refusetofight | For @messageforyou

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.”

"Then what is your desire?" The king rolls his shoulders, the injuries sustained healing over into scars. "And don't say you just want to get to know me again. They may believe you, but I don't."

The king glares at Achilles. Where Pyrrhus is a pup, eager for affection, and Neoptolemus is a stray dog, skittish but longing for love, the king is a wolf. Built to never know the love of man, and ready to rend a human to pieces if they attempt to force it upon him.

"Thirty years you're happy to leave and assume the worst of me. Then one person says perhaps your son is worth a visit, and you've turned around and decided you love me after all?" the king sneers, his disbelief clear on his face. "Whatever it is you want from me, I wish you'd get it over with and take it."

The king was made to keep the sharp edges of a broken mind together enough to get through the day. Now here's a threat traipsing in, ready to shatter the mind again, and the king just wants it over with so he can get back to the thankless work of putting the pieces back together and surviving.

“Those thirty years were my own failing. A foolish, cowardly part of me wanted an excuse to keep my distance. I was reckoning with many mistakes, many regrets, and my avoidance only created more.”

Achilles steps closer, reaches out to wipe a streak of blood from the king’s face. If the wolf lashes out, so be it. Achilles made this wolf, after all, and he serves to be bitten.

“My desire is to know you. And that you may know me in turn.” He’s already taken it, hasn’t he? Achilles never asked if Pyrrhus wanted to know him. He only assumed their reunion was necessary and—hopefully—positive.

But Pyrrhus figured out a way to survive without him. He kept this delicate balance between three disparate parts and Achilles carelessly upended it all.

“Would you rather I never visited you?” he asks gently.

The king flinches back from the gentle touch, baring his teeth like a real wolf for a moment. He shifts backwards to maintain some distance, unwilling to readily accept love and affection from his father.

"I don't believe you." The king glared, wary and hackles raised. "I'd rather that if you're going to break me, you get it over with so I can fix the damage and move on."

Because he doesn't want his father to have stayed away, not really. The king wants their father as much as the other two. But he's far more cynical, far less willing to accept that a good thing could just happen, assuming instead that it's another example of the people in power over him exploiting him for what he can offer and leaving him behind when he has nothing left to give.

But the king is too brittle and hard to admit that he, too, wants their father. Better to deny himself what he wants in the first place than to face losing it all over again.

“I don’t begrudge you your skepticism,” he sighs, shaking his head, eyes cast downward. “I don’t trust myself. I worry that I may cause you more hurt than I already have.”

Achilles takes stock of the dream wounds inflicted by the king’s younger self and winces. He was raised on his father’s embraces, his scratchy kisses on his forehead, his calloused hand ruffling his curls. Achilles shows affection through touch, and it pains him to see his son recoil from it.

“Remain wary if you must, but I’ve no desire to break you.” He extends a hand again, inviting. “I want to see you whole. Loving, ferocious, tender and steady in equal parts.”

The king watches the hand warily. He doesn't move towards it or away from it, instead watching like the wolf on the edge of a campfire.

"It's hard to be whole around you." He says it factually. There's none of the softening or avoidance that the other pieces may lend. "They're afraid you'll leave again if we're ever too unpleasant. Make all the promises you want, but the fear is still there. I think if you're going to leave because you don't like us, you ought to do it now to save us all the headache. But they want to keep you around as long as we can, so they stop me from speaking."

The king draws into himself, crossing his legs, and resting his palms on the ground. Not retreating, but not encouraging his father to approach him either.

"We're not good at staying whole if we can't agree on something."

Conflict and self-hatred is what splits them apart most reliably. The only way they really know how to settle indecision is fighting each other until they're too exhausted to fight anymore, and whoever is still standing after gets their way.

“I see how this split brings you pain, and I apologize.” Achilles is the reason the fractured pieces exist at all. He mirrors the king, moving to sit opposite. “I will say, though, that it’s helped me understand you. Each part of you is necessary.”

He presses his palm to the ground and slides it over the sand until his fingertips are only a few inches from the king’s own. “I’m grateful you’ve given me a chance at all. I know it’s your duty to protect them.”

His fingers flex against the sand, gripping into it like he wishes to grasp the king’s hand. “You are my son, Pyrrhus. You’re a better man than I imagined. Flawed, yes, but so am I. So is every man. I’ve no reason to leave you.“

The king watches the hand in the sand. He doesn't withdraw, but he doesn't reach for it, either. Having this conversation is progress, but he's not yet willing to let his guard down entirely.

"I gave you no reason to leave me the first time," the king says. Hazy memories swim around them, the memory of holding Pergamus, Amphialus, Molossus the first time, the smell of newborn on their skin and tiny fingers still wrinkled. His love for them was instant, and he couldn't fathom leaving them. Why could his own father? "You left for other people, and for other pursuits. Why should I trust you won't again?"

If it was so easy to prioritize lovers and glory over a newborn, the king sees no reason why it wouldn't be equally easy to do so once more over a grown man. If another lover catches his fancy, will he stop spending time with his son? If the gods offer him some new work in the underworld for renown, will he forget about Pyrrhus once more?

Achilles recalls holding Pyrrhus for the first time and the memory bleeds into the dream, unbidden. It’s the image of a young man, barely grown. He’s strong and handsome as befits a demigod, but he’s still not grown into himself. It’s painfully obvious to Achilles’ eyes, looking back at that version of himself.

The boy is bewildered, as if he’s only just realized what it means to be a father, even as Deidamia’s belly grew for nine months. Achilles remembers how heavy the tiny body felt in his arms—much heavier than any weapon he’d lifted—but fragile at the same time.

Pyrrhus’ memories of his own sons are suffused with warmth, but Achilles’ are cold with uncertainty. He was never frightened of anything until this moment, as if the Fates whispered half-intelligible promises of pain directly into his ear.

“The simple truth is that I wasn’t ready to be a father, lad.” He slots the fingers of one hand loosely against the king’s. “I was only ready for glory and adoration, but such things proved empty and worthless. Even more so in death.”

The ring on his finger—the spear and feather—shimmers in the soft light. Perhaps a bit like those orange flashes of intermittent insight. “I’ve no such distractions.”

The king purses his lips, difficult to read as he takes in the memory of his own father holding him for the first time. He sees that his father didn't have the same experience, didn't have the same feelings, but he still doesn't understand. Why? Did Lady Hera just not touch him like she touched his sons? He hardly thinks he was ready when he had Pergamus, and he wasn't a good father to his eldest son. But he doesn't understand why Achilles had such a different experience than he did.

But perhaps he's not meant to understand. Maybe it was the machinations of the gods. Maybe Lady Hera wasn't paying attention that day, and gave all the love a parent would have for a child to Deidamia and missed Achilles. Maybe Achilles was never meant to be a father. Maybe something about Pyrrhus was inherently unlikable even then.

But the touch makes the king flinch and turn his attention back to his father's hand. The ring catches his attention. Perhaps the dream is making it more glamorous, but it's the finest work he's ever seen on a ring. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was just as fine as the armor Hephaestus had bestowed upon Achilles (and Odysseus then took). And there's something familiar about it, something that tickles the back of the king's mind, but either way it's unmistakably a lover's token of some kind. And certainly not a lover's token he had in life, because a ring so specific would have been spoken of when the Greeks discussed the division of his father's assets.

"Hmm." The king takes his father's hand, but rather than giving it an affectionate squeeze, he critically examines the ring on the finger before flicking his eyes to skeptically meet his father's. "No such distractions, indeed."

If Achilles cared more about being with a lover than his son once, the king sees no reason to believe he won't again.

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