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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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.

Achilles’ brow twitches into a furrow. He doesn’t like the suggestion that Patroclus or Hermes are a distraction. As if Pyrrhus would have him discard such important, beloved people entirely.

“I only keep lovers I trust and cherish. Of these, there are two, and I remain committed to both of them. That will not change, nor does it change my dedication to you.”

He twists his hand around to take Pyrrhus’. The ring’s metal presses to the king’s dream flesh, still warm as if fresh from the forge. “This particular distraction helped me find you. He continues to provide his assistance at my request.”

The king hums noncommittally, skeptical, though exactly what he's skeptical of is unclear. That Achilles can have two lovers he cherishes and remains committed to? That having them won't change his dedication to his son?

This particular distraction helped me find you. The king cocks his head, narrowing his eyes at the ring. The dream twists with his hazy memories of the night Achilles visited, painstakingly committed to memory with stylus and wax. The whole had worked very hard to write everything down as soon as he could before it all slipped through his fingers. But one part of the memory stands out, something he didn't need to write down. He remembers the face of the man who was with Achilles. He doesn't remember his name, but he remembers his face, his own deduction that he was some kind of god, and the strange way his presence seemed to settle on his mind like a blanket, simultaneously comforting and suffocating. The different pieces feel different things about the man--Pyrrhus grateful, Neoptolemus curious--but the king feels skittish, unsure of how to approach such a potentially powerful wildcard.

"The man who was with you. The one who gave me gifts." He says it as if a fact. There isn't the same resentment he feels for Patroclus--as far as the king knows, Patroclus is the only lover who his father cared so much more about joining in death than returning to his devoted son in life--but there's wariness. He'd eat his sandals if this mystery man isn't a god, and the king doesn't know how to proceed when faced with someone who could probably crush him without a thought. "Who is he really?"

For a few moments, Achilles only watches his son and weighs the risks of telling him the truth. There’s nothing Pyrrhus could do with that information, and Achilles’ relationship with Hermes isn’t the closely-held secret it once was—at least among divine circles.

Maybe the king will be less skeptical of a lover who happens to be a god. Such entanglements usually aren’t a mortal’s choice, after all, and if they are, it’s in the mortal’s best interest to consent. It would be more difficult to convince someone that his relationship with Hermes is surprisingly egalitarian.

Achilles exhales. There’s no reason to hide it.

“Lord Hermes,” he finally declares. Only a god is worthy to share my heart alongside Patroclus, he wants to add, but bites this back. No doubt it will make the king’s hackles raise further. “He and I have been lovers for several years now.”

The king's suspicious expression breaks with genuine surprise for a moment. He wasn't exactly sure what he expected, but an Olympian wasn't it. For some reason, that dulls the trill of skittish nerves around the image of the stranger's face--if he's an Olympian, he can destroy anyone he wants with a flick of the fingers, and there's nothing a mortal can do about it. Might as well just accept it and try not to piss him off.

"Lord Hermes?" the king isn't very good at keeping his hackles up when he's surprised like this. There's curiosity, curiosity inherent in each piece of the whole but that has been kept hidden due to early lessons of how adults responded to his childhood curiosity.

"How did that happen? I thought he only delivered shades to the Underworld, not spend time with them." And the stories always make Hermes seem busy. Or maybe this is a distraction for him, something to keep him occupied in between tasks, and he's assisting Achilles with his son as a boon for a pampered lover. It seems like the sort of favor a god might do on a whim, if they happen to like a favored mortal enough.

The memories buzz. He doesn't remember the exact words said, but he remembers that Queen Medea recognized the stranger just as much as she recognized Achilles, and the stranger had bowed to her. The image plays over the dream, the stranger bowing with a smile, the vaguest suggestion of wings about his head as the king adjusts the memory according to his new knowledge. It's odd to think of an Olympian bowing to a mortal queen, but maybe it's the sort of thing that comes easy when one's authority is so absolute that not even pretending at subservience challenges it.

Now this takes some careful thought; Achilles is keen to avoid revealing any of Hermes’ secrets, but not spin lies whole cloth. The best he can do is broad strokes.

“Lord Hermes’ capacity as both messenger and psychopomp frequently finds him in the Underworld and the House of Hades itself. And—as you know—I was house guard for a time and trained Lord Hermes’ beloved cousin.”

Achilles withdraws his hand to polish the ring with the pad of his thumb. Somehow it feels more real in dreams.

“These duties led to our crossed paths … and a fondness grew therein.” He’s not about to mention the many intimacies and actions that truly led to their bond: tending the wounds Hermes suffered at Zeus’ hand, Maia’s letter, or rescuing Hermes from imprisonment. He would sooner recount the details of their physical liaisons before he would reveal a single word of Hermes’ moments of peril and weakness.

“Lord Hermes admitted he was not so fond of me when I was still alive,” he adds with a wry smile.

The king sits back, eyebrows almost disappearing in his hairline. "Huh. I would never have guessed."

Although he supposes it makes sense. Hermes is one of the few gods that accesses the Underworld regularly, and a hero of legend fits neatly into the usual profile of a god's chosen lover. And the affair only beginning after Achilles died would explain why no one's ever heard anything about it.

There isn't the same resentment for Hermes as a lover as there is for Patroclus--not only does the painful history not exist there, but Pyrrhus' vague notion of gods being separate from humans and thus incapable of really stealing their affection plays in Achilles' favor, just as it did with Zagreus. If something is to be denied to a mortal, it's only an honor for it to be given to a god instead.

"...We're sure he doesn't want me to build a temple in his honor or something?"

Giving up Andromache's companionship seemed like a worthy sacrifice for what he was given--she seemed to be the person with the least power who he could do the most good by. But his wariness of offending an Olympian has him skeptical that even that is enough.

“He is not a god for grand monuments so much as small gestures,” Achilles smiles again, this time with a loving warmth for his absent lover. “I suppose this is why I appreciate him as I do. Many of his kin are far more demanding.”

Not that he thinks Hermes wouldn’t be flattered by a temple, but such expense and efforts are better used serving the humbler aspects of his domain. The thieves and shepherds and merchants …

Achilles waves a hand to the dream beyond. “If you wish to honor Lord Hermes, shelter a weary traveler, see that Epirus’ roads are well-tended, or take Molossus to the stadium to cheer the athletes at their sport. These gestures will be just as well-received.”

The king frowns thoughtfully, his brow furrowing. Already, wrinkles are beginning to form between his brows, showing how often and hard he makes the expression.

"Noted."

A wax tablet and stylus appear out of nowhere, writing without assistance. This seems like important information, after all. The king would prefer they didn't do something to give an Olympian cause to disintegrate them and their family. Though luckily, the stories don't paint Hermes as one of the more temperamental gods.

The king seems to realize suddenly that they're still holding hands. He turns the hand in his, frowning at the ring. Then, he releases it, withdrawing into himself again, crossing his arms and staring out at the dream contemplatively.

"You said that your lovers don't change your dedication to me." The king narrows his eyes again, looking back at Achilles. "But they already did. You cared more about joining your lover in death than returning to your son in life. Why should I believe it's any different now? Why should I believe you'd ever put me first, when I wasn't even a consideration when I needed you the most?"

There's so much suppressed pain in that question. Pain that ripples out, reforming the hazy memory of kneeling at his father's tomb, at tracing his fingers along the letters of his father's name and barely even recognizing the name next to it. The boy about to go to war pressing his forehead against the stone of the tomb, wondering if his father could see him now, and wondering if he would have been proud. The feeling of his heart being ripped out of his chest. He twisted himself into knots, telling himself that his father simply had to go, simply had to die, because acknowledging the choice he made to leave his son behind was just too painful for him to handle. Because if he acknowledged the truth, it'd only be the final jewel in the crown of his self-image as inherently unlikable, inherently incapable of being loved or cared for by anyone other than his own mother, because not even his father saw something worth living for in him.

But the king handles it. The king sits in the back of their mind, holding onto all the painful truths, keeping them locked tight where they can't break the whole beyond repair. And now what is there to stop Achilles from ripping that lock apart and leaving them to fight for their life against despair once more?

“So much has changed, lad,” Achilles sighs. The king’s suspicions are solid as the walls of Troy and this may be an equally long siege.

“Teaching Lord Hades’ son gave me a taste of fatherhood. How gratifying—and challenging—it can be. I learned to put myself aside and focus on helping someone else succeed.” Frankly, it kept him from utter despair. If he didn’t have Zagreus, he would have spent his eternity wallowing in grief. “But the prince is not my son. He’s a god, with a life so very different from my own.”

Achilles studies his son’s face. Every similarity, small and large, should be a source of pride, but it feels like the mark of a curse. “You and I … we are connected—by blood, of course—and by the pain that I inflicted with my selfishness. Please trust that I’m here to mend those wounds as best I can. Please let me try.”

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