no lack of friends, furry and otherwise. “Will you see to it that Molossus gets an animal companion?”

Pyrrhus huffs another soft chuckle, sitting down properly and leaning back to allow the pup on his lap. After it climbs on, he cups the dog's face in his hands, squishing it gently and smiling at how silly it looks with a scrunched squished face.

But his smile fades as he looks at the dog, considering his answer to his father's question.

"I'd like to," he confesses. "Molossus isn't very good with other kids his age. He prefers animals. I think a hound would do him good."

He shrugs his shoulders with a resigned sigh, another thing to add to the list of losses caused by his own frailty. "But I'm sensitive to sound and smell when my head hurts, and puppies aren't known for their ability to restrain themselves. I don't think I'd hurt my son's pet were it too loud during a bad day, but I don't want to tempt Fate."

And that's hard to admit. He doesn't like the idea of not being in complete control of himself, but he knows how blinding his rage can be when he's in that much pain, and he's not sure he'll be as good restraining himself from harming an animal as he is from harming his own children. The thought of Molossus falling in love with a pet just for his father to break its neck in a fit is too horrible to consider.

The little dog gives a gleeful sneeze at the attention. This creature was made to be babied. Achilles drinks in the sight of his son indulging in some whimsy. It’s probably a difficult thing for him to do in waking life.

He crosses his arms and listens to Pyrrhus’ reservations about allowing Molossus the joy of a pet. His mind wanders again to Patroclus and his treasured mutts. Pat kept adorable, rambunctious pups from time to time, but one of Achilles’ favorites was a much older dog. It was about as heavy as a boulder and just as lazy. It liked nothing better than to sit at his feet by the fire, brown eyes still vigilant. The only sound it made was a low groan when it sank down to sleep and soft snores thereafter.

“You need not get him a young pup. Find him an old, patient mutt. It’s not as likely to get up to mischief or be overly-loud, and could very well protect Molossus from harm.” It could certainly kill any intruding snakes.

Pyrrhus has the sudden urge to coo over the pup. Ah, yes, this is exactly why humans would labor so long to create something so small and useless on its face. He boops the dog's nose before squishing its face again. It's like a baby, but fluffier and unlikely to grow into a demanding toddler.

"It's a good idea," he allows, considering. But there's still a part of him that flinches away. A whispered, internal argument, barely audible over the forces keeping him in one piece. The boy, Molossus is lonely. He should have a friend. The warrior, It could keep him safe from snakes. The king, And if he's too attached? What do I say when the dog inevitably dies?

There's tugs in different directions tangible in the dream, made rougher by Pyrrhus' internal dysfunction. The urge to give his son what he was denied--connections, softness, joy--and the urge to protect his son from what he has suffered--loss, death, and grief.

Most people would probably be able to cautiously compromise between the two, but Pyrrhus learned to avoid the worst of his illness by doggedly avoiding the questions that cause it to rear its head most violently. Like a man who hurts his hand and avoids using it to spare himself pain, but over time the hand atrophies and it's worse off than it would have been if he'd used the hand. Pyrrhus is good at enduring, but his endurance has left him brittle.

Pyrrhus' hands pause on the dog, resting on its fluffy cheeks. He stares at nothing, quiet for a moment as he struggles to pull himself back together, solid and present. "Sorry," he says, voice far away. "Lost my train of thought. I'll find it again."

Achilles watches Pyrrhus’ inner turmoil churn the dream around him. The worries flit and scuttle like anxious sea birds in the surf. He folds into a seat on the ground opposite Pyrrhus. When his son’s eyes refocus, he leans forward and claps a hand on his knee.

“My dear lad,” Achilles sighs. He fully understands this protective instinct. “If you shield Molossus from all pain and loss, you deny him the chance to love.”

He gives the happy cloud a soft smile and an appreciative pat. It gives him some comfort to pretend this is Hermes in disguise. “A dog gives him a safe loss to face. One you can help him navigate.”

He finds Pyrrhus’ eyes. Now it’s easier to see glimmers of the boy and the young warrior within them. “Do you remember when you first experienced grief? Was anyone there for you?”

Pyrrhus struggles to stay whole and present, to hear what his father says. He digs his fingers in the dog’s fluff instinctively to ground himself.

Do you remember when you first experienced grief? Was anyone there for you?

The dream churns. Little hurts, the little hurts of rejection or childhood inattention, and he remembers running to his mother to cry in her arms. He remembers the smell of her perfume clinging to her skin as he buried his face in her neck and she rocked him, petting his hair.

But whatever little pains he felt didn’t hold a candle to the growing understanding that his father would never come home, and kneeling before his tomb.

“No one,” he answers distantly. “No one was there.”

There’s a snap, the strain of twine held too tight breaking. The whole is three again. Only the boy still sits with the dog in his lap, and Neoptolemus and the king are screaming at each other.

“Molossus just lost his mother and will lose his father in the near future. An old dog is out of the question!” says the king, face red as he yells at Neoptolemus.

“He barely even notices Andromache is gone! Aspasia is more his mother than she was. And besides, a dog would help him deal with my death!” Neoptolemus says, effortlessly meeting the king’s aggression.

“And what if the dog dies close to our death? What then?”

“It’s always what-ifs with you, what if this, what if that, what if we just stay in the palace for the rest of our lives and never do anything again, huh?”

“My ‘what-ifs’ are the reason we’re all still alive. If you had your way all the time, Epirus would be buried thrice over!”

“And we were doing so well, too,” Pyrrhus says mournfully. He sighs while the other two parts scream at each other and scratches the dog behind the ears as he looks up to his father. “Sometimes they just need to fight. One of them will beat the other eventually.”

“That’s enough,” Achilles huffs sternly. He remembers his promise—don’t make any more demands of his son—but he still wants to help. This discord is only adding to his son’s misery.

“You learned to survive, but you still hesitate to live, lad.” He rises to his feet, gently patting Pyrrhus’ hair as he does. The dog offers its own comfort: nuzzling and licking the boy’s face. Achilles continues: “Living means accepting that there will be moments of peace and happiness, struggle and pain. You will never truly know which lies over the horizon.”

He places himself between Neoptolemus and the king. “There is precious little you—or any mortal—can control. But you can decide what sort of childhood you give Molossus.”

Achilles’ gaze flicks back to Pyrrhus, clinging to the happy cloud, then back to the king. “This is your decision, but while you still live, I hope you’ll consider giving him what I could never give you. Do not go to the Underworld burdened with regrets.”

Walking between Neoptolemus and the king is like walking between two lions challenging each other to a turf war. The air is hot and sticky with them, like the air in the midst of battle, stinking of sweat and blood. And the king isn't his usual detached self--he bristles as Achilles approaches, like a porcupine displaying his spikes to a predator who's wandered too close.

"Could never give me? Let's not coat it with honey, Father, you very well could have, and you chose not to," the king hisses, bearing his teeth. "Don't come to me as if you have any standing to tell us how to raise our--"

But he doesn't have a chance to finish, because Neoptolemus is not about to tolerate any piece of the whole disrespecting their father like that. He side-steps to get out from behind Achilles and lunges directly at the king, and the king braces himself, catching Neoptolemus by the throat, but then Neoptolemus kicks his foot against the king's knee so hard to shatter it. The sound is disturbingly close to the exact sound of a leg breaking in the waking world.

And suddenly they're locked in the kind of fight that is rarely seen outside of war. A fight with bone-breaking intensity, with claws and teeth and lethal force. If this were between two real people, they would kill each other. But being two thirds of a whole, it's just a demonstration of how much one man abuses himself as part of any difficult decision-making process.

Pyrrhus picks up the dog, nuzzling his face into its muzzle, and carries it like a cuddly toy to Achilles. "Don't listen to him, he's just being mean," Pyrrhus says, ignoring the fight like it's the most mundane thing in the world. And it is, to him. "Sometimes we need to fight if we make a choice. Or we could put off talking about it, but most of the time that just means we never talk about it."

Achilles sighs yet again, this time hot and sharp. Neoptolemus’ and Pyrrhus’ defense of him is noble and endearing, but wholly unearned. He approaches the two brawling aspects of his son and grasps Neoptolemus by the nape of his neck—like cuffing a lion cub—and hauls him away from the king with heroic force.

“Stand down, boy. His quarrel is with me.” And the king is right—Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus were abandoned and betrayed by his choices. Achilles made the king in the first place, and he faces him accordingly. “You’re correct. I made a choice. I chose the glory of war. I chose my devotion to a lover. I don’t deny it.”

He spreads his arms in invitation. “I am not a perfect man or a worthy father. Strike me, break my bones, rend my flesh to pieces, but please. Please. Stop hurting yourself. You are not to blame.”

Picking up Neoptolemus is like picking up a wild animal. And he thrashes like one, baring his teeth, but it's only his desire not to harm his father that keeps his very narrow self control in check.

The king, meanwhile, doesn't seem like he's about to thank Achilles for stopping the fight any time soon. He rolls to a sitting position, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand as he glares at Achilles.

"That would make it easier for you, wouldn't it? If I wanted to hurt you, and a good brawl would make us both feel better?"

"Be nice," Pyrrhus warns, hugging the dog tightly as the air around him buzzes with anxiety.

"Oh will you two just let us talk for once?" the king makes a violent shoving motion. The dream ripples, all three parts wanting to stay present, but then the boy and warrior are gone, tucked someplace else with the fluffy cloud dog to keep them company.

The king spits blood on the ground before straightening his broken leg, snapping it back into place like a puzzle piece. There's an air of familiarity to it. Whether broken bones are familiar in dreams or in life, it's mundane to fix.

"I'm not interested in hurting you," the king says with a sneer. His form simmers with resentment, made all the worse by how fervently the other two pieces have tried to suppress it. "You're my father. Just because you fail to meet family obligations doesn't mean I have to."

The king is right. Now that they’re alone, a part of Achilles wishes they could solve this with a physical fight. He’s not adept at navigating the complexities of a fractured mind, even with the experience and wisdom that death has bestowed.

“Of course,” he breathes, an edge of exasperation creeping into his tone. “Beyond a doubt, you already far surpass me as a father. You’re present for Molossus—you know him well and you keep him happy and safe.”

Of that he’s genuinely proud. If Pyrrhus is overprotective of his son, that’s not a bad outcome at all. “Decisions about his upbringing—and your own life—are entirely yours to make.”

He gestures broadly in the direction Pyrrhus and Neoptolemus disappeared. “It’s not my desire to cause you more suffering than I already have.”

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